It was late in the morning when Sansa woke, and she stretched like a cat, luxuriating in the novelty of a real bed. She felt a sense of unease in the fact that she had risen before the Hound, however, and peered over the end of the bed to check that he was still at her feet. He was, asleep. For half a moment, Sansa wondered if he was dead. If wine could poison a man, he would have died years ago.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and tiptoed barefoot to where he lay, unsure of what to do. She did not want to incur his wrath by addressing him as "Ser" or "My lord", and she was too shy to call him by any other name. "Hound" was cruel. "Sandor" was improper. "Clegane" was wrong. She settled for clearing her throat, so quietly at first that she herself barely heard it. After several attempts at coughing politely near his ear and failing to make any impression at all on his unconscious state, Sansa gave up. Chewing her lip, she edged toward the great mass of man, her arm daintily outstretched. She bent, and lightly touched him.
Nothing happened. Frustrated now, and irritated at the Hound for having got himself into such a state, Sansa moved forward again, and shook his arm roughly. She regretted this course of action quickly when his eyes snapped open, bloodshot and mean, and the same arm she had touched whipped out and grabbed her before he had even turned his head to look at who had woken him. Somehow, he was kneeling on the floor now and so was she, twisting in his grasp. "You're hurting me."
Sandor Clegane loosed his grip on her, straightening up and offering his hand to her. He looked disgruntled and sick and a little sheepish. "Haven't you ever heard that you ought to let sleeping dogs lie, girl?"
"No one ever told me anything about drunken dogs," she huffed.
Sandor's laugh was a quick, sharp sound. A bark. "Might be you're learning, Little Bird. About time." He looked her over, eyes roving across her figure in her shift, backed by the morning light. She'd forgotten she was so indecent. She tried, pathetically, to hide behind her hair.
"Should have set off earlier. Too far in my cups, damn me. Don't like the company in this place. Three or more who've the smell of lions about them. And it seems there's to be a wedding, so you won't be going to Riverrun, girl."
Sansa met his eyes, startled. "What wedding? Who?" Surely not mine?
"Your uncle Edmure. To a Frey. Myself, I'd rather be buggered with a hot sword, but those Tullys are a queer sort for their duty. And honour."
"But…" Sansa didn't understand.
"Your kingly brother, he broke his word. So now your uncle has to pick up the pieces, and the King in the North must dance attendance on the Twins. With his mother." His grin was sardonic and lupine.
"Oh." Robb wouldn't break his word. But the Hound wouldn't lie.
"We've a long road ahead now, and I'll wager there'll be lions snapping at our heels. Best make yourself ready, Little Bird. You'll like them less than I do."
The land that lay between Acorn Hall and Pinkmaiden was more open and better populated than the areas they had crossed in the South, and war-ravaged besides. Sansa could tell from the set of the Hound's jaw and his white-knuckle grip on the reins that he wasn't happy about it, and Stranger seemed to share his opinion. He kept up a brisk trot for longer than usual. They travelled a rutted mud road, occasionally passing a couple of thin peasants or children. After a few hours, Sansa's teeth had been rattled about in her head so badly that she was afraid they might fall out. She was simply afraid.
They made camp early, next to a cave set in the middle of a hill which spat rocks down to the banks of a gushing river. It must be the Red Fork, thought Sansa, but she didn't ask, because the Hound didn't like questions, particularly when things were tense.
As the light of the day began to die, Sandor set off to find food. There were farms nearby, and Sansa was sorry at the thought of poor farmers going without for their sake. But she was hungry, and she said nothing to stop the Hound as he set off. You can't eat honour.
"Stay in this cave." He pointed his dagger at her menacingly. "If you move, I'll kill you. If you get lost, someone worse than me will."
"I wasn't going to move." I've been good, I've never run before. As Sandor's figure disappeared over the ridge of the hill, Sansa retreated deeper into the cave. She was left alone with only Stranger to protect her, and was restless with the cold fingers of fear around her stomach until Sandor returned.
