Sick.

[He's careful with the ugly black claws, careful not to snag them on Arya's skin or tangle them in her hair. As he strokes his fingers against her forehead, he thinks of their lady mother. Surely when he was asleep she sat with him, just like this, the way she always sat with them when they were feeling poorly. Her duties were too many to give them a whole day, but she would sit with them for as long as she could, and she was always sorry to leave.

He does not waste time wishing that their mother was here. Of course he wishes that. But he must think of Arya, only Arya, and of Robb. They are the ones that need his help, what little help that he can give.]

Sometimes I feel very dizzy, like the floor is moving under my feet--but it isn't. And sometimes I can hear things--Summer hears them, too, but they are very quiet things. Like a door opening very far away.

[He scratches at his cheek with his free hand. The sound is a loud scrape, claws against fur.]

But it isn't so bad. I'm not cold. I wonder why the sickness is working differently on everyone.