Sandor didn't know where to look. He cut his eyes over to Sansa, but she was still crying her heart out at the end of the bed. It would do her no good. He wasn't the only one who'd come running at the sound of those fool maids of hers tearing down the hallway.
He stared down at the bloodstained mattress. Someone had cut right down the center of the bloody patch with a knife, and the slit stuffing gaped open like a cunt.
He now regretted not leaving with the other guard. He had to admit to himself that he'd thought to comfort her. She was white with fear when they'd rushed into the room. But she wanted none of that from him. She wouldn't even look at him after yesterday.
He felt sick at himself. He'd been right to slap away her pathetic thanks, to tell her that it hadn't all been some song about a brave knight rescuing a beautiful lady. But now she hated him for it.
Unsure of what to do, he just stood there, staring stupidly at the wall and waiting for his next command.