He's laughing.
Why is he laughing?
Not that I don't want him to laugh, or to be happy. Quite the opposite. I've since grown accustomed to his miserable scowls, though, and I know how to tell when he's content or angry just by the twitch of his mouth.
There's no mistaking the laughter on his face now, however, and it stirs feelings in my belly I've never endured before. Why is he laughing? What's the jape? I want to know. I need to know.
It's only made worse, the wretched bubbling feeling, when a woman—one of the Mormont women—lean over and smack him in the arm, smiling with him. With him, I tell you! He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand (as uncivilised as ever, no matter my desperate attempts) and leans back in his chair with a pleased grunt. I can see it on his face even from across the hall.
I wish he could have sat with me. I would have asked my mother, but it's just that I know she would say no, and so really there's no point. Septa Mordane says a proper lady never eavesdrops but I can't hear their conversation (not for lack of trying, mind) so it's ok if I just watch from a distance.
He's cleaned his second plate of meat and roasted potatoes (they're his favorite, I know so), and he waves the servant aside when they offer to bring him more. The Mormont woman leaning against him—I think it's Dacey, actually, though they look rather similar at a distance—says something else to him and roars with laughter at his irritated face. It's not a real irritated face, though. In fact, it almost seems…playful?
Why is he being playful?
Rather sullenly, I begin to stab at my potatoes. The sight of the prongs of my fork jabbing into the cooked plateful is oddly satisfying, and I keep at it until it's just a heap of mashed goop on my plate. Someone clears their throat quite loudly, and I glance up to meet my lady mother's horrified and outraged face.
Oh dear.
I look back down at the mess I've made, potatoes and gravy spilling onto the tabletop in a most unladylike fashion, and feel a good deal guilty.
It doesn't take any prompting from my mother to begin shoveling appropriately sized portions into my mouth, chewing upright with my mouth sewn shut and my eyes focused carefully at the far wall, some several feet above where my sworn shield is eating.
But my eyes have a mind of their own, and I haven't gotten halfway through before my attention's dragged back to the sight of him and those women (if you can even call such beastly things women. I mean, Dacey carries a real sword).
He's done eating now, and they're just talking, chatting. It's the friendliest I've ever seen him. He's not chuckling and embracing her or anything, that's not who he is. But it doesn't take a Maester to see how different he's acting, how casual he is when he leans his elbows on the table and begins telling what must be some filthy, wicked jape to the women all listening with rapt attention.
I'm fighting my own scowl at this point, and only barely resist the temptation to slam my fork down with a satisfying thud. Instead I put on my most polite face—my mother's still watching me with a critical expression—and smile at my parents.
"I am quite full, mother, father. Might I be excused?"
My father barely spares a glance, engrossed in conversation with my eldest brother, Robb, on the other side of him. He nods hastily, and turns back to his son, in the middle of explaining what must be a very important tip on swords or jousting or some other knightly duty.
I waste no time in getting to my feet and walking over to my sworn sword. Glide, I tell my feet, trying in earnest to mimic my mother's graceful gait. Glide, will you?
One of his comrades sees me coming before I can get to them, and nudges him in the arm, smiling at me over his shoulder.
"Hello, Lady Sansa," says Jorelle with a kind wave. "Did you enjoy the meal?"
I give her my most demure smiles, standing directly at Sandor's shoulder. "It was lovely, thank you. And yourself, Lady Jorelle?"
"Smashing," and she grins broadly at me. I look down at Sandor—hardly have to look down at all, really, since he's so large even seated—and make an expectant face at him.
"All done, eh?" He gets to his feet with a groan. "Very well. Where to next, little bird?"
Oh! Of all the things for him to say! Little bird, as though I'm some child he must babysit. I'm his lady. He's my sworn shield. I assure you there's nothing childish about me (or my feelings).
I smother the urge to bristle and take offense, knowing it would likely cause him to laugh more.
"I was hoping to take a turn to the godswood, so that I might pray for the fallen soldiers of my people." I don't smile this time, but stick my chin up and dare them to mock me for it. Who's a little bird now?
Sandor just nods in acceptance. "Alright. She-bears," he gives them a mocking bow and they all laugh, Dacey rolling her eyes in disbelief.
With a stifled harrumph, I spin on my heel and march off, encouraged by the sound of his long stride behind me.
"You're in a hurry," Sandor observes from behind me. "Didn't even stay for dessert."
I wave a hand at him impatiently, but slow my pace a bit. There's no one around now, what with dinner still in full-swing.
"It's not lemon cakes, so…" But then I realize what I just did, and turn to him bashfully. "Oh, I'm sorry… You didn't get a chance to have dessert either."
But Sandor just scoffs. "Not much for sweets, little bird. Don't fret."
