It felt like hours. But the sun never moved in the sky, and not another soul passed Sansa before the Hound came back. He looked grim, and without a word swung himself into the saddle and lifted Sansa after him. He kicked Stranger into a canter, driving him hard and not meeting Sansa's eyes when she asked timidly what was amiss. "We need to be moving, and fast," was all he said. His tone was a warning. Sansa wondered how many dead men he had left behind him this time.

The destrier tired quickly, and was well lathered when Sandor finally slowed him to a walk and led him to a stream, lifting Sansa down. They were back in the woods now. She swallowed nervously. "Are we being followed?" She asked, and her voice was high and thin.

"Might be. Could be. We're not going to the Twins now, Little Bird."

"Not going?"

"Not going, no. At the tavern, there was - the men, the dead men, they were wolves." He paused, and then his voice was rough. "There was a plot. The wedding, your uncle's wedding, it was an ambush. The Freys were in league with the Lannisters. It was a massacre. Sansa, your brother, your mother…" He stared at her. She didn't understand. "They're dead."

Sansa's ears rang. "No they aren't," she said weakly. "It's a mistake, there must have been a mistake, it was only stupid soldiers in a stupid tavern, they don't know, they're alive, they must be, the Freys are our allies." It wasn't real, they weren't dead, but she was crying anyway.

"Little Bird," came the Hound's only answer in a raw voice. Her teeth were chattering. She met his eyes then, knowing that he didn't lie, and saw the terrible truth in them.

She didn't remember falling, but she was on the ground suddenly and she supposed that must have been how she got there. Mother, Mother, her Lady Mother, and Oh, Robb. The tears came thick and fast now, and an inhuman wail sounded. it was a moment before she realised it had come from her own throat. She looked wildly to the Hound, who stood silently over her. "Help me," she whispered, and she didn't know why.

Through the tears, she couldn't see his face, but felt as she was lifted and carried to the shade of a tree. As she was set down again, she huddled into herself, arms crossed, and Sandor knelt over her, concern in his face. He gently took hold of her arms, and tried to pull them apart, but she resisted. He walked away then, and she continued to sob. A stink appeared under her nose, and it was Sandor thrusting out a wineskin, and she took it and drank deep. It was a poor comfort, but it seemed to make the Hound numb enough. He sat down next to her as the tears leaked down her cheeks and wine leaked down her chin. "Little Bird," he said again.

They stayed under that tree a long time, and did not move until a rustle from the bushes roused them. It was soldiers. I don't care, I hope they kill me, Sansa thought, but she stood up unsteadily and moved behind the Hound just the same. He knew them, she could tell.

"Seven Hells," said one, a lanky beardless man with a reedy whine for a voice. "Didn't think to find a lost pup in these parts."

"Didn't think to be found. Not by you thrice-damned dog's dogs in any case. Never known you to be able to sniff out anything but brothels and winesinks."

A stockier man moved forward, and smiled. "Heard you deserted at the Blackwater. lost your belly for fighting."

"Lost my belly for Lannisters. Kick a dog too many times, might be he'll bite."

"Didn't hear you bit. Heard you ran whining with your tail between your legs." The stocky man was laughing, jolly and sinister. Stupid, thought Sansa.

The lanky man laid an arm on the stocky one, warning. The third, behind them, hadn't spoken. He had ugly, hooded eyes. "Seems you were the only Kingsguard worth shit after all, Sandor," smiled Lanky.

Sandor snorted. "Didn't need telling that. I heard the imp did for him."

Stocky nodded. "Poisoned at his own wedding feast." His eyes glinted with glee, and something else. Sansa didn't understand. Her curiosity must have been clear, because the ugly, silent man nodded towards her. "Your wench doesn't seem too pleased to be in your company. Can't say I blame her. Want me to take her off your hands?"

Sandor never flicked an eye at her. "Found her near Fairmarket. She was pleased enough to be given something to eat."

"And given something else to fill her mouth as well, I'll wager." Lanky smiled at her, a thin, reedy smile to match his voice.

"So it's true my brother took Harrenhal?"

"Took, yes. Wasn't much sport, if truth be told. But he's on his way back to King's Landing now. The Queen's sent for him. I'd wager he'd be glad to see you."

The Hound laughed, and drained his wineskin. Wiped his mouth. His hand moved at his side.

And then the swords were out, and it was too sudden, and he was alone, and they would kill him. Sansa stepped back, tripping over her skirts, wide-eyed. The lanky man was quick and nimble, almost dancing around Sandor. The stockier man was more predictable, moving forward, forward, back, forward. The man with the ugly eyes stood back, hand on the pommel of his sword, watching his fellows best the Hound. There was an ugly gash across his right shoulder already. Sansa didn't know how it got there. They moved faster than Sansa could watch, one at the Hound's belly and back, one at his neck and face. With a roar, Sandor brought his sword down with both hands in a wild slashing movement, hacking the stocky man. He fell, his head and part of his neck unsteady on his shoulders. Now the ugly-eyed man joined, and Sandor was flagging. The lanky man danced on, smiling, as the ugly one drove the Hound back, back, towards the tree they had sat under. Sansa wanted to scream. They were going to kill him.

Her mind empty, she wheeled around. No one is paying any attention to me, I'm just a stupid little bird. She moved quietly over to the dead man, and avoided his vacant eyes. His sword was still in his hands. Sansa stared at it, deciding, and then reached instead for the dagger in his belt. Still no one looked at her. Gregor's men had their backs to her, and the Hound was a wild-eyed beast of fury, slashing and jabbing and growling. Sansa forced herself to walk towards them, her blood singing in her veins. Somehow, she reached them without fainting, and still they were driving Sandor back, moving slowly away from her. His face was cut now, and the one with the hooded eyes was bleeding heavily from his arm. Lanky danced. The dagger was heavy in her hand as she gripped it, and she was afraid the sweat would cause it to slip out of her hand. But she had to do it, she had to, now now now now NOW Mother have mercy. The knife slipped into his back, protected only by boiled leather. At first, Sansa wasn't sure it had gone in, but when she yanked it back the blade was red, and that scared her, so she stuck it in again, and a third time. He dropped his sword, and half turned towards her, a surprised look in his eyes, and she stuck it into his belly this time. He fell. The other had slid his ugly eyes over to see his companion die, and the Hound took his chance. He fell a moment later, near cut in half. Sansa dropped the dagger, and fell beside them to her knees. "The King in the North," she said weakly.

Her hands were shaking, and when she looked down, they were as red as the blade had been. She was cold, and crying again. The Hound was staring at her, still half-wild from the battle, and covered in blood. Then his sword was on the ground beside her and he lifted her away, and her hand went over her mouth before she remembered it was slimy with gore.