"Seven buggering hells, watch what you're doing!" Sansa heard her husband snarl low. Stiffly she tried to move but her limbs felt heavy as though they were weighed down by some unseen force.
"Just sit still a moment, will you Hound?" Arya's voice irritably replied. "I'm almost done but all your moving around is just making me take that much longer. Now hold still!"
Why is Arya here? And Sandor sounds angry. What are they doing? The room was warm, too warm. Struggling, she kicked the furs off of her. As much as Sansa willed her eyes open, they still remained heavy while her hand began to sting fretfully. Arya sewed up my hand, she faintly recalled as she continued to move out from under the coverlets.
"Shut the fuck up! You'll wake your sister!" She felt a gentle pat across the top of her thighs.
"Me? You're the one snarling."
How long had she slept? The candles were lit, she could tell from the red glow behind her eyelids. The castle had grown quiet. Was it past midnight? Her head painfully thrummed as Sansa finally managed to turn her neck in the direction of the noises.
Dazedly she then opened her eyes; it was nighttime, and when her vision finally came into focus, she saw her sister sewing up a broad gash in Sandor's shoulder. Both looked alarmed when they laid eyes on her, their seemingly synchronized startled reactions bringing a giggle to her throat.
"Sandor-" Sansa tried to speak but her throat was dry.
"Little bird," Sandor moved beside her, offering her a cup of water. "How do you feel?"
"My head aches. My hand stings." Sansa's eyes shot from the wound on his shoulder to her sister and then to the wine skin in his hand. "Tell me truly: are you hurt?"
"Aye, just a wee bit," he shrugged. "One of the bastards caught me in the shoulder. Here, sip this," Sandor set down the water and handed her the flask. "It'll take the edge off.
Slowly Sansa drank a small amount of the wine, which was far too sour for her tastes, and then settled back into the pillows. The throbbing in her head soon dulled to a slight ache. "Thank you."
Briefly Sandor eyes softened, and he smirked at her. "Always the proper lady, my little bird of a wife."
Arya rolled her eyes and proceeded to continue her work. It was just like Sandor to downplay his injury. He had done so after they escaped King's Landing, preferring to drown his pain in Dornish sour rather than have his wounds tended. By using her feminine wiles, she had managed to sweetly persuade him to allow her to treat his cuts and bruises.
Unfortunately, little could be done about the inner wounds Sansa was powerless to heal, though she hoped copious amounts of affection would dull the edges of his unspoken misery.
Once Sansa had tried to awaken him from one of the most violent of nightmares, only to find herself thrown forcefully to the floor, pinned and straddled by her husband with a wild look in his eye and his fighting knife at her throat. He had not hurt her, but he had knocked her to the ground with a force that drove the air from her lungs.
"Sandor, please, let loose your hold," she had cried out, gasping. "Sandor, my love, it is I, your little bird." His grey eyes clouded with horror, and the man had seemed unable to move until finally recognition swept over him.
Aside from his fear of fire at the Blackwater, it is the only time Sansa has ever seen abject terror in the eyes of her fearsome husband. Swiftly Sandor tossed the fighting knife away and lifted her into his arms, clutching her to his chest with strength that threatened to steal her breath once more. His body had been cold and clammy while his limbs shook violently as he held her. "Never stand over me when I'm asleep, wife. Promise me." Sandor choked out as he gripped her tightly.
"Shh, it's alright my love. I promise I won't do it again. You did not hurt me," she had whispered into his ear while his tears soaked the front of her sleeping gown.
"I could have killed you, Sansa," he whispered over and over against her breast. "I could have-"
"But you did not." Sansa had lifted his face to hers and kissed him soundly. Sandor had held her tightly the rest of the night, and after that incident he no longer slept with a weapon under his pillow.
Faintly she heard Sandor and Arya speaking. Still lost in her thoughts, Sansa paid them no mind, biting her lip at the memory of Sandor's face that night. Was he doomed to suffer forever in such a way? Would Sandor Clegane ever find peace?
She wondered if she, too, would be similarly haunted by her experiences in the future. The Frey men had come for her once more in her dreams, their wounds staining her hands with a red she could not wash away. Must it always be this way for us? Sansa hoped not but there was no way to know for sure.
The weight of Sandor's intense gaze pulled her out of her thoughts, and when she raised her eyes to his, she could see that Sandor had been watching her closely, his brows knitted into a deep frown, the man clearly wondering, or perhaps worrying, about her thoughts.
