Thank you for the kind reviews. They mean a lot. I should also point out that the title for this fic comes from Ben Howard's "Promise", a song whose lyrics put me in mind of several elements of asoiaf.
Still they carried on. Now, though, they were deep into the wood, and the gushing streams trickling off from the Blackwater Rush had for the most part given way to nothing but more trees. The Hound had decided that it would be best to avoid Stoney Sept and the surrounding areas, as they had declared neither for Joffrey nor for Robb. Sansa had to swallow her silent disappointment at this, wishing inwardly that the Hound might see fit to let them pass just one night at an inn. Her back ached from tossing and turning every night on her thin bedroll, and she could barely remember what it felt like to be warm. The thought of a hot bath was almost enough to make her weep. She couldn't begin to imagine how she must look. Arya would choke herself laughing if she could see me now. Each evening as they dismounted, she did her best to make herself presentable; running her fingers through her matted, dirt-darkened hair and rubbing hopelessly at the stains on her dress and cloak. But it was no use. She even smelled, though not so badly as the Hound. She wondered if he'd noticed.
As they hunched over the fire one chilly night, tearing apart stringy chunks of charred rabbit, she had felt Sandor Clegane's eyes upon her. Having tried to eat the meal with her hands, and met with little success, she was self-conscious. "Is something the matter, Ser?" she asked.
"Not a Ser, I've told you. And you look half a wildling, the state you're in, so those empty courtesies of yours are even more misplaced than usual." But there was humour in his growl. Sansa chewed her lip, glancing furtively at him every few seconds as she tried to word her request.
"Spit it out, girl," the Hound commanded.
"Well, I...do you think we might stop at an inn one night? If we find one? Only it's been so long since I've slept in a real bed, and I could...well, we could both benefit from a bath-"
That made the Hound laugh. "Well, I'll grant you that's certainly the politest way I've ever been told I stink. Not that you're much better." He leaned forward and sniffed at her. "Aye, might be you need one. And the Gods know I need wine." He'd long since swallowed the last of it, and his manner had not improved for the lack of it. He sucked at a bone for a moment, considering.
"Aye. I'll wager we can pass one night," he conceded. "One." He pointed the bone at Sansa in warning, seeing the look upon her face at his answer. "But we're in the southern Riverlands now, girl, and this is unsure territory - for both of us. You'll follow every word I say, and obey every order, or I'll gift you to the first starving, murderous raper we meet. And that won't take long."
Sansa glowered at him from under her eyelashes, but nodded her assent. "Thank you, Ser."
"Seven Hells, Little Bird, do I have to prove to you I'm no knight before you drop your 'Ser's?" His voice was threatening.
Sansa, who had by now seen the Hound turn his back on her and make water almost where they sat more times than she could number, was well aware that he was no Aemon the Dragonknight. And yet, she doubted he'd let her come to harm while she was his…. Captive. Ward. Ally. Well, while she was with him, anyway. "You wouldn't."
The Hound faced her. "What did you say, girl?"
"I said you wouldn't. I don't think you would, I mean. You said you would keep me safe."
His eyes bored into the side of her head. Sansa continued to stare into the dying fire, refusing to meet his eyes.
"Are you mad? Was it another man who held his knife to your throat?"
"No. Another man might have used it."
"You speak too free, girl. Mind yourself." His voice was a quiet, menacing growl.
Sansa finally faced him, cheeks flushed with anger. "Well, it is true that I do not know a knight who would be insulted at the idea that he would not murder a woman, and that you are rough, and crude, and hateful-" She took a shaky breath, seeing the Hound's eyes widened and dangerous upon her face. "But-but I have never known you to lie, Ser, and you told me that you would not hurt me. Is it so terrible that I believe you?"
The fire popped and crackled in the silence. Sandor Clegane's eyes raked her face. His mouth twitched. Moments passed.
"And…" Her courage was failing her now, and she had spoken out of turn and landed herself in trouble again, fool that she was. But the words tumbled out nevertheless. "And the men in King's Landing who are knights are the vilest brutes I have ever chanced to encounter, and so perhaps you are no Ser, but you are in some ways, I suppose... the truest...truest knight of them all." Her face felt aflame. It was just like her to try to make everything into a song. Silly, naive, idiot bird.
And still Sandor Clegane said nothing. Sansa dropped her eyes to her hands, twisting and untwisting in her lap. At least he isn't laughing at me, Sansa thought.
After several minutes of painful silence, during which Sansa did not dare to look up, She heard the Hound move off towards the saddle bags lying by his exhausted horse. She did not raise her eyes even as her bedroll landed beside her with a soft thump, nor when he rasped: "Go to sleep, girl," in a more hushed tone than usual.
She quickly did her best to obey, glad of the excuse to turn her back on him. But her eyes remained open for a long time after she had crawled into her meagre little bed. Though she couldn't see him, she knew the Hound was not abed. Staring unseeingly at the trunks of trees a little distance away, she listened to his snuffly movements at the fire, and it was a long time later that she fell asleep to the sound of him unpacking his bedroll, with the stars above them winking coldly.