Sandor was walking through the long corridor that led to Winterfell's yard. From there, he would head for the room Sansa had given him just over a moon before. Considering the context of their encounter at the Blackwater battle - their last prior his recent arrival in the North - that he had been granted the privilege of living in her own family castle and offered such an important function as master-at-arms was still mind-blowing to Sandor. Yet as soon as he had presented himself to her in Winterfell's great hall and told her he offered her his sword, the little bird had immediately accepted his service without neither question nor hesitation. While that she didn't refuse the allegiance of someone with his skills wasn't all that surprising, the man had nonetheless expected that she sent him to some faraway endeavour or lost sentinel post and certainly not that she welcome him in her own bloody household. Sandor snorted. He didn't understand her in the least, however, he was certainly not about to complain. The girl had grown to such a beautiful woman and to be able to admire her regularly was a real pleasure and treat.
"It's intolerable, my lady!" Sandor heard a man grouse just as he was about to enter the yard.
Oh, isn't that old Maester Isidor's voice? Sandor mused, his previous train of thought all but forgotten. A wicked half-grin twisting his face, he halted in his strides and hid against the wall to listen. Offending the man's sensibilities was one of his favourite pastimes these days. It wasn't really hard anyway: the latter was so bloody haughty. What's that old bugger crying for now?
"I don't think I've ever seen or heard of a less appropriate master-at-arms in all my long years of services. And I've worked all over the realm for more Houses that I can count, my lady!" Isidor exclaimed.
"What has he done again?" the little bird's softy inquired, worry and apprehension filling her voice.
"This very morning I witnessed Clegane as he trained some of the younger boys – all about only 10 of age at the most! – and not only did he used the most profane and crude curses repetitively as he yelled at them but he called those who he deemed less fierce a bunch of sissies!" the old maester vociferated, his affront utterly amusing to Sandor.
"Oh," the little bird cried, evidently displeased. "Well, Maester Isidor, while I know he can be coarse, he truly means well, I assure you. I'm certain he only wants to harden them for their own good."
"But it's not working, my lady! One of the boys went crying by himself in an alley afterwards! I saw it with my own two eyes! This cannot be tolerated!"
Crying?! Sandor repeated inwardly, disbelieving and most of all, extremely preoccupied. Which one was it? He needed to be harsher with those boys or else, the North would end-up with only a group of buggering weakling with swords to defend its borders.
"And, m'lady!" another voice – female this time - joined their conversation. Who was that one again? "He keeps stealing my wine! He takes far more than his share! You know we don't have much to spare these days but that drunkard never listens to me!"
Sandor smirked. Right, the head cook. As if an ugly old hag would ever stop him from drinking his full when he was thirsty.
"Lady Sansa! You need to do something about this! This man is insufferable!" Maester Isidor snapped at her.
"All right, all right! I'll talk to him! You two do have a point: our Hound badly needs some training," the little bird agreed, giggling lightly.
Training? The little bird has some bloody major projects here, Sandor reflected, at once taken-aback and irked by her absurd suggestion. Without waiting any longer, he stormed into the yard just in time to glimpse the old maester and the cook's backs as they leaved for their respective duty.
As soon as Sansa noticed his presence, she turned to face him and smiled. "Oh good afternoon, Sandor! How are-"
"I heard you, little bird," he immediately cut her, his voice dry and hoarse. "What is it you plan to do to train me, as you say? Huh?! Tell me please." He let out a rough laugh to show her what he thought of that.
The girl blushed and lowered her eyes, obviously mortified to have been caught voicing such nonsense.
"No easy task, is it?" he prompted smugly, his shoulders squared in what he knew was an intimidating stance while watching her with narrowed eyes.
Satisfied he had taught her a lesson, Sandor was just about to leave her to her embarrassment when the little bird raised disconcertingly confident eyes on him. The man tensed slightly at that and instantly lost his smirk, the burned corner of his mouth twitching a couple of times. What was she playing at?
Sporting a coy smile on her luscious pink lips, the little bird approached him while fluttering her long eyelashes before stopping at only a few inches from her. Confused by her actions, Sandor scowled at her, his back straight as an arrow.
"Sandor," she began in a sing-song voice. "If you do as I ask: drink only your share of wine and treat your pupils more gently, perhaps I'll give you… a kiss," she whispered so softy, Sandor had to prick up his ears to understand her offer.
The man's eyes grew wide with disbelief but he forced himself to snigger. "A kiss? Why would I care about some bloody kiss?" he demanded with unhidden contempt.
Smiling sweetly, Sansa turned around and headed for the nearest alley. "I don't know," she murmured, her tone suddenly as polite and amiable as usual and not so much playful anymore. "That was a simple proposition, Sandor, but if you prefer your wine and bullying boys, it's your own choice to make and you're free to forget what I said."
Sandor stood still in the same spot for a few seconds and watched her lithe shape as it exited the yard and entered into the castle. A kiss, he sneered to himself once more, snorting dryly. That was fucking ridiculous!
But then, just as she completely disappeared from his sight, he unexpectedly lost his assurance. Did she truly mean it? he wondered, his heart suddenly beating fast. Unbidden, his limbs began moving forward and he followed in her path.