"I won't be very good." Sansa warned him and he thought of all the times in the Red Keep he'd watched her be humiliated and beaten, when he'd wished that she could defend herself or that he would be brave enough to raise his sword for her. Now he could, and this was just another way to make up to her all his past wrongs.
"No one is when they begin." He picked up a wooden sword one of the boys had left behind after sparring. "But if someone gets close enough for you to use these, you'll be better for knowing how to use them, and well."
"What if I hurt you?" She eyed the wooden sword and he chuckled, that idea entertaining him at the very least.
"Then I'll be very proud of you." He raised the sword. "Now, grab the blade."
"Which one?" Sansa glanced down at herself, with a rueful twitch of her mouth. "I'm practically covered."
Occasionally he had a moment of down time, and he would spend it sharpening and cleaning his weapons. He knew what was coming, and he wanted to be ready. As impressive as Arya's fighting skills were, he didn't think even she understood what was coming for them. Then there was Sansa, who had teeth like a wolf, but kept them hidden. He worried over their safety, even Arya's. He didn't want to leave Sansa to go face the dead, but it was a better choice than seeing her have to face them. He was talking towards the training yard to see if he could find a war hammer like Gendry's to train with when a voice stopped him.
"I am NOT learning a bow!" Sansa's voice was firm and he paused in his walk through the courtyard to backtrack. Sansa was standing in front of Arya, hands on her hips, glaring down at her younger sister, who sighed heavily.
"Well, you're going to need to learn to fight at some point." Arya argued back, matter-of-factly. "If they come, you need to be able to protect yourself. Since you don't like getting up close and personal, bow. It keeps you back at a distance, it keeps you removed, and it can keep you safe!"
"I am not." Sansa repeated, her voice cutting like the winter wind through the courtyard. Her hands were balled into fists at her side, her back straight and stiff. She had panic flittering in her eyes, he noticed with growing concern. He stopped, looking at the two girls and when Sansa looked up, her eyes went wide. Arya, after a beat, turned and spotted him. Sansa looked like she was trapped, while Arya seemed delighted to have found an ally in her campaign. He took a step closer.
"Tell Sansa she needs to learn to fight." Arya ordered promptly and he cocked his head, his gaze on Sansa, who went red.
"Fine, I'll learn to fight. But not with a bow." Sansa glared at her sister.
"Oh, what then, a sword?" Arya made a face. "You'd never figure it out fast enough. You're a lady, not a swordsman."
"I'm not a fighter." Sansa remained firm.
"Aye, you're not." He muttered and both girls glanced at him, Sansa surprised and Arya confused. "But you have to protect yourself." He thought of what was coming. He thought of Cersei, crazy and desperate. He thought of his brother, and that made him set his jaw and decide. She had to learn something.
"Fine." Sansa folded her arms and her chin jutted out. It made her seem adorably childlike. "But not with a bow."
"Why not?" Arya demanded loudly and he turned to her with a frown.
"Go to my room. Top drawer has a box, bring it to me." He ordered and for a second, it looked as if she was going to protest being bossed around in her own home. His narrowed eyes made her think better of it and she was gone.
"What's in the box?" Sansa questioned suspiciously.
"Not a bow and arrows." He folded his arms, staring down at her with a skeptical eye. "Why won't you learn?"
"I don't want to." Sansa's eye flashed. "And you can't make me."
"Aye," He agreed. "But when the dead come, you'll want to be able to protect yourself. And I want you to know how." He didn't have to say any more. He noticed that she started at that, looking up with big eyes, but he just clenched his jaw to keep the rest of the words in and tried to come off as intimidating.
"That's why I have you." Sansa reminded him with a sly smile, but he resisted the urge to smile back. The words made him want to throw himself off the high walls, but all he could think now was the deal, ripping into her pretty white skin, and those blue eyes, Tully blue, turned to the evil blue shade, forever dead. He wanted to shudder.
"And if I fall?"
"You won't." Sansa sat down on a crate heavily, looking down at her hands in their gloves. "You can't."
"I can, and I have." He reached up and felt where Brienne had bit him. It still ached with a phantom pain, now and then.