"Did you not hear me?" He barked roughly. "I said that my wound is minor and that we need to leave as soon as you're able."
"Yes, I can see that your wound is not too severe," Sansa finally answered before languidly rolling over closer to him. "We will leave whenever you are ready, husband. Arya, thank you for helping us. I know Sandor to be a terrible patient." Gently she rubbed his shoulders while Arya tied up her final stitch.
Sandor's features relaxed as he regarded her. "What troubles you? Tell me."
"She's just groggy, Hound." Arya shook her head at him.
"I had a nightmare, nothing more." Sansa rubbed her aching temples as she spoke.
"Are you in pain?" He asked softly, taking her hand from his shoulder and kissing her tenderly.
"Just a little," Sansa gingerly moved to embrace him. "You?"
Snorting, he shook his head. "I've had worse wounds from bedbugs."
"You've had bedbugs?" Arya gaped at him before bursting into laughter.
"No me, wolf bitch; my bedding. That's what happens when you're with an army on the move. The baggage train isn't exactly free of pests." He took a long draw from his wineskin.
"Maybe you got it from one of the girls who follow along after the soldiers," Arya commented casually, her words causing Sandor to sputter and cough. "Ever think of that? They aren't the cleanest bunch."
Sansa laughed, eying her husband closely.
"What do you know of camp followers, girl?" Sandor finally grunted out.
"Not much. Me and Gendry went to a brothel once, and they were the same there."
Sandor spit out his wine, coughing, while Sansa stared at her in disbelief.
"Gendry took you to a brothel?"
"No, the Brotherhood without Banners did."
"How'd you like it, girl?" Sandor's lip curled into a wicked grin, though the threatening look in his eyes made Sansa fear for Gendry's safety.
"It was no big deal. Sansa, close your mouth-it's just an inn with girls."
Sandor leaned over the bed and laughed long and hard. "That it is." He finally managed in between fits of laughter. Anxiously Sansa watched Arya, wondering if her sister would give more details, but she did not.
"When do we leave?" Arya anxiously scrubbed her utensils as she spoke.
"Since Sansa is awake and ready, we leave now." Sandor sniffed, glancing at Sansa. He was waiting for her to protest, she could tell, but instead, Sansa merely rose and gathered their meager belongings.
Must it always be this way? Are we never to find a moment's peace? She asked the Mother silently. Please, give our family a measure of peace, my lady; it has been so long.
Strong arms squeezed her shoulders and pressed her into a tight hug. With that simple gesture, Sansa released the tears she did not realize she was holding inside, and Arya soon joined her. Awkwardly Sandor reached around and pulled Arya into their embrace, and to Sansa's surprise, her sister allowed it.
There the three of them stood for Sansa did not know how long, embracing, grieving, and finally, after many tears were shed, Sansa sensed both she and her sister were ready to move on.
"I'll keep you safe-both of you," he rasped low, looking between them. "No one will hurt either of you or I'll kill them, believe that. Say you believe me."
"I do, I believe you." Sansa raised his hand to her lips and kissed him.
"I believe you too Hound," Arya offered. "Seen you kill enough to know you always keep your word to us."
"Good," the burned side of his mouth twitched sharply as he searched both her and Arya's faces. "Then no more of tears, you hear? Either of you. Let us be on our way now."
"It's gonna be cold in the Vale," Arya smiled brightly. "Sansa just think-we'll get to see the snow again!"
Smiling, Sansa nodded wearily. The Vale was far, and a difficult trip indeed. Why did Sandor want to go there? She determined that once her head cleared, she would ask, but for now she would trust her husband.
Gendry joined them in the solar, bags packed and weapons readied. It would just be the four of them once again, their own small pack. Sighing, Sansa glanced around the room longingly. She liked having a room to themselves, a deep featherbed in which to love and sleep in security. She would miss the fireplace. Most of all, she would miss her family.
It was different when she had been away from them, for the scar of loneliness had grown over the painful gash of separation, and now Sansa would have to open the wound afresh. Glancing at her sister, Sansa knew she felt the same, but surprisingly Arya remained silent as well.
Sandor had always known the right moment to leave, and though Sansa regretted leaving her family, she was not about to start questioning his instincts now. A hound will die for you but never lie to you, she whispered to herself as she closed the door one last time.
