The question was pressing itself at her lips, daring her to ask him. She had been turning it over in her mind for hours - days, really - and still she could not find an answer which seemed to fit. You are a woman flowered now, she chastised herself. She had known that the Hound had been stinking drunk when he came to her the night of the battle, so she should have known that his winesickness the next day would only be the physical manifestation of his regret at taking her. But she hadn't thought, because she was desperate and afraid, and stupid, stupid, stupid. Each jolt of the horse emphasised the word, and the Hound's mail seemed to jingle with it, taunting her.
And now she was paying for her stupidity. She had never met a man so angry as the Hound in her life, and he was angrier now than ever before. Her very presence seemed to aggravate him, though she tried her best to keep quiet and stay small in the saddle and complain little. The previous afternoon, he'd even threatened to cut off all her hair when they made camp. "Too noticeable for my liking," he'd rasped, looking her up and down. "You stink of a Tully, and no mistake." Sansa had never heard her looks described as an insult before, and it rankled. But she hadn't had the nerve to point out that the Hound was rather conspicuous himself, and there were as many men wanted him dead as her. More.
But in the quiet of the woods skirting the Gold Road, it didn't seem to matter. They had barely met a soul in their long days of riding, and none that the Hound thought worth killing. "A battle like that, there'll be chaos for days. More, if Stannis prevailed," he told her. "They'll come looking soon, lions or stags, but they won't spare men enough to capture a traitor's daughter, and they'll take the Kingsroad, likely, maybe the Gold. As I see it, doesn't make much difference either way if you're tucked up tight in the Red Keep or killed in a ditch next to me. Your little wolf sister's been gone these past months - dead, I'll wager - and it didn't concern your high lords and knights overmuch. They'll still bargain with you as if you were theirs."
It was the most he had spoken since he had ridden out with her, and he seemed to be talking to himself as much as Sansa. She was shocked at his evaluation of the situation. She swallowed back a lump in her throat at his mention of her sister, and a retort at the idea that the Lannisters were her lords, but took comfort from the fact that she had taken into account something which he had missed. Perhaps she was learning. "Arya wasn't the King's betrothed. They'll have to find me, won't they?"
The Hound looked down at her for a moment, surprised, and then his face split into a mismatched guffaw. Sansa turned to face him as best she could, quizzical. "Seven Hells, Little Bird," he chuckled, "You don't truly believe that they'll still marry you to him? Even for a little fool like you, that's naive."
Sansa couldn't breathe. It couldn't be true, surely it couldn't be true? That she wouldn't have to marry Joffrey? She dared not believe it. If she wasn't to marry the king she was as good as free, she was only traitor's blood, perhaps they would not even look for her. She schooled her expression into passiveness, not allowing herself to feel the mad thrill inside her stomach, birds in her chest. "I see," was all she said, her voice trembling.
Sandor Clegane's grin died on his face. "If you're dismayed by that, girl, then you're a greater fool than Cersei says."
"N-no, Ser, I…" I love the king, my father was a traitor, my brother is a traitor, I love the king with all my heart. "I'm glad." It felt daring and foolish to say it, even in the depths of the forest with only another traitor to hear. A feeling of weightlessness overtook Sansa, and she felt as though she could leap from the saddle and run alongside Stranger forever without losing her breath. Sandor Clegane said nothing. In her excitement, Sansa felt kindly towards him once more. He wasn't such a monster. The question bubbled up in her throat again, and this time she did not stop it. "Why did you take me? Your tourney winnings surely mean you could not want for gold, and you gained nothing by deserting Joffrey."
It hung in the damp air, bald and bold. Still, the Hound said nothing. The dread sensation that she had misspoken terribly crept over her once again.
"I-I didn't mean to pry, Ser, only…"
"Might be I wanted the gold. Might be I wanted the glory. Might be I wanted to fuck you bloody. Might be I don't mean to give my reasons to a peeping little bird like you who begged for someone to save her."
I did not beg. I am a Stark.
"Why are you so cruel?"
The Hound chuckled again, mirthlessly and cold this time. "How do you like your new cage, Little Bird? It's much bigger than the last."
They rode on in silence, Sansa blinking back tears as the ache in her back and thighs pounded harder.