Nasty Little Shits
(several years after the end of events in TV show)
They are all terrible whisperers, Podrick thinks to himself.
He stands by his horse, a dappled gray mare, on the edge of the tournament grounds where the other knights are being dressed by their squires in adjacent tents. Pod has no squire himself, but he's used to preparing for such events without anyone else's help. He'd been a squire long enough to know how way around armor. When he looks into the reflective surface of a bronze shield by his side, Pod tries to convince himself that he truly is a proper knight now.
Ser Podrick Payne, he thinks and then sighs.
A snicker from the tents takes him out of focus for the hundredth time since he arrived on the scene. He tries not to be too obvious when he turns his head slightly in the direction of the laugh. It is not the best view, but he needn't turn all the way to know what he'll see.
Because of his unusual circumstances, Podrick was knighted much later than usual. As a result, he is at least three or fours years older than all the other knights at this tournament. He is hardly an old man, not by a long-shot, but the way the younger knights snigger make him feel like an outsider nonetheless.
He tries to shut them out and focus on the people sitting in the stands instead. There are lords, ladies, members of the court, other knights sitting on cushions while the peasants stand on the other side of the tournament green. He knows they aren't looking at him. Why should they? Yet he can't suppress the feeling, each time a stranger's eyes wander in his direction, that they're thinking what the younger knights are whispering:
There goes Ser Podrick Payne, the Penniless. Ser Podrick Payne, the Squire-Knight, the slow one, the obscure one, the one who can't even ride a horse properly, even at his age. Ser Podrick Payne, the Mediocre, the one in the dented, second-hand armor that doesn't fit properly.
"Ser Podrick Payne, the Great," he hears one of the young boys whisper as the group erupts in laughter.
He finally succumbs to temptation, and he turns to look at the other knights. They all stand tall and stand together, in their pristine, expensive armor, polishing swords of the most intricate craftsmanship. They wear scarves and sleeves and pouches at their belt, tokens of favor from noble ladies and sweethearts.
Young, noble, proud, rich, gallant. Things that Podrick cannot claim himself to be.
Suddenly he wonders why he is even here, at this tournament in King's Landing. Surely he, Ser Podrick the Great Joke, doesn't belong here, in a place where the proud and wealthy win glory and honor. He was barely able to even afford the entrance fee to the tournament. Were it not for some generous donations from his family, he'd be back in the Westerlands. He had purchased his armor secondhand from a retired knight and it isn't his size. There is no lady in King's Landing that would accept his offer of championship.
When Podrick turns and walks away from the tents and toward the smiths, he tells himself it is to see about his sword, but he also just wants to get away from the other knights. He keeps his eyes to the ground and marches on without watching his path. In his hurry to get away, Podrick nearly runs into a lady dressed in green.
He is in the middle of spitting out an apology when he finally manages to lift his eyes from his feet and finds himself standing in front of the Princess of the North. Sansa graciously accepts his apology and doesn't move to let him pass. Podrick, still stunned, stands there and stares blankly, stupidly.
It has been several months since Podrick last saw Lady Sansa, and the last time had been very brief and they hardly exchanged more than ten words between the two of them. She is striking in her emerald robes, and her fiery hair provides stunning contrast to her snow-white complexion and sky-blue eyes. He admits that he had always thought her pretty, but this is the first time the word "beautiful" pops into his head at the sight of her. So far into his thoughts he is that he almost doesn't register her voice when she speaks to him.
"I've been looking for you," Sansa says. The knight raises his brows.
"H-Have you, m'lady?" Podrick says.
"Of course!" Sansa says, momentarily turning and telling her handmaiden to leave her with the knight for a minute. She turns back to him with a cheerful look.
"A fortnight ago, when I heard you'd entered the tournament, I was so pleased," she says. "It's lucky we happened to be in King's Landing at the same time. After the last time, I was worried we wouldn't meet again. This is nice."
"Thank you, m'lady," Podrick says, unsure whether or not to bow.
"Sansa, please," she says, correcting him. "You don't have to be so formal, Podrick. Or is it 'Ser' Podrick, now?"
