SANSA
Sansa loved her brother, but if there was one quality Jon did not possess, it was optimism. Even with the combined forces of his Dragon Queen and the Lannisters, his private admittance to her that it was not enough made her lose some of her patience with him. The thousands of men and women who had come to fight for their cause needed to see that those who led the charge were hopeful that victory might yet be theirs and the melancholy look Jon was sporting these days was not one that inspired confidence. It came to the point where Sansa was about to take him aside and have a stern conversation about the whole thing when they received envoy that an additional four hundred men were marching on Winterfell bearing the sigil of the kraken.
It had taken every ounce of self control to not sprint into the great hall where she knew she would be seeing a familiar face, one that she had missed more than she thought possible. Her years of training to be still and silent served her well as she waited for the leaders to be brought before her, Jon, Daenerys, Tyrion, and Bran (Cersei could not be bothered with such things, nor would she ever agree to share a position of power with Sansa). The hall crowded with the curious and the inquisitive and in the crowd she saw Arya, Ser Bronn, and of course—skulking at the far back where he could observe and not be observed—the Hound.
The procession that came before them consisted of four people, as the rest were told to wait on the other side of the trenches that were at this very moment being dug seven feet deep. The woman at the forefront could only be Theon Greyjoy's sister, Yara, and she looked more frightening and impressive than half the men Sansa had seen enter a room with such a stride. Her wry, twisted lips were unreadable as she scanned the high table, examining those who sat there one by one.
Theon was at her left side and behind, quickly scanning the room for a familiar face. Sansa knew he was looking for her, to see for himself that she had remade Winterfell her own. His eyes found her and she saw the prominent bulge in his throat lift and lower. It saddened her to see that even now, even after she had forgiven him, he feared her scrutiny. She wanted nothing more than to run to him, embrace him, and reassure him that she had not rekindled any hatred toward him in his absence.
"The last we had heard, you had gone down with your fleet," said Daenerys, addressing Yara Greyjoy. "We were told there were no survivors."
"I was taken hostage by the Black Kraken," said Yara, spiting as she did so. "As were Ellaria Sand and the Sand Snakes. All are dead now, courtesy of the Lannisters. My brother Theon survived the attack on the fleet and returned to free me. We then gathered the rest of the men who could be spared and marched here, to fulfill our agreement. We will fight for you, Daenerys Targaryen, but the ironborn do not recognize authority from the lion or usurping kraken flags, both of which we saw plenty of beyond these walls."
"If you fight for me, you need not worry about any command but my own interfering with your people," said Daenerys warmly. "And your loyalty is met with much gratitude. I know you have suffered much to come here when you have less than half to offer me as you did when we first met. You will be honored and thanked with all I am able to provide for you when the battle is over."
A bold promise to make, taking into account that there might not be an after if the Hound was to be believed and Sansa caught the doubtful expression on his face from the back of the crowd.
"If my uncle and his men have come to fight this fight as well, then so be it: all the more bodies to put between us and the dead, but we will not serve them, we will not deal with them, and we will not fight beside them. We stake claim to our own area of the battlefield."
"The finer details can be decided at the war council, something you happen to be just in time for," said Jon. "But if you are in need of rest, we can delay for a few hours until you are ready."
"I'm only in need of enough time to take a piss and down some wine," said Yara. "My men have traveled far but they would stand at attention for hours if they needed to."
"We can afford to delay long enough for you to see some proper rest. I expect that one of my battlefield generals has much to offer by way of tactics and I would see your full potential realized. Send envoy when you are ready and we will convene then. Until then, we will see to it that you and your brother are given substantial quarters."
"We don't require much. Whatever is left is what we'll take, even if it's in the shit with the horses. We're not a band of useless girls who need looking glasses and silk sheets to fuck under," said Yara dismissively.
Listening to Yara Greyjoy address higher lords and ladies so plainly, Sansa had to wonder what sort of man Theon would have been if he had been reared on that cruel collection of islands he called home. Would he have been as ill mannered, blunt, and frightening as his sister? Then again, if he had never been taken from the Iron Islands, Sansa would not have known him. Not like she did now.
