Chapter 7

Thunder sounded again, cutting through the gentle patter of rain. They were standing against the trunk of an ancient tree, taking shelter under it's majestic canopy. Sandor looked up, and was rewarded by a heavy droplet landing directly into his eye. He cursed and swiped at his eye as Tommy laughed.

He looked over Tommy's head to the slim form of his little bird. She was standing very still, looking blankly towards the gray rain-soaked world beyond the canopy. Sandor thought her lovely Tully eyes were staring farther into the distance, seeing strange and wonderful things that someone like him could not begin to imagine. She visibly shivered and he looked away.

When the rain let up they walked their horses on the mushy trail. This wasn't the King's Road or the Goldroad. It was a much smaller, barely used trail. If they weren't vigilant they could walk off the trail altogether and wander into the forest. Still, this trail would pass through two another small village before they finally came to Riverrun and ended their journey. He was hoping that, unlike the three burned villages they had already passed through, this village would still be standing. It looked like it would rain all night.

He cast another glance towards her. Her eyes were downcast, her one hand holding the reigns while the other was bunched into her skirts, keeping them from being muddied. He let Stranger follow Tommy on his own as he walked to her. He placed his hands around her small waist and lifted her into her saddle. "Thank you, Hound," she murmured, not meeting his eyes.

Sandor grunted in reply and returned to walk Stranger. He stroked the horse's damp mane. He would wait for the ground to harden before climbing onto the saddle.

As the day darkened prematurely, the damp air chilled around them. She sneezed a dainty little sneeze and he had to stop himself from turning around and looking at her yet again. It was difficult to imagine someone as perfect as his little bird doing something so normal as sneezing. But he told himself to leave her alone, to stop watching her like a hawk.

Her voice came back to haunt him. "I love you," she had said.

Stupid little bird, he thought, bitterly.

It was raining on them lightly as they came across the village at last. This village too was burned. They walked through it, looking at the blackened dripping skeletons of what had been cozy farmhouses. Another graveyard, he thought. No graves in sight but the dead haunt it still.

"Hound! Sansa!" Tommy called out from behind them. Sandor turned to look at him. His orange hair was plastered to his head and his nose was a bright red beacon on an otherwise pale face. "I found a building that's still standing," he said, beckoning them.

It was out of the ordinary to find a sept here, no matter how small and ramshackle it turned out to be. Villages of this size generally relied on traveling septons to care for their holy needs. It seemed the villagers had been proud of their sept though. It was built of quarried stone, and therefore survived the half-hearted attempt to kindle it.

They tied the horses under nearby trees and fed them from feed bags. The little bird tended to her horse herself now, patting his nuzzle and chirping to him softly. He felt a reluctant smile tug at his lips. Dancer, she called the brown horse. He was glad she liked him. He had visited many stables before decided on the gentle long-legged bay for his little bird. But she had told him she didn't like riding before Sandor could gift the horse to her.

It seemed colder in the little sept than it had been outside, but at least it was dry.

"Plenty of dry wood for fire," Tommy said, grinning, as he pointed at the few scattered pews.

His little bird was glancing around, taking in the damaged interior and the crude depictions of the Seven above the small alter. Fine little thing that she was, she had probably never seen such a humble sept before.

He helped Tommy break some pews apart and start a fire in the center of the sept. When the fire was kindled, Sandor stood as close as he dared over the flames, warming his hands. Their rations for the night were laid out already. Three shriveled apples, a loaf of black bread, and hard cheese. He settled himself on his bedroll and waited for a few more minutes, watching the flames dance. Then his temper flared.

"Stop your incessant praying and come eat!" he yelled.

Her kneeling body jumped a little, then visibly trembled. But she otherwise ignored him.

Tommy was watching him, his gray eyes narrowed.

"Shut up," Sandor growled, though Tommy hadn't said a word. "And pass me the wine."

She finally came to the fire after a while. Her hair was still wet and her lips had a faint bluish tint. She rummaged through her bag and pulled out an extra cloak, the yellow cloak he had wrapped around her at their wedding, and drew it around her trembling body.

"Here, Sansa," Tommy gently said to her, passing her the plate of food.

She thanked him but just placed the food aside, her eyes on the flames. "We will reach Riverrun tomorrow," she said.

