In the half second before she whirled around, Sansa convinced herself that she was mistaken. Smothering the jolt of lightning in her belly and squaring herself instead for danger, she turned.

But she knew his voice, knew his horse, knew his height, knew his scars.

Ten feet away from her he stood, nonchalant, the suggestion of a smirk twitching on his lips. He had lost his armour, and leaned lightly on the hilt of his longsword, the red evening light filtering through the pines to illuminate the fresh scarring over his burnt arm. The studded leather jerkin stretched over his chest emphasised his massive size, and his black hair hung over the scars of his face, half obscuring one of the eyes boring in to Sansa.

She was dimly aware that her mouth was open. Flushed pink and bright eyed, Sansa's gaze flashed from the Hound's arm to his eyes and down to fix on the safer area of his torso. In the pre-dusk her hair glinted copper fire, pale skin dead white against the anxious red of her cheeks.

"My Lord."

Smirk widening almost imperceptibly, Sandor moved forward.

"Boy looks fevered. Bloody hells, can't you light a fire properly yet?"

Forgetting her surprise, Sansa retorted.

"You wouldn't teach me properly, you would always push me away-"

The sharp, rasping guffaw came back like the crack of a whip.

"Watch," he growled, crouching over the feeble flames and discarding the poorest wood. With his knife, he stripped the bark from the pine twigs and used the softer innards, peeled off with the blade, as kindling. Within minutes, the fire leapt. Sansa smiled shyly, and gratefully warmed her hands by the blaze.

Rocking back on his haunches, the Hound wiped the back of one massive hand across his brow. "Where's your pretty knight? She can't be as bad a hunter as she is a navigator."

So it was him, of course it was him. How long has he been watching us?

"She isn't a knight. She should have returned by now."

"First me, and then dead Dondarrion, now her. Will you ever have your true knight?" The Hound's tone was sharply sarcastic, but not without humour. He stood suddenly, leaving the girl no time to respond, and went to Stranger who had been left grazing by a thicket of bushes. Sansa was glad to see the horse. Bad tempered and mean as he was, he was strong and swift, and she had missed him when being bumped around on Lem's skinny mare or Brienne's little pony.

The Hound fumbled in his saddlebags and eventually produced a wineskin, a hard yellow wedge of cheese and a generous lump of dark crusted bread. Nodding towards Podrick's sleeping form, he rasped:

"That one needs to eat. He looks to be half starved."

"We haven't had much...in the villages, it's so difficult...Winter is coming."

With another sharp scratch of laughter, Sandor tore half of the bread off in an easy movement and tossed it at Sansa. "Little wolf bitch."

Sitting as demurely as possible by the flames, she caught the bread. He walked to the fire, and Sansa noticed for the first time that he limped badly. She wondered if that would be forever. Hungry as she was, the thoughts flitting through her mind prevented her from filling her mouth. How does he come to be here? And why? What does he mean to do?

Before she could ask anything of him, the Hound motioned for her to pass him the skin she had filled with water. Taking it from her, he knelt beside Pod, shaking him oddly gently.

The boy was half-dreaming and confused when he opened his eyes, and at the sight of the Hound's face so close to his gave a soft, strangled cry of fright.

Before she could stop it, a little gurgle of laughter had bubbled up in Sansa's throat and escaped into the cool evening. When the Hound turned to look at her, she burned red again, thinking of that first time when she had washed his wounds and looked at him too long, and how angry he had been. But now Sandor Clegane only raised a sardonic eyebrow, seeming to assess her, and then turned back to Podrick.

"Sit up, boy. Drink this. You're not dying." With one huge arm, he supported the squire's back as he obediently drank from the skin, fearful eyes watching the newcomer.

"Y-Yes, Ser."

"Bugger you, gnat." Podrick seemed to be used to this kind of address from men such as the Hound, and accepted it without response. Quietly, Sandor called: "Sansa. Get that helm from Stranger."

Startled still by the use of her name, Sansa paused a moment before clumsily standing and brushing off her skirts. She approached Stranger warily, looking for the familiar dog's head helm. It was not there, but a battered greathelm of poor workmanship was tied to one saddlebag. Sansa retrieved it and, realising what was required of her, poured wine into it and set it upon the fire. The Hound nodded, and pulled Podrick into a full sitting position closer to the fire.

It was mere moments later that they heard a rustle ahead as Brienne shambled through the trees, swinging two rabbits.

"Forgive me, Lady Sansa. I had some -" She stopped short as she entered their little clearing, swollen lips parting as her wide gaze took in the form of the Hound. Dropping the rabbits, her hand went to her swordbelt.

"Don't do that," said Sandor casually, picking his teeth and remaining seated. Brienne looked very much inclined to ignore this advice, until Sansa broke in.

