Clegane watched as Lana painfully limped, nearly hopping, to Arya's horse, fishing out something in her bag. His eyes were on her body, the leathers tight against her figure and that metal belt showing off her waist. With the Stark girl gone, his blood rushed south with little care. He had tried his best to ignore that desire, knowing it would only complicate everything, but dammit, that woman was making it hard on him.

"I don't want to take my armor off. And the fuck is that?" he asked as Lana had something black in her hand, along with a few other things.

"This? I got some willow's bark from the Innkeeper. They had a willow tree," she said, slowly making her way over. If it weren't so close, he'd have gotten up to help. But he didn't want her to think he had grown soft.

"Doesn't answer my question."

"It's good for pain, fevers, and infections. You just chew a little bit at a time. I should actually chew on some too," she said, her eyes soft.

"You a fucking Maester now?" he asked, hating it when someone looked at him with soft eyes. It made him feel weak and like the person wanted something from him.

"It's better than calling it just a flea bite. And yes, I know a few things about medicinal treatments. Part of my training with poisons," she retorted.

He could feel the sickness swelling in his shoulder. In truth, he didn't want to die because a mad cunt had bitten him. "Give it here," he ordered, and she handed him a literal piece of bark. He thought it might have just been called that, but no, it was just from a fucking tree. "And I just chew it?" he asked, turning it in his dirtied hands.

"Mhmm. Now take off some of the armor so I can look at it," she said, chewing on some herself.

"I don't want to take my armor off," he said, chewing on it as well. It tasted like chewing on a piece of fucking bark.

"Please? We need you if we want to survive this wilderness. We can't have you slowing down," she said, and everything about her plea seemed genuine, as if she actually appreciated what he did for them.

He sucked in as much air as his lungs could hold, dropping his hand with the bark in it. A tenuous gratitude rose in his chest from those words, striking a chord that rarely sang in him. He liked feeling needed, like when he aided Sansa from her rape, or when Arya leaned in after witnessing that atrocious wedding. Those girls were genuinely appreciative of him then. He looked Lana in her pretty, pale blue eyes that were attached to an annoyingly pretty face, even when it was dirty. The soft sunlight only made her more alluring. She was not the Stark girls, however. She was trained.

And in that, a wrath rose in his chest. She was fucking using her little tricks on him, and it fucking worked for a small moment. Clegane knew that he was just a means to an end for her.

No, he didn't believe her that she wanted to help him. This was for her. She was a trained killer and knew how to manipulate people. She wouldn't make it far without him, especially with that bum ankle, and they both knew it. He looked away and began to remove his shoulder pad, as even though she was a fucking liar, he wasn't going to waste a good opportunity to properly treat his wounds. He didn't want to die a lame death like Robert Baratheon.

"That should be enough," she said and walked over once his shoulder pad was removed.

"What's it look like?" he asked, a very small part of him afraid it would take over his body. He had seen it before. Fire would clean it. He'd nearly rather die than use fire.

"I really should take the stitches out and re-clean it," she said with a defeated voice. "It's angry, red, and starting to puss."

"No, I don't want to take my armor off. It's a bitch to put back on," he said, not looking up. He felt slightly alone in all of this like no one truly cared if his actual presence left this world. As much as people liked to talk shit about him, he was still a person. He just frequently burned away any emotions that tried to come out, as Gregor did to any real future that Sandor may have had.

His body tensed at the thought of his brother. No fucking way Sandor would die before that giant fucking cunt.

"It needs cleaning," she pressed.

"It needs you to stop meddling with it," he growled, growing angry at her false care. They always pretended to care when it was really just for themselves. Whatever was festering in his shoulder was messing with his mind. He knew that she needed to treat it, but a part of him wanted to prevent it, just to spite her and her manipulative ways.

"Now you sound like a six-year-old who doesn't want a splinter looked at," she said with a tone she hadn't taken with him yet.

He looked up at her, reminded that she was a beautiful woman who had no business with a scarred, hostile man like him. That only made his obstinacy worse. "It's because you're in my face trying to make me eat this shit and trying to tend to my wounds," he said with the bark in hand.

"Get over it. Stop being an ass when someone is trying to care for you," she said, hands on her hips.

He let out an incredulous laugh. "All because I am nothing but a sword to the two of you," he said with anger, his blood starting to run hot, his shoulder pulsing with pain.

