Sansa

"…And remember, my sweet girls, that your place is in the kitchens, the bed chambers and by your husbands sides— not the training grounds. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Madame Leanne eyed the window that showcased the extensive walking space of Winterfell. Grunting and cursing up a storm was the young Arya Stark, unruly and snarling in the face of another stable boy, Lommy , wooden swords clashing with ferocity. Such anger was unbecoming in a young woman.

It was most unladylike, and Madame Leanne turned a blind eye to the most horrendous sight of the young Stark girl actually besting the boy. What a disgrace to the Stark name, no one would ever wed into a family of brutish women and untamed children; not surprising that a family who welcomed bastards allowed young girls to run with swords.

One of the smaller runts of the house Reed piped up in back, "I heard my father speak of a war coming to Winterfell. When all of our brothers and husbands are dead, will we fight then?"

"There is no war coming to Winterfell, Meera," said Madame Leanne, smiling with pierced eyes.

"We have the strongest fighters and most ferocious men that Westeros has ever seen, and no man is stronger than that of the ones who roam these halls. They keep us safe, they make sure we are fed, and in return we give them our minds, our bodies, and all that they desire. It is the will of our creation, my girls, and to forget that is to forget how to live."

"What if I want to fight?" Piping up from the window was a sweaty Arya Stark, blood cresting the corner of her lip. The boy that had been bested still lay with his back on the grass meters away, but Arya only had eyes for Madame Leanne.

"You prattle on about baby making and sucking cock like any of it means shit." Arya stuck her head in the window and snickered at the flustered Madame. "I'm planning on winning the Maiden's Day Feast, and I'll be fighting for my own hand."

"Like anyone would fight for a thing like her!" Jeyne Poole belted from the corner of the room, snorting like a muck ugly piglet. "I can't imagine anyone but the Hound fighting for your honor."

The other girls began to pipe up with their own jeers; "I bet he'd fuck you bloody with that ugly fucking mug of his."

"Ladies!" belted Madam Leanne, a scandalized look on her perturbed face. Her beady eyes were stuck on the figure that had seemingly snuck up upon the room of women. The imposing shoulders of Ned Stark could overthrow any unruly whelp, and one glare in the direction of his youngest daughter had Arya fleeing from the open window, much to the relief of Madame Leanne.

Every girl scrambled to stand and quickly bow to the King, to which Ned went rightfully pink cheeked. He had never been one who enjoyed having women bow for him, which was less than could be said for Robert Baratheon, a boorish man who took pride in having a whore in one hand, and a pint of mead in the other.

"It was not my intention to disturb you, Lady Leanne." His eyes found the back of the room. "At the moment, I require my eldest daughter's presence. Sansa, if you please."

Standing with the grace of a Queen amongst her most loyal subjects, Sansa Stark rose from the hard-edged wooden chair that had dug into her bottom for the past quarter hour, and floated to her father's arms. His warm smell of pine and ale soothed the agitation that had flooded her veins after the spectacle by Arya.

Madame Leanne nodded to the duo, "Lady Sansa, King Stark."

"As you were." Ned rested a hand on the small of Sansa's back. Together, they stalked down the near empty hall, only the clanging of the Kingsguard's footwear sounding about. Sansa wrung her hands behind her back, pinching the pale skin in an attempt to her held tongue.

"It surprises me to never hear you defend your sister from the other girls." Ned sighed while staring out at the lush greenery of his Kingdom. "Would she not defend your honor, if she had to?"

"If you actually think she would, Father, then you do not know us at all." Sansa snapped. She shrugged away her Father's warm touch and, much like the young girl she wished she still were, began to pout. "She knows I hate how they look at me whenever they see her off fighting like some knight."

"Lemon Cake," he crooned. "As King of Winterfell and father to both of you, I had decided to allow your sister the chance to have proper training. No, she will not become a knight but she will learn to protect herself when I am away."

Ned gingerly took her elbow and led her out onto the fine turf of grass that seemed to span for miles. It was not winter as of yet, for the leaves of autumn had just now begun to fall and lay waste. Soon, the nights would grow long and the days burdened with a chill that would tear through the North. Winter is Coming, the dreaded words of Winterfell that all knew too well.

"My eldest daughter," he turned to stare into her blue wide eyes. "I would ask this only of you if there was no other choice. And unfortunately, I have been called away from Winterfell for the time being."

Meera's words of war rang through Sansa's mind, "Has something happened, Father?"

"Nothing that concerns you, Lemon Cake." Gingerly resting a hand on her shoulder, he deeply sighed. "However, I would ask that in the time being, you see to the lessons that transpire between your sister and The Hound."

