14. Sword Play

The training that took place around the grounds lessened more and more as weeks went by without Jon. He was no longer overhead with his watchful eye, so few figured they had anyone around who needed to be impressed. Not surprisingly enough, Brienne was one of the few ensuring that her pupils didn't lack in daily physical movement. She never asked if the young men under her teachings wanted to stop, and if they did, they never voiced their opinions to her. However, they boldly complained to each other.

Sansa overheard the Kensey boy boasting to his friends one mild day in the north. He beamed as he spoke, showcasing white teeth and a charming boyish smile. A hand ran through his brown locks of hair as the wind rustled it about, boasting how easily he could overpower Brienne if he wanted to. To think he had the type of physical appearance Sansa would have swooned over years ago. His hand lazily held his sword with a grip even Sansa knew would do him no good in combat. "She may look like a man, but a woman's a woman after all."

Brienne was yards away as always head to toe in armor, sitting on an old wooden stool as she sharpened her sword in a secluded corner. No doubt she still could sense the comments that were being pointed her way. She ignored their existence altogether, knowing that she'd soon have a chance to spank them with her steel like the children they were.

Sansa sauntered up to Brienne, glancing over to the young man and his entourage. She gave a slight smirk. "I could always have them flogged, you know?"

Brienne's hand stopped stroking her sword with a whetstone to glare at Sansa with piercing blue eyes. This spot was darker than rest, shielded from the light by turrets and walls, but that didn't change the ability to read Brienne's face. It was meant to be a joke, though she didn't seem as amused at the idea.

"Fine. Have them streak naked around the front gate then? It's been boring around here and we could all use a good show."

The glare did not falter.

Sansa smiled to herself. It didn't surprise her Brienne refused to stoop to such low and childish tactics. Still, even Sansa thought it humorous, and necessary, to knock the boys down a few pegs. Words wouldn't do them any good - they would only talk their way out of it - it was only by brute strength that individuals like these would start to show some real respect. And it was an act long past due.

"Let them say what they want," Brienna finally said, going back to her sword as if nothing were wrong. The whetstone was placed on a nearby snow-covered wooden crate. Its job was done. She lifted the steel in the air and turned it from side to side, admiring the sheen. So polished you could see your reflection in it. Should one look hard enough, they might be able to see their souls burning in their eyes. The blade didn't have to be touched by flesh to know that it could make it bleed crimson with ease. "It doesn't hinder my swing."

"I don't doubt that. Where's Podrick? Thought he was turning into your best student." Sansa didn't have much contact with the young squire turned warrior, but she admired him still. He had several good, honorable qualities so many others, herself included, unfortunately, lacked.

It was Brienne's turn to smirk as she scoffed, clearly remembering something humorous. "Pod's getting better with his sword, true enough, but the same can't be said for holding his alcohol." The two women chuckled together, but something caused one of them to subside.

A large and dark figure moved around the edge of the courtyard, barely visible out the corner of her eye. Sansa glanced passed the group of young lords to better set Sandor Clegane in her field of vision. His physical appearance was no different than it was the day before or the day before that. He continued to opt for the same dull and dingy grey cloak to keep him warm from the winds and tattered black boots to shield his feet from freezing off. His shirts were thinning and his trousers were fading, holding together with nothing more than sheer will and a collection of stitches. Sooner rather than later, they'd fall off him completely. She half thought to gift him a new wardrobe but thought the better of it rather quickly. He'd surely reject. Still, Sansa watched him. All thoughts of Podrick Payne were gone.

Sensing a shift in her lady's attention, Brienne followed the girl's gaze. Her expression changed little as she watched Sandor, feeling rather indifferent about the man. Their long-ago fight over Arya had ended with her victory and he now posed little threat to the Stark family. It was clear he even enhanced their protection. The man hardly crossed her mind in reality. Although now her thoughts began to wander as she watched Sansa. "He's around you a lot nowadays. Or are you around him?"

"I'm not around anyone a lot. You should know I don't make for delightful company."

But Brienne knew just as well as Sansa that delight wasn't exactly what the former King's Guard was searching for. She also knew Sansa wasn't telling the whole truth. It was true Sansa found herself lacking in an abundant company, a choice she made herself. Arya was always lurking around in the shadows with her Needle and Bran spoke in riddles on the rare event he decided to participate in a conversation. Littlefinger would have found her company pleasant no doubt, and that was the exact reason she did her best to avoid him. But that didn't mean the company she did keep wasn't consistent with a single form ever-present. It was now more than ever since Sansa's outburst in the Great Hall. The man followed her with almost no hesitation. Little was thought of it at first. Who honestly thought he would go after the Stark girl? Him of all people. But now the two always gravitated toward each other one way or another. He'd complain about the weather. She'd strategies about Cersei. It all amounted to conversations of no real consequence. Or they'd say nothing as they stood watch over the courtyard or passed through the stables, one always watching from afar hoping the other, along with everybody else, didn't notice. Brienne noticed. There were stares she didn't quite understand and wasn't sure she wanted to.

