Chapter Text
They had been on horseback for days.
Sansa had lost count of how long it had been, but it was more than seven days and nights and probably more than ten. At the start, once they were clear of the city and out in the countryside, she had passed the time by talking. Asking him about his childhood - that didn't go down well. Asking about his life in the city. Asking him about how to fight with a sword. Most of the time he just grunted at her; a few times he actually told her to shut up. In the end, she ran out of things to say and fell silent.
After that she spent a lot of time dozing. She had never thought before that it might be possible to fall asleep on horseback, but once the panic and the horror of it all had left her, she felt exhausted and had felt her eyes beginning to close. She had never had to sleep out of doors before and nights spent under the stars (and the trees, and the clouds, and, once, the rain) had given her barely any rest. After three sleepless nights, she had leaned back against the solid wall of his armour behind her, closed her eyes and nodded off. A couple of times she had jolted back into wakefulness, thinking herself about to fall, but after a while her body seemed to get used to keeping itself balanced even when she was completely asleep, and after that it seemed the very best way to travel.
The days went by faster, at least. And the nights remained long, cold and miserable, waiting for dawn.
She reckoned on the distance by how the temperature had dropped. As the miles passed, it got colder still, so that in the mornings there would be a scattering of frost on the saddle and their bags as Sandor packed up the camp for the day's ride; in the evenings Sansa would shiver, getting as close to the fire as she dared before she was brave enough to try and sleep. He had wrapped her in his cloak, despite her protestations. He slept just in his armour, although sometimes she had woken to find him curled very close to her, not quite touching. It was no different to the position they took in the saddle, anyway; her body resting back against his; but he would not touch her unless she touched him first. He would wrap his cloak about her as they rode, too, the further North they got. She would start into wakefulness to find just her eyes and nose peeping out of the rough canvas, cocooned like a child. But at least, on Stranger's back, with his arms supporting her on each side, she was warm.
Once or twice, early in the journey, they had seen people - but mostly they had taken a back route to avoid towns and villages where either of them might be recognised. They stayed away from the King's Road for the most part, which made for a longer journey, but, he told her, a safer one. On that first night, she had been shocked when he dismounted and pulled her down from the horse in a clearing in the hills. A rocky outcrop behind them, trees, the trickle of a stream, but nothing else.
'What are you doing?' she had asked.
'Making camp.'
'Here?'
'Not good enough for you? Want to go back to the Red Keep, do you?'
'No!'
And he had made a fire, and caught a rabbit, and she had said no more about it. She had not intended to eat any of it, feeling grubby and slightly sick, then, from the rocking of the horse for hours on end, but the smell of the meat cooking proved enough to ignite the hunger in her belly and when he'd presented her with a leg, she had devoured it so fast, tearing the meat from the skinny little bones with fingers and teeth, that he had laughed.
'I don't think I've heard you laugh before,' she said.
He had not replied, and she didn't hear him laugh again.
He seemed to rest well enough, but when she fell asleep each night he was still sitting up, a little further from the fire than she was, watching the flames steadily and thinking of gods knew what. And when she woke up each morning, it was to the sound of him bringing water from whichever pool or stream or puddle he had managed to find, and some sort of small animal that he skinned and roasted while she gathered herself and tried to clean her hands and face on the dewy ground. If he slept on horseback, she was not aware of it. Surely he was alert, watching for people, judging their route, keeping the horse on the path.
'I feel safe, though,' she said, not fully realising she had spoken out loud until she heard him grunt behind her.
'I mean,' she added, thinking that it was an odd way to start a conversation, 'I am glad I went with you.'
'We're not safe yet,' he said. 'Won't be for a long time.'
It was the most he had said to her in hours, since this morning's rabbit, in fact, and she took some comfort from the rumble of the sounds coming from his chest.
'Is it still far?' she asked. 'Do you know?'
'Winterfell is days yet,' he said, 'winter perhaps nearer than that.'
'What do you mean?'
He lifted a hand from where it had been resting on her thigh - she was part of the saddle, now - and pointed to the rocky ridge that rose to their left, and to the dark clouds behind it. 'Can't you smell it? Bad weather's coming.'
'What sort of bad weather?'
'Storms. Snow.'
'What are we going to do?'
'Find somewhere to wait it out. A cave, maybe.'
