For the next two days Sansa haunted Sandor's room, sitting with him as often as she could, but he said nothing further about her father or Lord Baelish. Nor was he recovering as Morwen had hoped.
"Is he getting better or isn't he?" Sansa asked anxiously on the evening of the second day.
The old healer was washing out the wound on Sandor's neck as he lay twitching in a light sleep and she said reassuringly, "The infection is almost cleared up. He'll not die, my lady."
"I thought he would be better soon." Sansa paced back and forth, biting at a fingernail.
"So did I," said Morwen, bandaging her patient. "He's young and strong, but the infection ran deeper than I realized. He'll throw off this fever, I'm sure of it."
Sansa came over to the bed. "He's getting so thin."
"He won't eat anything." The old woman eyed the young one. "Perhaps if you tried…" Sansa nodded eagerly and Morwen got out of the chair by the bed and took up a small bowl of gruel. "See if you can get him to eat some of this. Even if it's just a spoonful or two, and don't give him the watered wine unless he's in pain-it's better if he drinks water." She went to the door. "I'll leave you to it."
Left alone, Sansa put the bowl on a small table next to the bed, then took the sick man's hand. "Sandor?"
He was in a twilight state between sleeping and waking but her voice reached him and he opened his eyes. "Are you here again?"
"I'm here." Sansa brushed his hair back where it was clinging to his forehead, then wrung out a cloth and wiped his face. "The healer tells me you're not eating."
"Not hungry." The Hound closed his eyes and turned his face away and Sansa regarded him with exasperation. Suddenly he reminded her of Bran or Rickon when they were sick. Why were boys always so contrary?
She picked up the bowl and spoon and said more sharply, "Sandor!" He winced at her tone but looked up at her and she gentled her voice. "I want you to eat something. You can take a little, can't you? For me?"
He regarded her uneasily, his mind clouded with fever, his memory of the past few days hazy. He seemed to remember saying something that upset her, but he couldn't recall what it was. He didn't like the way she was looking at him now, so sweetly appealing, as if his health were a matter of concern to her. Why couldn't she just leave him alone? She was holding out a spoon. Perhaps if he ate something she would go away.
He opened his mouth and took the spoon, gagging at the taste, and Sansa regarded him with a sternness he would not have credited her with. "It's not that bad."
"No, it's worse." Resigned, he ate two spoonfuls of gruel, then shook his head when she offered more.
She put the bowl back on the table and picked up a cup. "Thirsty?"
He nodded and she helped him drink, hiding a smile as he complained, "I need something more than plain water."
"The healer says it's better for you than wine."
"The healer says…" Sandor could feel the fever rising in him and he couldn't quite concentrate. "What else does the healer say? Am I going to die?" His eyes were full of fear. "Don't let them burn me. Promise me...I don't care if you leave me for the crows or drop me through the Moon Door...no fire…"
Sansa soothed him as if he were a child waking from a nightmare. "You're not going to die, Sandor. Not for a long long time. And when you do, there'll be no fire. I promise." He relaxed then, and she wanted badly to ask him about Lord Baelish, but she could see the grip his sickness had on him and she pushed her questions to the back of her mind. "Can you promise me something? Promise me you'll do what the healer says, and eat? You have to get well-I need you, and so does Arya." She gazed at him earnestly and he was confused, both about what she was saying and the way she was saying it, but he nodded. She smiled at him then, and as he drifted off to sleep he thought he would be glad to die if his last act on earth had been to make Sansa Stark happy.