"I won't learn it." Sansa watched as the snow swirled in the corners. Her voice, though quiet, was absolutely firm. Unyielding steel, with no words for false courtesies, no pleases or thank yous. He wanted to smile.
"Alright." He agreed easily and Sansa glanced at him, a little taken aback.
"And you're not going to force me?" She questioned him in disbelief, blinking as though this was a trick.
"No," He shrugged. "You don't refuse to do things for the sake of being a stubborn... Girl. You're not your little wolf-bitch of a sister. If you don't want to learn, it's for a fucking reason, and most likely a good one."
"Oh." Sansa stopped, then looked down at her hands in her lap, slowly interlacing her fingers. He was quiet with her, letting the snow fall in slow, lazy flakes around them, the clash of wood and steel echoing loudly enough he almost missed her next words. "Aren't you going to ask me why?"
"Do you want me to?" He turned to look at her and she didn't look away. She held his gaze, both eyes, without hesitation.
"Her name was Myranda." She began quietly. "She loved him, and I think he loved her back, in the way he was able to love. But he would take her… Hunting. And she liked it. She liked it like he did. And she would use a bow and arrow. Every time I see it, I think of him and her… Them, together. How many people saw that before they died? I don't want to become like her. I don't want to enjoy killing, ever." Sansa shuddered and he went to pat her hand before remembering where they sat— out in full view of everyone.
"You're not her." He told her softly, the only thing he could do. There were so many other words he wanted to say, explain to her exactly how she was different from this Myranda, and from Cersei, and from the dragon queen, and from every other woman in the realm, the world. But he couldn't.
"No, but I'm not me, not anymore." Sansa looked at her fingers and he was alarmed to see that they were trembling. Damning whoever judged them, he took them in his own. "That's what he said. He's a part of me now."
"Who are you?" He demanded roughly, repulsed by the idea that Ramsey Bolton ever thought he could hold a candle to Sansa Stark and she looked up at him, slightly alarmed.
"I'm Sansa."
"No, who are you?" He took both her small hands in his and squeezed, feeling how small and warm and breakable she was. It sent a thrill of protectiveness through him and he knew if he couldn't kill the bastard, he could at least show her the way that he saw her. Even if it was in his harsh, crude way.
"Sansa."
"Who are you, girl?"
"I'm Sansa, I don't—"
"Sansa who?"
"Sansa, Sansa Stark."
"Sansa Stark, who cares?"
"I'm Sansa, of house Stark." Her eyes were flashing and he was suddenly seized with the urge to kiss her with a matching passion. "I'm the Wardeness of the North, the eldest daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark, the daughter of Winterfell."
"Aye, you are." He let go of her hands as though he'd been burned. "And he's nothing, anymore. Remember that."
"Sandor, I—" She started, but then Arya arrived, carrying a box on her hip. Both he and Sansa looked up at her. If Arya was surprised to see them sitting so close together, odd expressions on their faces, she didn't make a comment.
"This what you wanted?" She asked him, setting it down.
"Aye." He turned away from Sansa to dig in it. It was easier to hide his expressions that way, and he could never breathe properly around her.
"What is it?" Arya peered around his shoulder, trying to see, stretching on her toes. He would've chuckled if his mood hadn't turned so sour. She was still the annoying little shit she'd been before, curious to a fault.
"Weapons." He muttered and out of the corner of his eye he saw that Sansa went rigid, while Arya looked intrigued.
"I don't want to—" Sansa began her protest in earnest again.
"Here." He offered Sansa a range of smaller daggers and she fell silent, looking between him and them with an expression that quickly switched from betrayal to apprehension as she took in the steel.
"Oh, this one is—" Arya pointed to one but he knocked her hand away and she shot him a look of annoyance.
"Her weapons, her pick." He said firmly and Arya huffed and rolled her eyes, letting her hand fall. But then after a moment her attention was diverted to the box that still contained a variety of small weapons he'd accumulated gambling and betting in Kings Landing and elsewhere. She was quickly distracted.
"I don't know." Sansa glanced at her sister's back, then up at him with a stubborn set to her jaw. "Let her pick, she knows."
"No." He said flatly. "Your weapons, your pick."
