The rain was splashing through the tree leaves above them and the Hound was swearing. Sansa wasn't too bothered, though; in the haze of her fever, she found it all just so amusing.
"Go fuck the gods to seven hells," he was muttering. Sansa stumbled a little and smiled to herself. Why did she keep falling over things? She was floating, she shouldn't be tripping on anything because she actually wasn't touching the ground, so this was all really very funny.
He brought up short in front of her and she stumbled into his back and reeled. Everything was dark, everything was wet and she couldn't see for all the rain dripping into her eyes, and it was cold, even though somehow also she was so hot, she just wanted to sit down and put her face against the tree she was leaning on. "It's very easy, Ser Hound, just put your cheek on it," she whispered, but it was swallowed up in the wet drumming around them.
The Hound was looking around them, through the trees and down the hill. Suddenly he swung her up into his arms, quickly but not roughly, and started pushing down through the wet slapping branches. Sansa was trying not to slip around too much but the metal of his armor was freezing cold and so wet that she couldn't help from sliding and jostling. She began to laugh but in the same moment it turned into a sob. I'm sick, I'm sick, I want Mother, she thought. I want to go home, I shouldn't be here, I want Father and Mother and I want Lady, I want to go home. Her tears were hot but they couldn't warm her drenched face.
Suddenly there was light around her, she opened her eyes and she could see torches and firelight coming out of a window. A window! There were several low stone cottages around them, and Sansa saw that the Hound had brought her into a village. No, no, she thought, they'll catch me, they'll make me go back to Joffrey. Her hands scrabbled weakly at his arms.
The Hound banged through the inn's door with his shoulders and the pounding put Sansa's head to throbbing, but she could still hear well enough, though her eyes were clenched shut.
"What's all this then?" a woman cried, and Sansa opened her eyes a little. She saw a low room with stone walls and a low, sturdy hearth. A few wooden tables and a couple of stools. A pot on the fire that smelled incredibly good. An old woman and a young boy were staring at them from their seats near the flames.
"I need a bed and some food. I have coin," the Hound was saying. He lowered Sansa to the bench and she slipped heavily out of his arms and hit her head on the seat. Oo, that will hurt tomorrow, she giggled to herself, even as her skull began to throb.
The woman was eyeing the sword on the Hound's belt, his hacked and dented armor and the scars on his face. "Aye, we've beds aplenty, but not much food to be had around," she said. "You can have what's left of the stew but that's all there is for the night."
"That will do fine," growled the Hound. "The lady is sick. Is there a Maester in the village?"
"That there isn't, Ser," said the woman, and now she was coming closer and peering down at Sansa. She's not really old, thought Sansa, she's just a peasant. The woman sucked air in through her teeth. "She's paler than a corpse, she is. Wouldn't be surprised if she doesn't make it through the night. You sure you want to pay for the bed, Ser?"
He is no Ser, Sansa thought, he'll cut you for that, and the wicked thought made her laugh. But the laugh turned into a cough and she spasmed so helplessly that she began to slide to the floor.
"I'll pay for the damn room if I please and it's none of your business if she lives or not," he snapped. His voice was like a whip made of knives. "Now take us to the room and bring the stew and wine if you have it." He was gathering her up into his arms again and Sansa wanted to stand, but found she just couldn't make her legs move.
Now they were pushing past a low doorway and it was dark after the brightness of the fire and Sansa began pushing weakly at the Hound's chest in a panic. But then she was being set down gently on a pallet of straw and burlap, scratchy but soft, like the hay bales she used to roll on when she was little. She started to shiver, she was so wet and cold, but then she felt a heavy warmth on her and there was a cloak being tucked around her face. She grabbed at it and held tight, now she was spinning and she was hanging on to the rough fabric to keep from falling. And then she was in her mother's arms, rocking and singing softly, and she slept.
