3. The Shearing
Sansa nuzzled the wolf fur and breathed in the soft smell of morning. She felt stiff and sore and unwilling to rise so early. But that must be Septa Mordane rapping on her door to wake her.
"The Little Bird sleeps so sweet," a sarcastic voice barked from somewhere off to her left.
Sansa's eyes burst open. The first thing she saw as she sat up was the Hound leering at her from across their tiny camp site. He was already fully clothed and armored and looked as though he must have been awake for some time. Sansa shivered and pulled her Stark cloak tight about herself. She had been so certain that she had been back in Winterfell for a moment then. The fresh air, the feel of wolf fur, the sounds of knocking to wake her up in the morning. The knocking it turned out was the Hound's gloved fist pounding into a piece of leather to soften it.
Sansa watched this progression dully, the massive hand that could fit around her neck comfortably and choke the life from her in mere seconds pounding into the leather. Feeling a sudden need to relieve her bladder, she stood and put this gruesome thought from her mind.
"Where are you going?" the Hound demanded as she headed for a dense patch of trees.
"Um, to you know…" Sansa said awkwardly, blushing.
The Hound smirked. "What a modest Little Bird," he mocked. "I'm sure you're going to do nothing more than smell the flowers."
Sansa turned without replying and hurried away, taking care to put plenty of distance between herself and her companion. When she was sure he couldn't possibly hear or see her, she hitched up her hem and dropped her small clothes. She wasn't completely inept in the woods, as a matter of fact. She had gone on a hunting trip once with her father and Rob, Jon, Theon and Arya. Of course Rob and Jon had been many times before, but Sansa and Arya had only been allowed to go because their mother had been busy with baby Rickon at the time. It had only been two nights. Sansa smiled as she made her water, remembering how her brothers and Theon had made toilet jokes then entire ride. At the time she had felt miserable, as her friend Jane Poole hadn't been allowed to come and she had found Arya's enthusiasm about the whole situation rather nauseating. But thinking back on it now, that trip could have been one of her fondest memories, even with the blood from the deer that Rob had shot and the unpleasantness of the cold mornings.
She returned to their camp and glanced around, realizing that she was actually quite hungry. She had eaten little enough the day before and was now feeling ravenous. As there didn't appear to be a meal prepared, Sansa drug her toe in the dirt for several minutes before she finally felt brave enough to speak.
"Um, do we have any food? And water?"
It seemed such a foolish thing to ask but the Hound didn't really invite confidence when it came to normal necessities. Clegane paused at his task and dug around in his pack for answer. After a few moments he pulled out a large black sausage and a bread crust.
"Breakfast fit for a King," he suggested, tossing these to her.
Sansa grabbed for them wildly so that they didn't hit the ground and become soiled. She held them up and examined them. The bread seemed decent enough but the sausage was hard and had a strangely sharp smell about it. Next, the Hound tossed her a skein. Sansa opened it eagerly, her mouth feeling dry and took a sip. She gagged and spat. The contents, far from being hydrating, was clearly not water at all.
"Is this wine?" she coughed.
The Hound scowled. "We can fill that one when we get to the next fresh water."
Sansa sighed inwardly and took up the sausage instead. There was no cutlery and so she merely sank her teeth into the meat. She was hungry enough now that it actually didn't taste half bad, whatever it was. She washed a quarter of it down with a meager sip of wine and then devoured the bread within seconds. The Hound watched her almost as if he was curious. She glanced up at one point, her mouth bulging with bread and realized that she must look ridiculous. She attempted to take smaller, more polite bites after that and finished off her meal with another paltry sip of warm wine.
The Hound continued to stare at her throughout this time, saying nothing but frowning.
"This isn't going to work," he said abruptly.
Sansa looked up at him in confusion, her heart starting to beat.
"What do you-?" she began but the Hound just shook his head. At last he spoke.
"Any idiot we meet on the road with half a notion of lords and ladies is going to know exactly who you are. And me as well. We've both been marked."
