Connor is aware that he and his father have very little in common – that they can talk about, at least – but that doesn’t make the silence any less uncomfortable. Anything he could say (and there a great many things, not least why Haytham chose to spare his life now when he was quite happy to have Connor executed not so long ago) would doubtlessly end in argument. No, better to let things lie. Uncomfortable was better than outright hostile.

“We’re making good time,” Haytham says, looking at least as discomfited as Connor felt. “There’s an inn not too far from here.”

“Or we could make camp.”

Haytham gives him an incredulous look. “You may make camp if you so wish. I, however, would far rather have a bath, a hot meal and not freeze to death in the night.”

“You would not freeze,” Connor protests. There’s… more than a little bite to the air, he’ll admit, but he’s been out in worse conditions than this and not suffered too many ill effects. “I –”

But whatever he was about to say next dies in his throat as Haytham sniffs him.

“What?”

“I take it back,” says Haytham, pulling back and acting as though sniffing someone was completely normal behaviour. “You may not make camp. You will instead have a bath. A long one, preferably.”

He ignores Connor’s indignant look, and continues, “If we are to travel together I will not allow you to smell like… whatever that is.”

“I do not smell,” Connor snaps. Perhaps it has been a while, but he has been busy, and the pigs needed herding, and… oh. Maybe Haytham has a point, even if he’ll never admit it. “As your delicate senses demand.”

“Believe me,” Haytham says stiffly, “there is nothing delicate about that stench.”