After the Valyrian lesson ended, Elder Brother requested that Sansa come into his solar. "My lady, may I have a moment? I'd like to have a word with you in private?"
She knew Sandor was outside waiting for her and briefly wondered why the holy man had not invited him in as well.
"Certainly, Elder Brother," Sansa genially followed him inside. Glancing around her, she marveled at the large assortment of books that decorated his shelves.
After directing her to an overstuffed chair, Elder brother sat down and waited for her to settle in.
Smoothing her skirts, Sansa politely asked: "How can I be of service to you?"
"May I speak freely, my lady?"
"Of course," Sansa knitted her brows. "Is something the matter?"
"Frankly, yes."
Arya had been especially rambunctious that day; even several stern warnings had not improved her behavior.
"You must forgive Arya; she is just experiencing a bit of cabin fever after two weeks of unrelenting sleet," Sansa smiled at him. "In truth, we all are. Perhaps I should arrange for more exercise for her. We were raised in the wide expanses of the North and unaccustomed to being inside most of the timeā¦" Her words trailed off as she took in his concerned expression; clearly the Elder brother had more than Arya on his mind.
"Yes, that is an excellent idea, my lady," he folded his hands. "But my concern lies with your lord husband."
"What is it?" She anxiously leaned forward. "Has he hurt someone?"
"No, my lady," Elder brother smiled. "Though I find it curious that is your first assumption."
"It is a fairly safe one, unfortunately." Sansa sadly looked away.
The holy man paused. "I am worried that his pent up anger is unhealthy and may drive him into unhealthy behavior."
Sansa frowned. "What sort of unhealthy behavior?"
"Well, overindulgence, for one," Elder brother began, "Perhaps fighting with others, both physically and verbally. Excessive exercise."
Sandor had been spent far more time training than she had ever seen him and as a result, his body rivaled the Warrior himself. He was huge, hardened, and surprisingly agile.
"Well, Sandor has not drank spirits to the point of intoxication since we left King's Landing," she answered carefully. "But I must agree with you on the fighting and exercise."
"Does he provoke arguments with you, my lady?" Elder brother raised his brow.
"No," Sansa shook her head. "He would never; he is very gentle with me at all times, even though his words are harsh," Sansa explained. "But he does provoke nearly everyone else."
"I see," Elder brother moved beside her and leaned against the weirwood desk. "I am relieved to know you are the exception. May I ask: is the source of his anger related to his experiences in King's Landing or to another trauma?"
Biting her lip, Sansa stared at her lap and folded her hands. "It is both. I suggest you talk to him about it, however, for I would not want to betray his confidence."
"Of course not," Elder brother placed his hands on her shoulders. "But I fear he is not ready to speak to me. He distrusts religious people, I think."
"Yes he does," Sansa agreed. And knights, she added silently, and you are both. "How can I help him?"
"Well, you can help him by encouraging him to share his feelings." Elder brother crossed his arms. "Though a man not given to openness, I can tell that, if anyone will be able to help him in this area, it is you."
"I'm not certain that he will, but I can try." Sansa furrowed her brow. "He can be quite open, if approached at the right time."
"I figured as much, for I was once a man very much like him," Elder brother smiled at her surprise. "Also, with your permission, I would like to start training with him in the yard."
"Certainly," Sansa eagerly nodded, though inwardly she feared for the man. "That is a wonderful idea."
As if reading her thoughts, Elder brother added: "I was once a knight, you recall, though my fighting skills could use sharpening."
"Forgive me, I mean no disrespect by this question," Sansa fidgeted in her seat, "but does that not go against your vows?"
"As long as I do not take a life, there is no conflict with the faith of the Seven." Elder brother rose and guided her to the door. "I am a sworn Contemplative Brother, but The Warrior, you know, helps those in battle. Practicing my swordsmanship honors him."
"I mean no disrespect to your skill, but please be aware that Sandor is quite ferocious," Sansa confided. "Even the Kingsguard feared him and he is far bigger and more aggressive now; he is truly living up to the moniker the Hound. Please be careful, for I fear you will take a serious beating."
"If training with Sandor will help gain his trust, my lady, it will be more than worth it." He smiled serenely at her, amusement twinkling in his eyes.
"Thank you," Sansa returned his smile, relieved and a bit confused. She decided it would be unspeakably rude to continue questioning him. "You are most generous." Sansa touched his arm. "I will offer prayers to the Seven for you."
"You are very kindhearted, my lady," Elder brother bowed. "It is an honor to serve so noble, gentle and devoted a mistress as you." He opened the door for her. "Well, I mustn't keep you a moment longer. Your lord husband awaits."
