Sansa noticed Sandor favoring his right leg when they stopped to make camp for the night. They were just over a league away from the Saltpans.
"What is wrong with your leg?" Sansa seldom called him "my lord" anymore.
"Just a small wound, nothing more, girl."
"Where did you get it? I don't recall you being wounded."
"When we escaped the Twins, some bastard's crossbow got me square in the leg, didn't even notice it at first."
He was trying to make it off as if it were nothing, a mere scratch or something of the sort, but Sansa saw through his brashness.
"Does it hurt you?"
"Of course it hurts, but I've had worse."
He had had worse wounds but there had always been a maester around to tend to his injuries.
"Let me see it." It was a command.
"You don't need to see it." He was hiding it from me this whole time, he doesn't want me to see it for a reason, she thought to herself.
"Let me see it." She stayed firm. Sandor's brows were knit tightly, he didn't want to cave in, but he also didn't want to cause the girl any more worry than needed.
"Aye." Sandor sighed, lowering himself slowly to sit on the hard earth. Sansa kneeled in front of him, with her hands placed firmly in her lap, waiting. "You really don't want to see it, little bird."
"I do. Show me, Sandor." He sighed again, and began to roll up his breeches. Sansa watched as his expression turned from one of annoyance to one of pain, the further his breeches were rolled up. The bandage around his leg was old and caked with dried blood, pus, sweat and dirt, and it smelled fouler than anything Sansa had ever smelled before. By the state of the bandage and the smell alone, Sansa already knew that the wound was very bad. Sandor unwrapped the bandage bit by bit until the wound was brought into full view. He heard Sansa gasp and cover her face with her hands.
The wound smelled even fouler once the bandage was removed, and was still oozing with blood and pus. Sandor looked away from the girl, and the wound, embarrassed to be in this current state.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you would have had us stop somewhere, and if we stopped we could have been caught."
"Oh, Sandor," she whimpered. "At least let me clean the cut for you."
"What do you know about tending wounds?" he muttered.
"I watched Maester Luwin tend to my brother's hurts sometimes. All I know are the basics."
"And what are those?"
"Injuries such as these need to be cleaned right away, or else they'll be infected."
"Look at it, girl. It's already been infected."
"And whose fault is that!?" she shot back at him, completely furious. In that moment her anger seemed to match his. Her auburn hair was windswept and messy, which made her look wild, and for a moment Sandor was intimidated by the girl. Sansa's eyes softened, and she asked quietly, "Let me please try to clean it."
"Fine."
Sansa lifted up her dress and reached for her underskirts, ripping a piece of the fine silk and then soaking it with water from her waterskin. Tenderly, she wiped the area around the wound, applying as little pressure as possible. Sandor hissed at the contact, throwing his head back so that Sansa could not see his pained expressions. She ripped another piece of her skirts, and began the process again, but this time closer to the wound itself. Although her hands were delicate, they did not shake. Sandor looked down at her, and made an effort to watch her as she gingerly cleaned his wound for him. For a brief moment, Sandor felt as if they were what man and wife should be. Their relationship was far from loving, or compassionate, yet Sansa's touch was so careful and considerate, as if she had treated his wounds many a time before.
"Do you have any needle and thread, so that I might sew the wound?" Sansa asked, although she already knew the answer. Septa Mordane had always told Sansa how exceptional her embroidery was, but she had never stitched a man's wound before. She thought that it couldn't be too difficult.
"No."
"Do you have anymore wine?" she asked again, looking him straight in the eyes.
"No. Drank it all to deal with the pain," he said. Frowning, she returned to her work.
"There is another way to get rid of the rot," Sansa replied, her voice small.
"How?"
"Maester Luwin once said that if a wound festered, one way to get rid of the rot is to-" She paused, looking back up into his eyes. They were filled with countless emotions: doubt, pity, and hopelessness. To burn it, he could hear her finish the sentence before the words left her mouth. He knew why she could not bring herself to say it.
"Try washing it out with some water and then wrap it up again," he replied. Sansa nodded and quietly finished cleaning his wound. She wrapped it with multiple strips of her skirts, until the bandage seemed thick enough to keep dirt out. When she was done she rolled his breeches back down timidly, trying to not disturb the wound.
"Thank you, little bird."
"I wish you had told me sooner, Sandor." Her voice was sad. "Please don't keep something like this from me ever again, understood?"
"Aye. I won't, little bird."
It was an hour before dawn before a group of Frey men spotted them.
Sandor was awoken by Stranger's loud snorts, and his hooves digging into the dirt. He wobbled getting up, unsheathing his longsword.
