It was dawn and she was sitting on a log, eating her bread and rubbing her eyes, and talking to the Hound. He'd patted her to wake her, and she'd woken slow and drowsy, curling in her pallet, listening to him mumbling to himself as he cleared their camp. When he was finished it was if they'd never been there, and she wondered if he did it from habit or from prudence. She herself felt so lost, but still they could be followed; he was such a big man, to try to hide. She stilled herself by remembering the only other man she'd seen, the thin fisherman, and how he'd stood transfixed with fear as they rode by.
The morning was pale blue and so clear. That old feeling from her childhood of waking early, before the others, and creeping puffy-eyed to the kitchen to pilfer came to her, and it pleased her. The Hound was talking to both her and the horse equally, admonishing the horse and telling her of the byroutes he planned to take, all names she'd never heard. She watched him as he packed, lazy on her log. "You have no worry out here, do you?" The question brought his head around. His hair was roughed with sleep and dirt.
"In this wood? No. The few men here–" he waved a hand, "hunters, walking men. Poor men of the woods; they're as timid as the deer, and they want none of me. And the ones that's fleeing the war, they're just little men carrying bog-iron axes. I'm five of them, easy, and they all know it. What's to fear?" His voice was the same as what he used on the horse when he packed it, the cadence rolling.
"I've never been out in the wood like this. There's wolves and bears."
"They shy away when they smell us. And they don't like the fire. Neither do I, if it comes to that. But it's only two-legged lions you should worry over, and we left them in King's Landing. They'd not come through this wood to hunt you; they'll stay the Road, as they'd expect we'd do."
"Should we be caught already, if we'd taken the Road?"
"I'd think, most like; we'd stand out like whores in a sept. I can't hide my face, and if I could, I'd still be heads taller than those miserable shits. There's the horse," he slapped at its neck, absently, and it knocked his brow hard with its muzzle, "and I have no plans of switching this horse. And with you, red hair and all. You'll have to cover it when we get closer, I can hear the ransom coins clinking all the way up here. So, we'll be some time in the wood, and it may be long. You'll have to stay patient. I intend we both live."
"But we are going North?"
"Getting colder, isn't it? Stop asking me that." The rebuke was mild; he was frowning at a knot. It is getting colder, she thought, it's lovely. He gave up the knot and turned to pick her up, and she finished her bread on the horse.
They rode most of the day, and after time, they talked. She told him of her mother and her home and he let her ramble, and listened. He talked, desultorily, of King's Landing, and then of Robert. He gave his opinion on Stannis–moderate, a faint tinge of respect–and on Renly–didn't fare as well, Sansa could feel his voice in his chest deepen with disapproval as well as hear it; but when he leaned forward to her ear and expounded on Ser Loras, she objected, and he laughed.
It was midafternoon when they passed a small turf cottage, all sunk and crumpled into the loam, its thatch almost dragging the ground towards the back. It was set away, dark, and a small fence with briar net was beside it. The door was standing open and lying in the way was a wooden cup on its side. The Hound stilled the horse and stared.
"Probably empty, all picked through already. Can't be anything left what with the door open like that." His voice was a murmur, and he shifted. They waited a moment, Sansa and the horse, while he considered, and then he dismounted. She watched him approach it, slow and cautious, and she thought of the horse underneath her with true fear for the first time. If he didn't come out, I would be here on this horse, alone. She brought her eyes back to the Hound and kept them there, stared at his hand high on the sill. He had to duck deeply to pass the slanted doorway.
He came out quickly, his hands at his sides, palms open, the sword sheathed. He mounted quick behind her and spurred the horse, and the relief was so great that it was minutes later til she asked.
"It was empty? Just empty, I wonder why they left. I wouldn't have left if it was mine, it's probably the only house for–"
"They were in there. They were all sick, in there."
"Sick?" She looked up and back at his jaw, saw his eye slide down to meet hers.
"Yes, sick. Food on the table and everything, all black. Babe in a cot, black too." He breathed against her crown. "Happens from bad air; bad air that came from underground, that's what they say. We'll not stop this next town, we'll go round it and stay in the wood." She nodded against him, and realized she could feel his pulse fast against her shoulders. It was a long time before they spoke again.
The sun was almost set and the wood had changed faintly, it was denser and the trees were velvet with moss. The horse's step was muffled some. They passed through a small break in the wood and he pulled the horse to a stop, set her down and stretched, ribs popping loud, and unpacked. Sansa sat and sifted through her bag and pulled out her cloak, a new dress–grey dress, I wish he'd brought the blue one, it's so much better, I wonder who has it now–went away into the wood for a while and came back, saw the fire empty of spit and realized she was not hungry, but ravenous. She stood and looked at the Hound and he looked back, blank, sitting by the fire.
"Are you going to–Is there anything to eat?" When he grinned, she felt herself flush, and heard her question again in her ears, the childishness of it. She looked down.
"It's too dark for the bow and I've had enough of rabbit. You don't seem to be providing much, either." She looked back up, burning, and he motioned for her to sit. She settled the grey dress under her and watched him dig through the sack he'd dragged over to his feet. He pulled out a lump covered in cloth and muttered, "Courtesy of the kitchens of the King," and then they ate, to her delight, salt pork and hard cheese.
After they ate she was comfortable, and warm in her heavy dress, and the fire had a sweet moss smell that was familiar to her. The man was brooding. She had noticed he had a habit, while in thought, of tracing along the ridge of scar at his jawline with his thumb; he was doing it now. I wonder if he can feel that. She looked at the scar. It's easier to look at him, I suppose because I'd rather have him here than not. He felt her watching him and cleared his throat, looked across at her.
"I didn't like seeing them sick in that hut. Things have changed since I was on the way North last, with Robert." He gestured around. "It's the war, of course. The towns'll be rough, I don't regret our taking the deep wood. Whole way will be thick with war, and what war brings." He sighed and rose. "Go to bed now, the Blackwater's caught up with me and I want to sleep." He stepped on the fire, and it was dark, darker than the night before.
She shook out her bedroll first before she lay in it; she was learning. She pulled the acrid blanket to her chin, listened, and heard him settling down across the way, and then heard his breathing turn ragged with deep sleep. She fell asleep herself to the sound, and it seemed to keep its slow rhythm through her dreams.
And so it was a shock when she woke, only a few hours later, to the outline of him against the sky, crouching over her.