Sansa was disturbed to realise that the only thing in her life that had prepared her for this desperate flight from the capital was, in fact, the beatings and torture she was escaping from. Certainly no lessons from her septa, no instructions from her mother or other ladies had given her even an inkling of what it could be like to travel in the deep forests.
The worst pain had been those first few days, but even now her thighs chafed, her neck and shoulders ached, and her feet ached from when they had to walk. To her surprise, even her face ached. The skin felt tight and painfully itchy, a feeling that didn't go away even when she washed it.
A few more times, she was pulled by the Hound from her saddle and placed on his so she could sleep while riding. He didn't say anything to her or even ask her permission to do so. He just seemed to know when she was about to fall asleep despite her best efforts.
In fact he said very little to her at all. He gave her instructions, told her hazards to watch out for and told her when and where to set a camp. But that was it. He handed her food without asking if she was hungry, and just glowered at her if she hesitated in eating it. There was so much Sansa needed to say to him, but ultimately there was no spirit left in her to attempt it.
Eventually, through the haze of fatigue Sansa realised they must be loosely following a river. Certainly every couple of days one made an appearance; sometimes to the left of them, sometimes to the right, and sometimes directly in front, and surely there couldn't be so many different rivers. Regardless of if it were one or twenty, she was grateful for the fresh water and the ability to dunk herself in it, soothing her saddle wounds and aching muscles. And, shamefully, one of the few times she could make water without feeling the intense burn of shame knowing she was close enough to the Hound that he knew what she was doing.
The only danger was that any time she was off the horse, she was liable to fall asleep within moments, and more than once she had been woken by Clegane from the most horrendously uncomfortable sitting position, waist deep in murky, cold water. Sometimes in those water-sleeps she had the most vivid dreams of swimming and floating like a mermaid. He snapped at her about her ungratefulness to risk drowning after he had saved her, but pulled her out and wrapped her in his cloak all the same.
Her sleep was so disturbed she sometimes wondered if she was still in the Red Keep, dreaming of escaping, and any moment now she would wake up back in her rooms. At those times she felt suffocated by fear. At other times she knew this was reality; that she was in the wilderness with a violent man she depended on for survival like a babe. And that was almost as fearful.
The little solace she had was in the knowledge that she was, finally, going home; going to her family. Even if she had lost her father and her sister and her innocence by her foolish desire to live in the royal court, now she would be loved again, and that was all she'd need to heal. Memories of her mother and brothers were her frequent companions. If she ever let her mind stray from the warm comfort of imagining what her reunion with her mother would be like, or remembering playing with her siblings, then other, more sinister memories made an appearance, without fail.
Sansa was frightened by the surges of wretched fury that broke through her when she thought of what had happened to her. She could only think of it as "the cruel ordeal", for envisioning it under any other name seemed to cut into her bones. It particularly worried her that while it was the queen and Joffrey's faces that sparked her rage, she felt anger at the Hound as well.
Sometimes, she wanted very much to hit him, or sneer at him, or say something vile, as though she would ever be able to hurt the feelings of such a brutish man. She had to remind herself it wasn't his fault, he was ordered to do it just as much as she, and may have forfeited his life if he'd disobeyed. And he'd as good as told her in the past that he was not a valiant knight who would sacrifice himself for a lady's honour. He didn't even believe in such knights. Her mind knew that, but it seemed her heart was not so easily contented, and whenever she thought of the queen, which seemed to be painfully often, the hurt and rage always extended to him as well.
When the misplaced anger swelled up in her, she took to watching him in whatever he was doing. His body, the movement of his shoulders as he rode, his hair, his scars, his hands, until she felt calm and comfortable again. Looking at him did that somehow. He noticed her watching sometimes and scowled or sneered at her, but often now she wanted to rebuke him for his scowls as though he were a little boy, although other times they still saddened her.
Another source of fear was the discovery that after these torturous sessions of anger and then chasing away the face of the queen by watching Sandor, the rest of it remained.
