06. Practicing Lies
Winterfell fell into a certain routine with its new guests over the next couple of days.
Jon handpicked several swordsmen—and a swordswoman—to begin training the younger abled bodies of the allied houses. Training would be performed in separate groups, each being taught in a different style by a different skilled fighter. When deemed by Jon to be well enough equipped, groups would face one another. The young were all very eager to learn how to use a sword properly and as a serious adult, and most hoped for the chance to impress Jon as he watched.
Some of the lords were still had skewed thoughts on some of Jon's new announcements. Girls too would be included in the new training schedule, and they couldn't get over the idea of putting a sword in their daughter or granddaughter, but were all too hard pressed to push their male offspring into the courtyard training areas.
Brienne offered to train the girls herself and help to make them understand they're just as capable of wielding a sword as any man. Jon had thought about her request, but he and Sansa came up with another, more uncomfortable arrangement. The girls would not be looked after by Brienne but by the most experienced and well-known men. Displeased with training girls or not, they would not let something like gender get a chance at putting a black mark on their reputation. Brienne would be in charge of those on the other end of the spectrum—young men who thought too highly of themselves. Sansa knew Brienne would be able to pound down their pride, and the woman made no complaint. The same could not be said for all those young men.
Some of that fatherly pride too wore off begrudgingly quick when sons stepped up to test their thought to be expert skills against Brienne.
Sansa watched the training session ensue one morning as she circled the grounds. Brienne was standing straight and tall, her sword in hand as she watched the young men rattle their brains on how best to attack her. Head on, loud and clumsy, and without real tactic was what they often decided upon. Each time, without fail, all but Brienne ended with their faces hitting the ground. The knight was unhurt and kept an even breath while each young swordsman rubbed new forming bruises as they took in frosty air through their panting mouths.
When Sansa came closer, Brienne bowed in her presences—something Sansa on more than one occasion explained she did not have to do each time. Sansa nodded in response. "How goes training?" She made sure her back was toward the boys to make their conversation a bit more private.
Brienne scowled. "And I thought Podrick needed work."
The two women turned around just to see a new face come stumbling forward with an arrogant strut that could be spotted from miles away. The handsome young man loosely grasped the hilt of his sword, letting the clearly new forged steel scrap against the muddied ground. Any smith would be cringing at such a sight. He seemed to miss the glares from Brienne or the sniggers from his nearby comrades who knew well his late arrival was not going to be rewarded. They all relished in the idea of someone else getting the heat of punishment. It was only when he was within their circle that Sansa realized it was the same young man who had been so loud and brash at the feast not more than two nights before.
"You're late, Kensey" Brienne stated, stepping away from Sansa and toward her pupil. He voice was low and irritated, but Sansa didn't know if it was from his late arrival or because he had bothered to show up at all.
"It's Lord Kensey to you," he snapped, half to Brienne, half to his peers, as if he couldn't be burdened to speak directly to her. The others continued to snigger. "If I remember correctly, knights answer to lords."
This was all as expected. Some of the men had troubles accepting girls being trained while some of the young couldn't fathom being instructed by one, it matters not how great she was. Both would quickly have to get over it.
Brienne ignored both comments and motioned for Kensey to raise his sword. He rolled his eyes, the mere challenge beneath him, but did so anyway. There was little need to watch, the outcome would be as all the others, still, Sansa viewed on. Brienne lunged forward.
"Big woman's got enough skill, I'll give her that."
A large figure was in the corner of Sansa's eye before she turned her head toward the low and raspy voice. It was as she remembered it to be and half expected to be reprimanded for some action she didn't realize was foolish. With his presence so close to Winterfell, she expected the opportunity for such a to arise eventually.
The Brotherhood Without Banners had taken up board in Winterfell for just over two days now, but Sansa had yet to exchange any words with Sandor Clegane. There was little to say. Or at the very least, little he'd like to hear. Gratitude was wasted on him. Acknowledging that he had been right was moot. As Sansa figured he didn't fancy any casual conversation with her, she kept silent until her chance of getting rubbed off passed. It seemed the moment had arrived.
As she glanced at him, she said, "Enough skill to take you down, so I heard."
"So you did, did you?" Clegane was not at all impressed with that response, being reminded of the fatal fight that tarnished his reputation in the eyes of all who knew. Sansa herself thought nothing of the defeat, but couldn't stop from giving a hitting blow. Brienne deserved her skill. "I'd like to see how she'd fair at another try."
Sansa found it amusing how put off he still was about it. "No infected bite now to blame should you lose."
"Sister tells you everything, huh?"
The idea of Arya sharing everything with Sansa was almost laughable. They barely allowed the two of them to stand-alone together. No matter what they had gone through over the years the two of them were still sisters with a strained past relationship. Sharing only the necessary was warranted at this point in time. Late night chats curled up in bed, swapping stories and giggling in each other's arms was not in their future.
"She tells me enough. Like how you tried to return her back to the family on more than one occasion."
They both continued to watch Brienne swing her sword with ease and mastery, trying to now teach rather than beat. It didn't look as if her words were sticking. Some of the other men often watched Brienne's display, chuckling when their young lords gained nothing but bumps and scrapes. Unsurprisingly, Tormund stood and gawked from nearby, eyeing Brienne and smiling as he almost always did when she was around. He looked as if he wished to jump in before her and join the fun.
