There's a "weekly drabble" thing going on... I don't think I'll do the whole week, but I'm in a bit of a rut, and the first prompt called to me, so I wrote this out in record time. Crazy. It's not too fluffy, or funny, but I do hope it is enjoyed!

Quiet, peaceful, refreshing; no other words were needed to describe the night, at least not to an unpoetic man.

Beautiful, sweet, naïve; such were the words he used for the girl, before they had reunited. Brave, cold, steel; those are the new ones for the woman in front of him, no trace of the girl she had once been.

She lies across from him in their little campfire, waiting for sleep to claim her. He sits where he is; tired, weary, old.

The only other companion with them is his warhorse, "Driftwood" as the monks renamed him. However, he still is as he ever was; distrustful, angry, bloodthirsty. He is as far from "driftwood" as a horse can be...

The embers fade, the night coolness encloses on them, a rare autumnal summer lingering in the air, making sleep under the stars comfortable in as much as sleeping on the hard ground can be. Sandor wonders at how much he himself has changed, perhaps for the better. Who knows? He feels better equipped than before to handle a delicate maiden, but not to defend her...

In a few days, they will reunite with the Brotherhood, with Sers Brienne and Payne. They can worry about her defense, while he offers... what?

Snorting at his feelings of inadequacy, shoving them away to feed his bitterness for another day, doing the antithesis of what the Elder Brother taught, and lay himself down to sleep.

The nights follow the same pattern for a few days, before a subtle change charged the air pleasantly. And it is due to the horse, of all things.

Sansa, the Little Bird, is afraid of nothing anymore. He wonders when that happened. He wonders if it was his fault, or Baelish's. Sandor admits it once to himself that he misses her sweet and naive fear, endearing her to everyone and everything, including himself. He wanted her to grow up, true, but not become closed off. Not like this; aloof, impenetrable, calculating.

Stranger comes to like it though.

Stranger tries to bite her hand once, and received an affronted slap on the rump for his failed efforts. When he stares at her with angry eyes, she stares back with collected eyes, sharp and domineering. The horse is first to look away.

And the first time Sandor placed his charge on his horse, she took it upon herself to dig her heels harshly into the complaining mount, before Sandor had a chance to discipline his own horse. Stranger never complained of her presence on his back after that.

The first time Stranger took her offered treats without biting as well, Sansa smiles: the first smile since escaping from the Vale, if Sandor guesses correctly. He smiles at her smile, glad that being around him and his hell horse can be a kind of goodness for her: for Sansa to shed the mantle of responsibility and of being a pawn, and be herself for true.

Little by little, Stranger becomes Driftwood: docile, calm, agreeable. He still rages in skirmishes, he still runs like the wind, he still kicks and rears like a warrior, but his temperament changes. Some days, Sandor no longer recognizes his horse as Driftwood stands there, contentedly allowing Sansa to plait his mane. Sandor regrets the animal choosing Sansa over him.

But that thought swiftly withers and dies. For he himself has chosen Sansa above all others.

In a different night, cold, sharp, and blustery, they huddle under blankets together, the maimed warrior holding the weary maiden, and talk of plans for the north, and of hopes for the following days for fruitful fellowships and alliances. It is the most they have ever talked to each other, and Sandor likes it, being able to offer something other than his sword arm for once.

And he remembers feeling inadequate at the beginning of their journey. Feeling the woman: trusting, warm, wise: in his arms, he reevaluates himself for the better. She will have plenty of strong arms to defend her, to fight for and against her, but how many would listen to her, and then give honest words back? It is true he felt strength returning after all the days walking and riding across the accursed lands, swinging his sword against quaint foes, but he thinks that the growing strength of his words are what endears Sansa to him, and are more worthwhile then all the foes he'd slay for her...

Driftwood, as if hearing his master's thoughts from across the clearing, stamps a leg and snorts into the night.