Sansa dug her nails into her hand. She could feel the fear in her tummy, twisting and pinching, worse every day. Nightmares of the day Princess Myrcella had sailed still troubled her sleep; dark suffocating dreams that woke her in the black of night, struggling for breath. She could hear the people screaming at her, screaming without words, like animals. They had hemmed her in and thrown filth at her and tried to pull her off her horse, and would have done worse if the Hound had not cut his way to her side.
30 Hours of Game of Thrones
hour eleven: a scene of your OTP
“Careful,” the Hound said. He grabbed Sansa’s shoulder, stopping her just short of a muddy puddle. “I haven’t got time to take you back to change.”
She was about to walk around the mud when the Hound put his hands on her waist. He picked her up and lifted her neatly over the puddle. Sansa’s heart continued to beat fast after he’d set her down. He was very strong. There was a strange feeling in her tummy. She plodded forward, her head down.
The Hound grabbed her jaw and forced her to look up at him. “You’re forgetting your courtesies, girl.” His lips were twisted in an ugly smirk. “You didn’t thank me. What would your septa say – if she still had a head to talk.”
When she crawled out of bed, long moments later, she was alone. She found his cloak on the floor, twisted up tight, the white wool stained by blood and fire. The sky outside was darker by then, with only a few pale green ghosts dancing against the stars. A chill wind was blowing, banging the shutters. Sansa was cold. She shook out the torn cloak and huddled beneath it on the floor, shivering.