The bandaged hand covered most of her cheek as well as her mouth and chin. Sansa grabbed it. The Hound was kneeling over her, holding a finger to his lips, and then pointing in mid-air beyond her, above the dell in which they'd made their camp. She breathed in slowly through her nose, trying to calm herself, and listened. Very faintly, with her heart thudding wildly from her dream-panic, she could hear voices, several. Men's voices.
Straining harder, she thought she could hear the dull clump of horses' hooves, and laughter. He lifted his eyes from hers and stared at a patch of leaves next to them both, his body utterly tense and alert, his free hand moving towards his sword, which glinted on the ground beside them. Sansa tried not to breathe. As the sounds got closer, she slowly removed his hand from her mouth but clutched it tightly, hovering just over her face, exhaling through her mouth as noiselessly as possible. He looked back at her and she slid her eyes towards the horses, who were lying down, still sleeping, behind some trees. He followed her look and closed his eyes for a moment, understanding. They mustn't wake up.
Their camp was some distance from the scrubby path they'd left the night before. The voices and sounds of the horses got louder, enough for them to hear one animal harrumph. Sorrell twitched her tail. Raucous laughter and shouting could be heard, indistinct words. It finally began to fade. Sansa took a deep, long breath, her ribs pressing against her dress. The Hound looked down at the hand she was holding. She was gripping him right where she'd wounded him. And his thumb was closed gently around her fingers. She released it quickly. He flexed his fingers slightly and sat back, looking at her, and still listening carefully
'Who do you think they were?' she asked, very quietly.
He shook his head, and spoke almost under his breath. 'No loyal band, by the sounds of things. Too carefree. But whether they were Lannisters or your brother's lot, or a whole other load of bannermen in between, who's to say.'
'How many, do you think?' Sansa put her fingers in her eyes, blinking herself properly awake.
'Maybe ten.'
She wondered what would have happened if the men had stumbled upon them. Could he have protected her, and himself? He was wounded, however much he tried to ignore it.
He seemed to read her thoughts. 'Five I could take. Ten's asking a bit much, even for me.' He got up carefully, with a rueful grin, and turned to go, but stopped, and turned back. He put his good hand down towards her. 'I'm sorry about - waking you like that'.
'I was dreaming,' said Sansa, in a small, slightly broken voice.
'I know,' he replied, gently. 'You're always having bad dreams.' She took his hand, and he pulled her up, as if she was as light as a cloak, and quickly dropped her hand.
They saw no one else that day. They passed through woods of small, crook-backed trees, and paths that were lined with foxgloves and hawthorn bushes. They rode onto open fields and the Hound swung off his horse and strode away with his bow and arrow, certain he'd seen quail. He came back with two limp necks hooked over his fingers to find Sansa pulling up mint by the stalks. She had chewed them all afternoon, and fed them to Sorrel. He told her that they were mad, the pair of them.
That evening, under a half-lidded moon bearded with wisps of cloud, the Hound clapped his hands and rubbed them together.
'Right then,' he grinned. 'Let's see you make this fire.'
Sansa had always loved to learn – she'd easily been Septa Mordane's favourite when she was younger, much to Arya's chagrin, and she'd watched his fire-making carefully. She was determined to prove herself. She collected all the tools that she needed as he made a show of seating himself comfortably, and then stood over him, putting her palm out. He looked at her questioningly.
'I need my dagger.' He sat back and folded his arms, squinting up at her, a half-smile on his face. She sighed. 'Look, I'm really sorry that I – attacked you. Truly. I promise I won't do it again.'
'A promise is a solemn thing.' He feigned a sombre look. 'You can't go back on it'.
Sansa spoke as if she was reciting a list of sigils. 'Please can I have my dagger.'
With one arm still folded, the Hound whipped out Shae's dagger from his scabbard underneath his elbow as if conjuring it from the air.
'Thank you', she said very deliberately, and with a glimmer of haughtiness. She sat back down and began to shave off the top of her whittling stick.
Everything was going well until the final, crucial moment. Sansa simply could not get any sparks to come. She could now see why he would work himself up so much. It was infuriating. She'd spent fifteen minutes twisting frantically away, and there was no sign. And all the while he'd been watching her, then sighing over-heavily, and finally pretending to go to sleep.
'Crone's feet!' She muttered it more loudly than she'd meant to.
The Hound laughed, then, and got up. 'I'll have to teach you some better oaths, and all.'
He came over to her, and knelt down opposite her. 'The angle's not quite right.' He pointed to the hollow on the base wood. He gestured to her to put the stick in place again, and then tilted it slightly further away from her body. 'OK, now,' he nodded. Sansa began to whittle, and whittle. Nothing came. Her cheeks grew hotter. 'Someone's losing her patience.'
'You never have any,' she shot back, frustrated.