"Sandor?" Sansa whispered his name.
"Go over by Stanger girl, now," he rasped.
"Who goes there?" one of the men called. In the dim morning light, Sandor could make out that it was a company of five men. Three soldiers, one bannerman, and a squire.
"Who wants to know?" the Hound called back.
"Look, it's the Stark girl, over there by the horse, my lord," he heard the squire say. Sansa whimpered. The men descended the hill until they surrounded Sansa and Sandor's camp. The bannerman stayed a close distance behind, while the squire went straight to Sansa.
"I have orders to take you alive," he said, grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her into him.
"No!" she screamed, as she clawed at the squire. Sandor could chop the squire into two but he couldn't move towards Sansa because the three soldiers encircled him.
Stranger squealed, and the squire released Sansa out of utter shock before the stallion reared up onto his hind legs and stomped him to death.
"We had orders to take her alive, and you dead, Hound," one of the soldiers said. Sandor laughed in response.
"I've cut down a hundred buggering shits like you," he barked back. The fact that there's only three of them is like a blessing from the bloody gods themselves, Sandor snorted. And with that the first man charged, and as quickly as the man moved towards him, The Hound cut him from shoulder to shoulder, where he knew there would be an opening in the man's armour.
"Favoring your right leg Hound? Let's see how well you can fight." Both men came at him at the same time, and Sandor had to pivot and meet their attacks head on for there was nowhere he could run. He was able to hit both men at the same time, and while one was disoriented, he stabbed him right through the skull, and the other through the neck and into his chest.
"Sandor!" Sansa shrieked, as the bannerman came up behind him and stabbed him in the shoulder blade in a blind fury. He had not slept with his mail shirt or armour that night.
He grabbed the man and they both fell to the ground, the bannerman losing grip of his dagger. The Hound punched him in the face one, two, three, four, five, six-so many times Sansa had lost count until the man's face was nothing but a crater.
"Sandor!" Sansa yelled as she ran towards him, holding catching his arm mid-punch. "Sandor, you're wounded!"
"I know, little bird," he said, dragging himself to the nearest tree to lean up against. His face was covered in sweat and a mixture of the dead men's blood and his own.
"Oh Sandor…What should I do? What can I do?" Sansa asked frantically, reaching to rip up her skirts.
"There's nothing you can do, little bird. I'm done for," he said, feeling the blood gush from his new wound.
"There must be something I can do, Sandor, please! Tell me, I'll do anything, please… please…" She began to weep, her hands frantically touching his shoulders and chest, then to his face where she wiped the hair out of his eyes and began wiping the sweat and blood off with her sleeve.
"Do you know where the heart is, Sansa?" he rasped.
"What?" she replied, the tears flowing down her sunken cheeks. She is so beautiful, even now, Sandor thought. Their faces were so close. He could see the light freckles that were speckled across the bridge of her nose and cheeks, the length of her eyelashes, the fullness of her lips.
Sandor reached for his sword belt and removed a small dirk, placing it in her hand.
"What do you want me to do with this?" she asked, her voice filled with confusion and disbelief. He wrapped his hand around hers and led the dagger right to his heart.
"This is where the heart is. Remember that, Sansa."
"No. You're not going to die. You're not going to die, Sandor," she sobbed.
"Unless there's a maester hiding behind this tree, I'm good as dead. Do it."
"I can't!" she wailed.
"It's called the gift of mercy girl, do it."
"Sandor, I can't. I can't-"
"Do it!" He choked. "Please."
"Never!"
"I should have taken you, the night the Blackwater burned. I should have fucked you, girl. I should have fucked you until you bled, at least I'd have one happy memory!" he confessed.
Sansa was at a loss of words. The grass was golden yellow.
"Go on, do it. Do it!" Sandor began to cry. He already knew her answer.
Sansa lifted herself to her feet and walked over towards Stranger, picking up his heavy saddle and placing it on him.
"Kill me!" he shouted at her.
Sansa fastened the buckles and hopped on Stranger.
"Kill me!" he shouted louder. "Sansa, please!"
Sansa didn't look back as she spurred Stranger on and rode off towards the Saltpans.
Notes:
Sorry, not sorry about that cliffhanger. Many of you may have seen this coming, and for those who didn't I hope I'm not torturing you too much. You'll find out Sandor's fate, along with Sansa's in the next chapter.
A league is 5.55600 kilometers and is equivalent to 3.45 miles
Despite the sadness, I hope all of you enjoyed!