What if Sansa went with Sandor during the battle of blackwater?
Disclaimer: Neither characters nor the world of Westeros belong to me.
Prologue:
Sansa bit her lip, her mind running over all of her options, which admittedly, were few. The large man in front of her gave an exasperated sigh.
"Fine, girl. Stay. Let it be your own funeral," he said, his voice full of venom. He moved towards the door with long strides, so when Sansa made up her mind, she had to almost run to catch his arm. When her hand landed on his armor, he looked down at her hand with what she thought was either surprise or irritation.
"I'll go with you!" she said, her voice embarrassingly desperate. He raised his eyes to her face and stared hard at her. After what felt like an eternity, he spoke.
"Alright, girl. Let's go," he said.
It had been two days since that night, and the two unlikely traveling companions had covered a vast swath of land, mostly to the credit of Clegane keeping up a punishing pace. His terrifying warhorse, Stranger, had no trouble traveling for miles on end, and he had pulled a small but fast mare for Sansa from the stables when they fled that managed to keep up.
Since they had left, they had hardly spoken a handful of words to one another, and Sansa couldn't help but wonder if she'd made a mistake. She thought they were traveling north, perhaps a bit northwest, but couldn't really tell. The out of doors had never been her strong suit. The dull throbbing in her tailbone and hips from the extended periods of riding was steady a reminder of that. She had been mulling over a question in her head for nearly the entire day, and finally pulled the courage from within her to ask it.
"Where… where exactly are we going?" she said, her voice timid. The Hound rode ahead of her and didn't answer. Sansa gritted her teeth and tried again.
"Where are we going?"
"I heard you the first time, girl," he snapped. Sansa waited. After several moments, she spoke again.
"Well?" she asked, trying to sound brave and defiant in that single word. She had chosen to go with this man, and she could be frightened of him for the rest of their journey, or she could choose to ignore his stormy demeanor and press on. In all honesty, The Hound didn't frighten her nearly as much as he should have.
She felt certain that something different than the dark cloud of a man in front of her lay beneath his exterior. After another long pause she was about to speak again when he spoke.
"I'm not fucking sure," he growled.
"I… what?" Sansa said, caught entirely by surprise.
"I don't fucking know. North, I guess. To your idiot family, if they still live. Perhaps they'll pay me handsomely for returning their little bird," he snarled the nickname as if it was the foulest thing he could think of. Sansa felt stung by his response.
"And if they aren't alive?" she pushed, trying to sound haughty, as if the prospect of her entire family being dead didn't make her want to come undone right there.
"I'll sell you to a brothel," he snapped. Sansa felt her cheeks burning.
"You wouldn't dare, ser. You know I am a highborn lady!"
"Aye, and so they'd pay highly for you. And I'm not a ser, as I've fucking told you before," he said, his voice icy. She glared at him.
"Clearly not," she said primly, spurring her horse to pass his. She rode ahead of him for the next several miles, and was certain she could feel his dark and angry gaze on the back of her head, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of turning around.