Chapter 9

The forest was dark and silent. She saw no sign of the Hound.

He really left me. The thought stirred a dread in her so deep that she feared her legs might give way. Sansa leaned on the door frame for support and hung her head.

It was that small motion that saved her life.

There was a sharp, sudden pain on the top of her head as something whirred through the darkness. She let out a startled cry as her hands flew up. It was a crossbow quarrel, and it had grazed the top of her head, taking some of her hair with it. It had lodged into the wood of the barn. Her hands came away sticky with her own blood.

If I hadn't moved, it would have gone right through my forehead. The thought barely registered as she glimpsed movement in the woods before her. Four dark forms materialized out of the darkness. Two of them had swords drawn, and one had a crossbow. The other was the singer. Fear seized her and though she wanted to move, she found that she couldn't. Her feet had turned to stone and she was rooted to the spot.

They're going to kill you if you don't run! She thought through the panic, but still her feet refused to move.

"You missed," Max snarled and the man with the crossbow landed a well placed kick on his shin that sent the youth to one knee.

"You didn't tell us she was so pretty," the archer spat as Max struggled to regain his feet and his composure.

"Bugger pretty! The little bitch almost got me killed by that big un'! Put a bolt through her face, she'll be just as good a fuck dead as alive," Max replied with a sneer as he rubbed his bruised shin with one hand.

Dread filled Sansa and her hands started to shake. She wanted to speak, but no words would come. This is what he meant by trouble. This is why he warned me not to go out on my own.

"Where is the other one?" one of the swordsmen inquired. His voice was deep and mean sounding. He was taller than the rest, but she couldn't make out any features. The thick garb they wore and the darkness took care of that.

"I don't know! He was drunk and half mad! Probably passed out in a drift somewhere," Max replied, sounding oddly like a chastised child. How had she ever thought he was charming? The archer aimed another kick at him but Max danced backwards out of the way before it connected.

"Idiot! Craven! He has steel! We told you to get them good and drunk, not to chase one off into the night…and who told you to get drunk with them! Bloody useless! I hate singers!" the archer roared, making Max creep backwards even further.

"We will take care of him when he comes back…if he comes back. Let's have the girl, take their provisions and be done with it," the second swordsman spoke for the first time. "No, leave her alive. I like when they squirm," he pushed the archers arm down as he raised the crossbow again to finish her off.

"Sig, go take care of the horses and supplies. I have half a mind to take her right here," the swordsman growled. The archer leered at her as he slunk into the barn to steal their horses and belongings. The swordsman took a step towards her.

Adrenaline flooded her system at the thought, and her legs finally obeyed her mind. She broke to the right. It didn't matter. The bigger swordsman was quick and he caught her by the wrist and pulled her to him with a rough yank that made the bones in her wrist grind together painfully. Her head smacked into his chestplate and she felt dizzy. Blood trickled down the side of her face from the crossbow wound.

Max let out a whoop as she was caught and the swordsman pulled her with him, as if to show her off to the remaining two.

"See? That's how it's done," he spat and sheathed his sword. His sword hand came up to fondle her chest. She was unpleasantly reminded of Littlefinger. A sudden scream tore from her throat at the thought. It was quickly stifled by his hand. Sansa struggled in his grip but it just made him hold onto her tighter.

"Quiet, bitch. No one's coming to save you now," the second swordsman laughed. Max snickered darkly. A sudden hatred and anger seized her.

What would the Hound do? She thought suddenly, but that wouldn't help her. She had no sword and wouldn't know how to use one if she did. Her thoughts turned to her sister instead. Arya wouldn't let anyone get away with this.

Sansa bit down on the hand over her mouth. The swordsman swore and flung her away from him. She stumbled and fell heavily into the snow. Her world went dark for a moment and her head pounded.

"May the Others take you, cunt!" the swordsman swore, shaking his hand as if that would rid him of the sudden pain. Sansa felt a sudden surge of satisfaction as she watched him from her place on the ground. There was a sound of a sword being drawn and she closed her eyes, knowing that he was going to kill her.

He let out a grunt of effort and she waited for the pain. Instead she felt a warmth upon her arm. She heard both Max and the other swordsman shout out. She opened her eyes and was rewarded with the sight of a sword poking through his chest. It was blood dripping down on her. The man gasped wordlessly as the sword was drawn from his body. The Hound pushed his body aside and it fell heavily at her feet.

oOo

He hadn't gone too far from the barn. Despite his anger he wouldn't leave the girl unprotected. He was drunk and pissed off, but he'd never been stupid. A fallen tree served well enough for a seat and he savagely kicked the snow off the top of it before sitting down. A slew of curses flew from his mouth at the cold. Better the coldness of the snow then the coldness in her voice.

His songs were pretty, and I've had few things of beauty since I left the Vale! Had any words ever hurt so much? He'd had sword wounds that were less painful. Unconsciously his hand rose to the burn scars on his face. She had been able to meet his gaze since they had left the Vale, and his face hadn't seemed to bother her as much as it used to, but her words suggested otherwise. He had thought things were changing. That maybe…just maybe…

Let her have her pretty singer, if it makes her happy, dog.

