Chapter 2
"I wish I was more useful," she laments on the third day as she watches him preparing a rabbit to eat.
She had always made fun of Arya's tomboyishness and yet Arya would be a better companion on this journey than her. What use are pretty embroidery and courtesies and a skill on the high harp when the kingdom is at war and men are dying? What use is Sansa to anyone except as a pawn in their game?
"No use wishing, little bird." he tells her roughly, looking up from the rabbit. "You want to learn, then learn."
She is still for a moment, his gruffness affects her and perhaps she wishes that he would've said something comforting instead, about it being a pleasure to serve a lady as lovely as her. Something that a true knight would've said.
But the knights at court, for all their pleasant courtesies, had been quick enough to beat her when it was asked of them and the Hound, for all of his rudeness, has only ever helped her.
So Sansa steels herself and steps forward, seats herself by his side and begins to learn.
/
He teaches her what he can while they travel; how to care for a horse, make a fire, set a trap, prepare an animal for eating. Some of it she wrinkles her pretty nose at, but she completes the tasks anyway, flashing him a brilliant, proud smile whenever she succeeds at something.
"Perhaps when I see Arya again she will be proud of me." his little bird comments sadly, and he simply grunts. Nobody has seen her sister since Ned Stark's arrest and whether she's alive or dead is not for him to say.
When they have been on the road for more than two weeks, making slow but steady progress, he decides it is time to teach her to protect herself.
He teaches her the best way to strike a man, to kick him or stab him. He teaches her how to avoid blows or lessen them, how to escape from an arm lock. She is soft and warm against him as he demonstrates and he curses himself for a fool. He wishes he could hold her tighter, for longer. He wishes she would kick him in his blasted balls so he could start thinking with his head instead.
She half worships him already as her saviour and he knows that with some pretty words he could convince her easily enough that the gratitude she feels is really love. He could take her far away from here, somewhere that her family would never find her, and keep her safe from everything and everyone.
Except from himself.
When he judges she is ready he gives her his dagger to keep and watches as she pulls it from its scabbard, her eyes filled with both wonder and fear and a thank you on her lips.
Her expression grows sad as she considers the knife in her hands.
"A man tried to kill my little brother with a dagger," she whispers, "If my mother and Bran's direwolf had not been there, then he would be dead now."
He realises that she does not know, that nobody has told her of her younger brothers' deaths. It is not surprising, in the chaos that King's Landing had been in the past weeks he doubts that the Queen considered it important enough.
He could allow her to keep believing that they are alive and safe. It would be a kindness to conceal it until she is with her mother, who will know how to break the news best.
But he has had so little practice with kindness over the years that all he can think is, better she knows. Better she knows to grieve and be done with it.
So he tells her, hesitating over the words, trying to be gentle when he has no idea how to be.
"Both of your younger brothers are dead, little bird." he tells her, "Theon Greyjoy took Winterfell for his father and killed them when they tried to escape. Then he burned the castle to the ground."
The knife slips from her fingers and he sees a bloom of red appear on one but she does not notice. She is staring at him in horror, shaking her head, no, no, it is not possible. She tries to turn away so she doesn't have to see the truth in his eyes.
He reaches out and grasps her chin, turns her to look at him so that she must accept it. Nods at her once, places his other hand on her shoulder to grip it. "I'm sorry." he tells her, as gently as he knows how.
She lets out a howl of anguish and collapses against his chest sobbing, her hands clutching his tunic.
He should've waited, should've let her mother tell her; but that would've been a false kindness to her in only delaying the grief.
He does not know how to comfort her, he has had little enough comfort in his own life to be able to learn.
Words of reassurance would be false so he does not say them, but he places one hand on her back to press her to him and the other on her hair, which he strokes slowly. He seems to remember that his mother had done that once when he had wept at some cruelty of Gregor's.
After some time she quiets and pulls away, still snuffling slightly. She pulls a handkerchief out to wipe her eyes and then turns to look at him, so sorrowful that it could break his heart, if he had one.
"How could he do it?" she asks him, her voice breaking, "Theon... He grew up with us, was treated just like one of us. Robb loved him like a brother... He was almost a brother."
He is still for a moment.
"Be grateful that he was only almost a brother." Sandor tells her, more harshly than intended. "There's those who've done worse to their actual blood."
Her eyes flicker and he knows she understands, knows that he is talking about Gregor.
He had heard that the Greyjoy boy had burned her brothers, though he'll never tell her so. He thinks that one day maybe he'll get the opportunity to make the little cunt pay for it. Perhaps Theon Greyjoy will also burn before the end. He cannot bring her brothers back but he can do that much for her.
She nods and takes a deep breath in, then bends down to pick up the knife she dropped.
When she stands up again she looks at him with something more than understanding, something approaching kinship.
He wishes that she wouldn't.