"Ha! That's not true," she retorted.

"Oh, it's not? You fucking already admitted that it's true, you dumb cunt," he said, his anger seemingly getting away from him. Perhaps it was because out of everything that he was doing, he just wanted some fucking peace. He just wanted to stop sacrificing himself for ungrateful shits.

And he couldn't trust her motives, and he was so fucking tired of dealing with scheming cunts.

"It's also just as simple as I'd prefer if you didn't die, you fucking idiot," she said, a passion in her voice that just made him angrier.

He folded his lips in as he glared at her, ready to push her down so she'd have to put weight on that gimp ankle. "Why the fuck not? Look, I don't want lies. I want honesty. You want to travel like a man? Kill like a man? Be among men? Then use honesty, not the lies your assassin friends taught you. I know you don't give two shits if I die. You have no reason to care, other than I am here to make sure someone doesn't come along, rape you, then put a sword in your heart. Nearly got you already, with that scar on your belly."

She looked truly angered at his words, her eyes cold, like a killer. At least she was honest about that part of her. "Oh, you're just so stubborn!. I don't want you dead because Westeros is a place of flamboyancy, false chivalry, and shitheads around every corner. I half expected these lands to be filled with men of honor from all the tales and stories of knighthood, but those fuckers barely have any dents in their armor. At least you're genuine in that sense. I still have no fucking idea what you want or what your motives are, but I genuinely don't think you'll kill or brutally rape me, and surprisingly, that counts for a fuck ton out here."

He leaned back with a laugh, his tone mordant. "That's not very logical."

She nearly stamped her foot but stopped before it hit the ground. He snickered, as she was too injured even to do that. "Oh, shut up. You always complain about whinging, and that's all you're doing right now."

All of his amusement froze. He didn't blink as they glared at each other. Then, he stood up, some deep instinct in him telling him to slap her or break her hands, or hell, just put a sword through her and be done with it.

"Go on," she threatened.

He stopped all movement. This woman was a right piece of work. Then he worried that maybe it wasn't a good thing that she didn't fear him. "Maybe I should teach you not to talk to me like that," he said cruelly. "Maybe I made a mistake in letting you think I am not a danger to you. Maybe I should fuck you until you're crying, tie you up again so you can't stop me. Would be nice to fuck something whenever I wanted," he threatened.

This woman didn't respect him at all in that way, not like when they first met. She feared him then.

Fear was the only control he knew.

"Well, either get it over with or let me treat the damned wound. Pick one. This is getting old," she stated her tone and eyes unyielding.

He wanted to slap her so hard her jaw broke. He wanted to toss Lana over his shoulder, tie the bitch up, and put her on a horse and send her off. He wanted to make her walk for miles on that gimp ankle before letting her back on a horse. The fucking audacity on this cunt...and yet, her utter brashness made him consider her words.

Instead of hurting her, he glowered and sat back down, chewing on the stupid fucking bark. The damned bitch was right. He was whinging.

He hated whinging.

A small, hot sigh came from her. "I take it I can treat you?" she asked, her voice trying to calm, but it was still laced with the ire she had moments ago.

"No, I just like to fucking chew on Willow's Bark for the damned taste," he said.

He saw the corner of her lips quiver as she tried not to laugh. Fuck it. He had no fucking idea of how to handle this woman. She was so beyond anything familiar to him, and his attraction to her just made everything that much more complicated.

"Good," she said. She helped him take off the rest of his armor, despite it annoying every part of him that she was helping him. He pulled his shirt down to reveal his festering wound. He let out a painful groan as she cut out the stitches. Fuck, it hurt.

"I just realized," she said with clarity. "I can sprinkle some salt into this. Would really help dry up the puss and give me a better look at it."

"Trying to torture me?" he asked, his voice cracking.

"It's supposed to help," she said gently and went over to her bag, still nearly hopping. Out of everything, her quiet persistence was something that he could openly respect. "Ocean water is good for wounds. It dries up the puss and wet parts, and always makes things better, for the most part. Didn't really need it before, but might be worth a shot here."

"Is it fucking necessary?"

"I'd rather be safe than sorry," she said with the kindest voice.

He sighed and grunted before looking down. "Should have never left King's Landing. None of this worth it. Salt my wound if you must."

"You can have some milk of the poppy."

