"Many of the commons from along the White Knife and those men and soldiers loyal to Lady Hornwood fled to White Harbor when Bolton's bastard took the castle and declared himself lord," the Blackfish sneered as he spoke of the reviled Ramsay Snow, legitimized by the Lannisters so that Roose Bolton may have an heir. "They sought the protection of House Manderly," he continued.
"'Defender of the Dispossessed'," Sansa recited, remembering that it was one of Lord Wyman Manderly's many titles.
"Indeed he is, Sansa," the Blackfish agreed, "but he also has seen that they were trained and armed and they are now prepared to march on Hornwood to secure it as a stronghold from which to attack the Dreadfort. It is reputedly only thinly garrisoned: the Boltons have been retreating further into their lands and taking any supplies, provisions and even commons with them, claiming they are protecting them when they are in truth simply taking hostages."
Sansa set her mouth grimly. "Damnable…" she paused, "what can he be exactly, great-uncle? Not a man surely."
Blackfish Tully looked at her regretfully. "I don't know, child; but neither he nor his father will surrender easily."
Sansa paused now to look out the window of the walkway overlooking the yard where she and her great-uncle had been heading from the keep to the armory. She smiled faintly to see Sandor leading the training and her army looking strong and ready for battle. She turned to look confidently at the Blackfish.
"Nor will we, Great-uncle," she pronounced with conviction.
He nodded curtly. "If Manderly's men take Hornwood and he keeps it supplied by boats along the White Knife, we will be able to withstand them easily, at least far more easily than if we were marching from Winterfell to the Dreadfort. What is it, child?" he asked when he saw her hesitate to speak next.
"I…I would go with you to Hornwood, great-uncle, but I promised Rickon that I would not leave him; and there must always be a Stark in Winterfell-"
"No one expects you to go to Hornwood, Sansa: it is far too dangerous," he reassured her in his smokey voice.
I want to be with Sandor. "Is it less dangerous to stay here without an army? I am told the bastard is quite…determined to have me captured," she shivered to think of his terrible intentions for her.
"Manderly's forces will mean we can leave a bigger guard with you and Rickon; and the wildlings who have found their way here will defend you for sheltering them. We needs not fear they would support the Boltons or Freys: even savages have a rudimentary kind of honor that looks down upon those who violate guest rights."
"Squirrel is fond of telling them the Starks have wildling blood, though I rather think they respect strength and bravery more than blood, Great-uncle," she told him wryly.
"You have that, Sansa: you simply have a different way of showing it. They respect you," he smiled, "and if they don't then make use that damnable sharp dagger Clegane gave you."
Sansa looked out into the yard again. "Thank you, Great-uncle Brynden: mayhaps I will heed your advice."
She smiled at him when he raised his heavy grey brows and he chuckled mildly, believing that she meant it in jest. But as she leaned further out over the ledge of the window, her hands dug into the wooden frame as she seethed with jealous anger. The object of her contained fury stood at the edge of the yard, watching the men train. No, not the men: just Sandor.
Sansa had never objected to the wildling women watching the training, though they should have been working. She knew how much they admired strength in a man and that this was how they chose their mates: they were free with themselves and so she disregarded that they took men to their beds as long as there were no fights or rivalries. Sansa was happy to let Sandor and the Blackfish deal with disciplining the soldiers and tradesmen in such matters.
Though Sandor came to her bed when he could, he had been far too busy with the training and planning the march to Hornwood and the Dreadfort to give her the time and love she craved. When he did not sneak into her chamber for over six days, she did not think it unseemly; though she could not always help looking at him searchingly if he should walk past her or stand at the hearth in her father's solar when the lords assembled to discuss plans and strategies. Finally one morning Osha came to her chamber to help her dress and to speak with her.
"It's about yer sworn shield, m'lady," the wildling woman began.
Sansa could not help looking around as Osha tied the laces of her gown. "Sandor Clegane?"
"Aye, m'lady: e's a lot on 'is mind, that one, wit' the war and all and bein' yer own man-like," she described him without insinuation though Sansa felt a sharp sense of caution at her words.
