CHAPTER 10

SANDOR

Like all clansmen, the Burned Men slept in huts half-buried in the ground, but their cluster of hovels was more a camp for barbarians than a proper village. Dogs and children scavenged through piles of refuse and unwashed women prepared stew in cracked cauldrons. If this was how they planned to weather the coming winter, Sandor found it unlikely that any of them would survive.

Timett, their Red Chief, was more concerned with the number of Burned Men that would survive tomorrow than who would survive a decade in the future. He led Sandor and Sansa to a row of tents tacked up along the mountainside and invited them to stay in one that used to belong to a clansmen named Grog, who had died recently, and for Sandor to join him for the evening meal. The women ate out of sight.

Sandor tied their horses outside and shoved Sansa into the tent. Timett's generosity did little to ease Sandor's discomfort. He felt nervous leaving Sansa alone in this environment, even if it was only for a little while, but he wasn't about to parade her around in front of the clan.

Timett was not the only one who thought that having a trained Westerosi swordsman improved their odds in the battle tomorrow. Sandor felt like a freak with all the warriors marveling at his height, his armor, and his scar. A toothless man served him a bowl of soup and he sat over it only long enough to avoid being rude, though he could only guess what constituted rudeness in this society.

When he finished he said he wanted to rest, and Timett excused him. "Sleep! Tomorrow we fight the Moon Brothers. Then you can win back a replacement for your missing ear!" This brought a gale of laughter from the clansmen. Sandor grimaced, but the clansmen didn't notice that his show of teeth was not a smile and their conversation turned to what body parts they would cut from their enemies as prizes. Sandor gathered a bowl for of food to bring to his lady and refilled his own.

Sansa jumped up when he entered the tent and ran to him when she saw the food. They ate sitting on the floor cross-legged.

"Sandor?"

"What?"

"There's a hoof in my soup."

He threw it out for her.

"I was so hungry," Sansa said after she poured the last hot drop in her mouth. She was tired, too, and curled up soon afterwards in a pile of furs on the floor. That left the goat's hair mattress next to it for him.

In the morning Sandor put on his armor. It was still dark, and Sansa was huddled asleep. He shook her awake and she sat up with the black furs covering her lap. Sandor placed his pearl-handled dagger in her hand.

"What's this for?" It was obvious she did not even know how to hold it.

"When I leave I want you to lace the tent up from the inside. If anyone tries to come in, you cut at them."

She looked terrified at the possibility. "What if they come in anyway?"

"Hide someplace, and if they find you, swipe at them like this." He took the knife and showed her how to hold it underhand and thrust. The doubt she had about being able to defend herself showed on her face, but Sandor hid it on his own. "I'll only be gone for a few hours. I'll be back before nightfall. I promise."

"But Sandor . . ." She took the dagger back into her hands, correcting her grip on it as an afterthought. "What if you die?"

"Then use that knife."

Sansa looked like she was about to cry. Sandor donned his hound's helm and left.

Dawn had not quite broke, but the camp was bustling with activity as men prepared for battle. Timett, drunk on excitement, came up to him while he was saddling Stranger.

"Today the Burned Men fight the Moon Brothers, and you fight as one of us!" he said. "But I think you were already a burned man before we met, no? Hahahaha!"

Sandor was not in the mood for japes. "I'm not," he pointed out, "and in fighting for you I risk not being there to fight for my own."

Timett nodded. "The girl. You are worried men will use her while you are gone."

"If that's the plan, let me know. I'll slit her throat right now."

Timett got a laugh out of that, too. "My women will be sorry to see you go," he said. "You would make a good husband. No, all of the men, and most of the women, will go with us on the raid. Only the new mothers and the weak will stay behind."

Sandor spat. Timett was going to leave the camp undefended, but he couldn't do anything about it except hope no other clan would raid this one while he was gone. "If any men go in that tent I'll geld them myself."

They left at daybreak, traveling in a long column through the mountains. Stranger was not as sure-footed as the clansmen's bow-legged ponies, and Sandor dismounted to lead him on the rocky paths. He did not expect the clansmen to be disciplined in battle, but they got quieter as they got closer to the Moon Brothers' camp.

