After that, they rode without talking for most of the day, Sansa riding behind the Hound, who almost never turned round. Every time she remembered what she had said, she bit on her tongue, hard. She was an idiot. She'd got him to soften, just for a moment, and ruined it.
They stopped in the middle of the afternoon to rest the horses. The Hound wordlessly passed her some salt beef from his saddlebag and she sat some paces away from him, feeling miserable. The beef needed endless chewing. Her legs ached maddeningly. As they got back on their horses, she asked timidly what route they were taking. She had realised that she had no idea where they were. He could be taking her anywhere and she wouldn't know the difference.
The Hound sniffed. 'We're shadowing the kingsroad. It'd be madness to be out in the open on it. Too many enemies to meet.' He seemed to read her thoughts, and looked at her bitterly. 'Don't worry, we're heading north.' He clicked his tongue to Stranger and moved off.
He obviously knew how to avoid people. They hadn't seen a soul by the time the moon was bright, a doleful eye peeping through the trees. They came to rest in a small dell surrounded by hazel and birch trees, and the Hound instructed Sansa to find firewood. It was good to be further away from him and his accusatory silence for a few minutes, even if it did mean going on her own. She walked in a circle a little way from the dell gathering the driest sticks she could find, moving between the puddles of moonlight, and trying not to imagine who, or what, might be watching her from the darkness.
When she returned, the horses were laid down for the night, and the blankets unpacked. The Hound was kneeling awkwardly over a small bundle of moss and leaves, and whittling a small thin stick into a flatter piece of wood, swearing quietly as the sparks failed to take. His shoulder was clearly hampering him. Sansa placed her bundle of branches down and sat down on a blanket.
'Get us some food, then,' muttered the Hound from his crouching position.
Gods, he was so rude. She got up again, and found bread, cheese, and salt beef, which she looked at glumly. The pale cheese was sweating slightly now. It made her think of Lord Varys' forehead. King's Landing might have been a prison, but they had fed her well. Sweetmeats, cakes, cream… She hoped desperately that they'd find an inn soon.
The Hound finally started a fire. As the flames flickered, he eyed them warily, blowing on them gingerly and piling Sansa's sticks on top, and then sat back heavily, tearing at the bread that she'd left by his side. They ate, silently, both looking into the fire, Sansa seated on the other side of the flames.
He licked his fingers. 'That's the last of it. We'll have to find our own food tomorrow'.
No inns yet then. Was he going to avoid them on purpose, both so as not to encounter anyone and to punish her? Soon enough she'd be sinking her teeth into raw deer flesh like a proper direwolf.
'Cat got your tongue, girl?'
She looked up at him, her chin resting on her knees, which she was hugging tightly to her chest. 'I don't have anything to say.'
The Hound snorted. 'I find that hard to believe'.
Sansa stared into the fire. His silent treatment of her was obviously over for the day. Fine. She'd talk to him. 'Did Joffrey know that you left?'
He took a swig from his wineskin, which never seemed to run out. 'Ay, reckon he did.'
'What did he say? He didn't let you go?'
'He didn't say much. But I did tell him to fuck himself.'
Sansa breathed in slowly, looking at him with something close to admiration. To have seen Joffrey's face. But - his wrath would be terrible.
The Hound read her thoughts. 'He had it coming. I was too long in that place.'
All the awful things he must have done under Joffrey's command. Killing Ayra's butcher boy. The battle, and so many other killings. But - he hadn't been forced. He could have gone at any time. She went to speak, but hesitated.
'Go on,' he said, a slight provocation in his voice. 'What else?'
'At the Gate. Why did you kill that last guard? You didn't have to.'
'Didn't I?'
He wanted to scare her. 'You said to me before that killing was a sweet thing. Do you really mean that?'
The Hound breathed in jaggedly. 'When you're brought up fighting, it's what you do best. And yes, there is satisfaction in it. Maybe one day you'll see that.'
Sansa looked at him. 'I can't see it. Not even for my enemies.'
'What, so you don't want to see Joffrey's head on a spike? I didn't take you for a liar.'
She gazed into the flames. 'I want Joffrey dead. But I wouldn't feel satisfied. It won't bring my father back. Or Arya.'
They were silent. The sound of the fire was like someone clapping gnats on their skin. Sansa thought over the night of the battle. 'Why did you come for me?'
He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. 'Gods, girl, is this an inquisition?
'You said you wanted me to talk,' said Sansa, slightly sulkily.
'Ay, well, that's enough,' said the Hound, suddenly irritable. 'Sleep'
Sansa sighed, deeply. She was exhausted, by the riding and lack of food, and by him, as changeable as a northern sky. That moment by the river was long gone. She tucked herself up in her blanket and cloak as best she could, rolling over to remove a stone that was digging into her back, and tilting back to face the fire. The warmth on her face slowed her breathing, and brought her dreams.
