It took her a long time to realize that Sandor was hurt.
He didn't say anything and probably never would have told her, breaking through the snow ahead of them day after day after day, head down and trudging forward. Sansa had been following his beaten path, struggling, since they had escaped the Eyrie, never realizing that he might have been hurt in the flight.
Sandor said nothing to her, or little and only rarely. "This way," he would snarl, or, "Quiet, someone's coming." Sansa thought of all her late night fantasies of ravishment and hot, heady sex when the Hound came for her, and found herself stupid, childish.
Of course he would have no desire for her. She was not the maiden he had wanted.
He stumbled once, though, as she dragged herself along in the bitter cold, swore as his hand flew out to catch himself and sank awkwardly through the crust of snow. "Oh," she exclaimed, and hopped to help, and only then realized that the snow around his leg was stained pink with blood.
"You're bleeding," she said, stupidly, and he turned his head and jerked free of the snowdrift. She flinched at his expression but looked back at him, and could see the lines of pain on his forehead. "You're hurt. Why didn't you say anything?"
"I'm not weak," he snapped. "I'm fine. Keep moving." He turned and forced himself another three steps before stumbling again.
"We're stopping," Sansa said, though she could hear her voice tremble. "I'm cold, and it'll be dark soon. I saw a cottage a little ways back, we can stay there."
He didn't argue with her, and that was more concerning than if he had. They turned and trudged back, and when Sansa looked back the Hound's face was drawn and pale, and she hoped he wouldn't collapse before they reached someplace warm. She wouldn't be able to do anything then.
The hut was broken down and had holes in the walls, but it was slightly warmer than outside, and there was a pit where a fire might be built, if they had the materials to start a fire. The bed was more of a cot of straw ticking on the floor. Sandor said nothing, glancing around once before slumping to the ground, eyes closing.
Sansa hesitated, not wanting to move toward him. "Are you all right?"
"Make a fire," he rasped, without looking at her. "If you can. The bed's yours."
"You're wounded," Sansa protested.
"The bed's yours," he said again, and nothing more.
She tried to light a fire for a while before giving up and sitting by the firepit, watching him as the sky darkened. She thought he started to shiver and went looking for a blanket, but when she came back with a ratty old thing that might at least cover his legs, he felt hot rather than cold. Sansa sat back and stared at him, biting her lip.
What would she do if he died? She would die too, in this cold. She knew they were going north, but not where to, and she would never survive in this cold, not alone. Tears welled up in her eyes and she turned her face away.
"I forbid you to die," she whispered, desperately. "Do you hear that, Ser? I forbid you to die."
He didn't even move. Sansa backed away and lay down on the cot to try to sleep.
She didn't have time before waking to the sound of bitter, hacking crying, and didn't understand until the voice moaned out of the darkness: "No. Noooo."
Sansa sat up, puzzled. "—Sandor?" She could barely see him in the dark, but no one else answered, and little panting sounds of pain seemed to come from his corner of the hut. "Sandor," she said again, and got up, creeping over gingerly in case he woke angry. She touched his wrist and now the skin there was too hot too, and Sansa felt fear gnawing at her again.
If he died she would be alone again.
"Sandor, please. Wake up." She moved around his legs, wishing she had a light to see the wound on his leg. Sansa stretched out her fingers to find the hilt of Sandor's knife, and pulled them back as he stirred slightly.
"What are you doing," he said in a thick voice, like he was drunk. "Get me some fucking wine. Need some wine."
"I – don't have any," Sansa said gingerly. "Please, you can't die, I must – you're the only one that can help me. If you die I don't know what I'll do."
"We need to move," Sandor said, groggily. "Get off me, little bird. Maybe we can make it to the Wall before my blood goes bad if we're lucky."
"Goes bad?" Sansa said, gingerly, and then added, "Please. Let me look, at least. I can manage a nice sewing job."
"No," he said, like gravel, but she was tired of listening to him and pulled out his knife, carefully cutting along the seam of his breeches. She could feel the tension in his muscles and tried to relax herself, at least, pulling the fabric away from his leg, and sucked her breath in through her teeth.
There was a puckered, twisted scar on his thigh that was already healed, if ugly, and she wasn't sure if that or the other cut was uglier. It ran down along his thigh, muscle laid open and raw, stained and messy with smeared blood. She brought her eyes up, feeling her face pale. "What happened?"