Sandor continued working on his own, not yet realizing all the eyes on him. It wasn't just Sansa who he caught the eye of. The young lords had moved on from the woman who wanted to be a knight to the burned man who refused to be one. They did nothing to hide their whispers and snickers, probably thinking Sandor would do as Brienne would - ignore them. And he did. It was something new he began demonstrating.

"He used to be one of the most feared men alive," one of the boys said, a smug smile on his face as he went about explaining what he knew about the man once known as the Hound. Half of it was probably wrong, not that many around him would know the difference. Most were either Sandor himself or dead men six feet under. Neither was going to talk.

Kensey straightened himself, always itching to have a word of insult. "Nothing but a wounded old dog now. He couldn't even beat that woman. Can you imagine if he came up against a real swordsman?"

Brienne snorted. His insult was so absurd to all parties involved it couldn't even attempt to wound her. "Stupid child."

The corner of Sansa's mouth twitched, resisting the urge to laugh out loud. It was humorous really. The ridiculousness of it all. It made Sansa question if all young men acted like this at some point. Did Robb or Jon act like this? It was hard to imagine. Robb was all smiles and encouragement. Life came so easy for him. Jon was all brooding and hard work. He wanted nothing more than to measure up. Had they ever acted like this, either it was too long ago for Sansa to remember or they were chastised for it before it got too far?

Sandor was getting closer but in no particular hurry to get where he needed to be. Perhaps there was no destination in mind for him to head toward. He still paid no mind to the outside world, seemingly accustomed to tuning unwanted attention aside. That was until Sansa came into his view, moving gingerly toward him. She didn't smile. No shock neither did he. He did stop walking though, instantly stalling in his tracks. She would make the rest of the way on her own.

"You're the talk of the town. Surprised they still have tongues to talk."

Sandor scowled. "Let the little shits talk. It'll get them killed one day, then I'll be the one laughing."

Seeing the man who was once so quick to fight now take the high road, or as high a road such a man could, caused her to smile. But not too big. Brienne would suspect even more. However, this was the one time she wanted him to do the exact opposite of that. "Should we test that theory?"

When Sandor said nothing, Sansa took that as an invitation. Maybe even a challenge. She clasped her hands in front of her, attempting to shield any resentment she had as she turned, and stepped forward. Her steps were lite. Her words were stoic. "Lord Kensey."

All eyes were on Sansa now, the group of young men not realizing that they had an audience. Some cleared their throats and shifted their gaze to their snow-dusted boots. What was it? Shame? Embarrassment? Either would suffice. Others turned away altogether, creating a smaller group a few feet away, quickly chatting about something else to cover their tracks.

Sansa smiled. "You think yourself a skilled swordsman, don't you, my lord?"

The Kensey boy would have boasted about his skill, but Sansa could sense that Sandor was staring him down. He no doubt was doing his best to intimidate, which didn't take much, being large and powerful and ready to swing his sword at the next thing that moved. Sansa thought to feel bad for the boy, to go easy on him, after all, she had her fair share of stupidity coursing through her at one time, but yet she couldn't muster the will. Stupidity had consequences. And when he nodded with malice at her question, Sansa figured it was out of her hands.

"Then I'm sure you'd be willing to show us that skill against Ser Clegane, wouldn't you?" She didn't need to look at the boy to know he was going to nod again, although quite begrudgingly. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn't back down with so many onlookers. He knew as well as anyone he wouldn't be able to beat Sandor. Or perhaps he didn't know. He was that arrogant. Instead, Sansa stared at Sandor. He seemed so pleased with the idea of picking up a sword against this pompous youth that he didn't even react when Sansa gave him a title. Sansa didn't attempt to wish he was getting used to it. "So it's settled. A little show of brute strength today. Should be exciting."

The other boys looked alarmed at the prospect while those who casually came walking by to see the commotion were visibly interested. Brienne rolled her eyes and shook her head, but a small smile could be seen on her face. She didn't need to ask what the girl was doing.

"I wish you luck, my lord, although I do hope you aren't too attached to that pretty face of yours." She placed a light hand on Kensey's arm in slightly mocking reassurance. A low yet still audible grow sounded off. It didn't come from before her. She glanced back at Sandor who was studying her with intent. "Despite what you think, he has not lost his touch."

The color of Kensey's face seemed to drain, leaving him looking ashen and sickly. He looked so young all of a sudden like a little boy caught doing something wrong by his parents. The punishment was coming. But by the time Sansa left his side to head back to Sandor, the color came back in a heated wave. Anger seeped from his furrowed brow, narrowed eyes, and tightly pressed lips. Those ashen cheeks regained a living color. A color of anger and embarrassment, redder than her hair and brighter than blood. His gaze did not waver from her direction. Was he looking at Sandor, the man he'd be beaten by in the end, or the lady who sent him off to such a defeat? Sansa couldn't tell. Either or both was the right answer.

