A Burning He Can't Escape, Chapter One
The first thing he makes her do is cut and dye her hair.
In the safety of a nameless old inn off the Roseroad the Hound shears off the rich, auburn curls of which Sansa was once so proud, using the dagger he keeps in his boot. He cuts her hair close to her chin. His hands are rough and seem to pluck more than they cut. She is terrified that he'll slip and slice her on accident, but he is steady and relatively gentle. Other than the fright of being bent over with a knife near her face, Sansa is no worse for wear by the time he is done. This time, he doesn't even ask for a song before hiding the knife away again. The dye he rubs into her scalp with big, forceful fingers, more interested in being thorough than being careful with her or her clothing. Her head tingles all over when he finishes and her favorite purple dress is splattered with thick black drops.
It looks like blood, she thinks, when she sees herself in the glass. Like the blood on the Hound's white cloak when he came to her that night, green fire in the sky and wine on his breath.
It is too late to have trepidations about coming with him, she knows. He will only mock her if she voices any reservations now. Should have thought of that before, little bird, she can hear him saying. Seeing her face unadorned by her usual fiery hair, however, makes her tummy feel queer. Not with dread, but with something poignant all the same. Regret, she supposes, although she should be saturated with enough by now to be immune to the feeling. A thrill of excitement also buzzes beneath the surface of her skin, but it is faint, hardly daring to hope that this might be the road to true freedom. She has been liberated of more than her hair, if she can trust the Hound.
"I look like a boy," she comments in barely more than a whisper.
"You don't," growls the Hound, with a pointed nod at her breasts before he returns to the business of scooping up all her hair into a neat pile. "But it'll serve for now."
In the morning, he swaddles her in a brown cloak that must be his. It all but engulfs her, and covers her newly-cropped hair. Surely now she'll look like a boy, she thinks. Everything remotely womanly about her is swallowed in fabric. The Hound seems satisfied enough, at least. They leave before anyone wakes, so early that everything is gray, even the grass beneath their feet. Sansa stares at the sky and wonders where all the fire went.
They set off, the Hound on his great black horse and Sansa on a little yellow gelding they stole from the royal stables, which Stranger nips into submission every time he tries to surpass him on the road. Resigned, Sansa's horse carries her just behind the Hound's own. She watches his hulking frame rock side to side with surprising fluidity and tries to think of what they would talk about, were they within speaking distance. Given that nothing comes to mind, it is likely for the best that there is a stretch of road and only the sound of clinking mail between their mounts.
She doesn't know where they are going when they turn off the main road, but she is sure that it is North, not South that they ride. The Hound is keeping his promise to take her home, she hopes, but she does not truly mind where they go now, so long as it is away from King's Landing, Joffrey, and the queen. The idea that she might see her family again... it is too much for her to bear. It is too painful to think of her mother's face, or her young brothers', or Robb's. It seems a lifetime since she went to King's Landing, and that was a lifetime of stamping out girlish hopes. She cannot easily pick them up again, it seems.
Sansa is content to ride in silence, and she knows the Hound is also. He was never fond of her tittering. She has many thoughts to occupy her, and no need to put them to words.
Their path grows harder as the sun climbs higher. They are taking no marked road, but Sansa does not question the Hound, partly for trusting him and partly for fearing him. Trees bar their way, but they are not so thick that they are forced to dismount. They must only tread slowly over the steep places. Around midday, they stop to lead their horses to water and let them drink. The brook they find is in a clearing Sansa might have named beautiful, if her mind were not otherwise occupied. As they get further from King's Landing, she grows less afraid that this will prove to be a terrible trap. Questions have been forming on the back of her tongue for some distance now.
"Ser," she tries, forgetting that he hates the name.
He is wiping his brow with a cloth dripping with brook water. He stops to fix her with a familiar glare and she remembers his distaste for knights and her fairy-tales. He is only in a mood for her stories and songs when drunk, and full of fear. He is not afraid of her though, only fire, and there is none here now to gentle him.
His voice is harsh and gravelly. "I'm no ser, little bird, nor a lord. How many times must I tell you so before it gets into your pretty little head?"
Sansa's wide, blue eyes fixate on his leather boots. "I'm sorry."
The Hound's face when she dares to glance back up tells her what he thinks of her apologies, and he doesn't hold them in any higher regard than her courtesies. He proceeds to wipe the sweat from the nape of his neck with the same cloth, then cracks the joints in his fingers. When that is done, he begins to tend to his horse. Stranger is still thirstily drinking his fill from the brook, but he is amicable when the Hound begins to brush him. Sansa should take the same care for her gelding, she knows, but she will have to wait for the brush and besides, she is somewhat irritated with the silly creature's behavior. Not to mention she's only used to riding for pleasure, not racing for freedom. Her thighs are aching sweetly and she can either blame the horse or the Hound. She chooses the one which seems to care the most.
Walking painfully, she stands at the edge of the water. She almost cries when she catches a glimpse of her reflection. Every curve of her is swallowed beneath trappings and heavy wool. Her sadness is not for the auburn curls that no longer snag her shoulders when the wind blows, nor for the pale skin hidden beneath drab clothes. It is for the Sansa Stark who once looked with pride upon her budding breasts in the mirror and thought about holding princely babies against them, and about how one day a valorous knight might count himself blessed to look upon her woman's body with her permission. She can't imagine that anyone who passes her now will give her a second glance, if they even realize she is a girl beneath her rags. But the Sansa Stark that wanted them to is dead; the things she once thought important dashed away. She knows what a knight's honor is really worth, just as well as the Hound does.
"Do you not wish for me to think of you..." Sansa's boldness fails her when she thinks of Ser Meryn. "As- as being like them?"
The Hound jerks away from Stranger so quickly that the horse snorts, and Sansa's gelding startles. Sansa herself jumps, though the Hound looks more amused than angry. A smirk distorts his already ruined face.
"I am just like them, girl," he tells her, sneering when she looks away again. "The difference between us is that I admit it. You should too, before you say anything else stupid. Wipe away those tears, little bird, we've a long enough ride without you weeping the whole way."
Sansa rubs her eyes, frustrated to find that they are indeed moist. He is not like Ser Meryn, though she can not tell him so without him arguing. He is no knight, but the Hound saved her. Or he will. He must.