Standing against the far wall, Sandor perked up when he saw her, straightening his back and offering her his arm as he approached.
"Why were you late?" He asked calmly as he fingered the handle of his sword. "Did you have difficulty with your lesson?"
"A little bit, yes."
"Well, I know Valyrian," Sandor revealed as he took her textbook from her, his large hands dwarfing the tome she struggled to carry. "My father made sure our maester taught us, but only my sister and I picked it up. Came in handy when I served Cersei and Joffrey."
"Really?" Sansa beamed proudly at him. "You are a man of many talents."
"Aye," he grinned lasciviously at her until she blushed. "Many people came to court speaking Valyrian and then had it interpreted to the king. I did not trust them. More often than not, what they were actually saying and what the interpreter said where two different things. I corrected that for Robert, earning his trust. Though I belonged to Cersei, I'm sure Robert convinced her to name me Joffrey's shield."
"That's wonderful, Sandor. You are so very smart."
Pleased by her genuine praise, Sandor offered: "We can work together if you need to practice."
"I would like that very much," she squeezed his massive bicep with both hands. "Why did you not suggest it before?"
He shrugged dismissively. "You didn't need me."
"I always need you and don't you ever doubt it." Sansa stood on her toes and kissed him soundly. "But my trouble with learning the language is not why I stayed after to speak with Elder brother."
"Oh aye?" Sandor eyed her warily.
"He wanted permission to train with you in the mornings." Uneasily Sansa cast a sideways glance at him. "To sharpen his skill with the sword. With all the danger we are facing, we may need him if it comes to battle here, so I said yes."
"As you wish, wife." Snorting, Sandor shook his head. "A warrior priest, bloody hells. I expect you'll tell me not to hurt him."
"No, Sandor, you are much mistaken," Sansa smiled and tweaked his arm. "Please, train with Elder brother using the same intensity as you always do; hold nothing back. The training yard is yours, my lord. I will not interfere."
Grunting, he eyed her with reservation but said nothing.
As they entered their rooms, Sansa stared at the snow falling outside. It blanketed the upper elevations, while lower in the valleys, there was only a sprinkling of green visible on the slopes. Sandor's firm grasp surrounded her waist, but he remained silent, allowing her to stay in her thoughts undisturbed.
"Winter is coming." Sansa absently whispered with a shiver. Sandor's grip tightened on her, drawing her firmly but gently against the hard musculature of his torso.
He was no true knight, but he saved her just the same, and now this beautiful keep, the Wolf's Den was theirs. Quickly her mind wandered to another knight, perhaps the only one she had ever met who had a semblance of honor: Lady Brienne of Tarth.
During the fight with the Freys and Boltons, she fought alongside Sandor, Ned and Jaime as an equal. The men respected her. Her mother respected her. After seeing Brienne in action, Sansa understood the appeal she held for her younger sister, for she was most impressive, even graceful, in battle.
To Sansa's surprise, she also had very good manners and was very kindhearted, something she had not expected to find in the woman. She was everything Sansa expected to find in the knights of King's Landing; all were sorely lacking in comparison.
Sandor was no knight and never would be, but he held Brienne's ideals as near as Sansa had ever seen in a man. One night at the dinner table, he had told them the story of how Brienne had defeated several suitors who challenged her, which of course instantly made her Arya's hero.
Her sister's sword fighting skills were improving every day. Though Sansa had yet to tell her, she was proud of her. Though they were as different as the sun and the moon, they needed each other, and Sansa was glad she was with them.
The desire to learn to defend their family grew daily within Sansa. It sprung from the same well within the sisters, Sansa was very well aware. They were the blood of Winterfell, Starks born of a line that spanned eight thousand years. She felt it instinctively, the desire to defend the keep, just as she knew winter was coming. Though they had not discussed it openly, they did not need to, for Sansa was certain Arya felt the same.
It was more than the Stark instinct for survival, though, that fueled Arya. It was plain to see that the girl derived a certain satisfaction in her growing abilities, much in the same way Sansa had felt when Sandor taught her to use the knife. Sansa had spent her time learning Valyrian; but her sister had used the time sequestered in the Keep to learn to take her skillset to the next level, just as Brienne had undoubtedly done at the same age. Sansa grew to want that for herself but how would such be possible?
More of late, Sansa had been thinking that she, too would like to train alongside them, to learn to use a sword and shield. What good would learning to speak Valyrian be to her family should they come under attack? Winter was coming, as the heavy snows falling outside of her windows attested to well enough. The winters are hard, but the Starks endure, her father's words echoed in her ears, we always have.
