Trying to sleep was useless. The cave was dry, but the ground was hard and uneven, and the rain drummed so hard outside that its noise was unbearable. The only other sound was the Hound's breathing.
She lay with her back to him, the cave demanding that they made quarters far closer together than they would have in the open. Hunched and foetal as she lay, Sansa could tell the Hound was outstretched on his back, and that he was awake. They hadn't said a word since he'd come in from the rain. And so it was with a start that Sansa opened her eyes, long minutes later, to hear him rasp: "Gregor's at Harrenhal."
She rolled over on to her other side, and Sandor's eyes were blank, staring up at the roof of the cave. "The soldiers at the inn, I didn't know them, but they were his men all the same, and they knew me."
"Did you… Did you kill them?"
"Aye. Meant to bring me to him. Tried to ambush me as I was taking a piss in the trees. didn't work." His face half-formed a sneer, and then dropped.
Sansa searched for something to say, some word of comfort, and found nothing. The Hound hated his brother, everyone knew that, and any man who wasn't terrified of the Mountain was a fool. How awful, she thought, to have such a man for your only family. Suddenly, Sansa felt guilty for speaking so highly of Robb, and for crying for Bran and Rickon.
"I'm very sorry," she whispered.
He turned towards her, not quite comprehending, and said nothing. Their faces were too close together. His scars rippled as his jaw clenched and unclenched. She could see herself reflected in his eyes. A mad urge came to her: the desire to pull his head to her bosom and rock him there, stroke his hair and smooth the anger out from his face and protect the glimmer of gentleness which lived inside him yet with her life. She thought of the blue winter roses at Winterfell, fragile but yet blooming still in the midst of the deepest snows, and she wanted to tell him of their beauty.
But she was too shy to do that, and she was just a silly little girl, and she did not know how to comfort someone whose hurts were so deep and so angry, and who knew so much more of the world than she. An echo of the Blackwater came back to her, and now everything was so different and yet so similar. She reached out a tiny hand and cupped his burned cheek for the second time. He did not move. Under her hand, she felt his jaw bone working still, clenching and unclenching, and her courage deserted her. Sansa removed her hand shyly and turned away, closing her eyes and praying for sleep to overtake her before the Hound could come out with a rebuke.
After a yawning eternity of silence, fatigue won Sansa and her eyes became heavy. Just as she fell into slumber, she heard a rustling of movement, and then there was a soft tug at a lock of her hair.
The clouds had finally spent themselves, and the day was bright and clear. Riding still pained Sansa, but her ankle had improved, and the Hound made sure to remind her of the alternative. "If we stay put, some lion or other will sniff us out, and a sword in your belly hurts worse than an ache in your arse."
"It's been days since we've seen anyone, I'm sure if we just rested for a few hours -"
"I know it's been days. I don't like it. It stinks of dead men out here."
They were skirting around the Blue fork now, avoiding Fairmarket. Unease hung thick in the air,though Sansa wasn't sure if it wafted on the wind or emanated from Sandor Clegane. Either way: Stranger was skittish, Sansa was scared; and Sandor was scowling.
By late afternoon, the Hound had changed his mind. Dead men changed it: the first lay naked and bloated on the bank of the stream, a festering wound on his belly. The second and third were soldiers under a tree, and could have been sleeping if it wasn't for the stink. Sansa turned her head when she saw them, and whispered a prayer to the Stranger. Sandor only said again that he didn't like it, and that they ought to find an inn. "Want to find out who's killing who," he rasped. And to find wine, no doubt. But she didn't say that.
They weren't many leagues from Oldstone now, the Hound said, and they found a tavern soon enough. Sansa drew her hood up around her head, and was reluctant to go in, but reasoned that she'd rather be inside with the Hound than outside alone. But as she made to follow him in, Sandor thrust a massive arm out to stop her. "No," he growled. "Wait with Stranger." And she was left in a woody enclave on a hillock in sight of the tavern, twisting the reins nervously in her hands.