Sandor sighed and pretended that it didn't matter to him. He let the cold embrace him, his stubbornness the only thing keeping him out in the cold long after his feet and hands went numb.

He heard the soft crunch of snow before he saw the people it belonged to, and was on his feet before they got too close. There were at least two of them, but less than six, and they were heading to the barn. He moved as softly as he could, using their own clumsy footfalls to mask his own.

As he got a good glimpse of them, he saw that there were four. Two were armed with drawn swords, one had a crossbow and the other was the fucking singer.

Never trust a bard. He thought with renewed fury. They were outlaws, no doubt, and where they ended up, trouble would follow.

Trouble, but not for you, dog. He reminded himself, which got him moving again. His gaze was kept on the barn as they approached and dread filled his gut as he saw the door open and the little bird took a step out into the snow.

He saw the archer raise the crossbow too late and he almost gave himself away, but thankfully the cry caught in his throat. The arrow flew and he saw her flinch, but also saw that it had missed.

Do not charge in there like a reckless lover, you're outnumbered and drunk. They're sober and you see the way they carry their swords. These men are trained, and trained well. Deserters, no doubt. If you rush them, you'll kill the both of you as surely as if you had done the deed yourself.

It was the hardest thing he had done in a long time. He had to channel every ounce of will power to keep from rushing to her aid as they jeered and made suggestions that made his blood run hot. He drew his sword as quietly as he could, praying that the metal scrape would go unnoticed with all the shouting they were doing.

He saw his chance as the archer disappeared into the barn. The three remaining still outnumbered him, but with the archer gone he had one less thing to worry about. Plus, the singer was unarmed and appeared drunk as well.

As Sansa was flung to the ground his resolve finally snapped and he moved in. The big man raised his sword, but the Hound was quicker. The outlaw was taken unawares as the sword punched through cloak, leather, bone and skin. The strangled noise he uttered lasted only a moment as the Hound put all his strength into pulling the sword out, and up. It cleaved through his breastbone easy enough and the man was dead as he hit the ground.

"SIG! WE GOT TROUBLE!" the singer hollered before he took off running back into the woods. One less to deal with, although the Hound would have loved nothing more than to cut him down and make him eat his own fingers.

There was no more time for thought as the second swordsman stepped up to take him on. The Hound got his sword up in time to parry the attack and then they were hacking at each other with controlled ferocity. It had been a long time since he had fought like this, but it was like putting on a well worn boot. It wasn't long before his attacks became quicker and stronger. The outlaw barely managed to fend off the blows and was growing tired quickly.

The Hound brought an overhand blow down upon the upraised sword of the outlaw that made the man stagger. A second later the sword flew from his hand and the man collapsed. He swung down at the fallen man with a savage sort of glee. The blow was blocked, just barely, by a dagger in the outlaws hand.

A laugh broke forth from his throat and he placed a well aimed slash at the wrist of the outlaw. The man howled as the dagger, and the hand still attached to it, flew across the snow, landing at his dead comrade's side.

"Yield! I yield!" he begged suddenly as blood poured from the stump of his wrist.

"Too late for that," the Hound snarled and drove his sword through the neck of the fallen man. It felt like justice. It felt like coming home.

He wiped the blood from his sword on the outlaws cloak as he drowned in his own blood, then sheathed it and went to his fallen bird. There was blood in her pretty hair, and down the side of her face. Her skin was white and her blue eyes wide. She said nothing, but trembled softly. With a gentleness he didn't know he had in him, he examined the wound on her head, careful not to hurt her. It was shallow, but was still bleeding.

"Hush now, little bird," he murmured. Sansa closed her eyes and nodded softly. She would be alright, but he had broken his promise; she had gotten hurt.

You shouldn't have left her.

The sound of Stranger's scream shocked him into alertness again. The chestnut mare's whinny pierced the air as well and the sound of hooves striking wood. A smell rose in the air that left him paralyzed. The archer had set the barn on fire. He turned towards the barn and something punched into his shoulder. If he had been sober, he would have kept his feet.

He hit the ground with a curse as pain rippled out from his shoulder with blinding speed. Sansa let out a small whimper as the archer stalked towards them. Their belongings were in a sack that was tucked under one arm. He was reloading.

Sandor reached for his sword but the archer kicked it away, then landed another kick square in the kidneys. The Hound sucked air through his teeth as a dull pain spread up into his stomach.

"That was my brother you killed," the archer snarled as he finished reloading and leveled the crossbow at his head. There was no way he was going to miss this shot, and there was nothing that Sandor could do. If he hit the archer, his finger would twitch on the trigger, killing him as surely as if he did nothing.

"You're brother fought like a whore," he spat, but the fire had gone out of his eyes. This is how I am going to die. He thought as he stared up at the archer named Sig and waited for the Stranger to take him. At least it's not fire.