The riot raged for a day and a night before tiring itself out, too weakened by illness to make any impact on the castle. The washer woman died three days after Sansa was sent for the healer, and Joffrey worsened each day. His original reasoning for summoning her was lost in the fog of fever and poppy.
Margery sat at his side, clasping his clammy, limp hand for the first few days, then had been banished from the room by Cersei. None knew what evils she brewed behind the barred door of the king's chambers, and none risked asking.
She could not answer where Grette had gone, but she had not seen her since the riot. Either the girl had been struck down with the illness, or she had managed to escape King's Landing. She hoped she had escaped.
Sansa carried her life on as best she could. Her work load had more than doubled from all the servant's lost to the sickness, and the castle was still filled to the brim with Tyrell guests. She scrubbed the floors until her hands cracked and bled, she carried linen until her arms ached, and lugged more washing water than the entire Narrow Sea contained. Each night, she would return exhausted and fall asleep as soon as she crawled into her bedroll.
It carried on this way for four more days, then the pattern was broken. She returned to her shared room that night, intending to fall directly into bed when she noticed the large lump already in Sandor's bed. She paused, her back leaning against the door for balance as she pried off her slippers.
Sandor never retired before her. He never so much as peeked his head into the room while Sansa was awake in it, not after that day he had found her with his cloak. They had formed a pattern and it was strange of him to break it.
She took a few steps closer and sniffed. There was no smell of wine, so he could not have drunken himself into an early stupor. She took another step and saw the sheen of sweat covering his brow, the anguished twist to his face, the shivers that wracked his body. Extending a trembling hand, she pressed it delicately against his brow and snatched it back.
He was scorching.
"The fever," Sansa gasped, panic swelling in her chest. The maesters were locked in the king's chambers, tending to the boy-king. The healer in town had vanished during the riots. She could think of nowhere else she could go for aid. She screwed her eyes shut and wracked her brain for solutions.
"I need to cool him," she decided. She faintly recalled the cool relief of compresses made of snow when she had this fever in Winterfell. She wished she had snow now, but she settled for removing his extra layers.
Sandor was fully clothed in his armor, and his heavy tunic was pinned to him by the metal. She was grateful he had forgone his mail today, for removing the plain armor alone presented a sizeable challenge. She took a steadying breath, then clambered atop the bed and began groping along the edges of his chest piece, looking for the straps that held it in place. She dearly hoped he'd remain asleep while she did it.
She found the straps and had them undone faster than expected. She pried off his metal arm bracers and his gorget, but his chest piece stubbornly remained. The front portion was fully unclasped and hanging loose, but the back half of its length was pinned beneath him. She gripped the metal and pulled one corner, then the other, alternating as she strained. Bit by bit, the armor slipped free. After what felt like hours but was surely only moments, the chest piece was free and shoved off the bed.
Finally, all that remained was the sweat stained tunic. It had to be pulled over his head to be removed, but he was too far gone to be of any aid in that. Sansa sat back on her heels and frowned. She suddenly dearly wished he was awake, regardless of how embarrassing this was.
She crawled to the other end of the bed and pulled off his boots and his stockings, encouraged by the ease of it. She moved back up to the head of the bed and grasped his arms firmly, and pulled with all her might. He did not move. She shoved a mass of sweaty hair out of her face and tried again, bracing her feet on either side of his torso for leverage. He lifted for a moment, his head a finger's span from his pillow, then she lost her grip and he fell back again.
She furiously wiped her perspiration slicked hands on her skirt and leapt from the bed. If she could not lift him, then she would try rolling instead. It was all a matter of leverage. She braced her bare feet on the cool stone, squared her shoulders, and shoved his left shoulder. To her immense satisfaction, he tilted. She shoved harder and stepped closer and closer until her knees hit the mattress.
He was lifted by a hand's span. "Need to...get...closer," she grunted. First she lifted a knee to the bed, then the other, then she was scrambling to brace his back up before he tilted flat again.
Fwump.
A boulder of blazing heat landed atop her, pinning her to the bed beneath his massive weight. His upper torso trapped her folded legs, and his shaggy head rested against her chest like an anvil. Her left arm was bent between her stomach and his shoulder, but her right arm was still free.
