Chapter 11

It was a miserable situation, and he wasn't making it any easier. She knew that the arrow needed to be removed from his shoulder, but in order to do that she needed to snap it in half. If the arrow had been in her hand she would have had no problem snapping it in two. It wasn't in her hand, however. It was in his shoulder, and the sight of blood…his blood, made it hard to grasp it. Every time he hissed in pain she withdrew her hands, and they had to start over again.

"Damn it!" He swore again as she tried to break the arrow without moving too much. Fresh blood pumped from the wound and the sight made bile rise in the back of her throat.

"I can't do it!" she wailed suddenly, letting go of the arrow and folding her hands across her chest. Her head was pounding, her throat hurt and he wasn't making it easy. She didn't want to hurt him, but it just couldn't be helped.

"Look at me," he commanded. She didn't want to, but she did any way. His gaze was steady, despite the sweat on the unscarred side of his brow. "I don't care how much I yell, groan or bleed. It needs to be removed. I cannot do it myself. It's gone clean through."

Sansa knew he was right. She was just going to have to toughen up and do it.

Arya wouldn't have balked at such a thing. She'd probably even enjoy it. The thought was disturbing, but it resolved her inner conflict.

"You won't…be mad at me if I hurt you?" she asked hesitantly as she eyed the quarrel mistrustfully.

"No, little bird. I will not be mad," he promised and then clenched his teeth together, preparing for the pain.

I will not let go until it snaps. I will not let go. I will not. I will not. She psyched herself up for the task as she gripped the back end of the arrow. He glanced over at her and she looked into his eyes. The Hound nodded and she knew he was ready. Her gaze returned to the task at hand and she put all her remaining strength into snapping the wood. She was rewarded with a loud snap as the arrow broke.

Sansa looked at his face after it was done. All the color had fled from his face, and a new sheen of sweat had broken out on his skin, but he managed to hold in his curses.

"It's almost done," she whispered and tossed the feathered end of the quarrel into the snow. Now all she had to do was draw the arrow out from the back of his shoulder.

"Would it be better if I did it quick or slow?" she asked hesitantly. The last thing she wanted was to bother him with more questions, but she wanted to do it right.

"My shoulder says fast, my head says slow. You don't want to tear anything by doing it too fast," he didn't look pleased by the prospect. She wasn't pleased by it either, but she was determined to put this behind her.

She grasped the pointy end of the arrow and began to slowly draw it through the wound. He made an awful noise in the back of his throat but she did not stop. When the jagged end of the arrow finally pulled through, he let out another string of curses. She tossed the bloody arrow aside and he finally leaned back against the tree, exhausted.

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to hurt you," she whispered as she took one of his huge hands in both of hers. The sweat was dripping from his brow, and the blood had started flowing freely again.
"S'ok little bird," he assured her in a pained voice, giving her hand a light squeeze. He did not open his eyes though, and that worried her.

I need to get him to a maester…but there aren't any in a place like this. I don't know much about healing wounds either. It's too cold to tend him here anyway.

"I don't know what else I can do for you," she admitted as she scooped up some snow to wash the soot, dirt and blood off of her hands; anything to keep her from having to look at his wound.
"It needs to be wrapped," he suggested and motioned to the bedroll that lay next to the dead body of the archer's brother. It was a lucky thing that he had dropped it when she stabbed him, otherwise they'd have no provisions at all. She went to the bedroll and used the Hounds dagger to cut off a long strip of wool. It looked dirty, and she didn't want to put such a filthy rag directly on his wound.

Sansa returned to the bedroll, searching for something. When she came back to his side she had a silk scarf. It was embroidered beautifully. She bit her lower lip for half a second before she moved to tie it around his wound. He grabbed her arm before she got even halfway to his shoulder.

"You're not using that," he commented and she frowned at him.

"It's clean, and I don't want your wound to get infected," she protested. The scarf had once belonged to her mother. It was one of the few belongings she had that had made it all the way from Winterfell.

"Use the blanket. Don't spoil something so beautiful on a dog like me," he snarled and pushed her away. She frowned at him for a moment, and then decided to ignore his words. She slapped his hand away as he tried to stop her a second time, and then he was cursing as she started tying it tightly around his shoulder.

By the time she was done, half of the scarf was already covered in blood. She quickly took the dirty blanket and wrapped that on top of her scarf. A double layer seemed somehow safer.
She sat back to examine her work. It would have to do until they found another place to camp, where she could build a fire. If they had a fire, she could boil wine. She had seen enough wounds to know that boiled wine was supposed to help.