For Sansa, those words from her father meant Starks did whatever was necessary to do just that. Like her ancestors before her, Sansa was determined she would use the last glimmer of autumn to train, to learn to fight alongside her family, to defend the keep her father had risked so much to provide for her. Though she was raised in all the ways of being a fine lady by her Tully mother, Sansa also was first and foremost a Stark, wolf blooded; she would kill unhesitatingly to protect herself, her family, and her home to ensure their survival.
For many weeks Sansa had longed to ask Sandor to train her too, but the words died on her tongue each time she tried to approach him. He would be gentle enough, she knew, but Sandor would not like such a request. He might even take it to mean she did no longer trusted him to keep her safe.
Nothing could be further from the truth for Sansa; she had absolute faith in her husband's fighting abilities, but at what cost? His focus would always be divided, and Sandor could be hurt, even killed, because of it. Her desire to protect him, to keep him safe fueled her decision to learn to use a sword and shield.
The time to defend their keep would come as surely as the winter, and Sansa wanted to be an asset, not a liability, for him and Arya, for Gendry and Elder brother; the time for being the lady who allowed men to die defending her was vanishing as quickly as the errant green grasses stubbornly clinging to the lower mountain slopes of the Vale.
She had no desire to become a fighter on the level of Brienne or Sandor, of course; but neither did she want to feel like a burden. Silently she prayed to the old gods and the new that they would help her get through to her stoic husband.
"I will accompany you tomorrow to the training yard, if it pleases you, my lord."
"You want to make sure I don't hurt the old man or your sister?" Sandor laughed, the sound snarling and cruel to anyone who did not know him; to Sansa, it was the sound of her favorite song.
"No," Sansa kissed his hand. "You would never hurt anyone unless you meant it. I want to watch you."
"Then you are welcome, my lady," Sandor smirked at her before he raised her hand to his lips.
"I also want to train with you." Her words came out quietly, almost as a whisper.
Disbelieving, Sandor stared hard at her, his eyes glimmering angrily as he did so. "What is this buggering nonsense? Train with a sword?"
"And a shield." Sansa faced him. "I would learn to fight alongside you and Arya."
"No, gods be damned!" Sandor turned away from her and ran his hands through his hair.
"Yes," Sansa rested her hands on his shoulders, "and I want you to be the one who teaches me."
"But why, lass?" His pained expression pierced Sansa's tender heart but still she remained firm. "You care not for such things."
"Because I love you. This is our home, our keep, ours to defend and protect. When the time comes, and we know it will, I want to help you, not stand by and watch you defend me, my family and my home." When Sandor tried to turn away, Sansa took his face in her hands. "I want to shield your back as you have mine. I cannot do that with embroidery or Valyrian. I need this. Can you understand that?"
"I don't want anyone to say I couldn't keep you safe, lass. I-I couldn't live with that." Sandor gritted his teeth angrily, though his eyes said he was more hurt than mad.
"No one here would say that. I will make it seem as though I just want to be with you; how would that be?"
"I hate liars." He sniffed, though that was all he said.
"It is not a lie. I do want to be with you first and foremost. But I just won't divulge my motives to anyone else." Sansa tipped his face down to hers. "Most of the men will think you're just a newly married man indulging his empty headed wife."
"No one had better say that. I will have no one call you empty headed or say that I cannot take care of you and the wolf bitch. If they do, they will taste my blade lass, believe that."
"As well they should, my lord." She said so seriously that Sandor remained quiet. "And since when does Sandor Clegane give a-what is it you say-a bloody fuck-what anyone thinks?" Sansa laughed softly in spite of herself at her husband's shocked expression.
"I don't like hearing my harsh words repeated back to me from your pretty rosebud mouth, lass." Sandor reluctantly let a smile curl onto his mouth as he knelt to kiss her. "But I'll give you that. You come with me now in the morning, wife. I'll be proud to teach you. No tourney swords, now," he warned her. "I'll teach you with real steel, just like I do your sister."
"Thank you, husband," Sansa leapt into his arms. "I'll work hard and make you proud."
"I am already prouder of you than any husband has a right to be, love," he growled into her neck. "Now come join me in the steam baths." His breath fell hot on her ear, causing her to shiver delightedly in response.
"Sandor it is almost time for dinner-" Sansa wriggled impatiently against him, causing Sandor to hold on to her tighter still, the man chuckling at her obvious arousal.
"Bugger that," he growled. Sandor then covered every available bit of skin with kisses until Sansa agreed, squealing excitedly as he carried her toward the baths.
