He let her lead today, occasionally letting her know where to turn her mare. The land seemed to be changing slowly as they edged further north – darker, and more green. There was the scent of Jack-by-the-hedge, crushed under the horse's hooves. A big bird, an eagle of some kind, wheeled around in circles above them, an occasional cry like the release of an arrow. Sansa could feel his eyes on her, and thought over and over about their sword-game. The blade at his thigh. She couldn't quite believe that she had dared. His hands clasped around hers on the dagger haft, and his look.

As the sun sat high in a flawless indigo sky, their path ran abreast of a wide river, grey-gold and glittering. They stopped to fill their skins and let the horses drink at a shallow bend where the lively water slowed a little. Sansa knelt down on the bank, crushing wildflowers and nettles, and leant down to splash her face, Sorrel snorting through her nose behind her and munching the grass. The water was sharp, and deliciously refreshing. She'd been feeling groggy all morning, with a thick throat, and this cleared her head a little. As she went to scoop up more water, she saw a shadow, the length of her forearm, weave past. And then another.

She sat back on her heels and turned round to Sandor. 'There are fish in here.' He looked over from where he stood further down the bank with Stranger. 'Big ones.'

He tied Stranger's reins to a slim birch tree and walked over to her, peering into the river. Three more large fish lazily drifted past, turning a little in the light. 'Trout,' he said, and began shrugging off his armour. He removed it, piece by piece, leaving it in a pile in the grass, followed by his mail, which came off in a tangle, and sat heavily down. 'Coming in?' He unselfconsciously tugged off his boots.

She couldn't tell if he was joking or not. 'To do what?'

'To catch one.'

He stood up, wearing just his breeches and shirt, and rolled the sleeves up. Sansa squinted up at him, astonished, as he stood at the river edge, looking at the rushing water. His feet were bare, and there was dark hair on his pale, thick-calved lower legs and ankles. He sat down at the edge, before using a hand to lever himself in. The water went up to his shins, and then his knees, soaking the lower legs of his breeches, but he hardly seemed to notice.

He waded out into the middle, and turned around to her. 'It's not that cold, you know.'

'I can't.' He frowned at her, mock-impatiently. 'I've only got - this dress.'

He looked at her keenly for a second, then grinned and shrugged. 'Suit yourself.' He bent over, staring into the water.

Without his armour on – she almost never saw him without it, he'd even slept in it - he seemed lighter of heart, and much less ferocious. And he didn't seem to care one bit about being in the water, and in front of her in a state of relative undress. She felt bold. She stood up, and began to undo the fastenings at the back of her bodice.

*S*S*S*S*S*S

By the time Sandor leant up again, she was wriggling out of her woollen skirts, leaving her standing in her white linen smock, which reached just below her knees. Her dagger belt was wound around her leg just above her boots. He saw her, and seemed to freeze, startled. Sansa stepped out of the circle of her dress as it sagged to the ground, blushing unimaginably, but doing her very best to appear nonchalant. Her mind raced as she sat down with her back to him to undo her boots and pull off her short stockings and dagger belt. She already wished that she could stop and return to being dressed on the bank, but it was too late now.

Taking a deep breath, she swung around to him. 'It had better not be cold,' she said in the most ordinary voice that she could muster. He didn't say anything, but just watched as she hung her legs over the edge of the bank.

The water was cold, but she could manage it. The pools around Winterfell could be so icy that you couldn't swim in it for more than a few, gasping breaths. Robb, Jon and Theon would take it turns to see how long they could last, their torsos almost blue when they finally emerged. She lowered herself into the water, it immediately reaching her knees and darkening the lower material of her smock. She waded through the long, thick stems of white crowfoot over towards Sandor, her arms outstretched at her sides as she tried to balance, her toes squelching in the mud.

He was still looking at her slightly agape, then seemed to come to his senses, and brought his finger to his lips. She stopped a few paces away from him, and looked down into the water. She could see nothing but a few long, stringy weeds. He slowly leant down, put his arms in the water and hung there, motionless. After what seemed a long while, he abruptly righted, holding a trout in his hands, which wriggled frenziedly. He wrestled with it, trying to keep hold of it, before it shot out of his hands and back into the water, whipping away. Sansa shouted a laugh at the shock and suddenness of it, and clapped her hand over her mouth.

Sandor looked at her in surprise and pleasure, and then pretended to look peevish. 'Your turn, then.'