He exhaled a small laugh, and suddenly cupped his hands over hers, completely enclosing them. 'Just go a bit slower.' He started her off again.
The air suddenly seemed weighted. They were both looking at their hands, and the stick, and the kindling. A spark finally came, and Sansa gave a darting little in-breath, and almost stopped. He kept her hands moving until a few more orange flecks flew, and then quickly removed his palms as she moved the kindling and blew on it.
Finally, tiny plumes of smoke and flame began to flare, and she carefully added small twigs, and then larger sticks onto it. The fire took. Sansa sat back on her knees, her face lit up by the small flames, beaming. She tilted her eyes up to the Hound, who had moved back as the fire grew; she caught a look on his face that was something like benevolent pride, before he masked it with one of his wry grins. 'Your first fire.'
They cooked the two quails. Sansa swore that they tasted all the better for having crackled on top of her fire. She was ravenous, and found herself carefully inspecting the bird, tearing it apart to find all last scraps of the dark, fleshy meat. Her fingers were covered in grease and she began licking the tips, one by one. The Hound was picking at his teeth with a fine bone and eyeing her with amusement
She frowned, and wiped her hands on her skirts. 'Please don't laugh at me.' He raised his eyebrows and shook his head, as if to say he was doing no such thing. He was always laughing at her. She swore that he enjoyed seeing her out here, living like a wildling. 'Do you – do you think we might stop at an inn sometime… soon?'
He took the bone out his mouth and used his little fingernail instead. 'Getting tired of the woods, are we?'
'You can't expect me to like it out here. It's just – don't you want to have real food, and a proper bed?' she said, making sure that she didn't just complain about her own discomfort.
'I bet your brother's army are thinking just the same, and they've been on the road for a lot longer than you.'
Sansa threw her bones into the fire. 'They have tents. And cooks.'
The Hound grinned sardonically and took his finger out of his mouth. 'We're still in the south. It's not just you that I'm worried about being recognised. There are a few people who'd be happy to sling a hood over me and get me back to King's Landing for a ransom. We're both prizes, though I'll not deny that you're the prettier one. Once we get past the Twins, I promise you an inn.'
Sansa could see that he was talking some sense, as much as she hated to hear it. 'What will you do – after Winterfell?'
The Hound gazed into the fire and picked up his wineskin. 'Maybe I'll take a look at that Wall. Maybe I'll go over it. Or maybe I'll board a ship and head somewhere a lot, lot warmer, with vineyards and spices and maidens wearing not very much.' Sansa tried not to blush. He gulped some wine. 'I'll follow my nose'. He stretched and gave a big, bearish groan, getting up. He went to the horses, fetched the blankets and threw one at her unceremoniously. 'Goodnight'.
In the morning, as they got their horses up and watered, the Hound coughed behind Sansa to get her attention. She turned around to find him holding her dagger on his palm out to her. 'Reckon you've earned this back.'
She looked at his palm, and up at him, gratefully. He trusted her. She moved to take it from him, and he whipped his hand back, fixing her with a teasingly searching look. She sighed, holding her palm out, her head to her side. Everything was such a game to him. He placed it carefully in her hand. 'Thank you, ser,' she said, delicately.
'Look.' He was suddenly brusque, the game over. 'Stop with the 'sers'. You know I hate it'
She dropped her shoulders as if she was being ticked off by Septa Mordane. 'I know you didn't want to be a knight, but - what else am I supposed to call you? I'm not calling you 'Hound'.'
He shrugged. 'Well, that's my name. There's no shame in it.'
'There is. He called you that, and worse. How can you like that name? It – it degrades you.'
He raised his eyebrows, but seemed almost touched. He leant towards her, assuming a fearsome look. 'It puts the fear of the Gods in people.'
Sansa hugged her arms to her chest, unimpressed, and her voice earnest. 'You're not a dog, you're a man. With a name.'
He sighed raggedly, scratching his forehead. 'Sandor, then'.
Sansa sat back, satisfied. 'Thank you.' She swore that she saw the faintest hint of a blush under his glowering expression.
Sansa handed him Sorrel's reins and went to her bundle, pulling out the strap that Shae had given her. She sat down on the nearest rock and pulled her skirts up to just below the knee, placing the dagger on the ground by her foot. She wound the strap around her ankle as Shae had done, with the little sheath for the dagger on her outer ankle, and then picked up the blade and slid it into place. She looked up with a grin, and caught him, just for a fleeting moment, looking fixedly at her lower leg.
She hadn't been thinking. Her pale calf, with fine golden hairs, probably the brightest thing for miles around, and him, staring at it. In a second, she had swiftly thrown her skirts back down to her bootstraps, and he'd lost that look, and was shifting Stranger's saddle, unnecessarily. But she didn't forget it.