We have no pot to boil wine, and the wine skin will burst and burn. She thought in dismay. How was she ever going to get the wound clean? Even if they found a pot or something to boil the water in, could she even get a fire started without his help?

What about the Inn? The thought struck her suddenly. That was where Max had come from, the Inn to the north. He had told them that it was only a days journey from here if they followed the Kingsroad. She knew they should avoid the Kindsroad...but with things the way they were now it was their best best. With the horses run off they had little choice. The barn was beyond saving and she knew that neither of them wanted to go back into it anyway, if it had somehow survived.

Can he even walk that far? She wondered suddenly. That would punch a big hole in her plans. She didn't like the thought of it, but he would have to. They had no other choice. It was walk, or risk the chance of bleeding to death or dying from infection...and as tired as she was, she wasn't about to let him die on her.

"We're going to the Inn, aren't we little bird," he asked, almost reading her thoughts.
"Yes. It's the only choice, I fear," she replied, defeated.

"Then we best go. Help me up," he requested. She didn't tell him that he was too heavy for her to help him up. Instead she offered him her hand and did the best she could. The Hound still did most of the work, and somehow got to his feet.

"You're going to have to carry the supplies. I'll need to keep my sword arm free."

The notion was ridiculous. He wouldn't be able to do much with that wound, and swinging a sword would be too taxing. She didn't argue with him, and picked up the bedroll wordlessly. Complaining would make the trip no easier.

A days walk for a healthy man, and a days walk in the middle of the night with a wounded, grumpy man in the middle of winter were two totally different journeys. After two hours of trudging through the darkness, she was ready to scream in frustration. There had been no other people on the road, and she had no idea how far they had left to go.

The Hound trailed behind her, walking oddly. She could tell that he was trying hard not to jar his wound too badly, but each step sent a jolt through him anyway. He didn't look good, though his face was grim and set with determination. He didn't complain, but he did swear under his breath an awful lot.

Sansa soon lost track of time. The only mark of progress was the lack of footprints in front of them, and the growing trail behind them. Luckily the snow was only a dusting on the actual road. She was glad that there were no roots to jump up and trip them, although there were occasional ditches that came suddenly. The Hound had almost gone down several times due to such ditches, and she herself had fallen prey to one or two herself.

Have I ever been this tired? She wondered vaguely as they trudged on. The heavy footfalls behind her told her that the Hound was still going. I can't possibly be as tired as he is.

They kept walking.

She heard the change in his step and turned in time to see him go to one knee. Sansa rushed to his side, and made sure that he didn't fall further. She doubted she'd be able to get him back up.

"We can rest, I know you're tired," she offered, but he shook his head.

"I'd rather you slit my throat. It's certain death both ways, and steel is cleaner," he muttered as he struggled to get to his feet.

He's so determined.

Sansa stayed back with him this time, to allow him to lean on her if he needed to. The going was slower, and he gasped in pain more often, but had stopped cursing. That worried her more than the pace they setting.

When he fell, she knew there was nothing else she could do. He wasn't going to be able to get back up. Sansa helped him to get his back against a tree. His bandages were soaked through, and he shivered. When she put a hand to his forehead it was uncommonly warm.

He's got a fever. The thought brought a dread so great that she had trouble catching her breath. She needed to get him out of the cold, and she needed to get his wound stitched and taken care of.

Sansa took one of his hands and met his gaze, which had gone slightly glassy. He looked as if he wanted to talk, but she put a finger to his lips, which were dry and cracked. They looked painful.

"I'm going to get help," she assured him. When he tried to protest she shook her head. "It's the only way. I'm...I'm going to take your dagger. You'll have your sword, even if you can't use it...but people might think twice if you're found," she stopped. There was so much she wanted to say, to tell him, but every moment she wasted was a moment he may never have again.

Sansa let go of his hand and opened the bed roll. She needed one blanket to keep their supplies together, but the other two she used to cover him. Without a second thought she left him the remaining wine skin. He could at least have some comfort.
As she got up to leave, he grabbed her hand. There wasn't much of his strength left, but she doubted she'd be able to shake him off without considerable effort. Instead she knelt down by him again and kissed him.

Please be alright. I'll be back soon, I promise. I won't leave you. Don't die alone in the cold, please. I'll bring help. She thought at him as she broke away from the kiss. His eyes slid shut and he nodded, knowing she had to go.

Sansa gathered the small bundle and started down the Kingsroad alone. She knew if she looked back she'd never gather the willpower to leave again.