Still giggling, Sansa leant down and let her arms fall into the water, trying to keep her limbs as still as possible in the sway of the river. Her hair slipped over her shoulders, the ends falling into the water. She was conscious that her smock hung slightly away from her body, and that the skin just below her neck was totally exposed. A leaf shaped like a little rowboat sailed past her arms. She saw a couple of much smaller fish, the size of her little finger, swim past. Her lower back started to ache a little.

Suddenly a dappled brown trout swam past one of her legs, and then another, large and deft, with its thin, rose-coloured horizontal stripe. She held her breath, desperately trying not to move. Part of her wanted to scream very loudly and race out of the water. Then a trout was there between her hands, and she grabbed it and stood up. The fish was slippery, and flapping about frantically. She yelled gleefully, trying to hold it. Sandor moved quickly up to her. The fish slithered from her grasp but he managed to catch it, hold it tight, and stride, splashing dramatically, to the bank, where he threw it down.

It thrashed about on the grass, tail and head flailing against the ground in panicked throes, almost bouncing itself back to the water. Sandor gave a curious, strangulated yelp and kept flinging it a bit further away from the river, but the fish didn't stop floundering. Finally, he leapt onto the bank, water flying everywhere, grabbed a large stick and bashed it on the head three times until it finally stopped moving. Sansa, still in the middle of the river, was laughing her head off. She couldn't help it. It was the funniest thing that she'd seen in a long, long time.

Sandor looked round at her, dripping wet, as she stood in the middle of the river, in hysterics. 'I'm glad that you find it so amusing,' he said, pretending to be offended as he flopped down next to the dead trout.

She slowly waded back to the bank against the drag of the river, teetering a little in the mud, and pulled herself up onto the bank, giggling helplessly. She sat down next to him, clutching her sides. 'I'm sorry. It was just – so funny. I've never - held a fish before.' And she burst into fresh peals of laughter.

He grinned at seeing her so unaffectedly joyous and flung his fingers in the air, sending water flying.

Sansa calmed a little, putting her hand to her forehead. 'My head hurts.'

He shook her head at her benignly. 'You great daft thing.' He flicked a drop of river at her.

She gave a big sigh, her laughter finally subsiding, and rubbed her face. 'Do we need to make a fire?'

Sandor looked about him. 'Not in the middle of the day, it'll slow us down.'

'How do we eat it then?'

'Just as it is,' he said, lying down on the bank, his hands behind his head.

Sansa wrinkled her nose, slightly appalled. 'Raw?'

He closed his eyes, enjoying the sun. 'Ay. Raw.'

She swallowed, looking at the trout. 'You'll eat anything, won't you?'

Sandor snorted. 'When you're out at war, in stinking tents in the woods, and not enough food is cooked for you because there are too many men and not enough coin, you start being imaginative. So yes, I do eat almost anything. Birds, squirrels, snails, nettles, crazy laughing she-wolves…'

Sansa grinned self-consciously at the ground, then took her dagger out of her ankle strap on the ground and handed it to him. He sat up. 'Better show me how it's done, then,' she said, whilst putting her hand to her head again. It really did hurt.

Sandor slit open the belly of the trout and dug his fingers in, poking at the innards until they slithered out, slopping into the grass. He flattened out the fish, chopped off the head, and sawed on the top of the spine until it came free. He swiftly tugged free the spine and peeled it away, most of the fine bones coming with it. He took the flapping fillet to the river and rinsed it, cleaning away the rest of the innards, and slapped it back on the grass. He then cut away at a small piece of flesh, removing the skin, and handed it to Sansa. She took it and eyed it warily, then sat up straight, took a deep breath, and bit into it.

It was stringy, and her stomach turned slightly as the flesh snagged between her teeth. But it was also cold, and meaty, and seemed to taste of the sharp, clear river. She ate it as best she could, watching him saw off himself a larger piece and gnaw at it indelicately. She suddenly wondered what her family would think of her, sitting there in her smock, her bare lower legs glistening with little droplets, next to a man who had been sworn to serve the Lannisters, who they'd last seen in a fearsome dog helm. Well, at least Arya would be impressed with the fish-catching, though perhaps pull a face about the state of her undress. Her mother would be horrified. At that moment, ravenous, her hair as tangled as a wildling's - and with him giving her an occasional sly glance from underneath his falling hair, thinking she wasn't noticing - she really didn't care too much.