It was not a question but he answered anyway. "Aye. By tomorrow noon you will be with your family."

"Where will you go?"

He laughed softly. "Aren't you going to ask me to stay with you, little bird? Perhaps beg your brother to take me on? Or are you so eager to be rid of me?"

The joke was weak at best, and at worst in poor taste.

"I love you," she had whispered, her voice breaking, her lovely face screwed up in anguish.

She didn't smile at his attempt at levity. "You wouldn't stay," she said, her voice calm though her body shivered. She pulled her yellow cloak tighter around her. "Even if I asked you. As soon as you drop me at Riverrun you two will be off, hunting Ser Gregor."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You think you know me, little bird?" he asked softly.

She shrugged, her pale face still as stone. "You aren't too difficult too figure out," she said. She didn't seem to realize how lightly his temper was tethered, because she continued. "Tell me that I am wrong, Hound. Tell me that you will not seek your death at the hands of your brother as soon as you are rid of me. Tell me that isn't the only reason you live, you breathe?"

He sneered and got to his feet. But to do what he could not say. Shake her? Kiss her? Before he could make up his mind Tommy squawked "A song! A song!"

"What the buggering hells are you on about?" he yelled at the idiot boy's red face.

Tommy cleared his throat. "Sansa promised to sing for us our last night on the road. Didn't you, Sansa?"

"I did, Tommy," she said, smiling slightly and reaching out to ruffle his hair. She calmly turned her gaze up to Sandor, and finally he sat down.

Perhaps it was her voice, sweet and clear as it sang Florian and Jonquil, that drew them to the little stone sept. Or perhaps they too were looking for shelter from the cold and the damp. The sept doors exploded open, and Sandor was on his feet again. But this time with his sword in his hand.

***

There were five men. Lannister men.

"Well, well, well. What have we here? A hound, a mutt, and a wolf-bitch." The man who spoke was tall and blonde. Handsome, even, except for the sneer on his face.

He turned to look at the Hound. "The king is very upset with you, Sandor," he said solemnly, "but he still holds you in great regard. He understands your pretty little wife confused you for a while. And if you return with us quietly and lick his boots enough, I am sure he will forgive you."

"Is that so?" the Hound rasped, though he did not lower his sword an inch. "The king told you this personally?"

"No, of course not," the man said. "I am coming from Casterly Rock. Besides, the king does not speak to the likes of me. It was the Imp who told us this with a raven. Didn't he?" He looked to his men, and they nodded.

The Hound laughed. "I know you are lying, Bryndas. And you forget that I know Joffrey. That in some ways I made him. I know that the king would have me tortured for days before executing me publicly for desertion."

Bryndas shrugged his shoulder and grinned. "Worth a try, wasn't it Sandor?"

"Aye, I suppose it was. And what about the little bird? Does he want her alive?"

Bryndas turned to look her up and down, assessing her. Sansa squirmed uncomfortably. "What a tasty little thing," he said. "The king must prefer men for all the interest he showed in retrieving her. I tell you what, Sandor. Since you and I go way back, I will fuck her only once before giving her a clean death. My men can have her corpse, but by then she wouldn't care. What say you to that?"

The Hound smirked slowly, dangerously. He spun his heavy two-handed sword around with just one hand. "You want her? Come get her."

Bryndas signaled to his men and they approached the Hound. Sansa grabbed Tommy's hand and pulled him back into the shadows near the alter, her heart thudding painfully in her chest.

The four men yelled battle-cries as they now rushed at the Hound. The Hound moved, more quickly and gracefully than she could have imagined. Everything happened at once, yet it seemed to Sansa as if the world had slowed around her. There was the grating clang of sword hitting sword and the impact threw the first man to the ground. The second man the Hound kicked, sending him flying towards the wall. Tommy pulled his hand out from her sweaty grip as the Hound slid his sword into the belly of the third man. The fourth man took longer, and it seemed that he managed to land a blow to the Hound. But then the Hound swung his sword in an arc and embedded it into the man's shoulder. When he pulled his sword free blood gushed into the air. Pulling a knife from his boot, the Hound threw it at the man struggling to get up near the wall, and the man crumbled.

The Hound spun his sword and turned to face the remaining two men. His face and mail were covered in a spray of blood, and his sword was dripping with it.