Sansa huddled back against him, sulking at the thought. She longed for a house, even the very lowest sort would do; and a bed, and a hot bath. She had never felt so dirty in her whole life. Her scalp was itchy and she was terrified the Hound had given her fleas; her dress, the lovely blue one that had been her mother's favourite, was caked in mud at the bottom and had grease spots all over it from falling bits of roasted meat.
'Where are we?' she asked, after perhaps another hour. It was getting dark, although it felt too early in the day, and it had grown considerably colder. Sansa could see her breath, and Stranger's breath came in clouds.
'North of the Eyrie.'
'But there's nothing north of the Eyrie!'
'Exactly.'
There was nothing except rock, and sparse vegetation, not even enough to light a fire, much less build some sort of shelter. Sansa was tired, and hungry, and yet above all that she had started to worry about him. He had hardly slept in all the time they had been riding, he had eaten very little - she noticed he always gave her the best bits of the meat, such as it was - and, not to put too fine a point on it, he smelled quite bad. Sweat and horse and leather, getting stronger and stronger by the day. What if he were to fall from the horse? They were on narrow paths now, winding through the mountains, and sometimes a steep drop to one side. Sansa had stayed awake once she had seen the ground dropping away sharply to her left. He had been holding her upright, but would he have been able to stop her, if she had toppled over? No, he wouldn't. He needed sleep as badly as she did.
And then, just when Sansa thought things could not get any worse, it started to snow.
* * *
By the time they found the inn, Sansa was shivering so hard she wondered if she was going to pass out. Wrapping his cloak around her had done little to stop her hands and face from getting the worst of it; her hair was wet and white with a layer of snow on the top of it. For all his talk of finding a cave, when they smelled woodsmoke and saw the small group of houses, and the light at the windows, to his credit he turned Stranger towards the village instead of away from it.
A man bent double with firewood pointed them in the direction of the inn, and he slid from the saddle wearily before putting his hands around the Sansa's waist. She slipped awkwardly from the saddle, legs numb with cold, and he had to almost hold her upright.
'Can you walk?' he muttered into her ear.
'Yes, of course,' she said, straightening as best she could whilst still shaking from head to foot.
The innkeeper sent a boy out to stable the horse, and the two of them went into a bar that was probably half dead by King's Landing standards, but full of more people than they had seen in days. Sansa went to the fireplace and tried to get some warmth back into her fingers. A girl approached her after a moment and asked if they had travelled far, but before she could answer she felt his hand grabbing her roughly by the elbow.
'Come on,' he muttered.
She followed him up the narrow wooden staircase at the back of the building and waited while he did his business with the innkeeper. Already she was picturing a bed, a bath, a bowl of something, and sleep, blissful sleep...
'Oh,' she said, when the innkeeper trotted back down to the bar and the Hound stood aside to let her in.
He glowered at her and she quickly looked away.
'I mean, it's perfectly fine. Thank you.'
The room was small, but warm - thanks to the fire in the small grate which had already burned low. There was a bed, a table, a bench next to it, and nothing else. No sign of a bath.
The Hound had already begun stripping off his armour.
'Oh,' she said again. 'Shall I go to my room?'
'This is your room,' he growled.
'But -'
'It's our room. They only have one.'
'Oh,' she said again, feeling stupid, and looking warily at the bed.
'Don't worry,' he said. 'I'll sleep on the floor. The girl's bringing you hot water.'
He hung his cloak over the bench and dragged it in front of the fire to dry, and Sansa added the few logs that were stacked next to it, trying to coax it back to life. Outside, the wind howled. Sansa could see nothing but darkness and swirling white outside the window.
A moment later there was a knock at the door and two girls, who must have been sisters for they had the same wide-eyed look about them, brought a tin bath and two buckets of water. They eyed the Hound with fear until he backed away and let them move the bench away from the fire.
'I'll be downstairs,' he said to Sansa. 'Don't go anywhere.'
Once he had gone the two girls seemed to sag with relief.
'Is he your father?' one of them asked.
Sansa chose to ignore the question. 'Do you have anything to eat? I'm so hungry.'
'Maer will bring you some stew,' the older girl said, nodding to the younger, who took off back downstairs again. 'Have you come far?'
'Feels like it,' Sansa said. She was looking at the bath with dismay, for it was little more than a big laundry pan, certainly not enough to stretch out in.