"Indeed, Osha: all the lords and commanders have much to concern themselves with-"
"Aye, m'lady," she continued patiently, "but not all thems got a nekkid wildlin' tryin' te gets in bed wit'em. Squirrel'd be a pushy one, she be; an' I figures 'e don't need no distractin' about now."
Sansa's heart and stomach clenched as she turned slowly to face Osha. The wildling woman still held the same bland look upon her face.
"Course it be nuthin' te me, m'lady, but e's yer shield an' all…an' we knows yer te be pr'tected strong 'gainst Bolton's bastard. Man canna be watchin' fer ye and 'is own parts at one time now, can 'e?"
The wilding women favour fierce men; they would not think bedding one a distraction to him. She knows, Sansa realized, and she is keeping our secret for us. "Perhaps you are right, Osha," she forced herself to reply calmly. "I will consider what you have told me. I thank you for your concern."
Osha nodded. "I'll go find the lit'l lord now, m'lady. 'E misses 'is trainin' so's I said I'd show 'im to use a spear te fights."
Sansa hesitated until the woman reached the door. "Osha?"
"Aye, m'lady?"
"Osha, I…I cannot begin to tell you how very grateful and indebted I am for how you have cared for Rickon-"
"Ye thanked me many a'time. m'lady," she replied evenly.
"Yes, I guess I have…" Sansa stopped, feeling inadequate. "I guess, I mean..I. hope if there is anything I may do for you-" The hard-faced woman was uncomplaining and devoted to Rickon, having saved him and Bran from the sack of Winterfell.
"Once you've won the North, m'lady, be ready te fight th'Others," she stated bluntly, "that's all I'd ever ask of ye'."
Sansa watched her leave and then crouched by her bed to retrieve her dagger from underneath her mattress. She no longer wore it strapped inside her boot but in a leather sheath on a belt. It had belonged to the boy she had sat with as her died and, after hearing of the threats made against her by Ramsay Bolton, she wore it openly with the approval of her lords at Winterfell. The Greatjon had tested her grip. Galbert Glover had offered to have his squire hone it for her, though she suspected that he intended to do it himself. She had thanked him and instead asked for him to show her how to do it herself, though Sandor had already taught her. Squirrel had smirked.
"Lady got no business wit' a weapon lessen she's fixin te use it," she had commented to a young girl in the kitchen, loud enough for Sansa to hear her.
The same girl was with Squirrel in the kitchen now as Sansa entered quietly. The girl looked pale and weak and Sansa worried that the girl was not getting enough to eat. They had all been on even shorter rations to save stores for the soldiers' upcoming march east. She hoped that instead, the young girl simply had her moon's blood again. When the waif looked up, Sansa simply tipped her head towards the door. The girl understood and left obediently. Squirrel had noticed and now stood with a look of amused condescension.
"Are ye lookin' te speaks wit' me then, girl? I canna make more food outta less, can I then?" she challenged.
"No, Squirrel: you are managing very well with the rationing," Sansa replied smoothly.
"What yer be needin' me fer then?"
Once Sansa was closer she drew her blade and shoved the point under Squirrel's chin as her free hand reached to grab a fistful of the wildling's loose hair. Squirrel's eyes widened in shock and Sansa pushed her to her knees and drove her own knee into the woman's chest below her throat, knocking the wind from her lungs, and she placed the blade of her dagger along her neck.
Squirrel whimpered and shook her head. "Wha-wha-what've I done, girl?"
"My lady," Sansa corrected her. "I am the lady of Winterfell though I work alongside you, and you will respect me as I have respected you. You like to remind people that I have wildling blood and so here is your proof: I know how to use a dagger and I will fight for what is mine. Sandor Clegane is mine," she hissed as she pressed the blade closer. "If you should try again to make him yours, I swear by the old gods of the forest that you will die for it."
Squirrel barely shook her head, so afraid was she of moving and of being cut. "Don't…m'lady: I likes it here in yer father's castle. I'm sorry: 'e's a big man an' fierce as any "
Sansa let go of the wildling's hair and drew back her dagger. "Yes, he is; and he is mine. Is that clear, Squirrel?"