A disgruntled expression spoke to Sansa as she returned, "Have you come to express your false worries for an old man on a fight he didn't agree to? Why the fuck did you go and do that?"

Sansa smiled, innocently shrugging her shoulders. She heard a lazy attempt at anger in his tone so she was not phased at his comment. "True, I don't worry about your safety."

What just flashed in his eyes? Despondency perhaps? Surely such a comment wouldn't wound him so easily. Maybe he had become soft over the years.

"I have no reason to suspect your life is in any danger, otherwise I would never have suggested it. Believe it or not, I like it more when you're around. And alive at that."

This statement looked to catch him off guard if only for a moment and with quick regain of indifference.

"And honestly, it didn't cross my mind that you might want to refuse. Course this will barely be considered a fight if your skills are as I remember." Her hand found his. Sansa squeezed it warmly and looked at him in the eyes. She didn't have to force mocking this time around. "I'd ask you to win for me, but I know you'll have no trouble either way. Remember who his father is, so try not to have too much fun."

There was a gathering now. Someone must have slipped away to blab to their friends and news spread fast. Youths from other houses mingled with stable hands and members of the Brotherhood. What Sansa meant to be a quick knock of a young man's ego had become a shocking type of spectacle. She shouldn't have been surprised she supposed. Like she said to Brienne, despite the war and the dragons and the White Walkers, things were boring here.

"How much you wanna bet the runt doesn't last 10 minutes?"

"I'd be surprised if he hasn't wet himself already!"

"Hope he's not an only child."

The town was buzzing with different talk now.

Brienne began to laugh, causing Sansa to eye her suspiciously but when she saw a certain individual stumbled across the frozen courtyard her own chuckle followed in suit. Podrick Payne covered his eyes from the sun as he waded his way through the crowd. His shirt was wrinkled and the belt trying to hold his trousers up was practically twisting around itself in pain, the leather cracking with every step. He rubbed a hand over his exhausted face, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes. Sansa couldn't remember if he had facial hair the day before, yet he had a scruffy shadow growing around his chin. He didn't quite seem to know where he was or understood what was happening. He looked from Sansa and Brienne to Sandor to the crowd back to Sansa and Brienne. His voice cracked as she spoke, still groggy, "What'd I miss?"

"You're in luck, Pod!" Brienne beamed as she patted Podrick roughly the back. She nearly sent him falling forward but gripped his shirt before the ground could greet his face. "The fight is just about to begin."

"Fight?" He looked concerned. He eyed the courtyard and that's when the wheel began to turn in his mind. His gaze dashed between the Kensey boy and Sandor. "Those two? Does the kid have a death wish?"

"Don't just blame him," Brienne continued. She nodded her head toward Sansa. "She helped."

Sansa crossed her arms, watching now as both Kensey and Sandor were given new swords by a nearby hand. The crowd was arced around the two, jeering and joking, acting as though this was a proper tourney. This was probably the most fun they'd had in months and wouldn't have again for some time. How simple their needs had all become. "He can still say no. But with any luck, this will be quick and painless for him."

"Quick maybe. But painless?"

"He knows not to hurt him."

"And you think that man is going to listen?"

"He'll listen to me."

And listen he did. It took less than five minutes from the first swing, made of course by the young lord, for Sandor to land the winning blow. He humored the boy for a while at first. He side-stepped with ease, moving to and fro sneering at the lame attempts. Sandor was playing with a game of cat and mouse and he was hungry.

Kensey was giving it everything he had to land a hit, jeering forward, slashing with two hands, and grunting with every step. His heels dug deep into the frozen ground as he prepared his body to lunge forward. The anger and resentment that flowed inside his veins reflected out to the world now. His face was distorted. It no longer resembled the handsome lord who bragged and boasted with shining eyes and a winning smile. It was something ugly and hateful and bent on showing up the competition. Kensey darted forward and came close to cutting Sandor's face.

The world was still when Sandor stepped back and placed a hand against his ear. He felt a swish of air lightly pass him. He shot daggers into Kensey. Kensey cautiously eyed his friends. His friends all gave each other worried glances. The rest of the crowd murmured between themselves and Brienne and Podrick exchange looks opposite of each other: one of amusement and one of terror. Sansa simply watched and waited. Not much longer now.

