He was freezing cold one moment, boiling hot the next. He wished for dreams, the darkness too much to bear, but when he saw his sister, sweet Elenor's face, he wished for the darkness to swallow him whole. She sat with him, his sister, holding his hand as she sang songs of courtly love and glorious knights. She sang of Florian and his Jonquil, of Jenny of Oldstones. She sang of love lost and Love that sticks with you, forever. The kind of love he felt for her. For his little bird. His sister's face swam before his, her kind grey eyes filled with concern. His face felt hot, though the burns had long stopped bothering him, the tears that slid over them scalded his skin, so fierce were they. She smiled then, and her own tears joined his as they dropped onto his face, mingling with his pain, his misery.
"Elenor," he croaked, his voice rough like the first time he spoke after the burns, his throat ravaged by fire and smoke. "Elenor, stay with me, please. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I should've been there, I should never have left you. When he beat you, Gods! I should've been there! I left you, Elenor, I left you and I'm sorry. Forgive me, please, and don' leave me like I left you. Don't leave. Stay. Elenor..." The words wouldn't stop, and after years of being pent-up inside his heart, they tumbled out, eager to caress the world with their love. And their hate.
"Elenor," he whispered again, reaching a hand out to touch her face. She was not particularly beautiful, yet Sandor knew angels envied her. They must, for there was not a soul as kind and loving as his sweet sister's. Nobody else would love a boy ravaged by fire, except for her, yet her love for him outweighed all the love in the world, her devotion to him unrivalled. He loved her, too. And he has let her down. She smiled at him again, stroked his burnt cheek, her fingers dancing over the grooves and ridges on his skin. Leaning down, she brought her face down to his and pressed her lips to his brow bone, the de-sensitised skin masking the pressure of her sweet lips. He turned into her kiss, but when she lifted her face to look him in the eyes, hers were blue.
Little bird, he thought. She, too, smiled at him, and her soft hands stroked the hair back from his forehead, holding a wet cloth against his skin to cool his fever down.
"How do you feel, Sandor?" Her voice was oddly realistic, reaching his ears as though they were spoken aloud. He looked at her again, and finally noticed a dull pain in his shoulder. I'm awake, he realised. I'm alive. He felt a pang of disappointment, but cleared his throat to speak.
"Like death," he answered, attempting to sit back up, but Sansa firmly pushed him back.
"You were close, certainly. But not quite dead, yet." She gave a self-satisfied smirk, fussing over his hair and pressing cool towels against his face, rearranging his covers. He watched her intently. She saved me, he thought. The little bird saved my life. And now it belonged to her. He had been dreaming of his sister, but it was Sansa who brought him back to life. Something lodged itself in his throat and he cleared it once, before the girl came rushing back with water, pressing the cup to his lip.
"Drink," she ordered, tipping the water into his parched mouth. She stared boldly at his face as he gulped it down, and he wondered when she had stopped fearing his scars. Gods, when had she stopped fearing everything? It all came back to him, now. The inn, the men who took Stranger while he was unable to even lift his head, let alone a sword, and the little bird. You won't hurt me. He heard a soft snorting sound and shifted his eyes to the left, unwilling to look at the girl standing before him, staring expectantly into his face.
"You brought Stranger back," he mumbled stupidly. The girl saved my life, and brought my horse back to me. He wondered how she had convinced the horse to behave. He hoped Stranger had been good to her, though the temper on that horse was uncontrollable.
"Yes," she said, still looking him in the face. Suddenly she got up and started preparing food, and Sandor noticed a skinned hare on a spit.
"You caught that?" He knew he sounded bewildered, but he had never imagined the girl capable of killing an animal. Yet she killed Bolton, and he was the biggest there is, he smirked at the memory of the dead Northerner.
"What's so funny?" She countered, mistaking his smirk to be directed at her. He wanted to tell her proud he was of her, but the words just wouldn't come.
"You, little bird." He answered, shrugging. She turned red with anger, though in King's Landing her blushes only came from embarrassment. She has changed, he thought, and he found he liked her this way. He liked his little bird with talons.
"I'm funny? I saved your life, ser, and you dare to mock me?" She shrieked, flinging the hare pelt at him. She flung something else as well, but Sandor couldn't see as his face screwed up. Laughter rose up from within his chest, and he let it out in a fit of mirth, ignoring the pain in his shoulder s his body shook. The little bird got angrier, still, and stalked over to where he sat, hovering over him menacingly. He grinned up at her, before he sobered up and growled.
"You think my life means anything to me, girl?" He rasped, cursing himself for his inability to apologize, to thank her. She has saved your life, dog, show some gratitude. His tongue just wouldn't co-operate. She sighed and Sandor saw a fleeting look of sadness wash over her face, before she turned around.
"Perhaps it means something to me," she said, her back to him. She returned to the roasting hare, turning the spit, her back still facing him. Sandor glared at her small frame, angry with himself and angry with her for her stupid chirping. He remembered how she had looked at him when he woke up, the smile that brightened up his face, the same one his sister had worn those many years ago. Mayhaps she told the truth, he tried to convince himself. Maybe the little bird does... have feelings, for me. As much as he tried to tell himself that, though, he refused to believe it. What would she want with an old dog like me. A broken, old dog, he thought. No, she needs someone pure, someone not filled with anger. Someone who can love her true, as she deserves. He had tried staying away from her, but perhaps he would stay with her, and try harder not to love her.
She was quiet for the rest of the day, though she carried on nursing him with the same relentless attitude as before. Sandor allowed her to tend to his wound, though he drew the line at feeding him, which she had wanted to do, as well. He could feed himself, he thought bitterly as he bit into the hare. She didn't talk to him that day, nor the day after that, and as he grew stronger and his wound started the healing process, her gentle touches stopped altogether. It's better this way, he thought, though her soft caresses were sorely missed. It's better this way.