"I don't know how to tell which is which!" Sansa protested and he set them down, slowly settling his emotions. This was familiar territory. This he knew. This wasn't tender expressions and the giving of favors and other courtly nonsense. This was steel and death and Sandor Clegane was home here.
"Roll up your dress sleeves." He ordered and she looked at him, astonished.
"What?"
"They attach to your wrists and forearms." Arya explained without looking up, still examining the items in the box.
"If they feel comfortable, they're yours." He said, a bit gentler. "But you have to pick them." He omitted the fact that just thinking about her covered in his weapons, things he had once owned, gave him a sort of queasy feeling in the stomach.
"Why daggers?" Sansa asked him, as she pulled off her gloves and tossed them aside, unbuttoning the sleeves of her dress.
"Little birds don't swing swords." He muttered, selecting the most delicate of the blades. "They peck." Sansa's lips turned up at that and then she offered him her pale, thin wrist. He eyed it, then carefully set the knife against her skin, handle where it could be hidden by the dress but easily accessible. Sansa watched, silent.
One on her wrist, smaller and lighter. Another against her forearm, a little bigger and sturdier. Then he offered her a long one in a supple leather case and Sansa tilted her head, inspecting it, spinning it with her long, thin fingers.
"This one won't fit on my arms." She remarked.
"Not supposed to." Arya informed her, from where she was playing with throwing stars she'd found. He glared at her and she grinned, throwing one with all her might at the wall. It stuck, vibrating slightly.
"Where then?" Sansa asked, glancing up at him. It didn't take him more than a second to see the trusting nature in her eyes and for it to cause his spin to straighten up a little more, a little surprised at his reaction.
"Leg." He grunted and turned.
"How will I know how to fasten it?" Sansa questioned and he stayed quiet, face flaming, sure that if he turned around and she had her skirt up to show off her legs, he'd have a damn heart attack.
"I'll do it." Arya was smirking in a way he didn't like, passing him and going to her sister. "Watch, so you learn."
"Alright," Sansa said finally, when Arya was done and he turned back around, finding Sansa standing there and trying to appear as though wicked thoughts hadn't been running through his mind a moment ago. "Now what?"
"This, small of your back." He handed her yet another dagger. He wanted her to be encased in full armor, if that would keep her safe. He wanted her to always be safe, because he knew that he would have to leave her. It would have to happen and he would be damned if he didn't leave her able to protect herself.
"How?" Sansa frowned.
"Here." Arya demonstrated how Sansa could tuck it into the vest she wore over her dress until it was neatly hidden.
"Gods, where else am I going to put one?" Sansa demanded.
"Sew a pocket in your cloak." He advised thoughtfully, thinking of all the other ways to arm her, and Sansa gave him a look of disbelief. "Or several."
"Wonderful." She scowled at both of them. "Now I'm the most-armed person in Winterfell, and I have absolutely no idea how to use them!"
"I could teach you." Arya offered.
"No." Sansa turned her down quickly. "You'll just keep beating me, because you can. I won't ever learn."
"So you want to go learn with the other ten year olds?" Arya raised an eyebrow. "And get beaten by Lyanna?"
"No shame in that." Sansa's lips quivered with withheld amusement. "She'll beat you one day I bet."
"I hope." Arya grinned. "Who then?"
"They're my weapons, I'll teach her." He muttered, cursing how his heart leapt at the excuse to spend time with Sansa, one on one, the two of them training, and both girls had expressions of varying surprise. Arya had an expression he did not trust. "Besides, if she cuts me, if won't hurt my looks any worse."
"If I cut you?" Sansa looked appalled, for once showing the delicate lady sensibilities that she still had.
"Only if you get very, very good." Arya grinned at her sister, then glanced at him. "Can I keep the stars?"
"No." He grunted, still distracted by berating himself for opening his mouth. This was only going to end in disaster, he just wasn't sure how yet. "Tell Jon to carve you some from dragon glass and get your own."
"Fine." Arya departed, tossing all but one of the stars back in the box. She sauntered away and he sighed and turned to Sansa, who was absentmindedly stroking the daggers, watching her sister leave.
"I can't accept these." She said anxiously, once Arya was out of earshot, turning to look up at him. "They're yours."