The girl poured one bucket in - a paltry amount, swilling around the bottom of the metal like a puddle - and left the other bucket to the side. 'For rinsing,' she said. From her pocket she brought out a big cake of soap, rough looking and yellow, and placed it on the bench, on top of the Hound's cloak.
'That's a pretty dress,' the girl said.
'It used to be,' Sansa said mournfully, and the girl laughed.
'It'll wash out,' she said. 'I'll wash it tonight for you, if you like. You won't be going anywhere tomorrow, by the look of things.'
'Won't we?'
'Father reckons this storm will last for days,' she said. 'The valley will be all cut off by morning. So you might as well make yourself at home. What's your name?'
Sansa bit her tongue. 'Jeyne,' she said, after a moment's hesitation.
The girl's expression changed. 'No it isn't,' she said. 'But don't worry. I can tell you're in some sort of trouble. Nobody ends up here because they're just passing, they end up here because they're staying away from the King's Road. So don't be scared. I'm used to keeping my mouth shut.'
Sansa tried to smile.
'You get in before it goes cold,' the girl added. 'I'll get you some more wood for the fire.'
Sansa stripped off her dress with some difficulty, the wet fabric heavy and clinging to her cold skin. She ached from head to foot, and although the shivering had stopped, she thought she was chilled to the bone and would never be warm again. But she was alive.
Thanks to him.
* * * *
The Hound was gone for hours. She had washed, scrubbed her hair as best she could with the rough soap, and dried herself off with her hands, wringing the water from her hair again and again until it wasn't dripping. The fire was roaring now, thanks to the wood that the elder girl - whose name was Lana - had brought. Sansa had dressed in her only clean shift, which was still damp from the bag and smelled musty and like Stranger's back, and had given her wet clothes to Lana to take away. Perched by the fire on the edge of the bench, trying to ignore the smell of the damp cloak, Maer had brought a tray with a bowl of stew, a cup of warm milk, and a hunk of bread.
'I don't have any money,' she said to the girl, whilst eyeing the food as if she hadn't eaten anything for a week.
'Your father's paid,' she said.
'Is he - has he eaten?' Sansa asked.
'Aye, and he's put a whole flagon of wine away already,' Maer said. 'Big appetite, hasn't he?'
Sansa nodded, and once Maer had gone again she wondered if he would spend the rest of the night down there, perhaps sitting by the fire, passed out from the wine.
She ate the stew and put the tray outside on the landing, pausing for a moment to listen to the sounds from below: laughter, talking, men's voices and women's voices. She could not hear the rough growl of the Hound's voice, though. For a moment Sansa felt unbearably alone. She had spent every moment of the last several days in his company, and now he had left her she felt afraid again. How could she wish for privacy one moment, and for his return the next? It was madness.
She climbed into the rough wooden bed and took a moment to settle. She could feel the horse beneath her, still, in her aching thighs and with the illusion of movement, swaying backwards and forwards, the smell of the horse and the man behind her, the solid wall of warmth and muscle holding her up...
* * * *
When she woke up it was to the sound of water. For a moment, disoriented, she thought she was on a boat. It was dark in the room, the only light from the dying embers of the fire, but at least, now, she was warm. She raised her head to see the outline of the Hound standing inside the bath, pouring water from a cup over himself, his back to her. It was far too small for him to sit in, and so he stood in it instead. And he was naked.
Quickly she closed her eyes again and dropped her head back to the pillow, feeling her cheeks grow hot at the thought of it. He was using her dirty water! The shame of it burned inside her, hot and queasy. And he wasn't being exactly quiet about it, either, pouring water from his height that rattled into the tin bath and spattered onto the wooden floor around him. What a mess he must be making! She could smell the plain soap smell above the usual odour of horse and sweat and - yes, there it was - sour red wine. He had drunk plenty of it, then. She could hear him grunting and sighing, the sounds of his hands rubbing squelchily at his body. Under the covers, Sansa shuddered and tried to get back to sleep.
A few minutes later she heard the rough drag of the bath against the wooden floor, the scrape of the bench, a sigh as he sat on the bench beside the fire. She lifted her head again and caught a glimpse of his outline. His back was still turned to her. The outline of him, huge, heavily muscled; the dark lines of the hair on his shoulders and his arms, the curve of his backside as it met the bench. Still naked! Had he no sense of decency? She buried her head in the covers once more, trying hard not to think of that image that was burned into her brain now, the shape of him, how solid he was, how strong. Those arms had kept her on the back of a horse for days, unrelentingly keeping her safe. And she missed them, she realised. Missed the feeling of his chest and arms as she relaxed into it. The bed, so longed for, was nowhere near as comforting.
