Sansa took one last long lingering drink -- greedily, as if she didn't already know they would be keeping the stream at their side as they walked further. She tried to do it with some daintiness, stopping as much creek-water as she could from drippling down in splashes onto her bodice. In truth, the attempt was a valiant one and when she stopped she only had a few damp circles near her shoulder. Except now she thought she could not offer a slick wet hand to take his, so she grimaced when she wiped her palm dry on the apron. It's what aprons are for, she reminded herself. As if that somehow lessened her internal dismay at wrecking it further.

"I'm ready, Ser Gendry." She grabbed onto his hand like she'd done when they'd first descended into the stream bed. This time, it felt a little more conventional but a little less charming. She knew, now, that he was feeling mercenary in his bent. And mercenaries did not do very much without recompense. Oh, she didn't expect she would pay him. Not really. But she would have to be obedient and unwavering and strong. She would have to make the journey easier for him by minimizing the burden she posed. These things, she thought, would keep her in his favour just long enough to get back to Caer Glaem. And then she needn't look at him again, no matter how (dis)honestly he came by his blue eyes.

And so they marched on.