Timett sent scouts ahead and they came within sight of the Moon Brothers' camp unnoticed. This clan had settled in a basin, with stone walls on all sides and a frozen stream running through the middle of their camp. When the scouts returned, Timett gathered his army at the top of the basin. The Burned Men clattered their shields in a rhythm, as a war cry, faster and faster, until Timett gave the signal, and they charged down the slope.

Stranger had to pick his way down, so Sandor fell behind in the line of men. They were all silent except for the pounding of the weapons and armor. The Moon Brothers that were awake saw their enemies charging down on them screamed and a warning to the others. A few poked groggy heads full of sleep out of their tents to see what all the commotion was about before scrambling back inside to get their weapons and armor before the full assault began. Once in the valley Sandor kicked his stallion into a run and the destrier's long legs quickly brought him to the front of the charge.

There were no archers, grounded stakes, or pits. The camp was unprepared for the assault. Sandor cut down a screaming woman and ran in a straight line through the camp, chopping at anyone foolish or unlucky enough to come within reach of his sword. He broke through to the other side of the camp and wheeled Stranger around for another pass.

The footmen had not arrived yet, but the Burned Men with horses were tearing up the camp. What little order there had been was destroyed. They weren't quiet now, they were screaming with bloodlust as they took their axes and swords to the heads and homes of their enemies. Stranger jumped over a collapsed tent and on the other side three clansmen jumped out with the intention of unhorsing Sandor. One grabbed Stranger's bridle—the horse reared up and kicked with his front legs. The other two pulled Sandor backwards off his horse.

They hit him with clubs. The first blow struck his elbow; it didn't hurt so much as cause numbness in his arm and he dropped his sword. He felt for it on the ground as they dealt more blows. A vicious one on top of his head caused his helmet to ring and Sandor threw his arms up, but it was no use—without his sword he would never be able to fight them off.

Then Stranger was on them. He galloped over the tangle of men and Sandor caught a rear hoof in the back as he tried to roll away. The horse twisted around and stomped at a clansmen, even reaching down to bite at their faces. Sandor punched the man nearest to him with a left hook. With his other hand he sought his sword. He found it in the folds of the tent and thrust the point of it into the belly of the man who'd hit him on the head. Stranger trampled a man lying on the ground and Sandor vaulted onto his back.

The battle between clans was at its peak, and Sandor had a hard time telling the two tribes apart. They did not wear coats of arms to make it readily apparent which side they were on. When men ran at him or away from him, he cut them down. Every sound and sudden movement aggravated him, and he took it out on those who fell beneath his sword.

In the center of the camp, Timmett fought a woman wearing a necklace of human ears. None of the others interfered. Sandor saw the end of the fight. Timett cut her head half open with an axe, breaking the chain on her necklace, and the ears tumbled down her chest as she fell to her knees.

He yelled in triumph and held the body up by the hair. All around Burned Men beat their shields and the other clansmen ran or made their last, desperate attempts to fight. Sandor found it easy to run them down.

The Burned Men set to pillaging, but Sandor doubted he would find anything worth taking in the barbarians' camp, so he was in the first group to return home. Once the Burned Men had gathered all the fur, goods and women they could carry they started back to their own dwellings.

As soon as they were back the camp degenerated to a hubub of raucous activity. What could only be the clansmen interpretation of singing set Sandor's head to pounding. There was something of a feast prepared at the camp, but The Hound had a ripping headache and was not in the mood to celebrate. He didn't think his presence would be missed. His own neighbor took the woman he'd brought back with him into his hovel even before unloading his horse.

Sandor grabbed a young woman passing by on the arm and she looked at him with a rabbit's wide frightened eyes. Probably she thought he meant to rape her. "Bring me food, and water to wash with," he said, "and wine, if you have it." She ran off without saying anything, so he wondered if she would heed him. He couldn't go after her and make sure. He had to get to Sansa.

The tent was still laced shut, but when he called for her to open it, she didn't. He knelt down and reached beneath the bottom of the flap to undo the lace himself. He would have felt better if the dagger stung him, but it didn't. He wondered if she was even inside, but was too tired and irritated to think on what he'd do if she wasn't.

