They didn't speak anymore of his face, or his brother. They began another day of of riding, stopping at streams to fill their skins and feed the horses, and resting. Sansa was beginning to get used to feeling constantly filthy, though was horrified at the tangled mess her hair seemed to have become, and ran her fingers through it when ever she had the chance. Her thighs were raging less from the constant bump of the saddle on her mare, who she'd named Sorrel. Probably out of sheer hunger.
She looked for food everywhere, her sense of smell heightened, keenly eyeing the dark corners of bushes, or looking over her head. Clumps of pungent wild garlic, small, bitter apples as pink as scrubbed cheeks, even some mushrooms. He never said anything, just watching her amusedly as she filled her saddlebag or just ate, apart from to warn her off the tiny hard berries, hanging like bright rubies, over their heads.
The next night Sansa stood behind the Hound as he began his work on the fire. 'Ser.' He looked round. 'Will you teach me how to do that?' She gestured to the wood and flint.
He looked at her, half-impressed, but didn't reply. She crouched down next to him, her arms resting on her knees, peering at his pile of tinder and sticks. He tucked some of his hair behind his good ear, and showed her the ball of moss and loose shreds of dry bark which acted as tinder; the dry leaves laid on top; using her dagger to dig a hole in a flat piece of wood, and to sharpen the drill stick, and the flat, rough bit of bark underneath.
After many whittles, and more creative curses than Sansa had ever heard from him before, the tinder caught the first few sparks, and they quickly and carefully added small sticks to it. The Hound sat back quickly, and Sansa continued adding sticks.
'I'll do it tomorrow then,' she said.
He looked at her with sceptical amusement. 'Will you now?'
She nodded. 'Then you don't have to.'
He suddenly flushed with embarrassment, and looked down at the ground angrily. 'There's no need for that.'
'I want to', she said, simply, persistently. 'I want to try.'
No more was said, but he didn't protest further. They ate the second hare, and he produced a tiny black pot she didn't know he had so that she could boil her mushrooms. Little was said, but he seemed to be drinking his wine more slowly.
In the middle of the night, Sansa opened her eyes with a start. There was a rumbling in the distance – she couldn't tell how far away. Horses? Carts? Soldiers? She rolled onto her back and sat up on her elbows, listening intently
'It's thunder.' He spoke quietly. She looked over, and could just make out his form – sitting up, a large mound in a blanket, on the other side of the smouldering fire. 'Go back to sleep.'
Sansa shivered, and wrapped her blanket and cloak more tightly round her, balling her fists up under her armpits. The thunder continued to grumble distantly, though the rain never came.
Men of the Night's Watch were trudging through snows so thick it came up to their thighs. Joffrey led them, his golden hair gleaming under a hood of black fur. Suddenly she was there in front of them, barefoot in the snow, wearing a violet summer dress, and frozen to the spot as the line of men approached. Joffrey pointed at her, and suddenly men were on top of her, pushing her over, and she couldn't even scream. Sansa awoke, trying to gasp, but couldn't. A large hand was clamped over her mouth.