He carried two chickens in his hand. It wasn't the first time he'd brought birds for supper, but it was the first time he'd brought them alive. He held them by their feet as they flapped their wings frantically. Sitting down at the fire, he turned to Sansa. "Come here. Take this." One of the birds was held out to her. Sansa hesitated. "Take it."
She reached out and grabbed the chicken by its scrawny legs, her hand dwarfed by the Hound's as he released it and moved his hand from underneath hers. "Kill it."
Sansa stared at him. "Please, no, I-"
"Kill it."
"I can't...I don't know - I can't."
"It's easy. Look." He took his own bird, straightened it out almost kindly. Sansa watched him wring its neck. It was dead quick. She looked at him, pleading.
He met her eyes, and stared for a moment, and then said it again. "Kill it."
"Please, Ser, I can't, it's so cruel-"
"You've supped on meat plenty before. Rabbits are killed crueller than that. Better get used to killing unless you want to get used to starving. Do I look like your maidservant, damn you?"
"I never - you didn't have to - you are so hateful." She was nearly crying now. Blood of the wolf, blood of the wolf.
"I'm the Mother reincarnate compared to what's out here. Believe me, if you meet my brother, you'll be begging to be killed like a little bird before him and his like get started on you."
Sansa swallowed, and looked at him, red eyed and sullen. She broke the bird's neck.
The Hound nodded, and snatched it from her. He plucked it in silence. She hated him.
After they had eaten the birds, him devouring a whole chicken and more besides, and Sansa picking guiltily at a hot, dry breast, the Hound moved some distance away. When he found a fallen tree, he reached over his shoulder and removed the short axe which hung upon his back. He swung it at the damp wood, and again, and again, and a hundred more times. The rain was falling harder than ever now, and Sansa had fled to the shelter of the cave a long time since. Sandor's hair was soaked and hung lank around his face, whipping back when he raised the axe and forward when he struck with it. His face was set in a tight grimace, grey eyes flinty and cold and wild and furious. He has gone mad, Sansa thought. There was enough wood for a fire to burn for half a sennight at his feet, and all of it was damp anyway. She watched him, shifting restlessly from her refuge at the mouth of the cave, until she could take it no more. If he catches a fever from the chill I'll be all alone.
She stood, and took a step. And stopped. And walked towards him. She made sure to speak when she was just out of his reach, in case she startled him and got the axe stuck in her. "Aren't you tired?"
He paused, and wheeled around. His eyes were steely grey, and chilly with anger, but Sansa met them anyway, and kept them in her own stare.
"Don't you want to come in from the rain? None of it will burn." She moved closer, and outstretched her arm. Her hand almost touched his elbow. He was still.
A memory came back to Sansa. At Winterfell, there had been dogs before there'd been direwolves. Some were well fed and kept, but there were others, mangy, mean ones that lurked in the shadows. Sometimes, Sansa had wanted to feed them, wanted to make them love her, but Harwin had looked seriously at her and warned: "Those dogs that have been kicked all their lives, they don't know a kindness when they see it. They're too afraid to bite those who beat them, but you can be sure they'll bite you for not kicking them. Best to leave them well alone, Lady Sansa." If he bites, at least I'll know it was coming, and I'll know why.
She stepped closer once more, and now she was standing under him, and still he had not moved. Bite, if you're going to, she urged inwardly. But she saw his eyes, faltering with that same broken, lost look as he'd had the night of the battle, and saw that he wouldn't bite, and saw that she had won. She took the handle of the axe in her hand, guiding it down. "You can't fight him with a fever." her voice trembled. The axe hung limp in his hand now, nearly touching the ground. Sansa released it, and walked slowly back to the mouth of the cave. She heard the shiny scraping of metal on metal as the Hound replaced the axe, and footsteps as he followed her.
It was minutes after she sat down next to him in the cave that her heart slowed to its normal pace.