We reach the godswood in silence, mostly, and I take my place before a weirwood tree, kneeling in the cold ground with my heavy skirts to keep me warmed.
I pray to the gods like I said I would—for the fallen soldiers—and then I pray for my family, for my parents and brothers (even Jon) and my sister (even Arya!), and I pray for Sandor too.
I crack one eye open and peek at him from under my lashes. He's standing, leaning against a tree looking quite spectacular, and staring wordlessly at the ground. He neither speaks nor moves, but once I've stolen my peek at him, I find him to be quite distracting.
"Are you going to pray, Ser Sandor?"
His mouth twitches a bit at the title, but it's only truth now. My father had him knighted some years ago, in the Greyjoy Rebellion, although neither he nor my father like to talk about it much.
The point is, he's a real knight now, and I can call him Ser for that is precisely what he is. A true knight.
"Haven't prayed for anything in a long time," he says simply, offering a frown at the tree with a weeping face carved in its bark. "Haven't needed to."
"You must pray for something," I turn on my knees to face him better, hands folded neatly on my lap despite the chill. "The gods' blessing in the tourney, mayhap?"
He scoffs. "Blessing of the gods. I don't need that, little bird. I can tell you that much."
I fight a smile, for what he says is sacrilege and laughing in a holy place at his words feels dreadful. "For a wife then?"
He just glares at me, eyes narrowed shrewdly.
Poor luck for Dacey then, I think uncharitably, and fight back my glee quite valiantly.
"Peace for your loved ones?"
At that Sandor's face goes blank, and his eyes turn to look at the tree with much more…longing. Desperation.
He swallows roughly. "Aye," he murmurs, a sharp frown piercing between his brows like an arrow. "I can pray for that."
I wonder who he prays for, but to ask feels too invasive, too personal for a lady to ask her sworn shield. Even Sandor, who I share almost everything with.
Besides. I already have a good idea who it is he prays for, and I know too well that he won't speak of her for long, the way my father won't speak of her for long.
Eventually I get to my feet, and walk over to him. "I am ready to go inside," I declare, because in truth my toes have started to go numb, and my hands ache something dreadful.
Sandor nods, and offers me his arm in an unusual gesture of chivalry.
"Thank you," I whisper, blushing and dropping my gaze at my toes. Gods, he's actually holding my arm! In his arm!
Would it be too obvious if I started skipping?
I settle for leaning against him, very subtly of course, and saying, "I'm so glad you came north, Ser."
His eyes find mine, staring down his hooked nose to me, and he huffs a quiet laugh, not unkind.
"As am I."
On the way back inside, we come across none other than Dacey Mormont with a sword strapped over her back.
"Milady, milord," she turns to Sandor with a teasing grin, but greets me properly at least. I take a step closer to Sandor, embracing the thrill of defiance.
"Better rest up," Dacey says casually, more to Sandor than me. "Tourney's in two days."
Yes, the tourney I had asked for, and she can guess again if she thinks I will allow her to compete in it and spoil everything. Father had arranged it for my nameday, and I've been looking forward to it for a month.
"You'll not be competing then?"
"Oh gods no," she laughs at Sandor's question, and I only barely stifle a sigh of relief. "No, but I suppose you will. I'm sure your shield will fight spectacularly for you, Lady Sansa."
I smile stiffly at her, cold enough that Sandor even blinks down at me, confused.
"He always does," I say, in my most mature voice that is definitely not chirping. Not at all.
"Best of luck then, Hound, if I don't see you before then." Ignorant of my scowl (I hate when people call him that) Dacey's smile split her face widely all of the sudden. "Might be you'd like my favor?"
If I had thought about it rationally, I would have been able to tell that she was only joking—teasing him of all things—but instead I make a complete fool of myself and blurt out,
"Actually, Ser Sandor has already agreed to wear my favor."
They both turn to me a bit surprised, but I fold my hands over my stomach and smile as sweetly at them as I can. Dacey looks amused, but Sandor's still got that bewildered expression on his face, like I've yelled at him and he doesn't know why.
"Oh, very well then, Ser Sandor." Dacey curtseyed quickly to me and then clapped his shoulder in farewell. "She's a finer Lady than I at any rate!" And then she disappeared, chuckling quietly to herself.
Ser Sandor. I could hardly believe my ears. She said it as though it was funny, as though it was a great joke. Ser Sandor and his bravery. Well, it isn't a jape. It's real. He's a real knight and she mocked him. And he let her get away with it!
Miserable now, well and truly, I slink back to my chambers with Sandor on my heels, silent and puzzled as ever.
"Is everything well, little bird?" he asks, when we're outside my door and completely alone.