"This is ridiculous," she huffed, her cheeks red from more than just the stifling heat of the room. She had never been this close to a strange man before- although he's hardly a stranger, she reminded herself. She peered down at his fever flushed face, and lifted her free hand to his brow. If possible, he was even more scorching than before. She pushed a lock of his sweat clumped hair out of his eyes and gazed at him for a moment while she caught her breath. He was a heavy man, and his weight made it hard to inhale deeply.
She traced a path with her eyes, first following a bead of sweat crawling along his temple, then veering off course when the droplet vanished into his hair. The unburned side of his face had sharp cheekbones, she noticed, and a strong jaw, and a square chin coated in dark stubble. From there, the burns began, twisting and melting flesh all the way up to his hairline, and then beyond- up his scalp where his hair had been burned away. She continued the path with her hand, running a finger along the scorched flesh atop his head, then into his perspiration dampened hair. She gathered the thick strands of hair and arranged them into the fashion he usually kept it.
She drew her hand away from him and sagged back into the mattress. She had spent two moons sleeping in his bedroll and had nearly forgotten how welcoming a bed could feel. Work needed to be done though, and she would not risk Sandor's health by lazing about. She sighed and wiggled as fiercely as she could manage, finally freeing her other arm from his weight.
With two arms free and her own body to brace him up, she began the nearly insurmountable task of removing his tunic. She strained her reach as far as she could, fingertips trembling in effort. She hooked her fingers beneath the bottom hem and pulled until the cloth was bunched beneath his arms, and then heaved both his limbs above his head. The cloth slid over his head with a satisfying whisper.
She threw it from the bed with more force than needed. She twisted and wiggled until she was free from him, and sat at the edge of the bed to gasp for air. The room was suffocating, and his fever wracked body had been nearly unbearably hot. She rose to open the shuttered window, but the floor rushed up to meet her before she could take a full step. Her face hit the floor, but she barely noticed.
Sansa clutched at her thigh and grimaced at the pins and needles running up and down her legs. Sandor's weight had pressed the blood from her trapped limbs, numbing them beyond any use. She groaned and flexed her toes until she trusted herself enough to stand.
She staggered to the wall and pried open the shutters, shoving her entire head out the window. The air outside was thick and still, but the distant rumbling of thunder promised the mercy of rain. Night had already darkened the sky, but she knew roiling black clouds hung heavy above. Sansa turned back to the bed, feeling cooler than before.
She grabbed the bowl of water from their wash stand and swabbed at his fevered brow. The liquid evaporated nearly as soon as it touched his skin. She swabbed at his cheeks, his neck, his chest, but it did little to lower his temperature.
She frowned at the wash cloth and twisted the fabric anxiously. She had removed as much clothing as she had dared, and the tepid water was as cold as could be found in the sweltering keep. Once the rain started she knew the storm winds would help, but until then she had few other options. She decided to remove the last bit of clothing she could.
That queer fluttering in her belly flared to life, but she ignored it as she reached for the laces of his trousers. The simple knot gave easily.
She pulled on the hem of one pant leg, then the other, alternating as she did so until the trousers were fully removed. The fluttering in her belly returned with a vengeance, impossible to ignore now. She had never seen a man in his smallclothes before, and it felt odd for Sandor to be unconscious and so little dressed.
She kept her gaze firmly on the wiry hairs sprouting from the tops of his toes and chewed on her lip. For all she knew, he could have slept in just his smallclothes the entire time she shared the room with him. Perhaps for him this was normal and nothing at all to be embarrassed over.
Emboldened by that thought she allowed her gaze to creep up past his ankles to his generously haired calves. From there, it took less effort to bring her gaze to his knees, oddly pale on the rest of his tanned body, and then up his thickly muscled thighs up to his smallclothes- or where they would have been if he had been wearing any.
Sansa spun around and buried her face in her hands. Her heart pounded and her own face felt as fevered as his had. What sort of man didn't wear underthings? He had plenty of clean pairs to wear, and she ought to know as she had freshly mended over half of them the night of the riot. She felt almost angry with him for his impropriety, and she used that anger in lieu of courage to scoop up her white cloak of a blanket and toss it upon his fully naked form.
The anger cleared her mind a bit too, and she thought of the kitchens. Slabs of meat were often kept deep in the cellars, sandwiched between great chunks of ice brought down from the mountains. She couldn't be certain the ice hadn't melted from the heat wave, but she had to try.
