Sunlight filtered through the thick canopy of leaves overhead. Though there was a crisp note to the day which suggested autumn was in the air, the evening was still warm enough, and the birds sang so loudly that they could not possibly have noticed. She reclined on the ground, leaning on her elbows, and craned her neck back to feel the fading warmth of the sun upon her face. For the first time since she could remember, she allowed herself a small smile. Alone in the forest as she was, the world seemed a distant and trifling thing.

"You're fit to break your neck that way, girl." Sandor Clegane's rasp came from the undergrowth behind her, as he emerged into the clearing swinging two pigeons nonchalantly in his hand. Startled, Sansa shot up, blushing. She had assumed she would hear his return, and had not thought to be caught in such an unladylike position.

The Hound settled himself down at the fire she had been supposed to be watching, and set to plucking the birds in silence. He did most things in silence, and seemed to like it that way. Sansa had given up her faltering attempts at pleasant conversation a very short way into their journey. Her very presence seemed to drive the Hound to gruffer irritability than normal, and she couldn't help but wonder why he'd taken her at all.

The night of the Blackwater was a nightmarish blur. What lingered in Sansa's mind most clearly were the smells: the burnt, acrid stench of the air all around the Blackwater Bay - and, from behind her, the human stink of the Hound: blood, sweat, vomit - and wine. She hadn't dared to look at him in the eerie light of the dying battle, hadn't dared to tell him the iron force of his arms around her was hurting her, had hardly dared to breathe under the cloak he had thrown unceremoniously over her. But somehow it had worked, they'd ridden out the Iron Gate like he said they would, and now the green-and-orange glow of the Blackwater had given way to dappled yellow sunlight, and the stench of the battle had turned to the musky, familiar smells of horse and woodsmoke. Sansa could still not quite believe that she was no longer in King's Landing.

Certainly the food left much to be desired, she mused as the Hound grunted and tossed one of the cooked birds onto her knee, and the company was worse, and yet Sansa was unable to stop a wild, stomach-churning excitement welling up in her when she allowed herself to pause and consider that she was free. Or she would be, when they got to Riverrun and she was ransomed back to her mother and brother. She could not help feeling a childish sort of gratitude towards Sandor Clegane, despite the fact that he'd taken her for his own reasons and was, she supposed, acting entirely in his own interest.

Still, it was this gratitude which prompted her - after they had finished their wordless meal and Sansa had done her best to wash her hands in the nearby stream - to clear her throat and turn shyly to the Hound. "Beg pardon, Ser, but the-the wound above your eye..."

The Hound grunted. "What of it?"

"Don't you think it ought to be cleaned and bound?"

"I think you ought to be bound if you don't hush your peeping."

Sansa flushed, annoyed. But perhaps it was her own fault. After all, she'd never expressed her gratitude to him properly, and this was the second time now he'd saved her life without her thanks.

"I could...clean it, if you'd like."

A snort. "What does a high Lord's get like you know of tending wounds?"

"I know enough," countered Sansa, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Enough to know that if you don't clean it you'll wish you had." This was true: Maester Luwin had often had her watch him as he treated Arya's worse cuts, to teach a lesson about carelessness, though it had not been Sansa who required it.

Sandor chuckled. "Do what you will, then," he answered. "There's a wineskin in the saddlebag."

Once she had fetched the wineskin, Sansa realised she was not quite sure what to do - after all, at Winterfell there had always been a wealth of suitable equipment with which to treat injuries. In the forest, there was a distinct lack of such. Stupid, Sansa thought.

She stood fidgeting with the wineskin, desperately trying to work out what he expected her to do. After a long, quiet moment, the Hound growled and snatched the wine from her, upending his helm onto the fire as he did so. Pouring a little in, he turned back to Sansa, slipping his dagger out of his belt at the same time. She took a step back. Growling again, he grabbed her hand and pressed the handle of the knife into it, motioning her to sit down. She quickly obeyed. After another moment's pause, during which the Hound only stared at her, it dawned on Sansa that he expected her to cut strips from her dress. She blushed again, bowing her head and quickly setting to work. It was only a simple woolen dress, suitable for travelling, but Sansa was dismayed all the same. It wouldn't be proper to go about with her skirts at an indecent length. But once again, she thought, it was her own fault.

She arranged the strips into a neat pile as the Hound removed the helm from the fire, the wine within boiling now. Sansa immersed most of the fabric into the hot liquid and reserved a few for the stream, dousing them in cold water. Nervously, she approached the Hound, not knowing where to put herself. In the end, she had to resign herself to kneeling between his outstretched legs, as he didn't seem inclined to move them for her sake. She took a breath and leaned in, gently touching the wet cloth to the cut. It was deeper than she'd thought. Slowly, tenderly, she wiped away the crusted blood and dirt from the wound, glancing as often as she dared at the Hound's face as she did so. His expression never changed from one of stoic grimness.

When she had removed as much of the mess as possible from his forehead, Sansa turned to the wine-soaked cloth. She raised it to his face, and dabbed clumsily at the wound. The Hound jerked and growled. "Careful, damn you, girl."

Sansa's frustration boiled over. "It wouldn't hurt so much if you would keep still!"

He only glared at her. Determined, she brushed his hair back from his forehead, trying to hold his head in position at the same time. She dabbed again, as gently as she could. This time, he narrowed his eyes but remained still. Sansa shuffled closer, pressing more intently against the gash, and allowing herself a proper look at his face. His scars were mottled and uneven upon his skin, like raw meat, and blackened in places. They trailed down the side of his left cheek and onto his neck. From her position slightly above him, she could clearly see the molten stump of his ruined ear. His own brother. She felt a rush of pity for him, and her hand fell still upon his forehead. Her eyes traced the rest of his face, searching for - something. Some kindness maybe. Finally, she brought her eyes to his, only to find he was already staring at her. She opened her mouth, not knowing what she should say. Frozen under his gaze, she realised he'd seen her inspecting his face as though he were some curiosity at court. "Beg pardon, Ser-"

"Finished?" She knew from his tone that she was. "And spare me your 'Ser's," he spat, standing up suddenly and leaving her in an ungraceful pile on the ground. Striding to the fire, he dumped the ruined wine over it and spat again, turning to Stranger to unload their bedrolls. Sansa squeaked as he threw hers at the ground next to her, and burrowed wordlessly into it with her face burning. The Hound lay some distance away.