"Aye, they are." He agreed, refusing to let him get distracted to think about her wearing things of his. Things that would mark her as his. That route, at least, only ended in pain. "And once you get good enough to warrant a set of your own, I'll take them back. For now, you wear them, and practice."
"I won't be very good." Sansa warned him and he thought of all the times in the Red Keep he'd watched her be humiliated and beaten, when he'd wished that she could defend herself or that he would be brave enough to raise his sword for her. Now he could, and this was just another way to make up to her all his past wrongs.
"No one is when they begin." He picked up a wooden sword one of the boys had left behind after sparring. "But if someone gets close enough for you to use these, you'll be better for knowing how to use them, and well."
"What if I hurt you?" She eyed the wooden sword and he chuckled, that idea entertaining him at the very least.
"Then I'll be very proud of you." He raised the sword. "Now, grab the blade."
"Which one?" Sansa glanced down at herself, with a rueful twitch of her mouth. "I'm practically covered."
"What feels natural?" He asked, falling into the role of training master with ease and she let out an exasperated sigh.
"None?"
"Alright." He lunged forward and Sansa darted out of the way, drawing the longer blade from her wrist and holding it out, eyes wide. "Good," He took a step back and lowered the sword. "That one isn't the biggest, but it's sturdy."
"The one on my leg is bigger." Sansa was trembling, head to toe, but her voice was steady. "Should I go for that one?"
"No." He shook his head, surprised at her question. "That takes too much time. You keep that one hidden. Never let them know how many you have. They'll think they've disarmed you, and you'll keep coming."
"So I use this one." Sansa wiggled the one she still held out. "Until?"
"Until—" He did another lunge and wrenched it from her grasp, holding that hand tightly. It was easier to shut out how his whole body thrummed at the contact of hers when he was training her. "You get disarmed."
"Then what?" Sansa stared up at him, eyes so blue, warm breath frosting in the air in front of them.
"You tell me." He looked down at her. She paused for a beat, then drew the one from the small of her back a little clumsily, but with enough grace to hide that she was a novice. He appraised her choice for a moment before nodding approvingly. "Good. That one is still big, and you don't want to give away your other wrist yet. Use that one last. It's smallest, but it doesn't mean you can't do damage."
"So how do I get the one on my leg without you chopping my head off?" Sansa questioned and he was proud of her for realizing that.
"Don't wear fucking thick skirts." He remarked crassly because he could and she rolled her eyes.
"It's winter."
"Aye," He let her wrist go and took a step back. "And they're a hindrance." The thought of her without skirts made him flush.
"They're warm." Sansa held out the dagger. "Disarm me again."
"Alright, then see what you can do to grab the boot knife." He ordered, pleased she was taking such a shine to it, and she nodded.
He disarmed her and when she ducked to grab the knife, he touched the sword gently to the back of her neck. She froze and when he removed it, came up scowling at him. He gave her a shrug.
"How do I do it then?" She demanded, frustrated.
"We'll get there." He promised. "But we start at the basics. Show me how you hold them." He gathered the daggers from where they'd fallen in the snow. Sansa sheathed the one in her back, then held onto the one from her forearm.
"Is this right?" She asked him and he inspected it, then carefully placed his hand over hers, startled at the contrast of their skin, how rough his was in comparison to the delicate softness of her.
"Like this." He murmured, adjusting her grip.
They worked on mastering the grip, how to tie them to herself, on drawing them, and quickly. Sansa was mostly quiet, letting him direct her, not protesting. But once she knew how to draw them, hold them, and conceal them with mostly ease, he nodded and set the wooden sword aside.
"Is that all?" Sansa looked at him in surprise.
"Aye." He told her, gathering up his box, noting what else Arya had stolen and what he'd have to track down later. She was a sly little shit, he noted with what might be called fondness, not that he would ever admit to it.
"I still can't use them!" Sansa protested quickly, going to his side. "I'll cut someone, and it'll likely be me!"
"No, it won't." He turned, looking down at her, clad in her winter dress, a hint of panic in her eyes as she unsurely felt the blades now pressed to her. "No one's going to get close to you, at least not yet. It's enough for today. Wear them, get comfortable. Practice drawing them, if you get bored. We can practice more tomorrow."
"Gods." Sansa rubbed her temples gently, eyes scrunched shut. "I never thought I'd be doing this. I'm not Arya."