Pod laughs, a little nervously. Sansa is no stranger, but he still finds it challenging to surmount the social gap between them.
"Sansa… yes," he says and immediately wishes he'd more to say to her. There is a short pause in their conversation, but the silence is filled by the sound of sniggering. When Sansa looks a little past Podrick, she sees the younger knights trading jokes and slapping at their thighs while another round of laughter rolls over them. When one of the knights casts a glance at Podrick, the gesture does not escape Lady Stark's eye. She scowls.
The last thing Podrick wants is for his lady to pity him. He clears his throat to get her attention again.
"Um… you said you were looking for me, m'lady? I mean, Sansa," he says. Sansa looks to him again, her blue eyes newly alert.
"Oh, right," she says, fidgeting a bit. "I… notice you're not wearing any lady's favor at your belt."
Podrick is quiet for a bit. He hopes he isn't blushing.
"Oh. Yes. No… I mean, no, I'm not."
Sansa seems to rock back and forth on her heels.
"Hadn't you any plans to? You had a fortnight to prepare," she says.
"No?" Podrick gently hopes that Sansa will drop the subject. He's painfully aware that he is nobody's favorite knight in this tournament. Sansa chews on her bottom lip for a second and then casts her own eyes downward.
"Well, then, I hope this isn't too forward of me. I know it's not customary," she says, her fingers are curled into a fist in front of her. When she opens them, she produces from her hand a glossy silk scarf, as white as snow and as cool to the touch. At the end of the thin garment, Sansa has embroidered a ferocious, leaping direwolf.
"Would you wear my favor on your belt for me?" she asks.
"What?"
When Pod looks at her face, she looks worried.
"No one asked me and—"
Sansa doesn't finish her sentence, but Podrick already doesn't believe that not a single knight offered to enter the tournament and fight for her honor. Surely she received offers from every knight to be her champion.
"You want me to… wear your favor?" Podrick is stunned at her request.
Firstly, because Sansa has been incredibly forward in asking him to wear her token; social custom dictates that the knight ought to be the one doing the asking and a lady should wait for her champion to offer his service. And then, secondly, because Sansa is no ordinary lady of the court. She is royalty, a princess. And a Stark, as well. The other knights carry the tokens of court women and obscure noble ladies, but none bear the favors of princesses. And Sansa offers him her own handmade token.
"If it's not too much trouble. You don't have to," Sansa says, slowly retracting the white scarf.
Pod, afraid that she might think him unwilling (nothing could be further from the truth), stretches both hands out to receive the scarf from the Northern Princess. Sansa smiles as she lets the glossy token fall into his hands. Pod holds it as gently as if it were a babe in his hands. When he looks up at the lady before him, the smile on her face is as warm as eternal summer and so beautiful, it breaks his heart. His words cluster and stick in his throat as he stumbles over a "thank you"
"You have no idea… This is… You can't know how much this… how much this means to me, m'la—Sansa… I'll… I promise to defend you honor, and—,"
"Just promise me you won't let them see you upset," she says, and Pod goes quiet.
Sansa looks over at the sniggering knights at the far side of the sword arena. They are a lot of snobbish, pimple-faced teenagers in squeaky-clean, unused armor, green and naive. Sansa leans in and whispers in Podrick's ear.
"They're nasty little shits, Pod," she says. "And nasty little shits aren't worth being upset over. You're a better man than they'll ever be."
With a good luck wish and a smile, Sansa turns and heads back to her place in the stalls while Podrick stands there, still cradling the princess' token of favor. He watches her back as she walks away, and though her figure fades, her red hair blazes as brightly from the distance. Podrick tries to suppress the smile that threatens to break across his face. He loops the scarf under and over his belt lets the direwolf show, proud and fierce, on the right side of his hip.
When he turns and walks back out to greet the other knights of the tournament, the atmosphere is different. No longer are the younger knights passing jokes about Ser Podrick Payne amongst themselves; rather, their whispers are about the knight with battle-dented armor, whose steady gaze betrays no fear.
He bears the favor of Northern royalty, they say. See how he fights for the honor of a princess, and his right side is watched by a wolf. He will fight for Sansa Stark's honor all the days of his life.