Soon enough, Sandor presented an evil grin, and Sansa, along with everyone else, knew that the fight was over. The former Kingsguard sprung forward, brandishing his sword with two firmly tight fists and a fire in his eyes. It was at this moment the Kensey lord did look like he was going to wet himself. Few in Winterfell wouldn't. Burned or banished or beaten once or not, Sandor Clegane was still a man of strength and power and fury. And it was that very fury, pent up from years of being shat on, that he used to bring his sword down on his opponent. Kensey tried to block the hit with his own sword, but Sandor had too much of an upper hand both in size and muscle. The moment the two swords collided Kensey was on his knees, arm shaking as they tried to keep his weapon in the air and legs covered in snow mixed mud. A laugh escaped Sandor when he saw the boy was still pushing back.

"Not as soft as I thought." It didn't sound like a compliment.

Sandor leaned his body into his sword. The boy below him quivered and quaked until, at last, his knees fully gave way and he was shoved on his ass. Kensey's sword clattered to the ground and made sharp dents in the mud. Sandor stepped forward, chasing his large and dark shadow slowly over Kensey's form. He tightened his finger around the hilt of his sword, the leather of his gloves squeaking against it, and lifted it high above his head. Any moment he would cut the air and find flesh as soft as silk. Everyone braced themselves.

"Enough."

Without delay, Sandor heeded Sansa's words and dropped his sword to the ground. His shadow receded from Kensey's form, letting the young man feel the sun on his cowering face once more.

"Thank you, Lord Kensey, for showing us just how capable you are."

Brienne snickered from her corner and shook her head with hilarity. Podrick, wide-eyed and breathing heavily, slowly handed Brienne a coin.

Kensey fumbled to his feet, grabbing his sword on his way up and making sure to shield his eyes from everyone around him. He refused even his friends. They tried to pat his shoulders or share words with him as he pushed his way through the crowd, but with a grunt and a shove, he pushed passed all of them to retreat to solidarity. There was something left of Kensey's presence beyond his footprints in the snow and the feeling of dread radiating from where he once stood.

Sandor grinned almost evilly after the young man.

The onlookers dispersed after a few, laughing and joking as they headed back to the tedious tasks that reminded them that war and bloodshed were not all that far off. This was a well-deserved break, destruction, but it was time to head back to reality.

"I see you had no fun at all," Sansa spoke, sarcasm dripping from her words. How odd it was to see someone so carefree while whipping a sword around.

Sandor huffed in a brutish fashion as if to brush the feeling off, but not even he could hide the validation he felt. It was unlikely any of the young lords would open their mouths again at risk of getting it cut off. "Didn't even get to make the bastard bleed. Not much fun in that."

"I'm surprised you withheld yourself so well. Almost made me proud."

Sandor huffed. His moment of what may have passed as the feeling of joy was gone. "You wanted him in one piece, so I left him in one. Next time, he won't be so lucky."

She didn't say anything else as Sandor sheathed his sword, but simply studied his form. It seemed he didn't think that this little show of strength and force ended whatever vendetta the others felt towards him. Or perhaps that was just him assuming. While most weren't as young and stupid to provoke and antagonize him head-on, that didn't mean that the jokes and jeers weren't taking place when he wasn't looking. In the end, the young lords would continue to talk and there was little that could be done to stop them.

"They're wrong about you, you know," Sansa started, still eyeing him as he refused to meet her gaze. She wanted him to know that. She wanted him to know that she knew that. "They're always wrong." That wasn't just about him.

Then suddenly feeling the need to lighten the mood, she beamed. Such a movement felt foreign on her lips. "No matter, I shall congratulate you on the tremendous victory nonetheless, Ser Clegane."

He growled, but if only for show. "Go on." He nodded far off. "The wench is waiting for you."

That she was. Sansa could see Brienne sitting where she had been found earlier on, not bothering to pretend in making small talk with a still half-drunk Podrick. No, instead she sat in her place and stared at Sansa as she stood by Sandor. The woman had no shame. She seemed to relish in her staring, glints of mischief in her eye. It was as if a revelation had come to her. She rolled her eyes left than right, up and down, from Sansa to Sandor. Then she'd shake her head and scrunch up her nose at whatever truth she thought she saw unveiling itself.

Ready to all but ignore the woman, Sansa turned back to Sandor, but the victor was not there. As easily as Sansa found the man could appear out of nowhere, he could disappear just as easily. Through the mud and snow. In between the men and the animals and the walls. It took no time or effort as if it were the simplest thing he could do. As if it were something he wanted to do every moment of every day. The notion that he'd rather be on his own than within her presence pricked at her mind and, as much as she hated to admit the notion, her heart.

Hello!

I've recently been getting some colorful hate for my story, and I must stay, I'm kind of proud of it. At least I know I'm making an impression on someone out there.

But to this person(s) I have a word of advice: if you dislike Sansa and what she stands for, as you have the right to do, may I suggest not reading a story in which she is the foundation? Otherwise you're just giving me more views, which warms my Sansa loving heart. But alas the choice in the end is yours. :)

To everyone, hope you're safe and sound and healthy, whether you like my story or not. 3