"Tried to get rid of her is more like it," Clegane grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. The cloth of his dirty white tunic crumpled. "Girl tell you she left me dying on the side of a cliff, too? No thanks to your blonde woman there."
Sansa nodded once. "She has her list, you know. She spoke of it briefly. You were on it once, for the butcher's boy, and she fully intended to cross your name off her list when she ran into you again."
He said nothing. He wouldn't feel guilty over the death of the young; Sansa knew that for he had done what he was bid.
"She hasn't said exactly why she left you there—alive—instead of blacking out your name, but I think that was as close to forgiveness as she could be capable of."
He scuffed, "I didn't need her damn forgiveness. I didn't want it. What I wanted was a blade to the heart."
When Brienne told Sansa the story of how she crossed paths with Arya and the Hound, Sansa didn't really have time to stop and think what it all meant. Between escaping the Boltons, learning that Arya was still alive, and meeting Jon at the Wall, the realization that many thought the Hound dead didn't hit her as hard as she expected it to. It wasn't until Arya returned that she was given full extent of his prior injuries. A blade to the heart was the last thing Sansa wanted.
"I can gather Arya's at least a tiny bit pleased you're well, of course, she won't admit it." Sansa revealed nothing as she prepared to continue, "but I will." She didn't feel the need to explain further.
Sandor Clegane glanced at her, arms still crossed in defiance and a brutish mood, but his expression was one degree softer—if only for a moment.
"I expect I should thank you for the things you've done for both Arya and myself in the past, but I don't particularly want to be barked at for it."
Sandor didn't really let off a chuckle—he didn't find much amusing to warrant that—but his chortle was rough and stuck in the throat. Had Sansa not known the man standing beside her, she might have caught herself wondering if he was choking on his own expression. "Little bird's finally leaving behind the false courtesies and lies. About damn time."
The harsh words and mocking manner did nothing against Sansa's nerves as they would have at one time, instead, what picked at her was the name of endearment and taunting that only he used for her. Sansa thought hard about the last time she had heard the nickname, and her mind shot her back into a night of crimson blood and green flames.
No, little bird, I won't hurt you.
She had all but forgotten the name the Hound so often called her in King's Landing between mean comments and hard realizations. Although he was more so the same man, Sansa hadn't expected this Sandor Clegane to continue on as the Hound. The name so many knew him by was dead, pushed aside when he broke his loyalty to the crown. Sansa still found "Sandor" off and unfamiliar on the tip of her tongue, but the idea that he wouldn't want to address her with her true name was surprising. But it shouldn't have been. He only knew her as a stupid child, one with no power or control, no strong voice or true opinion, and no ability to help herself.
It would need to be brought to his attention that things had shifted.
Turning around, the echoing clang of swords now at her back, Sansa said, "I've noticed that none call you 'the Hound' anymore."
Clegane said nothing once again, always deciding to pick and choose very sparingly what he replied back on. But he was looking at her. Waiting. It wasn't an intense gaze of full curiosity. It was just a look. However, she was not looking at him, as it had always been between them.
"Perhaps we've changed too much," Sansa explained as she moved her head upward, tearing her gaze from the many unimportant objects that lay around the courtyard, and settled on Sandor's face. The first step in crossing the threshold, "to keep hold of the old names that bind us to old selves."
It was almost a surreal moment for Sansa, locking gaze with Sandor Clegane after spending so much time in his company trying not to stare or embarrass him. She had done so trying to be polite, no matter what he thought. His scars marked him in more way than one, and it wasn't hard to notice that he didn't want to be known by them alone. A true lady would not notice his face. But she had it all wrong. Looking away offended him more than anything else—especially when it came to her it seemed. She wouldn't shy away anymore. There was no reason for it.
He looked like he wanted to say something, but whatever it was, nothing came out of his mouth. For so long he had fought for the young woman's gaze, once so innocent and hopeful then scared and beaten, but Sandor couldn't prepare himself when Sansa's eyes bore into his. There was still a sadness there with echoes of a past self-imprisoned and a kindness that brought back images of her former, naïve self, but there were remnants of something new. A hard, sharp edge identical to the ice she had been born and raised in lie present within her with a fierce fire like of which the gods had touched her with at birth. It all lay simmering underneath.
Few acknowledged this about Sansa now—the Stark girl included most of the time.
Sansa took his continuous silence as an end to their conversation—there was only so much she could say on her end. After Sandor had initially fled from King's Landing, she wondered what a reunion might look like. This wasn't it. Laughter almost rose from her gut. What had her younger self-imagined? That the scary guard dog of her sadistic betrothed would come back to the hellhole that was King's Landing and insists that she go away with him? Not taking no for an answer? Even Sansa wasn't ignorant enough to expect that kind of heroics from this man. She had said no to his offer and he had accepted it. That was her mistake—one of many she'd make.
Their gaze was only seconds long, but it seemed to feel much longer. Sansa looked away first, taking a few steps forward. The snow crunched under her feet and grasped at the dark grey hem of her dress. She glanced back at Sandor, still unable to believe that he was, in fact, a real presence beside her. So few from life before were still around. "Still, I'll miss the Hound. He told me hard truths when there were so many liars."
"And all of them better than you," Sandor finally spoke, repeating words he had struck her with after she tried to thank him for actions in the King Landing's riot.
"True." Sansa nodded as she began to walk away. Training was coming to an end, and she could do with a warm bath to thaw her chilled bones. "But I'm slowly getting better."