"Nothing," he snapped. "It's not that bad." Sansa looked at it again, swallowing hard, and watched blood well up through the black and drying stuff already there, flowing in more of a trickle than a stream.
"You should have said something," she said, horrified, and bit her lip. "You've just been – walking on it, all this time."
He laughed, harshly, sharply. "Said something? What were you going to do? Let it go. Nothing to be done now. We'll push on tomorrow morning. It's not that far to the Wall." Sandor's head fell back with a thunk against the wall. "Once you say your name they'll take you to your bastard brother."
Sansa flinched. "What about you," she asked in a small voice, and Sandor's mouth twisted. He said nothing. You were never expecting to survive this, she wanted to say, but looked down and away instead.
He surprised her by answering. "If I'm lucky they'll shoot me dead on sight. In that case you don't have to watch." Sansa wanted to press her hand over her mouth, but that would have been stupid and girlish, and she was not a child anymore.
"I will," she said, without thinking, "Or else I won't let them." He snarled.
"Don't get in my way. I'd rather die than live a cripple. Let it go, you fool. I'm not yours to – save."
"Why do you do anything," Sansa asked, feeling herself tear up, "Why do you do anything if none of it matters and everything's just bad and wrong and none of it's ever going to get better?" She pulled away from him, crossing her arms and huddling into herself. "I don't even know why you bothered to save me when you hate me."
His fists clenched, but he didn't even try to move. "You're a stupid, chirping little bird. Shut up and sleep." His voice was as rough and harsh as when she'd first met him, and his eyes were closed, not that they ever showed her anything anyway.
Sansa shook a little and almost crept back to her cot. She thought of the way Petyr had touched her, the way Joffrey had touched her or had his men touch her, and ever since that dark and flaming night, Sandor hadn't even tried to touch her.
"I'm going to stitch it, at least," she said, stubbornly. "Maybe it won't do anything but I'm going to." One grey eye opened to a narrow slit and he looked at her.
"Ever stitched a man before?"
"Yes," she lied, and he laughed but closed his eyes again. Now that she was looking for it, there were dark circles around his eyes and his face was haggard. Sansa thought to wonder what she would use for a needle.
She found one eventually, and melted some snow for water, wishing she had a fire to heat it with. He didn't stir as she prepared the needle and a piece of thread pulled carefully from her skirt.
Sansa crawled over, clutching the needle and her pail of water, and approached him gingerly. She saw him swallow, once.
"Is that cold," he asked, jerking his head at the pail of water, and when she nodded, simply said, "That first." She found a rag in one of the corners, shook the dirt and dust off as best she could, and dipped it in the cold water. He shuddered violently when she put it over the gash, dabbing gingerly at the welling blood, but that only accentuated the dirt and dried blood and other filth around it, so she had to scrub at those too, trying to get it clean. She only realized that she was hurting him when she looked up and saw that his eyes were screwed tightly closed, teeth clenched and bared in almost a rictus.
"I'm hurting you," she said, and he didn't shake his head. The muscles in his neck stood out like cords. "I won't know unless you say something." Her hand shook as she threaded the needle, and shook more violently as she leaned her head down to get a better view of the edges of the slash. Was she supposed to bind the muscle together first? Or if she just stitched the skin would the rest manage? She decided it would be better to do too much than to little, but that meant she would practically have to pull the wound apart all over again-
She felt like being sick, but squared her shoulders, brandished her needle, and imagined that she was just mending a sock or a shirt.
The needle didn't go in smoothly. It stuck and halted and her first try she didn't pierce the skin at all, and he moaned and quivered awfully so she almost stopped right then, but with her scrubbing it was bleeding freely. She persevered, even as her hands became slippery-sticky with Sandor's blood, one stitch after another, pulling the wound closed, half expecting the tension of the thread to rip right through his skin. It seemed like forever until it was finally closed. Her hands were covered in blood, the needle was dull enough that it was more forcing it through skin than piercing it, and where she held the thread with her teeth before knotting it, it tasted foully of blood.
She dipped her cloth in the cold water again and rinsed away the mess before looking at her patient. Sansa wanted to die.
He looked worse than before, paler, and she could almost see his pulse jumping wildly. He shivered, violently, and his eyes when he opened them were nearly terrified. "Damn you," he said. "Damn you. You're the cruelest lady I've ever met. Worse than the Queen herself."
He fainted.
