When he came back it was purple in their camp and the fire, by contrast, was bright. She'd fed it twigs and moss and looked at the dozing horse, and looked at the sky. She thought of Robb and imagined him triumphant, thought of Arya for a while, felt an unnameable guilt. I wanted a prince and she wanted swords. I hope her swords were sweeter to her than what I've had. It was then that the Hound returned with his prize, running his hand along the horse's poll as he passed. She had crouched beside the horse, hearing the quiet steps in the brush, she'd felt her heart, but it was just him. He had not hares but a bevy of grey ruffles in his hand; doves, how sad, her heart dropping a little. He raised the hand and smiled at her faintly, not a pleasant smile, shaking the ruffles.
"Better for you. You're thinning; I can't bring bones to your mother, can I?" He frowned to himself as he sat and twisted off wings at the edge of the brush. "Pretty thing, your mother, but easy to see what she's thinking; she didn't like me then, she won't like me any better now." She stood in the smoke and watched the soft feathers blow away in the wind. He was pressing his thumbs into the doves then, the breasts sliding out dark red, and the image struck her. It was terrible, but it was a small thing in comparison and she was hungry, very hungry–she walked into the brush and stood with her back to him til he was done. He smirked at her when she came back to the clearing. They waited while the doves were in the ash and she listened to him ramble about Stannis and the dwarf and the war, and what he would've done.
The Hound had settled beside her at the fire. It was cold, and they sat close. He'd started to smell rank, she noticed; strongly, too, of sweat and dirty hair. There were salt rings at the ribs of his tunic, and the old gore at the cuffs had dried stiff. He was kneading apart her birds. He'd wrapped them in wet white bark and baked them in the ashes, and when he opened the bark, a thread of fragrant steam snaked out. He put the doves in their warm bark in her hands. She tasted it, hesitant, and it melted on her tongue, savory and hot. She forgot he was there then and ate frantic, a hungry child, the doves falling apart in her hands and mouth, and he watched her.
"A bird, eating a bird. The world's upside down." He was laughing, and she looked over at him. Not much was left of his own birds, and he had ash on his knuckles and cheek. I'll feed him a dog, and see if he laughs, then. She was ashamed of herself. No, that isn't fair. She looked closely at him; his bad side faced her. His eyes were grey like her father's, her sister's, but darker, the whites cloudier. Dirt had packed itself in the cracks of his scars, and the opaque sliver of bone showing at his jaw that had once repulsed her now only gave her a strange, solemn feeling, like walking behind the sept through the graveyard of the poor used to do.
An old memory floated back to her. There had been a traveling puppet show that had come when they were all young, before Rickon was born. It had a small castle, perfectly painted, and tiny wooden horses that walked, and fools, and little ladies wearing gowns. Sansa was charmed into speechlessness by it. The puppets moved just like real people, and their mouths opened and closed and they sang songs for coins. Her mother had given her a coin to put into the box, and she'd run up, but when she got close she saw many hands hidden inside the castle, making the men walk. She'd been so surprised when she saw the puppeteers in the courtyard afterward, drinking wine and laughing; they were rough men with red faces, and if their voices hadn't been just like the puppets she would've believed the puppets real. That's some of why he's angry. He lived in the castle and he saw all the hands. She thought of how hard he'd laughed when she'd told him of Ser Dontos. Is that why he took me?
"Get used to anything if you look enough. Don't mind it much, then?" He squinted sidelong at her, waiting for a lie, chewing. I've been staring for a long time.
"I did mind, before, but it went away." The bald words came out before she could help herself, and she paled. He turned to look her full in the face, his expression blank. She held his gaze miserably and waited for him to pull from the vast well. It didn't come. He looked for long minutes, then turned back, tossed the bones into the fire, slowly rose and walked off. She heard him in the brush for a while, and then she couldn't hear him anymore.
When he came back she was too shy of him to offer an apology, and he seemed not to need one. He was calm and tired and spoke little, and laid a hand on her shoulder to press it briefly before kicking over the fire and settling down.
It was far later in the night, as she was on her side on her pallet with the cold wind on her, when she finally understood that a kindness had passed between them. How small it was, compared to the great kindnesses she'd once lived on. Like a little mouse, eating its little meal. She opened her eyes and turned, saw the outline of the man asleep beside her in the dark. Little bitter kindness, but he eats it anyway, and goes to sleep. She felt a strange emptiness thinking of it, a hollow in her chest; she carried the hollow with her to her dreams, which were dark and are best left undescribed.