Bryndas was standing near the fire, his blonde hair gleaming in the firelight, a strange smile on his face. The other man was standing to the side, over Tommy's prone body.

Sansa gasped. There was a pool of blood forming around Tommy's head.

"Little bugger tried to prick me with this," the man said sourly, holding a slim bloodied knife in his hand.

The Hound roared and ran towards him. The man gaped stupidly and only half attempted to save his life. The Hound punched his face and threw him to the ground. He grabbed the man's hair, picked up the slim knife, and sliced his neck open from ear to ear.

Sansa haltingly moved towards Tommy, avoiding looking at the dying man near her. She knelt down and placed her ear over his heart. "He is alive," she whispered, looking up into the Hound's eyes.

"Well, well," Bryndas called out. "It's just you and me, Sandor. Come dance with me, old friend!"

"You are no friend of mine," the Hound turned to him, sneering.

Bryndas tsked. "You wound me, old boy. We practically grew up together at Casterly Rock. You cannot begin to imagine how hurt I was when I wasn't invited to your wedding." Bryndas bent down and picked up a burning log. Armed with fire and a sword, he approached them.

"Only cowards fight with fire, Bryndas," the Hound said, going forward to meet him.

Bryndas laughed. "Since the gods did not bless me with monstrous height and strength, I think I should be allowed to compensate."

The Hound circled Bryndas warily, his wide gray eyes fixed on the burning log.

Bryndas swung his sword at the Hound's stomach and missed by only a few inches. Then he swung the log at his face, causing the Hound to block it with his sword. The Hound hissed when Bryndas's sword cut into the flesh of his thigh.

"Sandor!" she cried out, her voice a plea.

The Hound looked at her, and then back at the Bryndas. Before she knew it he had reached out and grabbed the flaming log with his bare left hand. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. He tossed the log away and swung his sword at Bryndas. Bryndas parried but fell a few steps back. Soon the Hound was swinging blow after blow and Bryndas fell to his knees. The Hound landed another blow and Bryndas's sword went clattering into the darkness.

"Just like in training," the Hound said, his breath heaving, his eyes on Bryndas's upturned face. "Except for this part." Using both hands, though the flesh of his left must have hurt unbearably, he drove the sword into Bryndas's chest.

Blood and spit bubbled from his mouth before he died.

He stood for a long time, looking down at Bryndas. Then he leaned forward and gently brushed the man's eyes closed.

The Hound turned and limped towards her. He sat down heavily against the wall.

She had Tommy's head in her lap. She had inspected it, and there was a large cut in his scalp. She cradled Tommy close to her and looked to the Hound, tears dripping off her cheeks.

"He's probably just unconscious," he said in a soft voice. "The scalp bleeds freely when it is cut, but it is usually not as bad as it appears. Cut some strips of linen and bind it tightly."

She sniffed, gently placed Tommy's head on the ground, and stood up. She brought out a clean chemise from her bag. She had no knife and couldn't think where to look for one, but then she saw something glinting to the side by the wall. She tried not looking into the man's face as she tugged the knife free. Bile welled up at the back of her throat as she wiped the gore onto her dress, but she swallowed and took several deep breaths, keeping herself from vomiting.

When she had bandaged Tommy's head and made a pillow out of a dress for him, she finally looked up at the Hound.

"Can I... Can I look at your hand?" she asked hesitantly. She was afraid he would push her aside again, that he would become mean like he always did when she reached out to him.

That he didn't worried her even as it relieved her.

"My hand is the least of my worries, little bird," he said softly. "Grab a pot and boil some wine, and bring it to me."

Sansa busied herself doing as he asked. She heard his hiss of pain and looked up. He was sitting against the wall still, but he had managed to push down his breeches to his knees. He was looking down to his lap, his face hidden behind sweaty hair.

Sansa brought the boiling wine to him, careful lest she spill in. She knelt beside him. There was dark blood running down his left leg. Sansa looked at the large gash on his thigh, open till the bone, and felt herself grow dizzy.

"Carefully, little bird," he groaned. "Pour it over the cut."

"Hound, I can't," she whispered, her eyes wide, the nausea returning.

"You can, I can't. My hands are shaking too much. Quickly, before I die of blood loss trying to convince you."