"I shall return," Sansa promised the lump on the bed as she slipped out the door. He did not reply, but she had not expected him to.
The halls were empty, and the slap of her bare feet echoed against the stone. She made her way to the kitchens, vacant of people at this late hour, and then out to the yard behind the kitchen. She paused at the storehouse's door. What if the door was locked? What if the ice had all melted? She shoved away a bubble of panic and tried the latch. It gave way easily, and the door swung open with a creak.
She wished she had thought to bring a torch to light the gloomy stone building, but she had not and it was too late to turn back now. She propped the door open with a nearby bucket and squinted in the low moonlight. She felt along the wall until she found the stone steps leading down to the cellar, then crept as carefully down them as she could manage. She shuffled forward and groped blindly along the walls until her hands struck something cold and wet and soft. She recoiled in revulsion, then groped forward again eagerly.
She shoved the cut of meat off to the side and swatted away clumps of straw until the smooth hardness of ice was uncovered. She brushed the slab of intact ice adoringly, then probed along the smooth surface until she found the edges. The ice block was heavy, ungainly, and pressed a wet spot into the front of her dress, but Sansa cared not one whit for her heart was light in giddiness.
The stairs were treacherous, but she managed them well enough. Staggering under the weight of the block, she emerged from the storehouse to find the kitchen yard less empty than she had left it. A dark pillar of a man stood at the near wall.
"A storm is brewing tonight," Petyr Baelish clasped his hands and smiled coolly. "You ought to take care not to be caught in it."
Any last scraps of giddiness fled in the face of dread. She had avoided Petyr since his appalling proposition those moons ago, and she did not savor his unexpected visit now.
"I'll keep that in mind," Sansa nodded curtly.
"See that you do," he advanced upon her, then halted mid-step. His eyebrows knitted together in a show of concern as he finished closing the distance between them. "Oh sweetling, what has he done to you?"
Sansa grit her teeth and readjusted her grip on the ice block. "What meaning do you have? Speak plainly, if it pleases my lord."
"There were whispers that the Hound had taken you in as a bed fellow, but I had dismissed them as prattle," he raised a hand and prodded gently at her left cheek. She winced at the pain. "He's given you this bruise, hasn't he?"
"No," she protested, "Sandor would never harm me. I simply lost my footing and fell. And we are not bed fellows- I'll thank you to not repeat such untruths. If you'll excuse me, work needs to be done. Remove yourself from my person."
She jerked her head out of his grip and frowned as she sidestepped him. Petyr's cool smile did not falter.
"Whatever shall you do when he's gone? The worst of the flock are frightened away by the loyal dog, but I wonder- how shall they behave once the fever takes him?"
"You entertain such grim thoughts, my lord. Sandor is hale and hearty. And besides," she tilted her chin up and looked down her nose at the smaller man. "It would be pure folly to harm a war hostage, and that's precisely what I am."
"Are you certain that will be enough to keep you safe?" He cocked his head to the side and fingered his mockingbird pin. "Know that there is always a place in my chambers for you. Never forget that."
She felt her mouth twist into an unladylike sneer and she spun on her heel before he could ooze more oily words. A fat glob of rain splattered on the cobblestone. Another joined it, then another, and another. It was though a dam had burst from the skies.
She ran the rest of the way back to their room. Soaked strings of hair slapped against her burning cheek, and thick rivulets of water ran down her forehead, dripping into her eyes. Sandor was more than just a guard dog she kept to snarl away unwanted attention.
He was her friend.
She hated Petyr for suggesting otherwise and for slandering Sandor in that way. She hated him for saying Sandor would die. Petyr was wrong. He would not perish from the fever- she would not allow it. She had lost her family, her home, and her noble birthright.
"I won't lose him too," Sansa announced to the empty hall, then swung open their chamber door.
She chipped off great chunks of ice from the block, and packed bundles of ice wrapped in cloth around Sandor's fevered body. She chipped until her shoulders and arms ached in effort, and replaced the melted ice every hour. The storm raged and roiled outside, and she thanked the gods for the merciful cool wind that swirled through the unshuttered window. Eventually, she could keep her eyes open no longer and fell asleep curled against Sandor's side, senseless to propriety or how damp the bed was from melted ice.