Chapter 8

And then she was on her feet, gasping her breath. Her legs trembled beneath her, shaking off the terror that infected her, but Sandor would not let that slow them down now that they were so close.

Hard, compact earth had turned into sludge with a brown, watery liquid. The hissing rain had not ceased once through the whole night and now it plagued the bedraggled, wounded soldiers staggering by dawn's light. Feet sunk into potholes. Mud dirtied her boots up to her knees, and yet Sansa hurried on, struggling to remain in the shadow of the man in whose wake she followed. She could feel some water soaking into her socks, but she dared not look down else her exhaustion took the best of her. So much water, even the sky holds it in contempt. Her feet would likely rot before they made it safely out the Mud Gate.

All around came shrieks of pain, the clattering of armor and steel as men dragged themselves through the horrid destruction, towards the castle, away from the battle. Some of Stannis' men still fought on despite the battle being lost, hoping to die a soldier's death and not that of a prisoner's. Though Sansa felt a pang of sympathy for the men, she would've thought retreat a better option had she been in their place.

A loud splat! and a one armed, bloodied knight had fallen directly at her feet, halting her in her tracks. The stench of iron filled her senses.

'Please!' He begged, looking at her. 'Water!' His hand reached up.

Scanning his strewn form, the young woman saw through his helm he was not much older than she. Small wisps of stubble on his cheeks, a nose sprinkled with freckles. He might've spent much time in the sun, this one. And those glazed, suffering eyes, eyes blue as a summer sky. Sansa moved towards him, shrugging off her satchel for her water skin. She looked down once, her hand already wrapped around the leathery bag.

And screamed when blood exploded from the boy's throat. Knees shaking, she looked to the looming figure of Sandor Clegane with horror.

'Didn't I tell you to stop for nothing?' He looked ready to strike her.

'You needn't have killed him!' She called to his back. The nausea was returning, her head starting to swim with the faces of dying soldiers, the cries of pain and anger all around her.

'He saw you. Recognized you,' he roared. Heads turned to eye him, some even called out. Too many spilled out intestines, too many crushed skulls, too many desperate pleas for help answered by naught but crows. The gate seemed leagues away and everywhere she looked there was smoke and blood and mud, like something out of her nightmares.

Nightmares, dreams, it reminded her of sleep. She would've liked that. To be back in the warmth of her linen sheets, far away from this tragic chaos, no more bearing witness to the life fading from a fair face, turning blue as his own eyes. To be back there, where all she'd need bear were the brunts of Joffrey's anger. She had borne it for so long, what was a little while longer until Dontos finally did manage to steal her away? Joff might not even be so angry as before now that his battle was won. He might spare her just yet...

Warmth and stickiness squished through her fingers and she realized she had fallen forward. A white plume of mist from her breath mingled with the fetid air. Her hands were dirty, dress, boots and all. Her body begged to be laid down, if only for a short rest. It would not take long at all, just to close her eyes for a moment, dream of warmth, safety...

Something tugged at her back and a weight was lifted from her. The mud was a blur of brown and black and red. The screaming was becoming incessant now, something about the Queen's orders. Sansa thought of Cersei, of how she had run from her ladies in waiting, escaped from her majestic ballroom like a coward in the face of danger. She distantly recalled something being discussed about Joff before she felt her hands and feet both being drawn from the mud, up and over a wall.

No, not a wall, but a hard saddle. A hand swept through a silky black mane and for an instant she thought she was finally dreaming. Finally, until a rough voice called down to her, behind her, seemingly distant. 'Stay awake a little while longer.' But she needed rest. The lids of her eyes felt like heavy iron gates, the hinges of which had long rusted from the rain. No, they could hold no longer.

A cold, gloved hand clenched her dirty chin, forcing her face up. She saw white, and she saw him. His face was like a shadow, his voice echoing in the corridors of his hood. 'I want to see blue from here,' he commanded.

And he did. The iron gates held open for him, the contours of his face making their way through to her. The smoke was gone, the drizzle barely felt on her frozen cheeks. It was long enough, she knew. So long, I could look at you with my eyes closed.

