There was an eerie silence in the cave as four soldiers lifted the man that had been Beric Dondarrion's flopping body away. Vomit boiled up in Sansa's throat as she stared, transfixed, at his hideous wounds as he disappeared into the gloom. After a moment Lem and Gendry released their grip upon her, but she remained on her knees in the dirt for a long time - until the rest of the cavern had been deserted, watching the fire dance tauntingly through glazed eyes.
Thoros had removed the Hound from the main hall and dragged his body back down the same passageway they had emerged from before, trailing blood in his wake. Sansa knew Sandor was dead. Everyone that mattered was dead. Wincing, she stood, and dusted off her muddied skirts. She gazed uncertainly around the cave. What do I do?
It occurred to her that, in all the commotion, it might be possible for her to sneak away from the Brotherhood and escape the Hollow Hill. But she knew she would not. She was afraid, and alone, and she would allow Lord Beric to ransom her to her Aunt because she was too weak to survive by herself. Sansa wished she was in the wood, or Winterfell, or even back on Stranger with her thighs burning and the cold rattle of steel at her back. Sansa lay down slowly, wrapping her tattered cloak about her as best she could. A little whimper pushed past her lips. She thought of the big villain who had taken her away from King's Landing. He was a killer, and she hated him. But he had not committed the murders that he had been accused of in the cave. It wasn't possible. But then, she thought, neither the Old Gods nor the New had ever cared what was right and what was wrong, so why should this Lord of Light?
Sansa felt the familiar, hungry ache of dull emptiness settle in her chest, and closed her eyes. He was no true knight, but he saved me all the same.
She must have slept, because it felt like half a second later that the cave was suddenly filled with bodies and the hum of hushed voices. And then she realised she was dreaming, because there Lord Beric stood, in the light of the great fire, pale and thin but certainly alive. She could not hear what he said from the distance she lay at, but his face was serious. Beside her, Gendry sat, polishing the blade of a little dagger he carried. The solid presence of his body surprised Sansa; she could not have dreamt that. Reaching her pale hand out slowly, she touched Gendry's knee. It was real enough.
"M'lady?" Surprise and concern crossed Gendry's face.
Sansa sat up, wide eyed. "I'm sorry. I thought - thought I was dreaming. I imagined I saw...Lord Beric. It's just that I'm so tired and...in the firelight…"
Gendry smiled and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Lady Sansa, you did see him. He's alive! The Lord of Light brought him back, they say."
Sansa frowned. "That cannot be. It must be some trick, or -"
"Look." And there he was, naked from the waist up and looking like a dead man, but moving through the small crush of bodies surrounding him like one very much alive. He seemed to feel Sansa's eyes upon him from across the cavern, and turned to give her a nod and a tired smile. Sansa was too surprised to return it.
"But he was dead."
"I couldn't say how it happens, M'lady. Some of the men have seen it before; or so they say. Though they thought that this time it might not work, seen as how…" He tailed off.
Sansa, surprised as she was, could not summon much interest in exactly how Lord Beric had cheated the Stranger. But her manners forced her to ask: "Why might it not have worked?"
Gendry swallowed, and failed to meet her gaze. "Well, since… I don't want to upset you, M'lady, but the big man, this Hound…"
Sansa dropped her eyes and fidgeted with a stray thread on her cloak.
"They thought it might not work, since he survived."
A cold knife twisted in her belly. "What did you say?"
"I'm sorry. I know you must be shocked. No one knows why the Lord of Light let him live."
Her thudding heart seemed to be in danger of flying out of her open mouth. "Where is he?"
Gendry frowned. "In the chambers down there-" he nodded towards the makeshift corridor - "Where Thoros tends to the injured. He is weak, he cannot harm you."
Sansa paused. "I would go to him. I wish to speak with him."
Gendry seemed taken aback by this. "Forgive me, M'lady, but I don't -"
"Will you take me to him?" Sansa was already on her feet, looking down at the boy. His bright eyes were clouded with worry. She saw him look uncertainly in the direction of Lord Beric, and decided. "I would speak with the man who cheated the death he deserved for the murder of innocents and for taking me captive by means of falsehood."
"I...Yes, M'lady." Gendry stood, and motioned for her to follow him to the passageway. The corridor did not benefit from the light of torches as the cave did, and Sansa narrowly avoided stumbling several times as they edged further down it. After a short time, Gendry gestured towards an opening. "Would you like to me to stay, Lady Sansa?"
"I'm grateful for your concern, but no. My thanks."
As Gendry disappeared into the black of the passage, Sansa held her breath. Why did I come here? Long moments passed as she stood motionless at the entrance to a low chamber from which soft yellow light emanated. She could detect no movement from inside. Sansa chewed her lip. Anger and worry fought inside her chest, tripping over one another. She wanted to storm into the room and demand answers from him. She wanted to kneel by his side and tend his wounds. She wanted him to beg for her forgiveness, she wanted him to growl angrily at her again, she wanted him to take her home. You cannot have what you want. Steel yourself and face him. Shaking, she walked into the little firelit chamber, forcing herself to hold her head high.
The low bed which stood at the far end of the room was too small for him, and sagged under his weight. A stool sat next to it. In an alcove, shelves stocked with vials were built into the natural wall. The fire was the only other feature in the otherwise empty cave, its light throwing shadows up to the wall and over Sandor's ruined face, exaggerating the damage. Sansa's lips parted. His chest was bare and rising and falling in quick, shallow motions. The skin was torn by a huge purple gash trailing from the base of his throat on the left side to just under his right nipple, in a gruesome diagonal slash. His left arm and hand were entirely bound in tight fabric. A stinking poultice was just visible under the white material. The wound on his shoulder had been re-opened during the fight. Above his eye, a deep cut which mimicked the one he had bore the night of the Blackwater stretched across part of his forehead. A hundred other bruises and marks peppered his skin. His right leg, uncovered by the sheet which had been pulled up to his waist on his other side, had been mangled by Lord Beric's sword. The knee was bound and swollen, the bandage rusted all over with blood. His thigh had also been opened, though not so deeply. Sansa let out a long, shaky breath. His face was grey, glistening with sweat. His eyes did not open as she moved to sit down.