"He won't hurt you." At this, the Hound snorted, but Sansa continued. "He has food and wine, he's helping Pod, he might have frozen without him."

Brienne was very still. Overhead, a blackbird sang. Her hand had not moved.

"The way I see it," rasped Sandor in a bored tone, "You can take out that sword and make me kill you, or you can skin those rabbits and we can eat." Without turning his gaze, he addressed Sansa. "Don't let that wine boil away, girl. Give it to the boy."

Hurriedly, Sansa gathered her skirts and used them to remove the helm from the fire, slopping it a little as she avidly watched the two warriors. Say something useful, she urged herself.

"He took me away from the Red Keep."

"You took her?" From her tone, it was clear Brienne knew Sandor Clegane by reputation at least, if not in person.

"Yes and if he hadn't I would still be in King's Landing and you wouldn't be able to keep your Oath and I might be dead by now." The words tumbled out of Sansa's mouth hurriedly. Brienne's hand finally moved, to pass in a tired motion across her face.

"Why? You were Joffrey's dog."

"The ransom, for a ransom," said Sansa, keen to smooth things over.

Brienne did not look convinced, but a weak cough from Podrick gained her attention, and finally seemed to persuade her.

"Very well. You may eat with us before you move on."

The Hound seemed ready to retort to this, but Sansa intervened by praising Brienne's catch and fixing him with a shy stare. After that, he was silent, and they ate their meal in relative peace.

As the two soldiers licked the grease from their fingers, Sansa's thoughts continued to swim. Without being quite sure what was happening, she sensed a thick atmosphere around the camp. Brienne and the Hound seemed to be sizing one another up, each assessing the other's character and physical prowess. But if there was to be fight, it would not be in her name, not for ownership of her. Sansa would not allow it.

Brienne had been kind to her, in her gruff, bare way, and had no motive for being her escort other than the oath she said she had sworn her mother. They had not spoken about it in depth; Sansa could not bear to hear any more tales of her family. Nevertheless, it was clear that the woman was honour-bound to the point of foolhardiness, and would not relinquish her duty to Lady Catelyn without a struggle.

The Hound, on the other hand, was less easy to read. Sansa found it hard to believe that he could not earn the gold he had claimed to want in some, far easier way. Mayhaps he had been driven by guilt, for standing by when they beat her and killed her father and her wolf, though she had never begrudged him it. But that seemed so unlikely, so like a song. A pure knight paying a debt to a maiden. Sansa could have laughed. Cocking her head to the side like a starling and studying him, his scarred face passive in the dying light, she wondered.

In the end, it was Brienne who raised the matter. An uncomfortable silence had descended around the fire, pregnant and heavy. Her eyes passing in frank search between Sansa's expression of studied calm and Sandor's unfazed self-assurance, finally she cleared her throat and spoke with a hard edge in her voice.

"I expect that you will be eager to re-start you journey, ser. You have not much light remaining."

Throwing a bone casually into the flames and wiping a hand on his breeches, Sandor shrugged. "Have it your way." Sansa watched him in faint surprise and a curious sense of dismay, staring while he climbed to his feet with a faint groan and walked casually to Stranger. As he untied the destrier and re-arranged his packs, the Hound threw back a casual call to Sansa:

"Better chirp your courtesies then, Little Bird, thank your knight for her bravery and honour. You're not like to see her again."

Uncomprehendingly, Sansa blinked. "Why - I don't…"

With an air of long-suffering patience, the Hound interrupted: "I don't plan on bringing them with us, girl. Hurry up."

Almost before Sansa could take in his meaning, Brienne was standing, sword drawn, with a fierce glint in her eye. "Do not mistake me, Ser. You presume that because I am a woman I am afraid of you. Lady Sansa remains with me."

Sandor hadn't bothered drawing his blade, or even letting go of Stranger's bridle. "You're not afraid of me. I think you are a fool for it, but you're not afraid. Doesn't matter, the girl still comes with me. I'm bigger than you, I'm better fed than you, and I like killing a lot better than you do. Your steel is poor, you're out of practice, and that squire of yours needs you to take him to a maester at first light. If you insist on letting me cut your throat I will, but you're no risk taker, and the boy means more to you than that. No, you're not afraid - not stupid either, but you're soft. I'm going, and you're staying. You already know that."

There was a long, terrible pause. Brienne's teeth were gritted, the muscles on her arms taut. But the fire in her eyes was faltering already, Sansa could see. And when she lowered her sword and spat into the dying flames with a bitter expression carved into her face, Sansa realised with shame that was relieved. Seven save me, I must be mad.

Shyly, Sansa took a step towards the big woman and placed a hand lightly on her forearm. "I'll be alright," she said with a sad smile which Brienne did not return. And then, pausing to bend and kiss the sleeping squire on his forehead, she walked tentatively towards Stranger.