The rest of the morning was passed in uncomfortable silence. Sansa wasted as much time as she reasonably could combing her hair with her fingers, and then braiding and unbraiding it until she felt sure the Hound must think her ridiculous and vain. For his part, Sandor chopped wood and brushed Stranger till he shone, and then sat heavily down with his back to Sansa and set to sharpening his sword with his whetstone. At least he is making himself useful. For some reason, this irritated Sansa, so much so that when he gruffly announced that he was going to the stream to fish, she lingered under the great fallen tree only a moment before following him sheepishly.
When she reached the water, Sandor was crouched at the bank, staring intently into the stream. "What are you doing?" She asked curiously.
The Hound turned, and Sansa caught surprise in his eyes before he spoke. "Be quiet," he said in a growling whisper, "Else there'll be none for you to eat." But he motioned for her to sit next to him. As she did so, he lay down on his belly and lowered his hands into the water. Sansa wondered if he was mad.
"Perhaps if you fashioned some sort of weapon, or...or I could fetch your sword…" he must never have done this before.
Sandor chuckled softly. "Seven hells, Little Bird, I've never known someone who knows so little to try to teach so much. It's trout in these rivers, and them you don't need any weapon to catch." He chuckled again into the water, shaking his head. "You only need to tickle them."
Sansa gaped. It was hard to imagine that one of the fiercest warriors in Westeros and the most frightening man she had ever met knew much about tickling anything at all, let alone fish. She stared at him.
"You look like a trout yourself with your mouth hanging open like that," he laughed. "Mind I don't mistake you for one." Sansa blushed furiously, but said nothing. After a few minutes the Hound beckoned her to watch his hands. "Here's one." And there, indeed, was a little brown fish, almost perfectly still as the Hound tickled its belly. "You've got to make sure you keep right underneath, and do it nice and slow, elsewise you'll frighten it off. If you do it right, it won't move away from you, and you can take it out with no trouble." Sansa watched, astounded. The Hound's face was etched with concentration, his mouth twitching slightly as his hands moved carefully in the water. His eyes never left the fish. Huge fingers stroked at it gently, almost lovingly, and the trout seemed to be in some sort of trance, never moving from Sandor Clegane's hand.
Suddenly, his grip tightened, and almost before Sansa knew what was happening, the trout was out of the stream and flapping uselessly upon the grass. By the time Sansa had recovered from the fright of his abrupt movement, the Hound was already searching for the next fish.
"Shouldn't you...shouldn't you kill it? And end its suffering?" She asked in a small voice, shocked at the trout flopping and gasping grotesquely upon the bank of the stream.
"Do you feel like bashing its head in with a rock?" He asked. "If so, you have my blessing. If not, try and get one yourself."
Feeling abashed, Sansa lay down next to him, and dropped her hands into the water. It was a while before any fish came near, and she glanced at Sandor every so often, to make sure he was not playing some sort of trick on her. "Keep still," he whispered.
Eventually, one of the ugly brown fish came her way, and she moved her index finger tentatively to stroke it. The trout didn't move. Joyfully, Sansa grinned at Sandor, proud of herself, but he only inclined his head to indicate that she should keep her eyes on the fish. She continued tickling it, until the trout seemed to be in the same trance as Sandor's fish had been. "Good," said the Hound, his breath tickling her ear. "Try and grab it out now, nice and careful." Slowly, Sansa tightened her hands around the fish. But at the last moment, it jerked out of her grasp and lurched forward, causing her to make a wild grab for it. She had it in her grasp for little more than a second, before it flapped again and shot away from her. Lunging after it, Sansa lost her balance, and before she knew where she was had tumbled into the stream, unhurt but gasping at the feel of the freezing water.
Up on the bank, Sandor Clegane roared with laughter. Rolling onto his back, he pounded his fist onto the ground, choking for words. Sansa had never seen him truly laugh before, she realised. His scars rippled and crumpled, making the burned part of his face more unseemly than usual, and his tears ran in little rivulets down the cracks, but the unscarred portion of him looked ten years younger than she had ever seen him. He stretched his hand out to Sansa to help her out, but no sooner had she landed ungracefully on the bank beside him than his howling started up again. Sansa, soaked and stripped of her dignity, wanted to be angry with him, but she found herself bubbling up too, so that both of them lay on the banks of the stream, gurgling until their bellies ached.
"Bugger me, Little Bird," the Hound said, wiping a tear from his eye. "I've never seen the like of that before. You looking so damned highborn and graceful with your hair all hanging down - and then..and then… and your face…" And he had lost control all over again, wheezing next to her with his eyes screwed up.
Sansa smiled despite herself, thinking it really was quite funny, though she wished he'd stop all the same. While he still had his eyes closed, she darted her arm down to the stream and scooped as much water as she could carry in her hand, and then flicked it as quickly as she was able over him, drenching his face and hair. Now it was her turn to laugh, as his eyes shot open wide and he choked on the stream water, looking bewildered. But her mirth was short-lived, as the Hound rolled over her quick as a snake and pinned her arms above her head with his elbows. "Now you've done it," he grinned, and made to throw her in the water again. But she wriggled away from under him, laughing, and tried to run, before he grabbed her waist and swung her round as she shrieked and pulled at his hands, her voice coming out as a gasp through her giggling. "No," she begged, panting. "Please...no!" and she lost control of her voice again as she was swung closer to the stream than before, fighting to overcome her laughter.
And then there was a strange whirring sound and a little thunk, and an animal grunt from the Hound. She was dropped unceremoniously, and turned to see him doubled over, an arrow through his massive shoulder. As the smile was wiped from her face, another arrow came twanging forth, and grazed the side of his neck. Sansa looked up, and saw in the near distance a ragged-looking band of men, staring grimly at the Hound. "Stop!" she called, running towards them, and then halting as a skinny, red-haired youth strung another arrow and aimed it at Sandor. "Dont," she whispered, but then a tall man with an eye patch placed a placatory hand on the archer's shoulder, and beckoned her forward.
She shook with fear as she approached, but she approached all the same. "My lady," said the tall man, "Do not fear. My brothers and I will not let any more harm come to you at the hands of Sandor Clegane."
"Ser," she swallowed. "You misunderstand. He has not harmed me."
A large man with a bushy brown beard and a strange, yellow cloak spat. "Looked to be like he was right in the middle of harming you when we arrived."
Sansa gasped, realising what the situation must have seemed to an ignorant onlooker.
The one-eyed man looked gravely at her. "My lady Sansa, you need not lie to us. We are no friends of the Lannisters, nor of the Hound. We are the Brotherhood without Banners, and we are loyal to no king but King Robert Baratheon."