The Hound came slinking back to her in the early dusk, clean of blood, and lay the gutted fish on the bundle of kindling she'd collected, and looked at her from the side of his eye, his face turned away, grey looks darting, calculating.
Something about the huntsman had been as important as the bite; she'd digest it later, when it was dark and she could be alone with her thoughts. She squinted closely at her companion. He wasn't much better, clean; but he looked more human now without the dirt and blood on his cheek and under his eye and in the cracks of his scar. The cut in the scar on his brow was now just a plum wheal, nearly indistinguishable from the rest; his black hair shone, the bloodstain on his tunic was now only faint. He walked slowly to her, stopped a pace away from her. She watched him kneel, wrap the silvery bodies in folds of birchbark, watched the grey glint slide to her through his black hair and then dart away, back and forth.
Their kitchen cat had shown no interest in the children; she'd reserved all of that for the chewed hole beside the scullery door, in front of which she'd lain every night like an angry rug. Occasionally a grey shadow would show at the entrance to the hole, quivering, and then vanish; show again, vanish, show again. Sansa smoothed her dress, watched the man build the fire, and waited.
He coughed and fanned smoke away and then sat and looked at the fire, frowning; she did so as well for a bit and then looked up to watch the sweet-smelling threads of smoke curling up through branches, and listened to the hollow-barrel sound of the horse behind them breathing through its heavy sleep. Her thoughts turned to Winterfell, to how it must be, as the long summer was truly ending. My people walking ruts through the snow, the pools of hot spring steaming in the snow. The fire popped loud then, bringing her out. She turned to see that her companion had aimed his scowl nearer to her and was eying her, wary, through the lank black curtain.
As it stood, after the huntsman, it was easier for her. She leaned back on her palms and bared her little teeth at him in mimicry.
She saw his pupils widen before he laughed, and then he ducked his head and was grinning at her again, good side wrinkling, and was digging through the pocket in his tunic. He leaned over to her, held something in his closed fist out to her. She held out her hand under it, felt the rough knuckles graze warm against her palm before he released the thing. It dropped tinkling into her hand, and the first thing she thought was a needle, but then she looked close at it glinting prettily in the light and it was, of course, her hairpin, sharp and gold, dried blood clotty at the point.
She looked up at him and he was laughing softly, rueful, shaking his head at the fire. Not just tears, then, for a weapon. Beautiful gilt thing, thinner and more tensile than a twig, and yet it had slid right past the plate like an arrow, hadn't it? She pursed her lips and looked at the tall man. And he gives it back, strange creature. And so she picked away the blood, leaned over and patted his knee, straightened up and slid the pin back into her hair. But along with the pat, and unbeknownst to her, she'd sent over a gift in return: comfort, hidden in compassion. He drew it quick into his black well and savored it, wordless, and thumbed along his jaw, and watched the fire. After some time he lay back with his wrists crossed behind his head and muttered that he was hungry, finally. She leaned back herself and watched the embers brightening in the dying light.
And so they waited for the fish to bake in their bark folds, and then opened and ate them, greedily. She heard rustling beyond them in the wood: beggars after the wonderful smells, pawing and snuffling and hoping. The Hound threw a rock at the brush and the bright glowing eyes slid away chastened into the night without waking the horse. After they'd had eaten, they sat in companionable silence together. She was drowsy from her long night, and the sound of the hollow barrel was lulling her; it was a break in her thoughts when he yawned and rasped to her that they'd ride early and make the lost time. She turned to see him hunched, rubbing sleepily at his eyes with the heels of his hands, just a man sitting by a fire.
"How much longer, do you think?" She'd lost track of how many days it had been. Sometimes, in her dreams, they were riding in a vast circle; she would look up and see that the moss on the trees showed south and she would look up at the Hound, who would be smiling above her, the oar solid against her ribs. She'd wake with a start, always, feeling the bellows behind her, and pull a hand from her pallet to wave it before her face in the dark night and then feel with relief the chill, which was increasing every night. North, still. Still going North. He doesn't lie.
He pulled a bone from his teeth and said, "One full turn of the moon, more than likely." Not so long. That's–well, that isn't very long at all, though. She gazed at him; the grey eyes were hooded. "One turn, only?"
He said nothing, chewing idly at the bone, and looked away from her, out into the wood.