Sansa waited for the plump girl to arrive with the bath, peering around the room as she did so. Though it was by no means luxurious, it was spacious enough, with whitewashed mud walls supported by timber beams. The fireplace was empty, but candles had been lit, giving the room a cosy glow. The mattress on the low bed was straw, which dismayed Sansa, but she supposed that one of down had been too much to hope for. I musn't be spoilt, she berated herself. The Hound had warned her at the start of their journey that she was not a lady anymore, not out here in the wild. And yet, she thought wistfully, I am still imprisoned in the same cage as all women of gentle birth. For a moment, she wished she really was a Tully bastard; bastard free and bastard bold. Then one day she might live her life on her own terms, rather than flitting from one cage to another.
But bastards had cages of their own, she mused as the maid backed slowly into the room and dragged the bath behind her, followed by the scrawny stable boy. And their cages weren't gilded. If I were a man, I could be free. But that wasn't true either, she realised. Her father had lived in a cage of duty until it had killed him, and now Robb had been caged as a king. She imagined him as a child, brandishing a longsword with difficulty, his mail sleeves too long for his arms, and wearing a crown too large for his head. Even Cersei was caged, she had admitted as much to Sansa the night of the battle. Everyone has their cage. Sansa's thoughts turned to the Hound. It seemed impossible that a man so big and powerful could be caged. He escaped his, she thought, thinking of the Lannisters. But that was a lie. Sandor Clegane's cage was within himself, a cage of twisted iron forged by his brother when he had pressed him into the fire. And the rest of the world added its own bars later. Sansa imagined the burned boy killing his first man, before King's Landing, before he had lost all of his hope, before he became the Hound. Perhaps that was some of why he took me away from there. But that was impossible, and sadder than a song, and it wasn't real.
Sansa looked up to see that the girl had filled the bath while she had been immersed in her reverie, and was smiling curiously at her. Sansa thanked her and bid her leave. She stripped, sinking into the hot water. The warmth was the most delicious thing Sansa could imagine, and she laughed out loud in her relief. A lump of tallow soap scented with cloves and musk had been left behind, and Sansa rubbed it thoroughly over her skin, noting how angular she had become in her short period in the wood. She sank completely under the water, allowing it to slop over the sides and on to the wooden floor. She scrubbed her hair with the same industry as she had her body, and was shocked to see the colour the water had turned. But still, she languished there until the water was cold. When finally the water had nothing left to offer her, she rose and dressed only in a shift.
The maid returned shortly afterward with a meal for Sansa. It was some sort of indeterminate stew, served in a wooden bowl rather than a trencher, but Sansa found she did not care, and wolfed it down in such a manner that she was glad she was alone. Having been supplied with a rough comb, she set to easing out some of the tangles of her hair, and did not stop until she was fighting to keep her eyes open and handfuls of her torn hair lay in clumps on her knee. Finally, she sank into the bed, and was unconscious moments after her head touched the pillow.
She dreamed of Lady. They were in Winterfell, and it was summer, and her wolf ran in the yard, expecting Sansa to follow. This she did, running after the beast and laughing as she tripped over skirts too long for her. Down she ran, following the canine sounds of Lady, down, until suddenly they were at the door of Winterfell's crypts and Lady was scratching, scrabbling at the heavy oaken door which kept the ghosts inside. In the dream, she knew that her father was behind that door, sitting with Ice upon his knee, cleaning and polishing the blade. And he was headless, and he knew that Sansa had killed him. She pulled at the scruff of Lady's neck, commanding her to come away, begging her. But Lady only continued scratching. Terror rose in Sansa's throat, knowing what was to come, and suddenly she was awake, sweating. The scratching noise continued, but it was more of a scraping now. It was the door. Mother have mercy, she'd forgotten to bolt the door. She lay on her side, facing away from the door, eyes wide in fear. If some murderer chose to come into the room, she had no way to defend herself. And if it is the Hound, he will likely murder me anyway for being such a stupid little bird.
Someone stumbled into the room, the battle with the door won. Sansa could not bring herself to turn around. From the heavy footfalls and the low, rasping breaths, she guessed it was indeed the Hound, but the discovery did not offer her much comfort. And he is drunk. She squeezed her eyes shut.
But Sandor Clegane paid her little mind. Crashing around the room, he swore under his breath several times, and Sansa wondered just how much wine he had drunk. When silence fell for a few moments, Sansa could not resist the urge to turn quietly around to face the doorway, and saw that the Hound had his back to her, fumbling with a coin purse. he had stripped himself of all but his breeches. Sansa's lips parted. She had seen men without their shirts before, in the training yard at winterfell, but the Hound was nothing like Jon and Robb, green boys playing at battle in the summer snows. The Hound's torso was muscled and brown and huge, and criss crossed with more scars than Sansa had ever seen on a man. Slashes of white and purple marred his skin, back and shoulders and chest and abdomen, and Sansa could not believe it was possible to sustain so many wounds and live.
He turned, shambling around the low-ceilinged room, and poured water from a ewer upon the little table into a bowl, splashing his face. From this new position, he could easily turn to see Sansa at any instant. She closed her eyes again, and tried to sleep, but her body was singing with energy. Fear, she told herself, though it was not quite.
Moments passed again, and then Sansa was aware of the Hound standing over her. She kept her eyes closed.
"Little Bird." It was barely more than a whisper. Sansa said nothing, feeling hot and uneasy with the pretense of sleep.
And then the Hound moved over her, and her heart skipped two beats, and then he was tugging at something underneath her, and her head was lolling where she hadn't told it to go. The Hound turned away. Sansa opened her eyes, confused, and then she had to bite back a laugh. He'd taken a pillow, and moved to sleep on the floor, next to the fire.