Sansa stared at him uncomprehendingly. Surely in such rags as she was wearing, and all the dirt of the road, no one could possibly tell who she really was.
"But I changed my clothes. And I haven't even washed," she insisted.
The Hound barked with laughter. "Stupid Bird, that's not what people see. All it would take is one lord who saw you at one of these fancy dinners you've gone to, or the Hand's Tourney to meet us by chance. And plenty of small folk have seen you too. It's no good."
Sansa felt a panic starting to rise in her throat. The thought of someone telling Joffrey where she was, of Gold Cloaks descending upon them and taking her back to that monster made her feel sick. She held her knees to her chest and tried to breathe as she sat there.
"Well," the Hound said finally. "At least we can do something about your mark. A few weeks on the road will do wonders but the best thing to do would be to cut it off, as much as we can."
Sansa gaped at him, feeling sudden dread.
"I'll sharpen my knife so that it cuts like through butter," the Hound continued, clearly not noticing that Sansa had started to edge away from him. "I swear you won't get a scratch."
"What…what are you cutting?" she asked shakily, rising to her feet.
The Hound guffawed loudly. "Those gorgeous locks aren't going to do a bit of good to us. The closer the shave, the better the disguise. How do you think people will know you first, your royal title or some famous good looks?"
Sansa felt a queer twinge in her gut. In one sense she felt relieved that he had only been talking about her hair but on the other hand, she felt ready to cry at the thought of the Hound shaving her bald. She had always spent so much time on her hair, always kept it well groomed, never missed a day of brushing. Not like Arya's hair, it had always been a nest of disarray. But she knew the Hound was right. What choice did she have?
Very slowly, she nodded her head. The Hound grinned crookedly. "Very good Little Bird. At least one of us might have a chance at going unnoticed. I'll get that knife then."
Sansa wandered away for a few minutes while the Hound took his time with the sharpening. She didn't want him to see her in case she cried. What a stupid girl she was, worrying about her hair like this. She was a fugitive, would probably be next for the chopping block if Joffrey ever got her back and here she was weeping over her hair. She allowed herself only a few tears before she rubbed these away and straightened up. She would not show this weakness.
The Hound called her and she came and knelt before him, feeling a cold plummeting sensation as she turned her back to him. He took her braid and, ever so delicately he made the cut. Sansa bit her lip hard to stop herself from tearing up. The plait fell to the ground beside her, but the Hound wasn't finished. He wound what remained of her hair through his fingertips and began to shave away at it. His touch was shockingly gentle and accurate, Sansa was surprised to find. Every cut was precise and he didn't pull at her any harder than was necessary. When he was done, he placed his hands on her shoulders and spun her around to face him, examining her from several angles as though he was a mason criticizing his artwork.
"That is far better, you could be a filthy peasant whore for all anyone would know."
Sansa didn't take this as a compliment but as confirmation that she was probably the ugliest women in all of Westeros as the moment.
"That's all to the better. I won't be able to go into town as easily, you'll have to buy the supplies. We'll be near Rosby in a few days. You can get us stocked up then."
"But I don't have any money," Sansa blurted stupidly.
The Hound smiled broadly. "Isn't this wonderful. The Lady of Winterfell without a copper and the Hound of Clegane rich as a lord."
Sansa blinked for several minutes before she remembered. "The Hand's Tourney! You have the winnings from the tourney!" Of course he had won that day so long ago, how could she have forgotten! She nearly smiled at that, although she couldn't quite manage it.
The Hound seemed pleased. "I nearly spent it all on wine and whores. But then I started to realize that I didn't give a flying fuck if I stayed in the bloody King's Guard serving that prick Joffrey anymore. After I realized that, I saved the rest for just such an occasion."
Sansa actually did smile at this. The Hound's expression softened and his eyes actually twinkled for a moment but then he turned and sheathed his dagger. "In any case, money isn't our main concern. We have to keep our course and stay off the roads at the same time. I'm not one for maps, but I know enough to get us to Maidenpool."