She heard the chink of a buckle and the soft sounds of fabric and realised he was dressing again. And then the rustle of the cloak being spread out on the floor, in the narrow space between the bed and the door - to stop her escaping him, she supposed, or to stop anyone coming in the door and reaching her before he had a chance to tackle them? And then a low groan as he settled himself on the wooden boards.
The inn was quiet now, the laughter and the bustle from the bar had ceased. Nothing but the howling wind outside and the crackle of what was left of the logs on the fire. By morning it would be cold. She considered getting up and putting some more wood on, but she feared stepping on him, or falling over him. A sudden thought struck her - what if she needed the pot in the night? A rough panic gripped her at the thought, and as if triggered by the thought, she remembered the warm milk and the stew and the water she had drunk this afternoon on Stranger's back, before the snow started.
She waited for the sound of his breathing to change. Perhaps once he was properly asleep...
She waited, but there was nothing. Then the sound of him shifting position on the floor. He had taken his rest on the forest floor for days, surely a wooden floor was no worse? But how could he sleep, and how was it fair that she had the bed, and the rest, whilst he slept on a damp, smelly cloak on the floor?
At last she could bear it no longer, and sat up. 'Are you asleep?' she whispered.
'What is it?' he grumbled.
'I need to be alone for a moment,' she said.
'Huh,' he said. 'What for?'
'I just... I just need a moment.'
He shifted over to his side, his back to her. He was surprisingly close to the edge of the bed. If she had trailed a hand over the edge, she would have met his shoulder. 'Do what you have to do,' he said, 'and leave me in peace.'
The wind howled. Perhaps loud enough to drown out the noise of her using the pot? Her bladder was agitated now by the delay and she pressed her legs tighter together to try and make the feeling go away. Perhaps if she could just go to sleep...
'Get on with it, then,' he hissed, and the fury in his voice was enough to make her move.
She crawled to the other side of the bed and reached underneath it for the pot. Looked over her shoulder to check, but there was no sign of movement. She crouched over the pot and relieved herself, biting her lip with shame at the spatter as her urine hit the earthenware. And there was no lid! They would have to spend the night with the smell of it.
She clambered back into bed. It really was a very large bed, she thought. Easily big enough for the both of them. It seemed so wrong for him to be down there, on the floor. She could even put one of the thin pillows down the middle of the bed to keep him away, not that it mattered. Not really. If he were going to assault her, she reasoned, he would have done it before now. He had had plenty of chances to do so. He could have murdered her in the forest and buried her, and nobody would have been any the wiser.
And yet he had kept her safe.
She cleared her throat.
No response.
Coughed, again, a little louder.
'What is it now?' he said, turning over.
'You don't have to sleep on the floor,' she said, her voice just above a whisper.
'I'm fine. Go to sleep.'
'Really, you don't. The bed is ever so big. I don't mind sharing. It seems wrong-'
'All the fucking talking,' he said, louder now. 'It's the cold, is that it? The cold that shuts you up? Soon as you get warm you start with the fucking chirping again?'
Sansa bit her lip, her cheeks burning again. Well, she thought, affronted: he could sleep on the floor for all she cared. He could get chills from the draughts, he could lie there on the hard floor and freeze on his damp smelly cloak, and like it. She made a sound that expressed her sentiment perfectly, a throaty 'humph' and turned over in bed, her back to him.
She had almost, finally, got back off to sleep again when she heard him sigh, and struggle to his feet.
'Fucking move over, then,' he grumbled.
She scooted over to the far side of the bed as quickly as she could - the cold side - just as he sank onto the bed. She clung on to the wooden bedframe to stop herself rolling back to the middle of the bed as his end sunk down under his weight. He did not get under the covers but lay on the top of the bed, his back to her. And almost immediately he started snoring.
Sansa listened, her heart thumping. She had never heard him snore before. Had he really not slept, all of those long nights they camped? Not at all?
She listened to the sounds, a deep rumbling, slow, regular, and the rattle of the window as the storm raged outside; she felt the warmth of him radiating through the thin woollen blankets, the weight of him in bed next to her, and she closed her eyes, and slept.