He didn't look up for the footsteps, not feeling any particular interest. Continued, rather, to stare blankly at the ceiling, the anger an impotent burn somewhere far distant.
"Some people were here."
"How surprising."
"They were looking for you."
He paused, feeling his breathing still, slightly. A twinge of fear seared at his chest. Along with the twinges of pain searing everywhere else. "…really."
Someone sat with a long-suffering sigh. "You don't seem surprised."
The corner of his mouth dragged up slightly in his paltry imitation of a smile. "I am. That you came back alone."
"I told them you were dead."
"Accurate enough." He snorted. "No qualms about lying?"
"I did not. The man you were is dead. You are someone else now."
"Bullshit. Because I'm a fucking cripple? Three-legged dog is still a dog."
"Everything has a purpose, my friend, and I believe that even you were brought here for a purpose."
A rasping laugh emerged from his ravaged throat, eyes closing. "A purpose. Give me my sword and Stranger back and I'll show you purpose."
"By going on a useless quest? Ser Gregor has passed."
The sound from the man was almost a snarl. "I'll believe that when I see his dead body." The septon shook his head with pious wisdom.
"Will you not rest? There is no life in vengeance, no peace in revenge. Lay down your weapons and be at peace."
"I wouldn't know what to do with peace if I ran into it." He fought to sit up, growling. "You can't keep me here. I'm a burden on your precious house. Would you bring me some godsdamned wine?"
"It will only make you sick, Sandor."
"Don't fucking call me that." His voice was like stones grinding on each other. "Like 'Dog' better."
"Aren't you curious about who was asking for you, my friend?"
"I'm not your friend nor anyone else's," he snarled. "Some of my knightly brother's rats, I assume."
"Brienne of Tarth," the septon said, quietly, "Accompanied by others, but she was the clear leader of the party."
"The Maid of Tarth? What was she-" He stopped. Growled, low in his throat. "—why would I care what the wench chooses to do with her time?"
"She was looking for the Stark girls. Arya, or Sansa."
He stilled, suddenly, and for a moment the expression on his face was not of pain or anger, but something else. Then it was gone, smoothed away. "How many times've I said it? I don't know where the little wolf bitch went. To Saltpans, probably. And the other one was in King's Landing. The Imp's little wife."
"The other one? Sansa Stark?"
His fist clenched, under the covers where it wasn't visible. Stop saying her name. "If that's what it was. Pretty little thing."
"Pretty little bird?" The septon's voice was still quiet, friendly. He felt his jaw tighten, tensing. "I have learned," he continued, "That in a man's fever dreams much can be learned about the depths of his soul."
Something stuck in his throat. "…what the hell do you mean."
"When you were near death from the infection in your body," the septon said, still standing over him, looking down at him. He felt a twinge of nervousness and quashed it. No matter if he could hardly move, the man was a fool. A stupid, bleating fool. "It was not to the gods or your mother you cried out to, nor threats against your brother you spoke most often. It was always "Sansa" or "little bird," as though that child would somehow save you."
His heart clenched. Her hand, a featherlight touch on his face. Her pretty little voice, face upturned barely visible as it looked up at him. "Fever madness. I didn't know the girl."
"Sandor Clegane, what did you do to Sansa Stark?" The accusation was heavy in his voice. The disapproval, frowning distaste for what the septon thought he knew. It made him want to snarl. It made him want to strangle the man. And here he lay, helpless, a side of beef.
"Do to her? I never fucked her, if that's what you're asking. Leave that to the Imp. I don't like them that young." He made his voice callous, refusing to let his teeth grind. Wouldn't you have, Hound? Rape's not a far cry from murder and you're certainly good enough at that… "I guarded the girl for the Lannister boy when he asked me to. Other than that…" He shrugged. "Ned Stark's little girls don't play with dogs. Just with wolves." It wasn't hard to make his grin nasty, bitter.
Refusing to look at him. Terrified of him. Sansa Stark. They're all scared of me. No one would ever hurt you again. And if they tried, I'd kill them. And she had looked away… he had hated her then, for a moment.
The septon's gaze on him was reproachful. He stood. "Consider your answer, my friend. Many things may be forgiven."
"Shove your bleating," he snarled, viciously. "I never touched the girl."
"Then say her name," the septon challenged, picking up the untouched tray of food. "I will return when you reconsider."
The rage boiled up in him, furious and hot and undeniable, and he surged upright. "Goddamn fucking idiot. You know nothing! Get out – get out and bring me some fucking wine- all of you burn-"
The door shut with terrible finality and he fell back, panting, one hand clenching on the mattress as the pain took hold of him again. He closed his eyes hard, knowing tears on his face but unable to feel them on the ruined skin.
Then say her name, the septon challenged, and he tried, but it stuck in his throat. Lodged, and seized, and died.
He didn't pray, and he didn't ask the gods. But privately, he hoped that the wench from Tarth found the little bird. Birds weren't made to fly in a nest of lions.
Unless the bitch-queen had had her killed already for the death of her son. Then it might well be too late.
Too late for everything. And all he could do was lie here, useless, helpless.
They all thought they knew. Thought they had his measure.
Goddamn, but if he had a sword in his hand he would show them measure.
A moment later, the irony of that thought occurred to him and he laughed long and hard to himself, rasping his bitter amusement until he lapsed back into sick, dizzy unconsciousness.