She remembers one of her Professors describing battle as a dance. At the time she had thought it foolish and dismissed it as a feeble attempt to romanticize her profession. Winter had always viewed battle for what it was. A power play. A show of true strength and durability. She certainly did not want something she prided herself so heavily on equated to something as frivolous as dancing.
Dancing was the late night grueling lessons her Mother used to make her attend in hopes that she would become a demure Schnee woman, rather than a power hungry huntress. Dancing was aching feet from impractical, pinching heels, ugly blisters on the back of her heels. It was not what Winter envisioned herself doing often.
Battle, however. Battle was the clash of steel on steel, the sweet tender ache of her muscles after a particularly intense round, the calluses that formed on her hands and the respect she gained after each fight.
Dancing could not compare.
She forgot about the lesson for some time, until she came face to face with someone who personified what battle truly meant to her.
Qrow understood. He had the bone deep drive to win and win at all costs. He would sit beside her after a fight, sheath his weapon and rasp out a hearty laugh when he lifted his arm and found bruises blooming across his skin.
She tried not to think about dancing when it came time to fight him. It was difficult to think of anything but with the way he moved. He was elegant, in a strange way. He was clearly experienced and skilled beyond measure.
He said it himself, once, that fighting with her was almost like dancing and she had faltered. He noticed the misstep, the slight hesitation and took advantage of it.
She recovered quickly, just fast enough to block his strike, but his words echoed in her mind for days after.
"Fighting with you is almost like dancing."
She smiled to herself when she was alone and hoped she was a worthy partner.
