A Burning He Can't Escape

Before the sun creeps over the horizon, Sansa wakes aching all over and chilled to the bone. She has been traveling for so long that she learned to ignore the pain that comes from sleeping on hard ground and riding horseback for hours, but today she doesn't have the strength to dismiss it. She hurts from neck to hip to ankle, from the raw skin on her hands to the creaky ache in her knees from sleeping in a little ball. Mostly, she hurts because she sits up and sees only Stranger hitched to a nearby tree, with no sign of her gelding, and no sign of remorse from the Hound. He is sleeping peacefully, far from the fire, one of the casks of wine empty beside him. Bitterly, she hopes he enjoyed himself last night, while her dreams were filled with blood and the smell of burning horseflesh.

Sansa eases herself from the ground. Her stomach rumbles. She's used to eating as soon as she wakes, and as they do not get to eat often, her body knows when it's due. She ignores it, disappearing between the trees. The cold of the night is biting. The farther north they travel, the colder it will be, so it should be a hopeful sign to her, but Sansa's mood is soured.

She knows better than to cry. Instead, she feels a familiar numbness settle over her as she slips on her armor. Better than the steel and leather that the Hound wears, her armor can distance her even from her own conflicting emotions. After she steels herself, everything feels a little better, or at least a little less important, but Sansa still can't bring herself to forgive the Hound for slaughtering her horse. The unfairness of it all makes her contemplate walking into the woods until they swallow her up; until the morning comes and the Hound wakes to nothing but his horse and his wine for company.

The opportunity to run away from her situation has never been hers. Not at King's Landing, obviously, but never at Winterfell either. It is an intimidating feeling, knowing there is nothing to stop her from walking until she can't anymore. Until no one remembers her and she is the ghost of a girl once called Sansa Stark, free to do whatever she pleases. Sansa finds her feet rooted into place at the thought. I am already running away, aren't I? That's what I'm doing.

She cannot leave, of course. She doesn't even want to, not really, but it makes her feel better to imagine what the Hound would do if he realized that she had simply gotten up and left him there. Would he care? Would he miss me? Or would he be angry only because I got away? Part of her, like a petulant child, wants to punish him and run. The other part remembers that this has happened before. When Lady was blamed for Nymeria's actions, her father had to butcher her to appease the queen. Sansa never thought she could forgive him, and by the time she wanted to, it was too late.

Her armor cracks. She hasn't worn it since King's Landing and it has become brittle from disuse. Sansa sinks to her knees in the dirt and puts her head in her hands. The earth is hard and cold beneath her, and it creeps its way up until she is shivering. She doesn't cry, but she doesn't have the will to do anything else either. If something were to happen to the Hound, she knows that she would not give a thought to her gelding after. She knows that the Hound was right to do what he did, and quickly. But it frightened her that her father could do something so harsh as to kill her Lady and it frightens her that the Hound did not so much as flinch before killing her horse. It frightens her to think that the Hound is right about so many things, about her father. About her, sometimes.

She will not run away, and she can't afford not to forgive him, so she will stay here until she feels like going back to him. Until it isn't quite so heartbreaking to think about her poor, nameless horse.

"Sansa!" At the sound of her own name, she jerks her head away from her hands.

In a heartbeat the Hound's fingers are around her wrist, dragging her to her feet. His grip is so tight that she doesn't fall, the same hand that can swing a sword with such ferocity. For a moment, she thinks he must be angry with her for wandering off, and Sansa's stomach drops. He has never hurt her and she doesn't believe he will start now, but regardless she doesn't want him angry with her. When she looks at him, however, she sees not anger, but concern. He was worried about me, she realizes in surprise. And while her resentment might not ever fade, she forgives him then.

"I'm all right," she says quickly, her breath clouding in front of her lips. "I wasn't going anywhere."

"Damn right you weren't." His words aren't quite as stern as he means them; the fear is too fresh. "What in the seven hells are you doing?"

Sansa lowers her gaze in shame. "Nothing."

"Like hell," he says, but he releases his hold on her wrist.

She should snatch back her hand, but she doesn't. It hovers in the empty air instead, her fingers itching to grab hold of him. She thought this feeling might vanish after all he's done but it lingers still, this unbidden desire to seek him out and have him close. The Hound watches her with anticipation, each breath fogging the air. He's waiting for her to act, she knows.

What she doesn't know is what he wants. He cannot sense her thoughts or wants, no better than she can know his own. If she reaches out and touches him, will he be glad and grateful, or spiteful? There is an urge in her to test the waters, telling her that he wants her, but it cannot breach the surface. She is not ready to find out what he feels, or how far he'd go with her permission. She curls her fingers against her palm and brings it back to rest at her side.

The Hound exhales, in relief or disappointment, she will never know. "You want to leave? I won't stop you."

Sansa shakes her head. "I am leaving. With you."

He watches her for a good length of time then and she stares back, wondering if he will bridge the gap that she could not. She doesn't know what she would do.

He pivots on his heel and heads back to camp and wordlessly, she follows. When they return, she finds everything as it was, almost peaceful in the cold stillness. The ground is a dark mass and the trees are shadows stretching toward the stars. Stranger's head is dipped in sleep, his breath steaming. After so long on the road, it feels right. If it only snowed, Sansa might even feel somewhat at home. Even with sturdy walls heated by hot springs, Winterfell was always colder than the south, and certainly as cold as this burgeoning Riverlands winter.

So when the Hound returns to his makeshift sleeping roll and Sansa follows, it is not entirely truthful when she pleads, "It's cold."

She can't even see his eyes in the darkness, but she can feel his gaze nonetheless. She expects scorn - this is not something she would dare to do ordinarily, and not with someone like him. Instead, he shifts to the side and lets her curl herself into the blankets, which she does in silence. Despite everything, Sansa enjoys the heat and smell of another person beside her. He is solid and warm, and his presence is a comfort, even though it is less than intimate. She would change nothing.

"I apologize," she whispers, more to the night than to him. "For causing you to worry."

"Sleep, Sansa," he whispers back.