She could see that he was wringing his hands for the duration of his sister's exchange with Daenerys and when they had finished, he spoke out, addressing the ground as he was unable to meet the eye of anyone at the high table.
"If it please my queen, m'lords, m'ladies, I have peace to make with the inhabitants of this castle," he said timidly, kneeling in place.
He meant for Sansa and Jon to listen to his apologies but he needed Daenerys's permission more than theirs which made Sansa inwardly bristle that her friend needed a foreign queen's leave to address them in their own home.
It was not Daenerys, however, who spoke to Theon first. Nor was it Jon who was staring daggers at Theon or Tyrion who regarded the young man with pity. It was Bran.
"Speak your mind on your feet, Theon Greyjoy."
Theon glanced up to see Bran watching him and Sansa had never seen the color drain out of someone's face so quickly as it did now. The last time the two had laid eyes on each other, Theon was beheading Ser Rodrik in the courtyard and Bran was but a crippled boy. Sansa knew all that happened on the day Theon took Winterfell thanks to Bran and knew what Theon had done following Bran's escape thanks to Theon's own confession. As the boy who had been acting lord and had his ancestral home swept out from under him, Bran might still harvest some hatred for Theon but as this three-eyed-raven, Bran might have found forgiveness in his heart.
Sansa would not begrudge her little brother his rightful hatred that Jon had already perfected but she hoped for their mother's soft heart to be prevalent in Bran instead of their father's dutiful coldness.
Coming back onto his feet, Theon diminished in front of Bran's gaze.
"Speak, Theon," said Bran again, though Sansa could not interpret his expression. He seemed to be at war with himself as his brow twitched and his right hand clenched and unclenched.
Stuttering to start until he was able to find his words, Theon reeled, "I would confess my sins now to prove that my services belong to House Stark. I know that what I did to hurt the family who took me in can never be forgiven. None of my actions were justified and I neither expect nor wish for them to be forgiven. The people who died by my hand or by my command still cry out for mercy in my nightmares and I accept that as punishment, but I will accept more and all that there is to atone for my crimes against Winterfell and all of its people past and present: against the family who only ever treated me as such, who I betrayed. I stand here, ready to accept judgment."
Sansa could wait no longer. She did not need anyone's consent to pass her judgment and pushed back her chair, ignoring the sound of the wooden legs scraping against the stone floor as she quickly moved around the table. She threw her arms around Theon who had braced himself for her, though she could feel his uncertainty as if he did not know whether to expect an attack or an embrace. He dared not lift his arms to return her gesture under the watchful eye of her brothers.
Holding him at arm's length, Sansa raised her voice to the court and passed sentence for Theon Greyjoy. "You were forgiven a long time ago. You need not ever ask for forgiveness in your home."
Relief flooded visibly through him and he held up his head proudly, matching her eyeline as a promise to her that he would fight for her again and always, protect her, and never again allow anything or anyone to harm her.
"Consider yourself pardoned and welcomed, Theon Greyjoy," said Tyrion. "We will expect you at the war council as well."
Sansa gave a nod of gratitude to Tyrion for closing the matter before anyone else could have a say. She embraced Theon once more and then allowed him to follow a set of guards to the quarters that could be spared for him. As the court dispersed, she returned to the table where Jon and Bran had remained, preparing to defend her solitary actions.
"No one had the right to condemn or forgive him except you," said Bran as Sansa opened her mouth to speak. "He betrayed House Stark, but he found redemption in helping you alone. Only you could grant him what he wanted."
"As long as you know that there will always be a part of me that hates him for what he did to Robb and to the people of this castle," added Jon in a much graver tone.
Sansa could understand that, but if she could find it within herself to forgive Theon of aiding Ramsay and thus allowing harm to come to her, she most definitely could forgive him for the hurt he had brought to Robb and others. She did not share this sentiment with Jon, but she hoped he would realize in turn that she could not fully hand over the North as Jon so willingly had to a foreign queen who had yet to earn her right in these lands.
Two could play at this game.
She dismissed herself from the hall with Brienne following dutifully behind her and made her way outside where she could see Greyjoy flags being erected on the other side of the path from the Lannister and black Greyjoy tents. She did not trust that a gravel road would be enough to keep the two sides from warring before the battle had begun but the means of keeping each army in check would be one of the first matters to be brought up at the war council.