The beginning, where she had watched him, and he her. His touches, his stoic face, and most of all, the intimacy of that painful and pleasurable moment when they joined. And then… the kiss. What followed after the kiss she tried most to never dwell on; it was too bound up in memories of Cersei's smirking face. But somehow the very end, that amazing feeling of being beautifully on fire, merged with the kiss in her mind. It was awful to think about. It made her flare up with a fever, and want to twist around and scream. It made her want to kiss him again.
Sometimes she had thought it would be better to keep the anger in her than face the memory of the kiss, but in the end she always succumbed and let her eyes fall on him, even though she knew the inevitable outcome. The restlessness and frustration this provoked in her, knowing her mind would continue this cycle and she was powerless to stop it, eventually got the better of her, and she had to find another way to distract herself. Taking several deep breaths, she managed to speak through the habitual silence.
"I apologise that I do not know how to follow the lay of the land or the sun, but, could you tell me where we currently are?" Sansa inquired, trying and failing to sound as lighthearted as if they were merely taking a walk.
"Quite a ways north of Bitterbridge, heading west," was the curt reply.
"Ah," she said. She knew that Bitterbridge was located in the Reach, and heading west must be towards the Westerlands, or perhaps the Riverlands if they were north enough? However, it didn't really give her any better sense of position. Why had they gone south at all, instead of north? She desperately wanted more information, but she knew that unless Clegane could produce a map from thin air, she was unlikely to gain a solid understanding of how they would reach Robb's army. Sighing, she decided to let him set the route. But it would be prudent to learn as much about his intentions as she could.
"And where are we aiming to ultimately arrive?" She kept her voice free from mistrust or accusation, although a tingle of fear was present. It had always been present, but she knew if she entertained it, it would grow into a terror. And she needed so badly to believe she was headed straight to her mother's arms. Otherwise what did she have to keep the anger at bay? But judging by the sharp look he gave her, he didn't believe her carefree tone.
"Eventually, to your family," his rasp was worse than usual. The days without using his voice seemed to have made it thicker. "But not directly," he snapped with unnecessary aggression, glaring at her as though she had outright accused him of misleading her.
"Our destination is obvious, so our route has to be as obscure as possible. They can't cover every path. You're worth enough for them to look for you, but too many troops runs the risk of word leaking out that they've lost you." At this he smiled, or perhaps sneered. The two were quite similar on him. "Joffrey must be enraged beyond belief that you've slipped away from him, and with his dog no less. Only having your brother and the entire rest of the land know about it could be more humiliating."
Sansa was surprised that he seemed amused rather than contrite at the prospect of Joffrey's anger. She wanted to question him about it, or thank him once again for what he'd sacrificed for her, but the thought of having a deeper conversation made her feel wracked with exhaustion. Besides, what if he was having regrets? Hearing him give voice to them might tip her over the edge into despair. Courtesy dictated she be grateful for him answering her question, though, so she made the effort.
"My thanks for letting me know," she said, and managed to conjure a smile. The Hound did not appreciate it, giving her another sneer-smile in return, but saying no more. She supposed even he must be tired.
In the next ramshackle camp they made, among the roots of some old oaks, Sansa woke just after midday and found Clegane had not prepared the horses at all. After tidying herself and folding her cloak and blanket, Sansa fetched the saddlebag with food instead of waiting for him to do it. Inside she found only a small heel of very unfortunate looking cheese, wrapped in a rough cloth. Timidly, she brought it to him. It was so paltry, it couldn't even feed him, let alone both of them.
"Here you are, se-" she said, and held it out. He looked at her hand, and then at her.
"That's what we need to talk about, girl," he rasped. Sansa waited patiently for him to continue. He also seemed to be expecting her to say something, but Sansa had no notion of what it could be. Finally he made a rough harrumph in his throat and plucked the cheese from her fingers.
"We have to go to a village," he said, breaking it in half inside the cloth, then opening it carefully to avoid losing any of the crumbling cheese. Sansa sucked in her breath.
"Is it safe?" she asked. He shrugged his shoulders and fished out one of the big pieces of cheese, holding it out to her. Sansa delicately placed her open hand against his. "No, there is so little. You should eat it," she requested, inclining her head respectfully. The Hound sneered.
