"There, with the heavy beard?" he asked. Sansa glanced at the man who was drinking heavily in sullen silence. He had no companions with him. She looked back at Sandor before answering him.
"A sellsword," she answered.
"Aye, what else?"
Sansa resisted the urge to look at the man again, and then answered his question.
"He's a Flint. The sigil is the grey, stone hand. He's of low birth though, otherwise he wouldn't be here selling his sword," she closed her eyes momentarily, drawing an image of the man before her again. "He has found work recently...if he hadn't, he wouldn't be able to afford the stew...and he slouches," she opened her eyes and looked hopefully at Sandor.
"You're getting better, but closing your eyes made you miss the fact that I just stole your bread and that two people arrived. Sloppiness won't get you anywhere," he instructed as he consumed the bread he had taken from her. She sighed in frustration. They had been at this for a fortnight. If she wanted to learn about the people she may one day rule, she needed to learn to really see who they were at a glance.
At first she hadn't understood what he meant, and it had taken a good deal of time before he could show her. It had taken them almost a week before crossing the Blackwater Rush. It had gurgled and roiled beneath the crossing, as if impervious to the winter and frost. The river was aptly named. Sansa was certain that it would never freeze, no matter how harsh winter grew.
After the crossing, they continued on the Goldroad for a short time and there they had come upon a small Inn. They took a seat and he ordered mulled wine, and a hot meal. Before the food even arrived at the table he had told her all he could glean from the three other men in the room. By the time he had finished, he may have been able to write a small book. She had been shocked. Sandor had never let on that he caught so many things, and as he spoke he never once looked at the men he spoke of.
"You learn fast to look for danger when you're guarding someone. It becomes second nature after a time. Sizing up threats, planning out strategies for either a swift battle or hasty retreat...if you are unobservant, you'll not get far," he had told her.
She had seen the appropriateness of his words and decided it was a good thing to learn. So wherever they went and whoever they saw would become a lesson in observation. Most times it was nothing but frustration. At the beginning she would often guess; which would annoy him more than if she came up with nothing at all. She had lost count of the times he had snarled at her to open her eyes…and every time he said it hurt just as much as the first time. As much as she appreciated his help, he was an impatient teacher.
Usually she was a swift learner, and was not used to being reprimanded. She had always done better at her studies than her sister had, although she had never gotten the hang of figures. This was different though, and she wasn't used to being a disappointment…and she certainly didn't want to be a disappointment to Sandor. Instead of disheartening her, it gave her the resolve to try harder.
It had been a week since they left the inn where he first taught her. She had improved greatly since then, but still wasn't as good as he wanted her to be. His harsh remarks came less now, however, and that made her glad. Sandor wasn't heavy on praise, but she figured the lack of criticism was his own way of praising her.
The small town they had come across was simply called Tull. It was right on the border between the Lions and the Flowers, and when the left, it would be for the heart of the Tyrell land, across the Reach. As it was, Sandor decided that they needed provisions and a rest from the hard travel they had done. Stranger was getting dangerously thin and needed a break. So they had been in Tull for three days thus far at an Inn called the Blooming Lioness, a tribute to both the lands it stood between. Sandor oft remarked about what a stupid name it was, which made her smile despite herself.
"The newcomers?" he asked, drawing her forth from her thoughts. Sansa glanced at the door as three people strode in, and felt a sudden heaviness in her heart. Her eyes returned to the bowl of stew, thick with grease and floating bits of some unknown meat. She stirred it absently with her spoon, finding that her appetite had vanished. When she didn't respond to him, he cleared his throat.
"A family," Sansa replied at last with a note of finality in her voice. She stood up and then left him without looking back. He did not try and stop her, for which she was grateful. She wanted to be alone for now.
A serving girl with a bucket was coming down the stairs and Sansa stopped her and sent for hot water to fill her own bath. She might as well bathe while the luxury presented itself. It did not take long for the girl to return with another and to fill the small tub with hot water. She thanked the girls, and shut the door behind them, returning to her solitude.
Her thoughts turned to the three people she had seen; a mother, a father and their young daughter. All three were dirty and wore stained, threadbare clothing. They were all horribly skinny, although the young girl seemed to be a little less gaunt than her parents. They had been giving her a larger share of the little food they had.