Sansa looked at him in horror. What had she done wrong? She'd tried so hard – they needed a fire. If she had a fire he would at least be warm. She crept a little closer and laid a hand against his forehead, bolder for his silence. It felt damp and clammy, and Sansa's heart raced with terror that he was dead already.
He was still breathing, though. Still alive. Maybe she should have listened and left him alone.
She curled up on the floor next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. Everything had been going wrong for so long; it seemed like forever since she'd done something right. Even running away hadn't been right, not really. And it hadn't been her at all.
When she woke up she'd put things right, and she'd start by healing Sandor.
**
He woke her instead. Nudged her awake with his toe, standing over her like a shadow out of hell. She nearly screamed upon awaking, but then recognized his eyes, at least, if nothing else. "Move," he said. "The snow's stopped. Better go now while it's not coming down. The Wall's not too far."
"Are you all right?" She asked, and his mouth twisted downwards.
"If you ask me that again I'll hurt you. Get up."
She wondered if he really would hurt her, but got up and adjusted her shift. He didn't even look at her, though the dress was really too small and she knew her breasts showed amply. Look at me, she wanted to scream. Look at me, at least. You desired me once. Do you find me so repulsive now?
They struggled onward. Sandor didn't seem to limp, and though she watched carefully, the trail of broken snow he left showed no sign of blood. Her stitches had held. Or were at least working a little.
The storm came up in the evening. The snow blew straight into their faces, hard and cold and icy, and Sansa felt blind in a world of white. Stumbling in circles, she looked for the dark and hulking shape of the Hound, but could not see him.
Something picked her up from behind. "You're lucky you have some color," Sandor snapped. "Don't stop moving. Never stop moving."
It wasn't a hut this time. Sandor found a cave and while Sansa hung back nervously, he said that it had been abandoned a long time. It wasn't very warm, but it was dry, and wrapping her soaking furs around herself, Sansa was grateful for that.
"Those won't do you any good," Sandor snapped, pacing, and on the hard ground she could see him limp, though only barely. "Here." He tugged off his own fur and threw it to her. Sansa could have wrapped it around her body and been left with spare, but looked up at him, frowning.
"What about-"
"I don't need it." He continued pacing. It made her uneasy.
"Sit down," she asked, and he shook his head in one quick jerk. "Please? I should check your – your stitches."
"Don't touch me," he said, suddenly snarled. "Not again. It's fine. It doesn't matter. Go to sleep, I'll watch." Sansa pulled her knees to her chest, huddled more under Sandor's furs, but didn't lie down.
"I'm not a child," she said, in a small voice, and he laughed, sharply. There was something wrong, and she was trying to pinpoint what it was and could not.
"That, at least, is abundantly clear," he said, and for the first time she could see a hint of lust in his eyes, but then his leg gave out and Sandor crumpled to the stone floor.
She scrambled to his side at once. "Sandor?" His eyes were fever bright where he looked at her, laughing like a madman in short little bursts of strangled sound. "What is it?" He couldn't speak, it seemed, swallowing rapidly, and Sansa looked frantically for something that might help.
"One more day," he rasped, finally. "It burns, hell burns, they say – I hope mine won't," and then he was gone again.
His wounded leg was folded awkwardly underneath him and Sansa pulled it straight with difficulty. It wasn't right; angry red and streaks flowing from even her stitches, puffy and swollen so it hardly looked like anything human. She sat back, trying not to cry with fearful desperation. "Please," she begged, the gods if they would hear her, "Please, help me out of this. I need help. Please."
She listened to him breathe for hours, pulled his head into her lap and stroked his cheek as if he were her son, or her lover. He didn't feel her. Perhaps he didn't feel anything. Perhaps in dying, Sandor was beyond every pain.
He woke toward the morning, eyes blurry and bright as he stared at her face. She caught his hand as he reached for her.
"Sansa," he said, and she wrapped both hands under his chin. "Hush," she said. "I'm waiting for help to come. It will come."
He rasped a laugh and shivered once, eyes falling closed. "For you," he said, and seemed to be fighting to smile. "For you." His breath was white in the cold air, one puff, another, another.
"I promise," she said, resting her hand against his face and wishing it were warmer. "For us." His head turned slightly into her hand, so she couldn't see his scars.
For the first time, she didn't feel like crying, not at all. The snow continued to come down and she listened to the Hound breathe.