***
It was near dusk when her eyes had flickered open. The trees and brush of the forest flew past in a dark commotion, wind whipping across her face. Clegane's stallion drove hard onto a path seemingly invisible to Sansa's own eyes. Or maybe it was not a path at all, and the beast all but followed it's own instinct through the undergrowth.

Her heart nearly flew from her chest when the horse leaped over a mangled root, but a gauntleted arm held her firmly in the saddle. Her back was pressed uncomfortably against his breastplate. She had no idea how she had managed to sleep so heavily, and for so long, through this part of their escape.

Some drizzle managed to snake it's way through the leafy overhang. She might've been grateful for something stronger if just to wash away the dirt and grime from her features. The taste of mud was on her lips, and she wiped at it with her cloak. That only made her dirtier.

'Awake at last,' a rasping voice came from behind. 'Could've sworn you'd turned to stone in my arms at the last instant.'

'I can hardly remember... Where are we?'

'Far away from the Red Keep now, little bird. No use in looking back.' He rolled his shoulders back once. 'And we're keeping well off the main rode 'else we run into some troops or trading caravans, or some other trouble.'

'Some other trouble. Like bandits?'

'Aye, little bird, like bandits. Or Lannister knights and search parties.' Some silence while the horse jumped again, rocking both riders. Sansa groaned.

'We'll find a proper place to rest soon. But not for too long. We'll ride by night.'

'But we can hardly see where we're going,' she protested.

'And neither can anyone else.' He sighed, tired. 'Leave the navigating to me, will you?'

'As you say,' she said. 'Somewhere dry, if you will.'

'What?'

'Find us some place dry to rest.'

He barked a laugh. 'As you say, my lady.'

They rode on, and Sansa became increasingly aware of the forest around them as the man behind her grew ever more weary. Her sense of sight dulled, the noises in the trees and bushes seemed to come alive. Creaking and squeaking and crackling, the hoot of an owl, the squeal of a mouse, the crunching of dead leaves, and, once, the trickle of a stream. And birds. The millions of different calls of countless birds, reflecting against the shadows of the trees.

Though it had stopped raining, the air smelled like a mixture of water and earth, and just a trace of hay from the beast beneath her. She breathed deep the calm night air, letting it cleanse her lungs of the stench of smoke and debris. She exhaled, the sound mingling with those around her. It felt natural.

It felt free.

Not long after, Sansa felt the flexing of Sandor's thighs as he slowed the horse down to a dull canter, then a full stop.

He pushed her forward a little roughly as he dismounted, grunting when he hit the ground. Gloved hands were dragging her down in the next moment and she staggered to her feet.

Sandor reeled, hand extended as of in search of something. She moved quickly to grab him.

'Are you unwell?' she asked, voice rank with worry.

They moved together to the nearest tree, a thick oak where he abruptly slouched at it's base.

'Just... ah, tired, is all.' He drew up one knee, leaned his head back against the bark. Sansa still held his arm.

She crouched near him. 'We should rest, then.' She made as if to sit by him, but he stopped her.

'Not you. You've had your rest. You keep watch. Hear that cricket there?' The noise came from a nearby shrub, slow and in intervals.

'Yes,' she said curiously.

'Count three hundred of it's song, then wake me.'

'I can count to four if you'd like to sleep longer,' she tried, but he had already drifted off, so tired had he been.

And just like that, Sansa found herself alone in the dark forest.

***
Shivering back pressed hard against the sleeping man's arm, she had counted to one hundred before the fear became an increasingly malicious burden. A strange noise would make itself heard not a few paces from her, making the place that much more spectral. Thoughts of being discovered crowded her mind, leaving her feeling morose. The black stallion stood somewhere nearby, untethered. Someone would come out from the darkness, steal the horse, steal her. She would scream and fight but then there would come more. And by that time Sandor would already be awake and he might've been able to kill five men but what about six? What if there were more of them? And if he was still too tired to fight?

One hundred nineteen, one hundred twenty, one hundred twenty one... leaving her alone was the worst thing he could've done for her at that point. Her breathing became rushed, heart aching in her chest. Just earlier that same day she had stared into the glazed eyes of warriors shocked by their own mortality, and, worse, despairing with the misery of lost limbs, scarred faces, lost futures. And this was only the start, she knew. So long as she kept close to this man, Sandor Clegane, pain and death would follow. She would be subjected to those images for the rest of her journey North. If she would even make it so far.