Sansa looked into his eyes, glazed and slumberous instead of hard and flinty like they usually were, and something snapped in place inside her. Her breathing steadied, and her head cleared. She pushed his hair out of his face and kissed him on the mouth. Then she picked the pot up with the edge of her dress and poured a steady stream onto the wound, cleaning it and causing it to bleed anew. Steam rose from the cut and his good hand gripped her shoulder hard, but he made no sound. She reached for the linen strips and began binding his thigh. He helped her hold the gash together as she tightly tied it up. When she sat back and looked at her handiwork, a large bloody stain was already spreading across it.

"Your hand now," she whispered.

He held it out to her. He had it curled up in a claw and he groaned when she smoothed his fingers open. The flesh was red and raw, and covered in blisters. She reached for the remaining wine and poured it over it. After patting it dry, she bandaged it as well.

She brought the bedrolls towards the Hound and Tommy. The Hound gratefully unrolled his own and lay down, but she had to drag Tommy onto his. She gathered the pile of wood and built a fire closer to them.

She knelt beside the Hound and pressed a hand to his forehead. His skin felt clammy, and she bit her lip.

"Hound," she whispered.

"What is it, little bird." he said sleepily.

"I am leaving now."

"Leaving?" He opened his eyes and frowned up at her. "Why are you leaving me?"

"I have to go get help," she said. Hot tears fell off her lashes onto his face. She wiped them away. "You cannot ride, and you will die if we don't get you to a maester."

He seemed to consider this. "Pretty little bird," he said, reaching to touch her hair. "I suppose it will be too much to ask you for the gift of mercy."

"Gift of mercy?" she asked.

"Aye," he said, bringing her hair to his face and smelling it. "A knife through the heart, to stop the pain."

She looked at him, her eyes narrowing in anger. "How dare you? How dare you ask this of me?" she hissed.

He laughed softly. "Stay with me for a little longer then. Tommy should wake in the morning and you can go with him to Riverrun."

"No. If I stay here and do nothing you will die." She kissed him again, tenderly. "How can the gods do this to you?" she asked. "I prayed to them, over and over again..."

He smiled sadly at her words. "I tried to tell you once, little bird. It is us men who do the deeds, not gods."

She nodded and stood up. She untied her bride cloak, bloodied and dirtied as it was, and placed it around him, tucking him in as if he were a child.

"I will be back, Hound," she vowed.

Outside the rain had stopped and faint moonlight illuminated the night sky. She approached Dancer but had another idea. He was tied far away from the other horses, and he threw his dark head back and snorted as she approached him.

So much like his master, she thought.

"Please, Stranger," she said, reaching out a steadying hand. "You are the fastest, and I need to bring help. For your master, for Sandor." He tossed his head one more time but did not try to bite her as she reached for his reigns. It was difficult climbing onto him, but after much pulling on his mane (at which he did try to bite her) she was finally astride.

Sansa had never ridden a horse as fast as she did that night. The cold wind bit at her face, made her eyes sting. Somehow her long hair was loose and flying behind her, lifting itself and slapping her in the face now and then. She could not stop to even tie it. She leaned forward and urged Stranger on.

Later in the night the horse slipped on the slick mud and they both went tumbling. Warm blood ran down from a cut in her arm as she reached for Stranger and tried to calm him. She let the sweating horse slow down and walked him for a while. The Hound loved his horse, and would never forgive her if she let him die under her.

It was difficult to know how long or how far she rode. Sleep wanted to consume her, but every time she closed her eyes she saw his face. It was still dark when she finally emerged from the forest. There were camps set up outside the keep, multiple campfires dotting the field. Beyond, she could make out the red and blue banners fluttering in the wind.

"Halt," a voice called out. "Who goes there?"

She got off Stranger as gracefully as she could. Then she turned to the two men and lifted her chin. "I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell," she said in a strong, carrying voice.

***

When Catelyn Stark beheld her eldest daughter, she was wordless for a moment. Sansa was taller, more womanly than she had been. But that was not the biggest change. Her hair was wild around her pale face, she was covered in blood and dirt, and there was a hard look to her Tully eyes that had never been there before.

Catelyn stood still for a moment, wondering if she was looking at a ghost.

"Mother," she heard the ghost say, her voice no longer timid and girlish as it had been. "I need men. I need to save my husband."