Maidenpool. Yes, that would make some sense. If they went that way, they would stay off the King's Road and skirt around most of the fighting in the Riverlands, at least in the short term. There was only one issue that Sansa could see with this plan.
"Won't that put us close to Harrenhal?" she asked before she could stop herself. "Isn't that where your brother…"
She trailed off quickly, suddenly afraid to say more. The Hound, nearly jubilant moments before was now a mask of terror.
"I don't plan on marching in there, if that's your concern. If we can get around Harrenhal and make the crossing at the Trident, we should have few enough problems after. If we go east then we put ourselves directly between King's Landing and the Rock. And I have no desire to meet anyone on those roads."
Sansa nodded slowly. Clearly he had thought about this more than she had realized. It made sense. Truly it was the only reasonable option open to them.
"If you've finished with your objections, you should get ready. We should keep moving, close as we are. You slept the day away, so now we can make a few hours before nightfall."
Sansa felt sore and still tired but she certainly didn't want to be found this soon. The battle must still be raging, she realized as she folded her only possession, the cloak from Winterfell, and placed it in the pack along with what remained of her breakfast. She wondered if any of them were even still alive. It gave her some sick pleasure to imagine Cersei's head rolling across the floor at Illian Paine's behest.
The Hound saddled and bridled their stead while Sansa sat on a log and yawned. When it was time, the Hound mounted up first and then pulled her behind him. She sat uncomfortably far back on the large steed but at least the Hound didn't seem intent on galloping today. They walked for the most part, occasionally trotting when a flat space became available or a hill needed to be climbed. Stranger, as the beast was named, seemed to take little concern at the added weight, though combined with the pack, they must have been a burden.
They were both silent, Sansa out of awkwardness for the most part, although about an hour in to the march she began to feel quite sleepy. At one point she caught herself nodding off and awoke with her head resting on the Hound's back armor plate. So unnerved was she by this, she managed not to sleep again for the rest of that day's ride. They travelled off the roads for the most part, although occasionally they ventured onto one and rode along it for a few minutes before disappearing into the trees again. They stopped shortly after sunset in the shelter of a small alcove well off any main roads. Sansa felt like a ball of pain when she dismounted. Her body ached from the awkward position she had been forced to sit in all afternoon.
The only joy she found at the halt of their day was that there was a clear stream running through their camp. She cried with delight upon seeing this and rushed to find the skein in Clegane's pack. Locating it, she promptly upended the contents across the sand and rushed to the stream.
"The fuck!" she heard the Hound bellow behind her and turned to see him kicking at the spilled wine. "I would have drank that you idiot!"
Sansa, feeling less than sympathetic merely dunked the skein into the crystal creek. The water felt cool and refreshing and after taking a long swig of it from the skein she splashed it across her face and arms. The creek was too shallow to wash successfully in, but it felt good to get the dust off of her skin none the less.
When she returned it was to find the Hound in a huff at his lost wine, even though Sansa had seen him with a much larger skein earlier that day also filled with the stuff. But she tried to ignore this pouting as best she could. Now that she was revived from her thirst, she felt ready to eat whatever the Hound had stowed away in that pack. A bit of rummaging produced a large wedge of cheese, a handful of the same sausages as that morning and several loaves of stale but unmolded bread. Sansa found the dagger that had previously been used for her shearing earlier that day and cut herself a hunk of each, sitting back against a log to eat while the Hound stomped around their camp unsaddling Stranger and taking several angry swigs from his skein.
Starting to feel nervous, Sansa stayed quiet for a long time but eventually offered up her water skein, to which the Hound glared so cruelly at her that she that she shrank away for fear of being beaten. Yet the Hound laid not even a finger on her. He merely took some of his own food and then stomped off into the woods for a time. Sansa, growing sleepier by the minute, fashioned herself a little bed of soft dirt and pine needles to give herself a task and then settled down to sleep.