Sansa woke to the rising sun, her body as stiff as wood. The Hound was pawing at her, gently pushing her aside and up, trying to rouse her. She tried to inform him she would be up in a minute, but to her horror, a most unladylike grunt was the only sound she made, followed by a whine of shame.
To her relief, he didn't mock her, simply brought her up so she was sitting, pulling her forward to rest against his shoulder. All she could do was whimper and pant; her body was a used-up, wrung-out rag. His shoulder was uncomfortable; she felt the sharp press of metal against her forehead and he smelt awful, but her eyes shut again and she began to slip into slumber pillowed against him.
She woke again she knew not how long later, and this time she was in his arms, and he was pressing her against something warm. Looking about in a daze, she realised it was a horse, the doleful looking gelding.
"Get into the saddle. I'll strap your legs to the stirrups," Clegane was telling her. At least, she thought it was him. His grating voice was surprisingly soft and gentle, it almost sounded fatherly. Must not be the Hound, then, she decided.
But she had no strength to refuse anything she was bid do, so she let him place her in the saddle as a man would ride, too tired to feel embarrassed for her bare calves. He bound her feet loosely to the stirrups and left her sitting there, still unable to open her eyes. After a few minutes in which she thought she might sleep even sitting up, she heard him calling out to her.
"Ready? We're moving again."
Her journey with the Hound was immensely less comfortable than the last time she travelled across the kingdom, and also far more confusing. They picked their way through sparse woodland, sometimes almost meeting the road and at other times heading away from it, and always at a pace that left branches and bushes slapping against them.
The uneven ground led to their horses lurching down gullies and over thick underbrush without warning, each one a jolt of sharp pain into her healing womanhood. But Sansa never wanted to complain. Every step they took was a step further from the capital, the Red Keep, the queen's chambers.
After that initial mad dash, their regular pattern seemed to become hiding in a hollow or deep grove during the height of the day, and riding during the night. They were fortunate that the moon was waxing to full, and the night was well-lit.
Very bright, it felt, after she spent the days with her eyes closed. The few travellers they saw, they hurried past, Clegane flicking at them in dismissive greeting if any tried to hail them.
Sansa rode with her head downcast, not so much to hide her face as simply because she had no strength to raise herself up straight. She knew she must look wretched, but she couldn't care. She was only with the Hound, and why would he mind? He'd have no call to criticise her, even if he wanted to. The few times she saw him in the light, as they were hiding for the day or packing up in the twilight, he looked as horrid as she felt.
His skin was almost ashen, and he looked even older than her father. It had mildly concerned her that he may drop dead and leave her alone in the woods, but only mildly. It even seemed vaguely funny to Sansa how little the notion bothered her; she was simply too tired to feel emotion.
She did notice that he ate barely more than she did, and several times when they stopped to make water she heard him retching. It was truly abysmal luck that he would get ill just as they were escaping. It could have been the hardship itself that weakened him, but he'd always seemed to her to be of a hardy disposition. Maybe he wasn't so strong as she thought.
His own lack of appetite didn't stop him from forcing food on her at exhaustingly regular intervals. Sansa found she had no desire to eat at all, even if he had been offering her fruits and cakes and sweets. What the Hound was offering her was black bread, rock-like cheese and what he claimed was meat - Sansa was certain he was just cutting pieces off his saddle and feeding them to her.
At first she simply nibbled over the hours as they rode, or placed it amongst her packs for when hunger might visit her once more. But after he found some of her food stashed away there, he insisted on watching her eat it every time, even if she begged that it made her sick. Even if she cried. He was the worst man in the whole world.
At least she was getting better at staying awake as they rode. Only once she almost fell off her horse again, and had to call out to Sandor with a child's wail. He came and took her to ride in front of him, so she could sleep. It was humiliating, and immensely comforting, so she made the effort to shake herself alert after that.
After several days, or nights, her aches subsided and her vigour hesitantly returned. Sansa decided she should begin to assist in unloading the horses. It shamed her she had been as useless as a doll all this time, and she wanted to assure him she would not take his efforts for granted.
That day when the Hound stopped and began unsaddling his horse, which was the signal it was time to rest, Sansa didn't wait to be helped from the gelding. She slipped down and started undoing buckles and straps. Eventually she ran out of obvious clasps and had to wait for Sandor's assistance, but she made sure to watch what he did carefully, so she could copy it the next time.
He gave her a look that seemed almost appraising, and Sansa's heart rose for the first time in what seemed a hundred years. But as she regarded him, it dropped again, into her tummy. She knew he was in a bad state, but she hadn't realised how bad.
He looked dreadful. If he had been lying down, she would have thought him dead.
"My lord..." she began, then held her tongue. He looked up at her, but without rancor at her polite address. That's when Sansa began to panic.
"Are you well?" She asked breathlessly. Sansa knew if he died during their sleep she would soon come to envy him, as her own demise would be less kind. She knew nothing of travelling alone. He made a snorting laugh sound and shrugged, shaking out his bedroll. "What's wrong? Is it sickness?" He shook his head. With no need to avoid him to keep from catching sick herself, she approached and went to help him spread his blankets on the ground.
"What're you doing, little bird?" He asked gruffly, and entirely too gently for Sansa's comfort. It shook her in a way the many pains and troubles in the last few days had not.