Little bird. This whole mess is because of that name—because he thinks me little, like a child. I am a lady flowered! And I have no intended! He should find me this wildly compelling lady, ought he not? He should be smitten with my beauty, shouldn't he? My mother tells me I'm a great beauty all the time, and so does my father. Arya says I'm an arrogant fool, but I don't care what she says. She's a terrible lady. No knight will ever want her.
None like Sandor.
I turn to him sharply, my face a mess of sadness and anger. "Why do you do that!"
He blinks, startled. "Do what?"
"That, call me little bird!" I glare up at him. "I'm not a child." Anymore, a voice adds reluctantly, because he did know me as a little girl, if only for a very brief time. Memories of him when I was younger are sparse. I remember that he once snuck me a lemon cake. I remember the time he told off Robb when he pushed me into the mud and I cried. I remember watching him ride off to Bear Island with my half-brother and feeling terribly confused and a bit sad.
Sandor folds his arms over his (very broad, very strong) chest, and furrows his brow deeply. It's been so long since I've actually seen his scars, the few times I notice them tend to catch me off guard. But they're twisting now in such a way I haven't seen in a long time, it'd be impossible to ignore them. Hideous burns, spanning the entire side of his face, taking a great deal of his skin with it. My heart aches. Oh my poor knight!
There's a very wicked thought of kissing his cheek, giving him something that he might take comfort in it, before he starts talking, deep and slow.
"I know you are no child, Lady Sansa," he says, and I'm surprisingly sad to see the 'little bird' go. Not sad enough to correct him, mind. "My lady, is everything…well?"
He's so tall. I crane my neck to stare him in the eye—I know better than to look away—and suck in a sharp breath.
"Yes," I whisper, timid and tearful. Gods, I hope I wasn't rude… The last thing I want him to think of me is that I'm some spoiled girl with nothing in her brains but petty jealousness. All I ever wanted was to be a real Lady, and now…what if I've gone and ruined his good opinion of me?
Before I know it, my mouth starts to quiver, and I can't look away in time before he spies the traitorous, unwanted tears.
"Sansa!" he chides, but it's very gentle. He guides me into my room and leaves the door open wide, reaching for a handkerchief off my dressing table as he passes by. "Gods, girl. Here." He thrusts the cloth into my hands (it's one I embroidered especially for my mother's house, one I don't use often) and huffs.
"Gods help me, girl! What's the weeping for? Did you not enjoy the meal?"
I dab at my eyes self-consciously, feeling like a fool. "N-no. Dinner was lovely."
"Then," he gestures impatiently at my face. "What in seven hells happened? Did someone say something?"
I shake my head tearfully, trying to get ahold of myself. "No," I sniffle pathetically. "No, I…just… Sandor," I begin, nervous to use his name as always. He just grunts and nods encouragingly. "Sandor…I… You do want to carry my favor, don't you?"
He stares at me blankly for long enough that it spurs me into talking.
"You don't have to if you don't wish to, only you are my sworn shield, and I had rather hoped… But it doesn't matter, not if you don't want to—"
"Don't want to?" he laughs, and shakes his head at me. "What in the name of the gods would I not want to wear your token for?"
Because you think I am a little girl after spending so much time among grown ladies, fierce ladies, the sort you respect.
"Just… You would tell me, wouldn't you?" I ask him desperately. He blinks, dumbfounded, but gives the affirmative.
"Aye… Is this about what Dacey said?" He leans back in his chair, hands on his knees. "Because that was a jape, my lady, and a very poor one at that. I'm no more likely to wear her favor than she is to wear mine."
"I know," I say quickly, but I can't stop the look of relief from spreading over my face. He seems to catch it, too, and draws himself upright, formally.
"Lady Sansa, it will be my honor to wear your favor." It's the most knightly thing I've ever heard him say in all my life.
And he said it to me!
I smile at him widely, and then with a shout of remembrance, I dash to the table with my linens and such (in the most ladylike manner, of course).
After sorting impatiently through the cloths, I finally found what I was looking for. A grey handkerchief, with a black direwolf's head sewn in the corner. It's the most masculine one I have, and, with a dramatic flair worthy of songs, I sweep into a curtsey and hold it out to him.
"My lord," I murmur, my eyes trained at his feet. I glance up at him nervously, heart beating frenetically in my chest. Heavens, when did it get so warm in here?
"Thank you, milady," he replies, and though I can hear the dry amusement in his voice, I also know he's making an effort.
And it's all for me!
"I will see you at breakfast, Lady Sansa," he says, and though I want to tell him to call me little bird, so long as we're in private, I bite my tongue and wave farewell, with the secret dream that one day he might come into my room and close the door. That he needn't leave my bed. That he could be my lord for true.
One day…