The man had only one arm and a severe limp, which was probably from frostbitten toes. The shoes he wore were too thin and falling apart. The woman had a dead look about her eyes, as if she were just a shallow husk. She looked without seeing, and Sansa wondered what sort of trauma she had witnessed. Her daughter's hand was clutched tightly in her own, and she stuck so close to her husband's side that he sometimes stumbled over her. The little girl seemed no more than eight, but her eyes spoke of an older wisdom that came with hard living.
Yet, for all that, they were still together. They had seen hard times, and were still seeing them…but they had each other. The little girl still had her parents, and they still had their daughter and each other. It wasn't something she had often seen since the war had started.
It was something she hadn't known in years. Her family had broken and scattered into the four winds. They had been consumed one at a time by the flames of war, at the whim of lions, towers, mockingbirds and krakens. Even her bastard brother Jon was lost to her, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch the last she heard. The only one who might be left was Arya, and Sansa had no idea where she might be, or if she still lived.
The thought may have brought tears once, but her eyes remained dry. She was no longer a child, to cry at any slight or discomfort. She hadn't cried since the Isle of Faces, three weeks ago. It was hard to believe it had been that long since they had left.
With a heavy heart Sansa stepped out of her dirty garments and checked to see if her other outfit was dry. She had washed it herself just the day before and it had finally dried out. That being done, she tested the temperature of the water with one hand, then, deeming it safe, she slid into the water. It embraced her like a lover and she felt her eyes slide shut as she gave into the sensation.
oOo
She woke when she heard the door open and she turned to see Sandor enter. She hadn't meant to fall asleep but the warm water had been so relaxing. It was less so now. Her neck was sore from the hard back of the tub, and when she reached up to massage it, her fingers had wrinkled in a most unattractive manner. The water was cold and she brought her knees to her chest, hugging them as he shut the door behind him.
"Can you hand me the towel?" she asked and he shook his head.
"No, there is business to attend to first," he replied as he set down a wrapped parcel. She frowned as he pulled out a small pot. He opened it and dipped his fingers inside, bringing out a thick, black paste. It smelled like nothing she had ever smelled before, although it did have a faint hint of something that smelled similar to ink. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, but she grimaced anyway as he unceremoniously smeared the paste into her hair. By the look on his face, he didn't much like this either.
He massaged the paste into her long hair and she closed her eyes to the feeling of his fingers on her scalp. His touch was gentle but firm and she felt her eyes slide closed again. Neither of them spoke for a long while, but finally she found her voice.
"I didn't mean to run off on yo—"
"I understand," he cut her off and she realized that she didn't need to apologize. He knew why she had gone and he wasn't going to condemn her for it. She was grateful, and also felt slightly guilty. Sandor had lost his family long ago, and he didn't let it affect him so. Not that he usually let most things affect him. Maybe that was the next thing she'd ask him to teach her. She knew she often wore her emotions plainly on her face. There was a time it had attributed to many a beating.
"Dip your head back, I don't want to get this in your eyes," he instructed and she leaned her head back into the cold water and he massaged the paste from her hair. It seemed to take ages, and her back and neck were sore by the time he finally told her to sit up. He got a little more paste on his fingers and rubbed it into her eyebrows. She sighed deeply. When he was done, she washed it off her face herself, and when she was finished she stood up and shivered as the air hit the cold water on her skin and made her break out into goosebumps.
He brought a tattered towel over to her and wrapped it around her shoulders. She stepped out of the tub and went to stand by the small fire in the hearth. As she dried herself off, he watched. Soon she grew uncomfortable by his gaze.
"Does it look that bad?" she asked over one shoulder, worried that he had ruined her hair. Her question seemed to amuse him and he shook his head.
"No. If I hadn't known your original hair color, I would say you were made for black hair," he gave a small chuckle and handed her a small, handheld mirror. It was cracked and warped, but it would do. When she saw her hair she gasped. It was as if she was another person. The hair on her head was jet black and without any trace of the auburn it used to be.
"Seven hells," she breathed, turning her head this way and that. It wasn't a look she was used to, but it wasn't bad. "My own mother wouldn't recognize me," she murmured in awe as she looked back at him and he nodded his approval.
"I believe that is the point, little crow," he teased and she flung the towel at him. He batted it aside easily with a short barking laugh, and then was at her side. His lips descended on her neck and he took one breast in each hand. All the sad thoughts fled from her mind as he walked her towards the bed, his lips still hot on her neck. She surrendered to him quickly, eager to lose herself in his embrace.