"Are you very fatigued?" She asked, not keeping her concern out of her voice. He snorted again.
"I should say buggering so," he grated, and dropped down onto the bedroll like a rock. Sansa stared down at him, at a loss for what to do.
"Let us stay here for as long as you need to rest then," she suggested, then bent over to tuck his cloak around him better. He gave her a withering look. Sansa couldn't help but feel encouraged his temper wasn't lost for good. It meant he probably wasn't going to die.
"Never going to rest well on the ground under the sun. 'Sides, it's not rest I'm aching for." He rubbed a rough hand over his face, and the stubble together with his dry skin made a scraping sound. "It's wine."
Sansa sighed. Really, even now all he could care about was wine? She fetched her own bedroll and laid it near his, but she felt agitated still.
"The air is brisk and we've been days without warmth besides our cloaks. I could make a fire," she told him.
"No," he replied.
"Is there nothing I can do to help you? I could fetch you the water skin," she suggested. He grunted.
"Was that a yes or a no?" She demanded primly. He grunted.
Sansa scoffed and turned her head. Impossible.
"I just want to help," she mumbled. Finally he stirred.
"I don't want your buggering help," he rasped.
"But, you helped me," Sansa said softly. She pulled her cloak tight around her. He could have done so much more to help her, if he had been a true knight. But he still helped her.
"Too little too late, you seem to think," he snarled. Sansa started. When had she said that? She tried to think. She didn't remember talking to him much over the past few days, but she remembered very little of their escape. Had she lost her temper with him in her poor state at some time?
She lay down, shouldering her back against him for warmth and searched her memory. The harder she tried to chase her memories, the harder sleep chased her, and eventually Sansa lost the pursuit.
This time when she woke, it was dark. It was so unexpected she sat up in alarm. She was greeted with the relatively serene scene of the Hound sitting on his bedroll next to her, rubbing a piece of his armour with a soft cloth. Beside them a small fire crackled in a pit, covered over with wood so only the smallest amount of light escaped it. She could feel the pleasant warmth had seeped into her while she slept though, because she felt better than she had since they left the capital.
"And you said I was fatigued," Clegane chuckled. "You sleep more than the laziest squire."
Sansa bristled at his rudeness, then felt her irritation transform into joy. If he was mocking her, he must be well again! She couldn't make out his pallor in the dark, but he seemed at ease, not slumped and drawn like he had been previously.
"Thank you for giving me time to recover," she said sweetly, knowing as well as he did the delay was for his benefit. He laughed brusquely again, and kept at his work.
"Eat something. There's food in here," he paused for a moment to pass a saddlebag from his side over to her. Sansa dug through it in the dark and drew out one of the wrapped parcels inside. To her disappointment, it was bread, not cheese.
Sighing, she tore off a piece, which was such a difficult task she almost felt ready to sleep again by the time she was done. She certainly didn't relish eating the dreadful thing. With nothing to do but chew and try to ignore the woody taste and texture, Sansa slowly recalled everything that had taken place last night. Well, not night. Last day. It was so strange, sleeping at odd hours. She supposed she should just think of it as, the last time she was awake.
He had accused her of thinking his efforts to help her were meagre. Sansa couldn't deny wishing he had saved her sooner, but she knew perhaps she was partially at fault for that. She certainly didn't recall ever saying such to him, so he had no right to assume it.
"Please don't think me ungrateful," she said demurely. It wouldn't do to be belligerent with him, especially not if she was trying to convince him of her goodwill. Even if he had been shockingly rude to make such a statement to her. Clegane looked up momentarily, then back down to his work without replying. Sansa subdued her ire.
"I never said such a thing as you suggested," she protested mildly. "That I thought your help 'too little too late'," she mimicked.
"You didn't have to say it," he said without acknowledging her any other way. "No-one asks for their throat cut without reason." His voice was astonishingly bitter, and Sansa felt she might have offended him with her desperate and morbid entreaty. Why? He was the butcher, and proud of it.
The disturbing feeling this gave her robbed her of the satisfaction to be gleaned from correcting his uncharitable thoughts of her. Looking at the red glow of the wood, a vivid memory broke into Sansa's mind. She pondered it for a while, and then spoke carefully.
"When we left… when we escaped the Red Keep...," she began in a purposefully calm voice. His head rose, waiting patiently for her to continue. "There was a fire."
He gave no response, not even seeming to blink in the dim light.
"Did you light it?" she asked breathlessly. The gentle sputter of their own fire was barely perceptible, but it opened the doors in Sansa's mind to remember the roaring and crackling of an entire building in flames, accompanied by the screaming of men. It would be a hard thing to forget, and she had never been so close to a fire as… She shuddered though was not cold. But still her companion remained unmoving, as though she were talking to a great rock carved to look like a man. Sansa waited in the emptiness.
She was unnerved to conceive that her cruel ordeal was not so different from a face pressed to the flames. A small boy or a small girl; both were powerless against the wishes of tormentors. And no-one strong enough dared stop it… the resentment bit into her. Could he truly have dared to start a fire so vast, knowing men may burn in it like he did?
"Yes."
The word was there, in the night air, for one instant, and then it was gone. Even as she heard it, she thought she may had imagined it. Sansa had known the truth already but she had to hear it, to truly believe it. Hear it, and see how his lip twitched.