Guts watches as Sansa examines the cut. It looked like an old wound from where he was standing.

“Depends on the horse. Some can be pretty reliable, if they trust you enough.”

The rough snort from muzzle in front of him was hint enough of that. A farmer’s work animals weren’t usually all too hot-tempered, but it helped to take the extra minute or two to greet and soothe them.

Even with a full head of height over most men and the physique of a workhorse himself, this mare still had nearly two thousand pounds on him. A kick into the wooden stalls wouldn’t be pleasant, even if he’s survived worse.

In a way, Guts gets it. The smell from the paste was unpleasant enough to deal with, much less being rubbed down by strangers. He’d hate it, too.