"Eat the bloody cheese, little chirping bird," he snarled, pushing it into her hand. She fumbled to grasp it, then tried to eat it as delicately as possible. It was so strong and dry, just eating it at all was a challenge. "And of course it will be dangerous," he continued. "But so is starving to death in the wild. We don't have the luxury of a leisurely enough pace for hunting, so we have to get provisions."
He consumed his piece in one bite, then started spooning the cheese crumbs into his mouth as well. "There will be small villages and crofts closer to the road. It's fertile ground around here and little of it goes unused. If we stick to the remote places, there's fewer people will see us."
Sansa nodded, eagerly accepting his superior experience in these matters. A thought occurred to her though, and her forehead creased a little in worry.
"But will the smallfolk of such rural places be able to buy my jewellery and ribbons?" She asked. "Surely they haven't much coin."
The Hound gave her a look like he couldn't decide if she was stupid, infuriating or admirable.
"No, they will not. But I suggest, and this isn't actually a suggestion, that you leave thinking about the details out of your silly bird brain," he finally stood up and moved towards the horses. Sansa clenched her fists until the nails dug into her palms. Despite just waking, she was stiff with cramps, but she suddenly had the energy to strike the Hound. Her mind was still a fog, preventing her from thinking of something to say in reply. As he saddled the horses he glanced at her occasionally, smirking at her obvious anger. Sansa decided that if she could just once get the upper hand over the Hound, she would die satisfied.
She made a point of saying nothing to him after that, even when he spoke his few words to her, although it was terribly rude not to reply. Unfortunately, her lack of courtesy only seemed to amuse him further. She fumed silently that there was nothing she could do to upset him in return. They apparently had already been headed towards the road because they reached it before long, and began travelling parallel to it. As Clegane had said, they soon spied some cultivated fields and a few small cottages. Sansa made a decision and resolved to voice it, no matter if he mocked her.
"If you steal from these people, I will refuse to eat the food," she said tersely, not even affording him a glance. Out of the corner of her eye though, she saw his head snap towards her.
"Brave words for someone who's never faced starvation in their pampered little life," he said derogatorily. Sansa swallowed hard but kept her sights on the approaching houses.
"I ought to do it just to show you how fast your empathy and nobility crumble in the face of reality," he sneered. Sansa started breathing more heavily. If he tried to break her and force her like the Queen had, she would… she would… she would run into the forest, even if it was to her death. She glared ahead of her like the world offended her.
There was silence for a while, then the Hound gruffly spoke with resignation. "Draw too much attention to ourselves though, to go pillaging through the countryside."
Sansa let out a long breath, and felt her muscles relaxing. She hadn't even realised she'd been tensing them. Lifting her head higher like a lady, she straightened her face as well, back to impassive politeness. She still wasn't looking at Clegane, but she heard him scoff.
Sansa had been worried when the Hound insisted she couldn't accompany him to negotiate for supplies. Despite his earlier words, she was still a bit fearful he would steal, or worse, even murder these smallfolk. She tried desperately to console herself that he wouldn't do such a monstrous thing, but he had made it so clear in the past that killing meant nothing to him. After pouring scorn onto her for her lack of faith in his word, the Hound eventually made some vague threats and left her alone in a little grove to wait for his return.
It was an ideal time to get some more rest, but even after comfortably curling up in her cloak on the softest patch of moss, Sansa found her nerves were too frayed to fall asleep. Being without Sandor for the first time in what must have been almost a sennight seemed to have a much more dramatic effect on her than she anticipated. Every tiny sound and motion from the surrounding bushes had her jerking her head, and even her horse earned a few worried glances from her.
She hadn't realised how utterly unsafe she now felt without his protection. All the time they'd been travelling, she'd hoped desperately they would be noticed by no-one, strangers as well as pursuers, so that she wouldn't have to witness him kill anyone. But now the thought of meeting even an old huntsman or goatherd made her wish for Clegane's broad back and sword between her and the world.
She realised why Joffrey had always been so confident about what he did and said, even before he was king. If Clegane had been her sworn shield, she would have felt invincible as well. He wasn't really her sworn shield even now though, despite that he was keeping her alive. Clegane had about as much deference towards her as a tomcat.