If the men in the brush didn't get to her first.

She pushed harder against Sandor as if to burrow into him. Two hundred and one, two hundred and two, two hundred and three... and she remembered her dagger. Her hand dug into her muddied skirts and resurfaced with the blade, glinting in the moonlight. Both fists held firm the handle and she held it close to her chest, a grisly consolation to her fleeting heart. But, deep down in the recesses of her mind, she knew it would grant her no safety. She didn't know how to wield it, and any man of a breadth smaller than Sandor could easily overpower her for it.

Two hundred seventy four, two hundred seventy five, two hundred seventy six... You have nothing to fear from death, little bird. Oh, but she did. Sansa Stark had everything to fear from death. She had sinned, and if she would freely invite death she would be cast down to some hell to suffer with Sandor Clegane, together. She had betrayed everyone she ever loved, betrayed the king she was sworn to marry, betrayed her Florian... Gods! I'm going mad!

'Three hundred!' The girl was shaking the Hound into consciousness. 'Three hundred!'

Strong hands gripped her forearms, steadying her. 'Enough,' he growled, and, like the soft flowing of a stream, Sansa began to cry.

Through the fog of her vision a flash of light moved across the man's face. His dark eyes darted to the hand that held the dagger. His tight grip there twisted her wrist so hard she dropped it.

Sansa was sobbing, body wracked in shivers. 'Where did you get this?' he whispered raggedly. She placed a hand over her heart, but the pain did not relent. 'What were you...?' But he stopped when he saw her.

The shaking was like a terrible fever running through her. She needed a maester, some milk of the poppy to quell her heart. Her sobbing was audible now, but she was too far for any maester to hear.

Sandor pulled her from where she crouched before him. Pulled her into his arms, against his cold breast plate.

'Shh, little bird, I know. Think I don't? I was younger even than you when I saw my first man killed, but you already know that, don't you? Killed of a like to harden any green boy into a man at that age. If I can recall you've seen men killed too. That knight who took Gregor's lance. You're a brave girl. You did not turn away then.'

Sansa knew all that already, but she found it calmed her down some just to listen to him talk. The shaking was slowly beginning to subside. 'It wasn't the same. I saw him, his eyes. He was so scared,' she moved her head to look at him.

'Scared because he didn't know a damn thing, little bird. What did he know about death? What about your Gods, eh? What about your Seven Heavens? Forgot about them quickly enough.'

'Are you trying to t-tell me you believe in the Seven now?' It was meant as a joke, but her voice made it sound so pitiable to her own ears.

His chest puffed out in a sigh. 'If there are Gods, they've never wanted anything to do with me. Who would, a dog as ugly as me?' She almost laughed at that, told him the Gods cared nothing for beauty and love every person equally. But then she remembered his scars, the things his brother had done to him. Guilt raked through her then.

'I am sorry,' she whispered.

He cleared his throat. 'For what?'

'For being this way. I know I am stronger, that I shouldn't be frightened.' She turned to him, her face close where as she huddled in his lap. 'Others have lived through far worse than I.'

'Aye, might be they have. But your pain is just as real, little bird. Don't let anyone tell you any different.'

She might've stayed there all night if he hadn't eventually nudged her off of him. They would need to carry on with their journey before daybreak, cover some more distance in case the Queen had already sent out for their capture. Eating would come later. And bathing, if they were lucky enough to find that stream again.

Astride the black stallion again, Sansa felt strangely different. She could call herself brave, and she felt a sense of assurance. She knew she could make it North, to Winterfell. Robb and her mother were waiting for her, and maybe even Arya, if she had managed to find her way back. Wouldn't they all be surprised to see her with Joff's sworn shield? They would hold the upper hand with the Kingslayer then, a desperately needed advantage.

The young woman ran a thin hand through the horse's mane, reveling in the silky feel of the thick strands. 'What do you call him?' she asked the man behind her.

'Stranger,' he rasped, and she almost laughed.