"No, you're a Stark." He said firmly and Sansa looked up at him. "And your father was a great fighter. Your mother too in her own way, from what I heard. You can lead and guide, Sansa. You can fight too." It was as sweet a statement as he could make.
"I won't be any good." She looked down, dejected and he caught her chin, making her look up at him.
"You will. Give it time and patience." He looked down at her pale face, those sharp cheekbones and ocean of eyes. He wanted to add that he would make her into a wonderful fighter, that he would protect her until then, that he would do everything in his power to make sure she was never hurt again.
"Alright." She looked up him with wide eyes. He took in her face, then gave her a curt nod and strode away.
"So, how is she?" Arya fell in step with him as he climbed the stairs. He was already unsettled by Sansa, and he scowled at her nosy little sister.
"She's a lady." He said darkly. "She shouldn't be covered daggers."
"I would've laughed, if you would've told me that one day Sandor Clegane would be teaching my sister Sansa daggers." Arya mused. "It's a strange world."
"Find her a better teacher." He ordered, getting angrier with each step. "Someone her size, who can show her."
"What, and wait for Brienne to get back?" Arya frowned. "You're the best teacher we have here, and I bet the only one Sansa will care to learn from. I doubt she'll let anyone else fight her."
"I won't fight her." He grumbled, ignoring the desire to turn and question to short girl about what the hell her words meant.
"Teach her then." Arya glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "Then you can't complain if someone didn't do a good enough job."
"I don't teach ladies to fight." He retorted.
"You taught me." Arya stopped him. "She's only going to want you, trust me." Her expression was carefully blank.
"What, she'll want my ugly mug training her every day?" He glared daggers fiercely at her. "Unlikely."
"Well, your daggers, your training." Arya smirked and left, leaving him at a loss for words so he growled and went for his room to sit in a black silence and ponder just what she meant and what he was going to do.
The next morning, Sansa met him back in the training yard. Around her she wore her thick cloak and he stopped in his tracks, thinking that it fit her differently this time. She smiled and spread her arms wide, showing him that she'd done as he suggested, and sewed a strap that held a dagger amidst it's folds.
"Where'd you take it from?" He questioned, struggling hard to keep the note of pride from his voice.
"My back." Sansa informed him, letting the cloak fall off her, exposing her tight winter dress. "It hurt to sit with it."
"I'll find a smaller one for there then." He decided, trying to think of what daggers he had that would be acceptable for her size.
"Do I really need so many daggers on me?" Sansa muttered.
"Oh, and how many do you think will get knocked out of your hands?" He gave her a stern look and she was silent, but her pretty lips pressed together in what might be called a pout. It made him want to kiss her. "If you won't learn bow or sword, you best learn daggers and learn them well."
"If my father could see me now." Sansa dropped her cloak and squared her shoulders, becoming the Wardenness of the North, daughter of Ned Stark, once again. "Alright, teach me then."
"Stop me." He ordered, then stepped towards her. Sansa drew her first dagger and tried to press it to his throat. "No, like this." He stopped and showed her. "There, try again. You've got the reach. Use it."
"Why don't you have the sword today?" Sansa questioned him suddenly and he raised an eyebrow, smiling at her bluntness inwardly while schooling his features outwardly in his customary snarl.
"Learn hand to hand. Then I'll teach you how to disarm someone else with a dagger and stop losing your own. And if that doesn't take us through the entire winter, then maybe we can see if you can handle a sword." He informed her a bit harshly, then stopped. He'd spoken to her like she was some green recruit he had to train up, completely forgetting that she was a lady and the only reason she was learning any of this was because there was a chance that they were all going to die shortly. She looked at him, offended, so he back-tracked with, "My lady, I didn't mean—"
"If I learn hand to hand by the end of this winter, I'll be proud of myself." She said critically and he relaxed. She was stronger than he remembered, he had to keep telling himself that. She was stronger than a fragile little bird—wolves always were.
"You will, I'll see to it. Now let's go again— I'll go slow, and you stop me."
AN: Ok, thank you for reading and reviewing, please leave comments on your way out, tell me what you liked, what made you laugh, what you want to see, the whole nine yards. Y'all are glorious.