Sansa slept little. She was suspicious of the watchful eyes of the Brotherhood, and tossed and turned most of the night upon the mud floor next to Gendry. Upon the morrow, Lord Beric said, the Hound was to be killed in exchange for his crimes, and she was to be taken to her Aunt in the Eyrie in exchange for gold. Neither of these inevitabilities offered her any peace. Her Aunt did not know her, and it seemed now that Sansa did not know the Hound. She stared bleakly into the black of the cave, doing her best to defy the tears that pricked treacherously at the corner of her eyes. She was sick of crying, sick of herself, of the stupid little girl who believed anything she was told.
Her head span. The Brotherhood and those who had been her Father's men, Arya's whereabouts, the Hound, her own fate - all swirled tumultuously around her mind, fighting for precedence and churning up more and more fog in her head until it seemed she'd never have a clear thought again. Beside her, Gendry's chest rose and fell slowly. Sansa envied him, envied his peace and his freedom. Envied, for half a second, the fact that he was not worth a ransom to anyone. But that was cruel, and it wasn't his fault that she'd been tossed from captor to captor. At least in King's Landing her price had been equal to a Lannister. Now, she doubted she'd be worth more than a few Dragons to her Aunt Lysa, who'd never met her and would likely assume that she had been... sullied by a man during her ordeal. None of it is fair, she thought, and it sounded petulant even inside her own head. Of course it isn't fair, stupid. It's real life. It wasn't fair that her family was dead, it wasn't fair that no-one wanted her but for a bag of coin, it wasn't fair that Winterfell was a ruin. It wasn't fair that her mother had neglected to warn her, before she was murdered, that everyone she put her trust in would betray her.
Her mind turned to the Hound. It should not have surprised her, she supposed, that his intentions had been sinister, though she was forced to admit to herself that it stung all the same. None of it made any sense. He had never harmed her, not really, even though he was cruel and a brute. And he'd relented when she refused to go to the Eyrie, though perhaps that had only been so that she would not attempt an escape. But he'd been kind, in his way, and he'd seemed so frenzied when he'd spat those things at the Brotherhood that maybe - No. It was no use. He was just like the rest - worse, probably - and it was foolish and naive, even for a silly bird, to attempt to make sense of it. He'd even told her himself, she thought, almost laughing at her idiocy. If there are gods, they made sheep so wolves could eat mutton, and they made the weak for the strong to play with. Fool, fool, fool.
The word was still going around in her head when sleep finally overtook her.
There was no dawn in the belly of the hill where the Brotherhood dwelt, and so it was late in the morning when Sansa rose, with Gendry's hand on her shoulder and a wooden bowl of porridge thrust under her nose. "M'lady," he whispered, nodding encouragingly at her to take the meagre bowl from his hands. Sansa refrained from wrinkling her nose. "My thanks." The porridge glistened in the yellow light of the torches. Gendry grinned and sat down heavily next to her, regarding her with piercing blue eyes. She had a faint sense that she might have met him before, somewhere.
They spoke amiably for a while. It was pleasant to speak to someone near her own age, even if it was a boy who did not appear to have washed this side of the war. Tentatively at first, and then more enthusiastically as Sansa encouraged him with smiles and questions, Gendry told her stories of Arya. Though she could not allow herself to believe that her sister may yet be alive, Sansa could not help but feel that, as long as they spoke of her, there might yet be hope. It was a sweet kind of pain.
They had been engrossed a long time before Sansa realised that Sandor was nowhere to be seen. Glancing shyly round the cave, she noticed that it was largely empty. "Most of the Brothers are out ranging, keeping an eye on the woods," offered Gendry. "And...Thoros is with the Hound," he gestured vaguely to a crude passageway hacked into the wall of the cave. "Seeing to his wounds."
"Why?" asked Sansa, remembering Lord Beric's words. "They're only going to kill him later."
"They'll let him fight for it," Gendry shrugged. "Trial by combat. That's the Lord of Light's way, Lord Beric says."
Sansa's eyes widened. "If he fights, he'll go free. I doubt Dondarrion and the red priest together could best him if he had his hands tied behind his back."
Gendry shook his head. "You haven't seen Lord Beric fight. Not recently, anyway."
Sansa wanted to tell him that he hadn't seen the Hound fight, hadn't watched the blood spatter as he snarled like a mad dog and hacked through men, hadn't stood beside him and sank a knife into a man's ribs. But there was no point. He would see it himself soon enough, and she'd no wish to think on those things again. She smoothed her skirts, and forced herself to smile.
It was evening when Lord Dondarrion and his men came back. He looked as haggard and sickly as he had the previous night, and Sansa almost felt pity for him for a moment. But he was a fool to fight Sandor, nobody had asked him to, and even if he prevailed he would only ransom her off like anyone else.
He talked to the men for a while, smiling wearily at their jokes and boasts, until Thoros of Myr emerged from the tunnel for the first time that day, and whispered to Dondarrion. Sansa remembered him from King's Landing. If it hadn't been for his flamboyant robes, torn as they were, she would never have recognised the altered face. None of us are as we were. Lord Beric nodded to him, and signalled two men to follow Thoros back down the tunnel. Minutes later, they returned, marching the Hound between him. His hands were bound together at the wrist, and his face bore a sheen of sweat. His wounded shoulder slumped. Sansa cast her eyes down as Sandor's roved angrily over the faces in the cavern. Her heart quickened. Gendry had told her that nearly every man, woman and child in the hall had a charge to lay at his door. Sansa realised that he must have committed whatever crimes they were on the way to Winterfell with King Robert, or on their return to King's Landing. He had killed Arya's little friend, just because Joffrey wanted him to.