Sansa nearly tripped on thin air; "What?"

"I have asked Ser Clegane to be the one who oversees the training your sister is to receive." Smiling, Ned started to lead Sansa back inside. "I saw no better knight in my Kingsguard than that of The Hound. Do you not agree, dear daughter?"

Keenly aware of the tightness erupting in the pit of her gut, Sansa cleared her throat. "He agreed to it?"

"Yes," chuckled Ned. "I daresay he wantedto… at least once I told him that you would be the one accompanying Arya to every sparring match before my return."

"Oh." Sansa breathed out, fighting the urge to curl the edges of her lips and bite until they were red with blood. To think that Ser Clegane—The Hound—would be in her presence for many days and nights, that he would be in her sights while no doubt swinging his sword that could cut down any man who stood in his way. He had the strength of ten men in one, a true knight.

"I do hope this is not too much of a burden on you, daughter." Ned supplied a warm smile and took pride in the warmth that blossomed on his eldest daughters cheeks. "I've always admired the devotion you have to your studies, and disappointing Lady Leanne would be most unforgivable."

Thoughts of studies and mindless chatter with the other women of the Court, the endless hours of wretched gossiping about betrothals and unhappy marriages was more than one lady could handle, and besides, "I'm sure I'll find the time for my studies, as well as keeping an eye on Arya."

They'd reached the entrance of the tall Castle corridor, and Ned cupped Sansa's cheek, "What would I ever do without, Sansa?"

"Been killed ten times over, and I would no doubt be Queen." Snickering with the mirth of a child, she bid her Father farewell and took a stroll.

Kingsuard nodded as she passed before following after the retreating King with stony faces. Not seeing a smirk in the crowd of guards, like the handsome yet dimwitted face of one Jamie Lannister on the yearly trips to Kings Landing was one of the few things that she would change if need be, it never hurt to have a bit of liveliness in the Court.

"Sansa!" Turning, the petite shape of Jeyne, and the always seductively smirking Margaery came bounding down the cobbled path. They must have just been released from afternoon studies, and Sansa put on her best grin.

"What did the King want that was so important?" Jeyne slipped her arm into Sansa's, Margaery sliding in to do the same on the opposite arm. "Was it about your stinkin' sister? You know, if I were King, I'd have her flogged for the way she acts. Always going around like her shit doesn't stink."

Margaery rolled her eyes, "All of us acted like wretches before we were of age. She just needs time to grow up, that's all."

"You only say that because Loras was spotted with Olyvar two nights past," countered Jeyne. "You'll defend little Arya Stark as long as Loras is never punished."

Sansa flinched as Margaery's nail dug into the pale flesh of her forearm, "Someone such as yourself— with as low birth status as a mutt, could not possibly understand the importance of preserving our family name."

"I'm a mutt, am I?" Jeyne snarled. "At least I don't spend my nights in brothel's looking for a fresh cunt to fuck, like your brother, and probably you as well."

Red flamed Margaery's cheeks, and the usual smirk dropped. "How dare you-"

"Please," Sansa piped up, finally putting herself between their sparring. "I hate it when you two are like this. Just stop it, now."

The rivalry between Jeyne Poole and Margaery went as far back as to when they were kids, and Sansa had always found herself to be in the middle. It had always bordered on childish; the words spat back and forth and even tugs of hair and ripped dresses had been a staple of the trio's friendship. Truly, it was less than ideal; like being the messenger in a years long war with no end in sight.

"Fine," spat Jeyne. Her nostrils flared and her lips pursed. "I think I hear my Father calling me." Lifting up her skirts in a flurry of soft fabric, she stomped away from the duo with steam shooting out of her ears. The duo silently watched until she was no longer in their sights.

"Did you have to aggravate her like that?" Sansa picked up their stroll and deeply sighed. "We both know her temper is her weakest trait."

Margaery had the gall to look offended by such an accusation. "Aggravate her? Me?" She scoffed, "You heard her, the things she was saying about Loras. What am I supposed to do, not defend the House Tyrell from lies?"

"But…" Sansa licked her lips, turning to look at her friend. Confrontation always was her weak spot, especially with people she cared about. "She's not the first person to say those things about Loras. I've heard others say similar."

"That doesn't mean—"

"And I'm not saying they hold any merit or truth," Sansa quickly added, sensing the fire in her friends veins beginning to boil. "But perhaps you should see to convincing Loras that his time in the brothels be put on pause until the whispers stop." Turning, she gently pulled her friend into a hug. Rubbing her back and pulling away, Sansa smiled down at her friend, noting the wateriness in her eyes.

