A neigh and a sudden stop of the litter raised Sansa from her thoughts; outside, the men carrying the litter the king shared with her exchanged insults with whoever had stopped them in the evil-smelling streets of the capital.
Exasperated, Joff opened the small window behind him to see what was going on. His white knuckles revealed an impending fit of anger. Sansa's back stiffened. Gods, help me… She had nothing to do with whatever blocked the path but her responsibility - or lack, thereof - didn't come into consideration when Joffrey ordered Meryn Trant to hit his betrothed. What did His Grace want from her? Pain, only pain.
Eyes closed, she breathed deeply so that her heart would stop pounding. Nothing happened; when she opened her eyes again, her heart beat just as fast and Joffrey kept looking through the window. Meryn Trant and Boros Blount, who led the way to the Dragonpit Joffrey had wished to visit, were dismounting and threatening an old man whose cart obstructed the street. The littermen put the palanquin down.
"This... vermin," Joffrey yelped, "preventing the king from seeing the Dragonpit?"
Sansa held her breath when he turned around again but instead of laying a hand on her, he stormed out of the litter, leaving the door open. Shyly, Sansa scouted to the edge of her seat and peeked outside: all she could see was a crumbling wall. She craned her neck to catch a glimpse at the old man's cart and that was when the Hound materialized himself next to the door.
"The cage's open but the little bird doesn't know if she should escape or not?" he growled.
Sansa instantly recoiled; through the open door, his scars were gruesome as ever. Don't look afraid: he revels in your terror. That's what he wants from you. She didn't look away but she swallowed hard when he climbed in the litter and took Joffrey's seat opposite her. The crown of his head brushed the ceiling and one of his knees bumped into hers. By the Seven, he's so tall.
They didn't speak.
The Hound had scolded her for reciting her courtesies, thus implying she was a hypocrite; she wanted another lecture like she craved for another beating. I'm tired of all this. I'm tired of guessing what they all want. I will not speak to him. She held his stare. A glint of astonishment in his gray eyes informed her he didn't expect her to be so bold.
Why staying here? Joff didn't tell him to keep an eye on me… Nothing of this made sense: neither the shouting about a cart blocking the street, nor Joffrey getting out of the litter to express his discontent, nor the Hound keeping her company. Even her decision to stand up to him was ludicrous.
His smell - leather, wine and something she identified as sweat - filled her nostrils. Acknowledging his presence wasn't enough to disturb her, the Hound let his eyes linger on her curves. In the confined space of the litter, Sansa's cheeks burned. Is this what he wants? Looking at me, his master's betrothed, like I am a piece of meat?
Years after, after King's Landing, after Baelish's sick little games, after she had won back Winterfell, she'd still wonder about his words, the words uttered by a man she didn't call Sandor at that time. Was he able to read her thoughts? Did his thoughts mirrored hers?
Leaning forward and cupping her chin, he rasped: "What do you want from me?"