"Sandor Clegane," Beric Dondarrion stepped forward, and a hush fell around the cave. Even the Hound stopped spitting and cursing. "You are here to answer for your crimes against the people of Sherrer, and of the Mummer's Ford, and all those whom you have slain in cold blood in the service of the boy you call King."
Sandor Clegane stood, huge in the firelight, eyeing Lord Beric as though he were mad. "Sherrer? The Ford? You've lost your senses along with that eye, Dondarrion. I wasn't there."
Harwin spoke up. "You murdered Lord Lothar Mallery and Ser Gladden Wylde. There were girls of six and seven years raped, and babes on the breast cut in two."
"Them septons at Sludgy Pond" An old woman, this time.
"Ser Andrey Charlton. His squire Lucas Roote. Every man, woman, and child in Fieldstone and Mousedown Mill." More people took up the accusations, levelling name upon name at him, dozens, more than was possible.
The Hound spat into the fire. "Enough. I do not know these people. They never met my bloody sword."
"You serve the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, whose house was built on the corpses of innocents."
"Aye. Me and thousands of others. Is each of us guilty of the crimes of the others?"
The shouts continued round the hall, "Murderer" and "raper" and "dog" and plenty worse.
Lord Beric held up a hand for silence. "You took the Lady Sansa Stark against her will and announced your intention to harm her in front of us. You cannot deny this charge, at least."
The Hound laughed a snarl. "No, I don't deny it. I said it, and meant it. But there's a difference between meaning harm and doing it." He never looked at her.
Sansa felt the eyes of the hall upon her. She felt hot. Her tongue was glued to the roof of her mouth. Part of her felt she should speak up, admit that she'd gone with him willingly enough, that she hadn't known what he meant to do to her. Part of her felt she should send him to whichever hell was the most fiery. Part of her felt like crying.
Before she had a chance to speak, Thoros moved forward. "You stand accused of murder, but no one here knows the truth or falsehood of the charge, so it is not for us to judge you. Only the Lord of Light may do that now. You will undergo trial by battle."
The firelight gleamed off his teeth as he bared them in a sneer. "Set me free now, priest, and spare yourself the bother of burying one of these swineherds."
Dondarrion spoke. "You will fight me, Clegane."
The sneer became a howl of derision. "You? You're mostly dead already."
"The Lord of Light will determine the outcome, not I. Bring him his sword and shield."
Neither man wore armour. "I hope your God's a sweet one, Dondarrion. You're going to meet him shortly."
Lord Beric ignored him. He bowed his head and lowered his sword to his palm, staining it with blood. A moment later, the sword caught fire. The Hound's eyes widened, and his lips drew back from his teeth. He charged.
Lord Beric moved as fast as Sandor did. Sansa's heart flung itself against her ribs. Blade met fiery blade in a screech of steel. Beric moved forward, quick agile steps, darting the flaming sword into the Hound's face. Sandor moved back and back again, eyes wild, then jerked his sword under Dondarrion's toward his scrawny belly, blocking a fiery blow with his shield at the same time. His thrust missed, and he was driven back further. There was flame on both sides of him now as he was forced backward towards the fire pit which warmed the cave. Sweating and quick with the strength of desperation, the Hound took back ground and aimed two more savage blows at Beric's chest and neck. A thin gash formed there, not enough to slow him, and still he was besting the Hound. Cries went up around the cave: Kill Him, Finish Him, Guilty Guilty Guilty. The Hound was dripping with sweat, dodging flames and cuts, barely able to reach Dondarrion through his fiery defence. With brute strength he managed to move Beric back once more, and levelled several more wild thrusts at him, badly aimed. Lord Beric retaliated by slashing his chest. The Hound fell to one knee, blood blooming on his jerkin. "No," whispered Sansa, as she felt Gendry tense beside her.
Still Lord Beric came forward, and still the Hound slashed desperately, barely catching the other blade. A two-handed blow nearly took Sandor in the head, before he jerked his shield to his defense. Within seconds it was aflame. Unable to shake it off, the Hound screamed, thrusting forward madly. Lord Beric met him well, and now the Hound's arm was in flame and his blows fell uselessly. Another kiss from the sword fell on his face, too quick to burn but more than enough to blind him in one eye with the blood that poured out. He was going to die. The others in the cave was shouting, and Sansa couldn't make sense of any of it. The flaming sword came down again. Sansa moved forward, without knowing what she was doing, and was held back by Gendry and Lem. It wasn't until a salty hand came down over her mouth that it occurred to her that she had been shouting. She bit the hand and screamed again. "He's on fire, someone help him-" the hand did not move the second time. "HE'S ON FIRE" she tried to shriek, but it was muffled and barely made any noise. The hand was wet with tears and blood. Was it Gendry's?
Sandor had rid himself of his shield, and moved to block a last blow. What's the point, Sansa thought, but now he stood and, with an incoherent roar, sliced at the lightning lord. It connected, and kept going. Lord Beric's neck was cleaved, nearly detached from his chest. Paying him no heed, Sandor dropped frantically and rolled in the dirt to rid himself of the residual flame. He did not rise. There was silence in the hall, and then a clamouring and crying. Bodies shoved past Sansa, but she was on her knees and she couldn't see for the tears and she did not notice them.