Sansa woke in the half-light of the morning, in that hour when nature stirs and the forest is ruled by the snuffling, rustling sounds of life; before even the birds have begun to sing. Already, the day was rich with the promise of kind weather, and the Gods even allowed Sansa that bittersweet, weightless moment of waking ignorance, before the memories of the day before came down upon her.
Even still, she hid in her bedroll only a few minutes more before the desire to rise came over her again. Sandor lay motionless, his chest rumbling up and down steadily. Sansa allowed herself the liberty of walking out of sight of the Hound, picking barefoot through mud and foliage. This task, and the strength of the morning light piercing in narrow shafts through the trees, kept her eyes cast downward for some time. Eventually, her toes met soft moss, and she found she was at the entrance to a sun-bathed clearing, canopied by the great, over-reaching trees all around. She looked up, and stopped. In the peace of the morning was a fawn, nibbling at the ground. Sansa gasped softly, and the fawn rose its head to meet her gaze. For a moment (though it might have been hours), one froze staring wide-eyed at the other, waiting. And then the deer turned its head and walked away through the trees, to graze at a patch more perfectly isolated. Sansa released a breath she did not know she had been holding, and turned away in the opposite direction.
She ambled slowly back to their shelter, musing, and when she reached Stranger and the bags dug amongst them for the lump of tallow soap they had taken from the inn so long ago. Glancing toward the Hound, to make sure she had not woken him, she went now to the stream, a little way from their tree, and stripped naked upon a smooth, flat rock. Pausing only momentarily, she lowered herself into the water. Her breath came quick and gasping when the cold hit her, but still she waded further, ducking her head and immersing herself. The cold quickly subsided - or mayhaps now she was numb, but it did not matter - and she found there was a pleasant sensation in the rush of the water, and the tickle of the plants at her feet and ankles. Soaping herself languidly, she stretched backwards into the water so that she was almost floating there, with her hair spread in a cloud of burnt fire behind her.
She examined herself: pale, though there were freckles on her arms now, and her hands had acquired a little of the brown roughness of work. Her belly had hardened and tightened since King's Landing, though her breasts now felt swollen and tender. Her hips, too, flared out from her waist more these days, and her legs were as long and white as ever they had been. She wished her mother could see her now, and be proud of the woman she was becoming. Mayhaps she can.
Sansa stood up in the water,washing her lower body, and wondered what she must look like to anyone who might chance to pass by. I look like the fawn, she thought suddenly. It had been like seeing herself in a looking glass, she realised: both young and lean and nimble and afraid, but more than that, both belonged. She was a part of the woods now, as much as the fawn, no longer disconcerted by the noises of the night nor by the inconvenience and rawness of nature. She was hunted like the fawn, but she hunted too: she had killed a bird and killed a man, and would do what she must now to survive. Once, she had belonged in a castle, a lady meant to be tended to and served. But now, she was of the wood. her blood had warmed here, it had awoken; the blood of the wolf. Sansa might have wept. How strange, how sweet and sad it was, that it was not until the other wolves of her pack had gone that she had become one of them. It was something bigger than herself, bigger than she knew, and she felt the weight of it settle upon her shoulders. But she could bear it, and would bear it with her head high: she was the Princess of Winterfell and the last Stark now; finally, she felt a Stark for true.
She left the water and bent to retrieve her dress with her hair clinging wetly to the curve of her waist. She washed the sorry garment too, and spread it out to dry upon the rock, then lay on the rock herself to dry. She remained there until the sun was high and warm in the sky, and hunger clawed at her stomach. Reluctantly, she dressed in the damp dress, shivering, and returned to the shelter. Sandor was not there, but Stranger was, and he whickered softly to see her. She helped herself to bread and cheese, and was seated placidly with her fingers combing through her hair when the Hound returned, a fearsome expression writ upon his face. The smile died on her face.
"Seven bloody hells, girl," he snarled. "I've scoured half this damn forest looking for you. Are you as determined as the rest of your fool family to lose your life? What did you mean by leaving here alone?" He shook her roughly.
"I only went to bathe," she snapped, blinking back tears. "I didn't go far, I knew it was safe-"
"You know nothing, you stupid girl," he growled. His hands cut into her upper arms, crushing her. "That's how your little wolf bitch sister got herself killed, running off alone like that -"
"You're hurting me." She only said it to stop him speaking.
The Hound laughed. "You think that hurts? You go off alone again and you'll soon learn what hurt is." he released her, and spat on the ground near her feet.
Sansa was furious, and ashamed, and wounded; and again the words came out before she knew what they were. "Gods forgive me for wanting to bathe where I wouldn't be gawped at."
There was silence for a moment. The Hound crouched slowly before her, and gripped her hair so that her face was close to his. "So that's what it is." His laugh was chilling. "Believe me, girl, if I'd wanted to take you I could have done it half a hundred times by now. Don't think yourself too highborn to be soiled out here. No one cares what you are out here. Not me, no one. Perhaps you ought to have escaped with Ser Meryn if it was a true knight you wanted." He dropped her head and turned on his heel, looking disgusted.
Sansa fought tears again, and lost. She hated him. He was cruel, and sought to hurt her by speaking of her family, and he was a brute. And yet, part of her knew that she had spoken unfairly. The sensation sat uneasily in her stomach, competing with her rage at him. She remembered him covering her with his Kingsguard cloak after she had been stripped in front of Joffrey. But he was so hateful. Her hands twisted in her lap.
"I prayed for you," she said shakily, staring down to the stream. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him turn his head. "The day of the battle. I prayed to the Mother that you would be safe, and that she would gentle the rage inside of you." She did not know why she said it, but it was all she had to offer, and part of her wanted to shame him with the truth of it. She looked towards him, and he was staring at her, an inscrutable look upon his face. When he answered her, his voice was raw. "Why? You wasted your breath. The Gods pay no heed to the prayers of men. Why?"
"Because you saved me. And you were the only one who never lied to me. Even my father lied to me."
He took a step towards her. Opened his mouth. Closed it. And then sat, and produced a wineskin from somewhere. "Damn you, girl," he muttered, and drank deep.