"Fuck that shit," he said, scowling at her. She gently nodded and neared him. She put salt in it, and he grimaced. Luckily it seemed to be just in a small area, but it still burned. He gnawed hard on the bark, feeling good to clench his teeth on something. She pulled back with a defeated sigh. "It needs to be cut out. There is a small bit that is completely infected. It's not much, but I need to get it off of you."

He sighed, his eyes languidly rolling in her direction. He was getting real tired of this shit. Then she said, "I know you don't like fire, but give me a compromise. Let me cut it out with a hot blade."

"If you fucking-"

"Get over it, Clegane," she said. He was just shocked at this point. Incredulous. This woman had no sense of respecting who he was, and yet it didn't feel right smacking her in the head anymore. The fuck was he supposed to do? Was he really going to let her talk to him like that? His only other option was to hurt her. "That infection is going to get worse. I can salt it, put honey on it and what have you, but that's only to going to delay the inevitable, not fix it. Unless you know of a Maester around the corner, you're fucked."

Her grim tone and pleading eyes allowed him to see the gravity of this. He trusted a killer telling him that he was fucked, as they knew death. "We can do the hot blade," he said, thinking back to her yelling at him for whinging. He wasn't going to whinge. "Wish we had wine."

She hopped over to one of the horses, her breasts bouncing even though they were restrained. He was tempted to make a lewd statement, but she was his key to making sure this damned infection got healed.

She threw a flagon at him once within range, then pulled out her dagger and held it over the flames.

"What is this?" he asked, opening it up with a pop of the cork.

"I stole it from the Inn. It's wine."

He suppressed a smile. "What? How? I didn't see you take this."

"I knew you'd drink it right away, so stole it when you were busy eating your chickens."

He didn't say anything, the temptation to trust her snaking back in, and he wanted to keep that shit out. He drank until his belly was hot with wine, taking in a breath afterward. She hobbled over to him.

"I need you to hold onto me since I can't trust my ankle. Or at least let me rest my bag leg on yours. I want to make sure I am steady, so I only have to do it once," she said.

He nodded, just wanting this over with, eyeing the dagger that was bright orange and glowing. She came near, and she put her knee on his leg, and he placed his hand on her hip to steady her. He didn't give two shits about her body at the moment, not looking forward to this in the slightest. "Do it," he growled. He'd save the rest of the wine for after. For when he could smell it. In all the pain he felt as a child when his face healed, the smell was the most haunting part of it all.

He turned his head and placed the willow bark between his teeth, biting down as she grabbed his shoulder. He could feel the heat of the blade near his skin, and it took everything he had not to fucking toss her for bringing such a heat close to his body. She stuck the blade in his flesh and swiped.

Thank the fucking gods she knew how to use a blade.

She poured water on it immediately after. Then he smelled it. It was nothing like flesh burning from being caught on fire, but it was similar enough. He drained the rest of the flagon.

"Leave your armor off for the night and let your wound breath," she said with a soft voice and backed away from him.

He breathed heavily, adrenaline and wine in his heart. "You know I would have skinned most people that pressed a hot blade on my skin."

"You're welcome," she said dryly.

He laughed. The fuck was wrong with this woman? He watched her as she cleaned off the blade, leaning against a tree. She might be conniving, but her capability to handle being crushed by a horse in a rocky river, and then cut out his putrid flesh was to be admired. She was wiry and resilient.

Then he wondered if she really was being honest with him? What if she trusted him, just slightly more than the rest of the men in Westeros? What if she wasn't entirely manipulating him?

He groaned, the pain, wine, and infection getting to him. No, him thinking good of her had to be the wine talking. It was too risky to accept otherwise.

While his mind ran with theories on Lana, his eyes took in the detail of her shape. She glanced his way, catching him, and he was utterly shameless about it. Fuck it, he wanted her, and he didn't care. He wanted to see if she really was a virgin or not, and if she were, he'd enjoy popping that cherry. She was such a shit to him that he'd make sure she'd never forget him.

Instead of an arrogant statement from her, her eyes gently widened, keen on him. His gaze fell back to her breasts as she was breathing heavier. She wanted him too. Her being a killer and wanting to fuck him were the only things he felt comfortable trusting about her.

Seeing that woman flushed while giving him that look...he snickered and put down the empty flagon.

He stood, his jaw jut to the side as he eyed her once more, and then he walked over to her.