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Sansa sits on the ground with her back to Sandor as he takes his turn bathing in the sun warmed stream. She hears him splashing water over his body as he rinses off her lemon and honey soap. She wonders if it makes his skin as soft as hers. Impossible, there is nothing soft about The Hound. His laugh is harsh, his voice is harsh, his words are harsh; yet his touch is always gentle and warm, yet purposeful. She resists the urge to turn and look upon him. She occupies herself with following a soaring hawk. Unfortunately, its flight path takes it over the river. She catches a glimpse of Sandor's naked form. The water covers him from the waist down, thank the gods. Her eyes sweep over his hardened abdomen and up his chest, where she lingers. As her eyes continued up to his face she sees that his steel gray eyes are locked on her. 'Seven hells, what am I doing. Turn away. Give him his privacy.' She tells her head to turn, her eyes to look away, but she is frozen. Sandor opens his mouth to say something, which finally moves her to action.
"I am going to tend to my horse ser."
"Still not a ser little bird. Keep away from Stranger. He will pluck all your pretty feathers if you get too close."
Several minutes later Sandor arrives at their camp with a smirk on his face as she averts her face. "The little bird can't look at me now. Got your fill earlier?"
"I saw a hawk fly over the river. How did you like my soap?"
"I smell good enough to eat." He chuckles under his breath and she gasps at her own folly for starting this unsavory exchange. Myranda Royce would say such things when talking about her relations with men. In addition to wondering how his skin feels, she now wonders how it tastes. This is what comes from spending her lonely, perilous days in the Vale imaging where he was and dreaming about their kiss, a kiss he denies.
They pack up camp and head north. Mid-day they take a break to rest the horses, tend to personal needs and wash before they eat. They both sit side-by-side in sun against a bolder, while the horses drink. They share the lunch rations and rest. Her right hand sits close enough to his left on the ground that she can feel the heat of him. She moves her hand just enough to ghost that finger over his, barely touching. "Time to fly little bird." He stands faster than a man his size should. He offers her his hands to help her up, then immediately releases them. She walks behind him, but rushes to catch up, walking at his side. She watches him reattach his sword belt deftly with large hands, that would dwarf hers. She loves the idea of their warmth and safety. Something that she missed all winter while she was hidden in the Vale. Every touch there was unwelcomed; Aunt Lysa trying to push her out the moon door, Sweet Robin sneaking into her bed, Petyr's touches and kisses. She welcomes the safety of Sandor Clegane's touch, his overshadowing protective presence.
"Sandor, may I ride with you. I am tired." He does not answer. He moves some of Stranger's load to her horse. He ties her horse to his saddle and hoists Sansa up. He climbs up behind the little bird, and sets Stranger into motion. She boldly leans against him. As she dozes off, he lifts his hand to her stomach to secure her. When she wakes, she looks down and sees that she has threaded her fingers through his. She looks up into his face. He looks down on her with an unreadable face, but softened eyes. She turns forward and leans back against him. His chin comes to rest on the crown of her head. She tightens her grip on his hand on her stomach. This becomes their method of travel, until the end of their days.