The woman remained on her knees. "Aye, m'lady: he be yours then."
"If you want to stay here then you must keep our secret, or I swear again that you will die by my hand," Sansa spoke low and precise so that the woman understood.
"I - I won't tell no ones, m'lady.."
Sansa nodded and sheathed her dagger before clasping her hands before her. "You may rise. I said you were managing well with the kitchen and I meant it sincerely. I am pleased that you wish to remain in Winterfell, as I am grateful for all of your very hard work, Squirrel."
Squirrel looked confused by the return of Sansa's gentle demeanor but she nodded nonetheless. She held her hand over her throat and eyed Sansa warily but Sansa merely backed away before turning and leaving.
When she entered the courtyard, Sansa saw that the soldiers had dispersed: most had gone into the Great Hall to seek the warmth of the hearths but Sansa felt too restless to join them. Her heart was pounding and she felt a sense of triumph and excitement. She turned around and wondered which way she would go now.
"The Blackfish and the Greatjon are in the hall, my lady," a young soldier told her when she saw her look about, "Lord Rickon is in the Keep with the maester, and Commander Clegane's gone to check his horse."
Sansa nodded her thanks and headed to the stables where she found Sandor brushing Stranger in the large rear stall that had once held Lord Stark's own courser. Many were offended at first until they quickly came to realize Stranger's mean temper and his habit of kicking and biting other horses as well as men. Sansa could hear Sandor talking to the beast in low and affectionate tones. She smiled.
"Sometimes I think you love him even more than me," she murmured once she determined that they were alone.
Sandor's mouth twitched into a smile as he kept brushing down his mount. "Sometimes I think he loves me more than you, little bird," he rasped hoarsely. He had been shouting commands all morning in the yard. "Do you miss nursing the soldiers: you're no longer dressed like a wench," he remarked.
"I am not needed this morning, and I am pleased that so many men have recovered. Do you miss wenching, Sandor?"
He turned and eyed her oddly. "I didn't wench, girl," he replied sharply, "I whored. And no: I don't miss it."
"Because you can have me; or because you can have wildlings?" she asked.
He stopped brushing his horse. "What's this nonsense, girl? If I wanted to play games, I would go back to the yard and draw my sword."
"Did you draw your sword with Squirrel?" She questioned him carefully now.
"So that's it. No, girl, I didn't draw my sworn...or unsheathe anything else I might thrust into her," he sneered. "I sent her away."
"Because she's a wildling?"
"Because she's not you," he blurted shortly. He furrowed his heavy brow in irritation and turned back to his courser.
Sansa's lips curled into a shy smile. "But I'm part wildling as well; have you not heard?" She walked further into the stall to stand behind him and rest her cheek against his broad back. "I am a lady…but I can act a wench, if it please you," she whispered.
"I know you can do, girl, but we were to keep this a secret. Off with you now, before someone finds us."
She wrapped her arms around his waist instead and slid her hands across his belly caressingly. "I miss you, Sandor. And you will be leaving so soon, within a turn. Would that I could go with you…"
"It's too dangerous. And so is what you're doing now if you don't stop it, girl."
Sansa stretched her slender hands and reached her fingers further down his belly.
He stopped and then threw down the brush and turned to pick her up under her arms before pressing her into the back wall of the stall. Her feet dangled above the straw and the smell of horseflesh and leather tack filled her senses almost as much as Sandor's sweat and warm skin when he pressed her harder into the rough boards with his body. Sansa began to pull up her skirts when suddenly she heard the door of the stable slam. Fearing they would be discovered, she ducked her face into Sandor's neck with a squeak of apprehension.
"Commander Clegane?" A soldier called.
"GET OUT!" Sandor's voice was hoarse and furious. "Get your own bloody wench! This one's mine!"
"Y-yes Com-m-mander," the man stammered and Sansa heard the sound of him bumping into walls and knocking over shovels and stumbling out the door. She gave a short giggle.
"Mine," Sandor repeated with a lusty growl.
"Yours," Sansa whispered softly as she kissed his neck.