Sansa sighed at the fact that even in his absence, especially in his absence, she couldn't keep her mind off him. At least she wasn't having those thoughts about him though… Damnation, she cursed internally. There they were, cheerfully making an appearance just for invoking their name.
Strangely though, they didn't bother her as much now she was alone. She supposed having him actually present made them feel more real, and almost like he could hear her thoughts and would at any moment barrage her with mockery. Now she felt free to let them unfurl, memories of touch and taste and smell. Hidden underneath them all she also found non-memories; imaginings of what she wished had been touched, what she desired to feel. Sansa was certain this was a sin.
Her inner body started to feel alive with sensation and she twisted to and fro to let out the energy she could feel building. Odd that she had barely the stamina to sit in the saddle, but this was making her want to kick out her legs and writhe around. She also badly wanted to squeeze her legs together, but the welts from riding were still raised, and they weren't comfortable to touch more than gently.
Finally, Sansa had to concede that no matter how much of a sin it was and how her septa would be crying in the heavens to witness it, she desperately wished to touch herself as the queen had forced her to do. In fact the harder she tried to push the thought from her mind, the harder it became to resist it. She was alone now, and maybe for the last time in quite a while. And it would be nice, it would be better to do it herself. That might then replace the memories of the first time in her mind, and that would be a mercy.
Slipping her hand under her smallclothes, she found herself wet and slick to the touch; but when she raised her fingers there was no moonblood, only clearish mucus. It was revolting to know that was coming from her body, but it did make a difference in the sensation between where it had spread to and where it hadn't. And she was already so dirty and sweaty and sticky… what did a little more stickiness matter?
It was good. So good. There was no pain, so that must have all been from the coupling. Or, she supposed, it did only hurt the first time. Still, she was amazed that this was happening without a man doing anything to her. Rumours had said coupling was an act that was enjoyed but this was good all by itself. There was a… strange emptiness, a sort of lack between her legs, however. She blushed like a roaring fire that the image of Sandor's giant form engulfing her snapped into her mind like it belonged there. And to think of that, also… Sansa moaned like she was feverish. She truly was on fire, and getting hotter by the second.
Suddenly, it happened again. Her legs arched into the air and her body shook a little while she gasped. Then just as suddenly, she slumped lifelessly. That, that, that was what it was. A feeling like her whole body was singing a song. Her already laboured breathing caught. Her body singing a song? Was that… had that been the song the Hound had spoken to her of? Not Florian and Jonquil at all, but the song of a man and a woman?
Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes. The queen had had her song, and unwillingly. She hadn't even really given it to Sandor. Although he had sung as well, she realised that now.
It was a little disquieting that this act of hers had still felt a bit lacking despite recapturing that beautiful feeling. There had been no motion, no impact, no rough hands or soft kisses or her body being bent and shaken… Sansa was glad she had seemingly slipped into such a deep fatigue that the recollection no longer inflamed her. This would have to be enough to keep the thoughts and memories at bay until she eventually was wed. If anyone would even wed me now, she cried to herself. Otherwise it just might be her alone in her bed every night, with one terrible memory to think back on every time she felt her blood wickedly heat…
She refused to accept that. If she couldn't forget what had happened, it couldn't be wrong to make new memories to crowd out the bad ones. Sandor might even be willing to help her, if she was right to interpret his request for a song.
No, she was forced to concede, that would be impossible. How could she even go about asking? She could hardly give him sweet words of romance to entreat him. He would know they were false and even if they weren't he would probably laugh himself to death upon hearing them. A grim satisfaction at that thought passed over her, but Sansa shrugged it off.
Perhaps if he simply "accidentally" encountered her in a state of undress he would be overcome and make the proposition for her. That idea appealed to Sansa but the Hound was quite good at sniffing out true intentions. Her duplicity alone might put him off.
Would he pay attention to a command? He had done it to her at the queen's orders. But Sansa hardly had a court executioner to add threat to her words, and she didn't think he would have followed a command of hers even if she had eventually become queen herself. He had no respect for her.
Sansa felt the chill breeze again and kicked her skirts back over her legs. No new ideas were forming in her mind, in fact there was only questioning of the entire concept at all, and she found her eyelids fluttering closed.