"Let's not bring down the mood of the hour with my own sorrows," pleaded Margaery. "What exactly did your Father want, earlier?"

Allowing the conversation to turn away from the Tyrell family drama, Sansa explained, "He said he's leaving Winterfell, and no, he did not disclose where he was going or whom he was meeting with."

"Is that all?"

Allowing a crooked smile to blossom her cheeks, Sansa turned them down another bend in the hall. "He also happened to mention that my sister would be receiving lessons to become a stronger swordsman."

"Swordswoman," corrected Margaery.

"Yes, swordswoman, and he has enlisted the help of Ser Clegane to see that she learns the proper way to use a sword."

"Clegane?" Margaery repeated, that devious smirk slithering back to her face. "Do you mean The Hound, my sweet Sansa? Your father, the greatest King that Winterfell has ever known, has convinced The Hound to teach his youngest daughter the ways in which to use a sword?" She snorted, "How rich is that."

Finally, the two of them exited the Castle walls and began to stalk along the dirt-covered roads. Peasants and Beggars hobbled along the outside Castle walls. Much less vibrant color littered to streets, and Sansa regretted not bringing a shawl to warm her thinly covered shoulders. Pity went out to the poor folk, knowing that winter would take more than a few in its wake.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Sansa tugged her friend's arm in the direction of the trail that led out to the bountiful expanse of their kingdom. "Ser Clegane is one of the greatest knights in Westeros."

"He's not a knight, Sansa," said Margaery, looking at Sansa as if she'd grown two heads. "He's refused to be titled a Ser since the day he came from King's Landing. I think your Father just knows that if Cersei Lannister ever sends the Mountain to fight her battles, he'll need the Hound at his side."

Tales of Gregor Clegane were not new to Winterfell or Westeros for that matter; the cruel stories and tales about the countless women The Mountain had married, raped and killed had always frightened Sansa to her very core. One whisper even said that he crushed a man's head for snoring too loud.

"He's not a weapon, Margaery."

Margaery chuckled as if she'd heard a funny joke, pulling her arm free and strutting on ahead. Her honey blonde hair ruffled in the wind and she twirled in her step, turning to face Sansa with firm hands on her thin hips. "Hmm," she hummed, eyes twinkling with mirth.

"Do you fancy The Hound, Sansa?" asked Margaery, innocence surrounding her question. Sansa's cheeks nearly matched the deep auburn of her hair, eyes darting anywhere but the sultry gaze of her friend. It may have seemed like a simple question—to which most would say a hefty 'no' and carry on about the likes of the weather, but she nervously picked at the hem of her dress. "You mustn't," insisted Margaery.

"I didn't say I did," said Sansa. Looking around, and taking advantage of the open space with not a soul in sight, she whispered, "I think he's a bit handsome, don't you?"

"Handsome?" Margaery's jaw fell, nose scrunching up with distaste. "That is not a word I would use to describe a man who allows himself to be called The Hound. He's brutish and crude, and I see the way he looks at the ladies of the Court when he thinks we can't see." She shuddered, "It's like he wants to devour us whole."

It shivered Sansa's bones to hear that; he did look at people like they were pieces of meat, but instead of frightening her, it excited her. To be ravaged with no restraint would have frightened a girl like Jeyne, even Margaery, who prided herself on knowledge of all things regarding bodily desires, would turn away from the scarred flesh of Sandor Clegane, unaware of how to handle a man of his stature and weight.

"Oh, Sansa," cooed Margaery. It reminded Sansa of her times with the white doves of autumn, listening to their soft hoots and coos. "You want him to eat you and your precious maidenhead up." She'd spat maidenhead much like a curse, no doubt wishing hers still resided for some man to long for.

"Out of all the men who would bribe your Father for one night in your bed, you want the one that would tear you in two."

"He's cruel when he must be," supplied Sansa, wanting to reason out her thoughts. "And no one is cruel all of the time."

Margaery scoffed, "It's clear you've never met a Lannister. They break their fast with a goblet of wine and disgust every time the sun rises. Especially Cersei."

"And yet, he's not a Lannister."

"No, he's a Clegane, and his brother, Gregor, is a known monster throughout Westeros." She walked to her auburn friend and cupped her warm cheek. "Gregor Clegane is the reason that anyone who so much as speaks to a Lannister will die a slow death on the shores of Dorne. Even a streak of blonde hair is a death sentence."

"Dorne?" Sansa asked with her brows furrowed in confusion.

"Yes, Dorne," repeated Margaery. Her eyes darted over Sansa's shoulder too fast for her to catch. "The Mountain raped and killed Elia Martell, and then murdered her children as well."

