They rode north on the road they had left at dawn, slowly and in silence. Before long they branched off, taking a smaller path. Sansa felt very exposed in daylight, even in her plain dress and the Hound's cloak, but they encountered no one. A small, flashing river appeared alongside them, before veering off away from the track. They followed its path until the river became shallow, and dismounted.

The Hound tied Stranger's reins to a large oak. 'Clean yourself up.'

Sansa shrugged. 'I'm alright.'

He looked at her impatiently. 'There'll not be a hot bath every evening on the road, you know.'

'I know.' She felt indignant. 'I know you think I'm a spoilt little girl but I'm not. I'm fine.'

The Hound grunted. 'Suit yourself.' He began to shrug off his armour awkwardly.

Sansa led her mare to a grassy, gently shelving bank with a small curve of hard mud beach. Her horse dipped her head gratefully, shuddering into it, and began to drink. Sansa stroked her neck where the muscles quivered, weaving her fingers through her matted mane, the colour of barley. She was so tired. Her buttocks and legs were so sore from riding, but they had to go on. She refused to give him the satisfaction of complaining about anything: her drab dress, the stale bread, the cold, and her aching legs. She would prove him wrong about her; that she wasn't a prissy, cosseted lady. That she was a Stark, just like he'd said.

Splashing sounds made her glance round. The Hound was sitting in his shirt and breeches on the low bank, legs in the river, bringing water up to his face and gasping into it. His armour was on the grass. He began to pull off his shirt and Sansa quickly turned back to her mare, feeling her cheeks flush. He had so little decorum, bold as anything out there in the open.

She scratched the neck of her horse, and hummed a shred of a lullaby very quietly to herself. The mare's thirst sated, she led her back to the trees, keeping her eyes on the ground. She tied her to the tree next to Stranger, and went to the stallion's reins. He whickered slightly, but she resolutely walked him to the river, trying not to show her fear. In the corner of her eye, the Hound was re-wrapping the old shirt he'd used as a bandage around his pale shoulder again. He was cursing under his breath.

Stranger seemed to want to drink the entire river, but she pulled him away after filling the waterskins up, and led him back to her mare. As she tied him to the oak, he rolled his eyes at her and snorted. She breathed a rush of air through her nose back at him, and his ears twitched. She touched his neck carefully. 'You're not so bad, are you, Stranger?'

Sansa turned back to the bank. The Hound had pulled his shirt back on and seemed to be sitting very still. She felt so guilty. His sword hand. He could have been anyone, though. Why had he been creeping up on her like that?

She scuffed her feet on the ground, and noticed a flash of deep orange in the bushes next to the oak tree. She walked over to have a look. It was jewelweed, the muted green leaves harbouring little flowers shaped like bell sleeves, bright red in the centre. She knew it had healing properties – Maester Luwin had liked to teach her about plants and herbs; she'd even embroidered jewelwood flowers after studying some in the weirwood. She knelt down and picked a few clumps, flowers too, and mashed them in her fists. She pulled out her violet dress from her mare's saddlebag, took a deep breath, and walked over to him.

The Hound was starting to wind the bandage he'd made with the hem of her dress back round his wounded hand. He'd washed off the blood from his palm and wrist.

Sansa stood at his shoulder. 'You should - have a fresh one.'

He glanced round and up at her, suspicious, before turning back to the river. 'Ay, if you like.'

She turned her dress upside down and looked at the torn hem. Well, it was ruined now anyway. Putting the frayed edge between her teeth, she bit down hard and pulled it, as he had done, loudly ripping off a long strip, and then knelt down on the bank next to him.

She opened her hand, full of crumpled jewelweed, slowly springing back out into her palm. The juice trickled down her little finger. 'Also – you should put this on it'.

The Hound looked at her, and at her outstretched hand in faint surprise. 'What are you now, a maegi?'

'It should soothe the pain a little,' Sansa said, as firmly as she dared. 'Our maester taught me'.

He raised his eyebrows slightly. 'First you stab me, then you want to patch me up. How do I know that's not poisonous?'

'I need you to get me to Winterfell,' Sansa said, with quiet resolution. 'I'll poison you once I'm back home.' The Hound shot her a dark, amused look.

Without really thinking, she took up his hand. He stiffened, and his expression turned to one of mild alarm, and wariness. She held his palm face up, with her own hand, so much smaller and paler than his, beneath it, and bunched the ball of mulched jewelweed against the large, rude cut that curved round his thumb. Holding the leaves there with her thumb, she took the new strip of her dress in her other hand and leant down to the river to wet it. As she did so, she could feel his arm muscles tense to hold her there, a balancing act of her thumb and fingers around his hand, and his whole frame holding her up. She tightened her grip to pull herself back up, and then began to wrap the soaked bandage diagonally around his hand, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on her work.

His breathing was long and quiet, and she felt his eyes move up to her face. She wound the rag around his thumb, tucked its end under the main bandage and folded her hands down at her lap. He continued to hold his hand in the air, a big dark palm slung with faded violet flowers.

'There.' Sansa looked up to meet his gaze. She couldn't tell what it meant: a mixture of curiosity, amusement, and - something else, darker.

The unburnt side of his face was turned towards her; he hadn't done a job of washing it. Feeling brazen, and aware of how yielding he'd suddenly become, she reached round to take up her damaged dress, and quickly tore off another scrap of material. She leant back again to the river to wet it, and put it up to his face. The Hound flinched then, jerking backwards in a tiny movement.

Sansa pulled back her hand. 'It's just – you've still got blood on your face'.

Whilst he didn't move, she could see his shoulders lower just a little, and he kept his cheek turned to her. She lifted the rag again, and, her heart throwing itself at her ribcage, began to dab very gently at his eyebrow. He kept totally still, his eyes fixed fiercely on the river.

She shifted her knees a little closer to him, to clean his cheekbone and the side of his nose. 'Can you –' He looked at her. His eyes were just inches from hers. 'The other side,' Sansa said, as delicately as she could.

There was a pause. Then the Hound slowly turned the burnt side of his face towards her, looking down at her knees. It was the first time that she had really, properly, looked at it. The skin was marbled, white and red, stretched taut in places, and sunken in others, and angrily shiny. A clump of hair was stuck to his temple with dark, dried blood. Sansa gingerly used her other hand to pull it away, her sleeve brushing his forehead. She had to tug it more than once, and was sure that it must hurt, but he didn't move.

She wiped the blood clean in two short swipes, and lowered her hands. 'There.' He raised his brown-grey eyes up to her, his face still turned downwards. He looked almost vulnerable. She smiled. 'You look a little less monstrous.' She wished the words back as soon as she'd uttered them. They hung in the air.

His eyes steeled, and the Hound returned. 'A little less.'

'A lot less,' she said quickly, hopelessly.

He got up, grabbing his wineskin and taking a swig, before jamming the cork back in and stalking back to the horses.