Sansa stared at him a long time. Somehow, huge as he was and covered in the fiercest of wounds, he looked like a child, lying motionless in the little low bed. His black hair was plastered to his face, and she felt an inexplicable desire to move it, but retracted her hand timidly almost as soon as she had reached it out, the thought of the Hound's reaction if he woke preventing her. Instead, she lightly touched the back of his massive hand with a single finger, as much to make sure it was not cold as anything else. With a breath of relief, she found the hand warm, and her finger remained there.
She was gazing around the chamber, at a pile of discarded, bloody clothes and armour and a basin of pink water which lay on the floor when she felt his hand twitch, and turned in surprise to find the Hound's eyes open and raking her face. Sansa quickly folded her hands in her lap. Neither of them spoke for a long moment.
"Disappointed, girl?" Sandor Clegane's voice was a deathly rasp. "Can't say I blame you. Though you shouldn't have put your hopes in Dondarrion's bloody fire God. Buggering fool to fight when he was half dead."
"He's alive." Sansa's voice sounded reedy and weak. "Thoros brought him back, I've seen him."
The Hound regarded her, then coughed. "The Gods don't bring men back to life, and if they do then it's as punishment."
"Did he bring you back?"
A rough chuckle rattled out from his chest. "Kill a dog when it goes bad, Little Bird. Don't resurrect it."
Sansa did not smile. "Why did you take me? If you meant harm, why not do it before we were captured? There was no one to stop you."
The Hound winced in pain and made a feeble attempt to sit up, to no avail. "I didn't trust them. He was your father's man, Dondarrion, and he fought my brother. They hate Lannisters, and Cleganes more, and they wouldn't have looked too kindly on his bloody Stark Lord's get travelling willingly with a Clegane. Had to say something." His breath was coming quickly now, and he struggled to speak. "They would have thought you a traitor to your family, and to them, if they knew the truth. People aren't quick to believe it when they're told a dog has turned on his master. Thought it'd be easiest to make them believe you'd tried to escape the Lannisters, and that I meant harm and saw an opportunity." He sneered. "Wouldn't surprise any bloody honourable Stark bannerman to think the Hound was a kidnapper and raper."
Sansa stared at him. "But they aren't Stark men any more. They fight for themselves, Gendry says, and for dead King Robert. They wouldn't have cared who I was with, they'd have ransomed me off either way."
"Seven Hells." Sandor looked irritated.
"Did you kill those people?" Sansa couldn't make herself look up as she asked the question.
The Hound paused before he answered. "No, girl, I didn't bloody kill them. I'll wager it was my brother." He stopped. "I am no liar."
"I'm sorry." It was the faintest whisper.
If he heard, the Hound did not show it. He turned his gaze to the ceiling.
"How is your arm?"
"Bloody sore. That Thoros is better than any maester I've ever seen, though. Says I'll be able to use it again."
The fire popped and crackled in the silence.
"I thought you were dead."
For a long time, the Hound stared at her, and it occurred to Sansa that his scars no longer frightened her. She wondered when she had learned to look.
"I heard you shouting."
Sansa's face burned. "I thought the fire was cruel." She bowed her head and twisted her hands in her lap.
The statement stretched into the quiet. Neither moved or spoke. And then, softly, the Hound reached with his good hand to touch a lock of the hair spilling into Sansa's lap. Gently, he twisted it round his index finger, watching it catch the light of the fire. After holding it for a moment, he tugged it until it hurt a little. When Sansa looked up in surprise, he dropped it.
"You're bleeding," she whispered, pointing to the wound on his head. She stood and moved to fetch the bowl of water and cloth which she presumed had been used to clean his wounds by Thoros. Carrying it back, she perched on the edge of the bed rather than the stool, to reach him more easily. She laid the bowl down and brought the cloth up to his face, touching it gently. Sandor jerked his arm back in a minute gesture as she leant over him, but otherwise remained motionless.
His hair was in the way. Tentatively, Sansa reached to move it back. The Hound did not stop her. as she dabbed at the cut, she felt his eyes moving over her face. When she had cleaned it as well as she could, she met them. She had seen the expression that they held once before; the night of the Blackwater when he had come to take a song. Now, his eyes held the same lost, desperate look that they had when she had moved his knife away from her throat. Without knowing why, Sansa was filled with a sadness as deep as that she had felt when she thought him dead. For a moment, the grey eyes swam before her as her own filled with tears. When they fell, they landed softly on the skin of Sandor's chest. Still, he did not move, or sneer as she expected. His eyes were wide.
Sansa's hand moved almost independently up to the burnt side of Sandor's face. He flinched, but to her surprise did not shove her off or snap at her. Her fingers moved, slightly, just enough for Sandor to feel them brush gently over his scars. And then she bowed her head and brought her lips to his, unsure and chaste. her heart slammed. Under her mouth, his felt rough and hard. His face was as unmoving as stone. Her lips remained upon his for several painful seconds, in which she felt her cheeks catch fire. Still, the Hound lay motionless. Sansa lifted her head.
Without looking at him, she stood up clumsily. Oh Gods, what have I done? She turned away, desperate to leave the room. "Well...G-goodnight, Ser. I mean -" But she was already at the door, and did not pause as she fled.