Ice ran through Sansa's veins, not even wanting to imagine the horror of being raped and murdered by a man who was deemed The Mountain. "Why did he do it?" Sansa asked.

"Why do the Lannister's do any of the things they do?" Margaery chuckled like she'd heard a particularly funny joke. "Because they have power, and power is dangerous in the hands of people like Cersei and Tywin."

"You speak such ill faith of the Lannister's, and yet Father tells of your plans to marry Joffrey." Sansa replied. "Why marry into a family you despise?

"I never said I despised them," Margaery replied. "I envy them."

The ground started to shake under their shoes and Sansa's brows furrowed as she turned, nearly falling over at the galloping horse coming their way. The bouncing figure carried a sword at his hip, and the distinct silver armor was not of the Kingsguard. Brown shoulder length locks blew back in the wind, showcasing textured, jagged burns that would frighten any child within a hundred miles. Sansa felt Margaery nudge her as The Hound came to an abrupt halt a few paces away, quickly dismounting his horse with precise ease.

"Hound!" Margaery yelled while lifting her skirts and bounding over to the stone faced man. "What brings you here today?" Stranger, the Hounds faithful steed, neighed at the Tyrell girl, shaking its mane back and forth.

"Little girls shouldn't wander," The Hound grumbled, eyeing the smirking Tyrell women. Too much like Olenna, that one.

"We are anything but little girls, Hound." Turning to her silent friend, Margaery giggled. "Sansa and I were just discussing womanly things, before you so rudely interrupted us."

"Ser Clegane," Sansa began. "You've done nothing wrong."

"Not no Ser, girl," spat The Hound with a frown at the title, keeping his eye on the Tyrell girl fluttering around. It was the smirk that permanently resided on her face that let his disdain for her flourish; never trust anyone who smirked that much.

"You didn't answer me, Hound." Margaery, unlike Sansa, had no like for the beast, hardly to be considered a man. "What brings you out of Winterfell?"

"Keeping an eye on the both of you, I suppose," The Hound grumbled. He kept his eyes on Margaery as she stepped closer. "I'd lose my head if either of you fell into the wrong hands."

Margaery snorted, close enough to look up the Hounds nose. Close enough to see every detail of his burned face. "We were doing just fine before you ruined our fun, Hound." Sighing to herself, she looked to the slowly setting sun. "I suppose it is getting late."

"I think I'll walk back, take a nice stroll and Loras. Sansa gives quiet good advice when you need it," Margaery mused aloud, "I suppose you can take her with you. She wouldn't mind at all, right, Sansa dear?"

Both Margaery and The Hound looked to the girl with cheeks as red as her hair. The intensity of Sandor's stare never failed to illicit enough blood to make ten sausages flood her cheeks, her eyes trying to look anywhere but into his. "I suppose I wouldn't mind, Ser Clegane."

"Not no damned Ser, girl," repeated Sandor, burnt side of his lip twitching in a gruesome smile. At least, it was closer to a smile than a frown.

"Perfect!" Margaery clapped her hands, but Sansa saw the mischief in her friend's eyes, "And Hound, will you be participating with the other men of the court in the Maiden's Day Festival? I hear some of the ladies are eager for a showcase of your… attributes."

To Sansa's dismay, the Hound scoffed. "Only fools ride around for pretty ladies. Never needed a horse to get access to a warm cunt." Sansa gasped at his foul language, and even Margaery looked taken aback. It seemed Clegane hadn't learned the proper way to speak to a lady.

"Do you speak to all your lovers as crude as now, Hound?" Margaery quipped.

He grinned, "Reckon it's worse when we're fucking." Turning to Sansa, he motioned her forward, to which she sprinted to his exceptionally gigantic horse. She gasped as his hands came to plop on her hips, and he lifted her with ease on the horse. Margaery stared up with a smirk.

"Farewell, Sansa." Margaery's smirk fell when turning to Clegane, "Hound." She turned and left the two of them, stalking away with her head held high in such a Highborn Tyrell fashion it made Sandor snort from his place on the ground. Effortlessly lifting himself onto the horse, taking place behind Sansa, Sandor asked, "Are you ready to return, Little Bird?"

The nickname threw her off guard, "Little bird?"

"Ay," Sandor agreed as they began a slow trot, aware of his bulk bounding against her back. "You have a fond way of repeating your friend's pretty words, like a little bird." His arm came around her middle and pulled her flush to his front. Her breath hitched with each bounce, and she did her best to ignore his chuckles as they made way back to Winterfell.