She was; sitting on the bed with her eyes shut tight and her hands over her ears. She wasn't even hiding. "Sansa," he said, walking over to her. She didn't hear him. "Sansa," he said again, and put a hand on her shoulder. She jumped, but looked relieved when she saw who it was that had touched her.

"You're back!" All the harsh words Sandor had felt like saying to her, the admonitions for not even noticing someone coming in, left him. "I was scared. I heard screaming." She looked through the wall in the direction of their neighbor's hovel, where the woman's screams carried over into theirs. Sansa's eyes were wide and knowing.

"If she doesn't shut up soon I'll go stick something in her myself." Sandor threw down his sword. "Go lace up the tent."

Sansa's fingers worked slowly as she poked the lace through the double row of holes from top to bottom. Sandor removed his armor and his blood-stained clothes and lay down where she'd been sitting. He closed his eyes for a moment.

"Aren't you going to eat something?" Sansa asked him.

He forced his eyes open. Now the tent was mercifully dark. Light broached the seams of the tent flap and he could tell how clumsily she'd laced it. He must have drifted off for a moment.

"Woman brought that," he said, eyeing the plate of shredded meat Sansa nibbled from. "Yeah. She dropped all this off while I was closing the door." Sansa held the plate of meat to him and when he sat up, his head swam. It hurt to chew so he sucked pieces of meat off the bones.

"Did she bring wine?"

"Sandor . . ." She gave him water and they ate in silence for a few more minutes. "Can we go after this?" He wasn't sure what she meant.

"After what?"

"After eating."

"No." The simplest answer is often the best one, and he didn't have the energy to explain to her how tired he was after battle.

"I really want to go," Sansa begged. The woman in the next tent was sobbing and wailing.

"No," he frowned at her. "I need to rest."

Sansa seemed to accept this and concentrated on eating, but when she looked to him again she sounded shocked. "You're bleeding!"

He looked over his body and saw, along with bruises, a cut on his leg. He wasn't sure when he had gotten that. "It's just a scratch."

"Let me wash it for you."

"All right."

He lay back down on the bed. He felt better lying down. Sansa pushed the food away and pulled a basin of water and a towel up next to the bed. She sat by him and dipped the towel into the water. She hesitated before touching him. "It could get infected."

He closed his eyes and tried to close his ears to all the sounds except the dripping of the water when she wrung the cloth out in the basin. He couldn't stop the pressure in his head, but he tried to concentrate on the pressure on his skin instead. She washed his leg and soaked other parts of him with the cool water. When she scrubbed his hands he didn't pull away or ask why; he knew that they were bloody.

"Did you get hit in the head?" she asked, pressing the towel to it.

He didn't remember, but it certainly felt like it.

"Yeah."

They were like that long enough for the light outside to fade away, and the noise outside to settle down. Sandor was floating away in darkness when he thought he heard Sansa call his name. That was good. He was asleep and dreaming about Sansa Stark. But no, he remembered, rushing back. She was here with him, in this room.

"Mm." He threw a hand up to rub his forehead. "What?"

"Are you really going to take me back to the Lannisters?"

Why would she ask me that? It made him sad. When he spoke, his voice was strained, like water through a sieve. "Do you want me to?"

"No." Then a woman's hands were on him, desperate, clutching. "No."

He opened his eyes, and the woman was Sansa Stark. "Then I won't."

He reached up to brush aside her hair and touch her face. He had to keep her safe and close to him. There was so much danger, and he could barely keep his eyes open. It was so dark now that he could barely see her, but that made him feel better, knowing that she could barely see him, too.

"Sansa . . . would you sleep with me?"

Her hands left him, a nervous movement, and he could tell she was about to get up so he grabbed her. "No," he said, frustrated. "Not like that." She tried to pull away but he held her fast by the wrists. "I'm too tired for that. Would you just lie next to me? I won't touch you, I promise. And I'm tired. I'm so, so tired."

At first he held her to him stiff, but as he spoke she relaxed her frigid posture and melted against him. His hands fell away from her and she settled in the crook of his arm with her head on his chest. It comforted him to know that she was near, that nowhere else could she be safer than in his arms. Somehow it was an even greater comfort than his sword, which for one night rested on the ground instead of between them.