"Do you think four hundred men is enough to make the difference in a battle no one believes we can win?" Sansa asked Brienne.
"I have always been of the mind that just one person can make a difference, my lady," answered Brienne. "I have seen it happen more times than I can count. Without that one person who was there for us when we most needed them, we would not be here and we would not be a part of bringing this massive force together to fight our greatest enemy. So yes, I think the men who have come with Yara Greyjoy will be of great benefit to us—if they can stay away from the black kraken soldiers long enough to see the battle."
"Then I would not hold out hope. Ironborn don't back down to anything or anyone, least of all other ironborn," said a low and hoarse voice to their left. The Black Kraken himself was ambling toward them with an air of utmost supremacy. Here was a man who thought too highly of himself and had never been put in his place to humble him.
Sansa had lived among predators more years than she had not and knew what to look for in everything from facial expression to stance. Euron Greyjoy was an apex predator and he had known she would be coming this way. Already, he had memorized her movements about the castle no doubt in the hope of catching her alone. Seeing her in Brienne's company now, however, he had to recalculate his attack plan.
There was a moment of silence in which both Sansa and Euron waited for the other to speak to establish dominance but Sansa was far more practiced in holding her silence than he and she knew he would concede first. To her disappointment, however, he appeared amused by this fact and not put out.
"Lady Sansa, I've come to personally deliver a message to you by way of Queen Cersei."
"Things must have changed drastically in King's Landing since I was last there for a lord of a noble house to be tasked and demoted to the role of messenger boy."
If Euron was bothered by this slight, he did not show it, stating the message all the same. "Her Grace is not feeling up to her usual standards and requests that the war council be postponed until she's able to make an appearance."
"Perhaps she would have better luck asking the dead to hold off until she sees fit to show her face. The battle will not be held off for one woman's whims," said Sansa with disgust. "And the council will meet with or without her to ensure that we are ready for that battle that is to come."
Euron flashed her another one of those unsettling smiles. "You've played with the Queen before, Lady Sansa, but never like this when she has nothing to lose. I wouldn't test her if I were you. Tell your people that they're to hold off until Her Grace is well enough to join you."
Fixing her posture into a position that would put her at her tallest, Sansa delivered her scathing reply to this disgraceful excuse for a man. "I am accustomed to being threatened, my lord, but I will not tolerate it in my own home, least of all by a kraken who grovels at the feet of a lion for no other reason than to bed her. And trust me when I say that if she has given you any delusion that she cares for you or that she wants your child, you would do well to not take heed of those lies. The only man she ever wanted, the only one whose child she will ever bear is the one who came out of the womb with her. The babe growing in her belly as of this moment is not yours: She will have taken precautions to ensure it. So the kraken may lay with the lion but the offspring will only ever be pure lion of gold hair just as her last three children were."
If Cersei refused to exchange words with Sansa, there was no other way for Sansa to hurt her than to spread doubt between her and her most loyal ally. But more than causing a rift between the lion and her lover, Sansa wanted to hurt Euron Greyjoy for what he had done to Theon. She knew Theon feared his uncle and that he could never be called a true Greyjoy by his own people while Euron lived.
Euron blanched at Sansa's words and with all men who had seen themselves bested in a conversation, he turned it back around in a direction in which he could take the helm. "Though my queen is the only woman who has my affection and my dedication, I would gladly gift you with my cock as deep into you as it would go," he said, inching closer to her.
"Five paces back or you die where you stand," warned Brienne, hand on her pommel.
Undeterred, Euron fixed Sansa with an unblinking, wide-eyed, penetrative stare. "You might want to reconsider your sworn shield, my lady. If she has it her way, no cock will be allowed within ten leagues of you."
"Least of all yours, now step back," said Brienne, but instead Euron stepped closer, close enough that Sansa could smell what must have been saltwater perfume on him. In turn, he sniffed loudly and deeply, inhaling her scent as his eyes raked down the front of her and she knew he was mentally undressing her.
"You are welcome into my bed during these cold nights ahead of us, my lady. The queen need never know. Know that I would take you from behind and ride you hard until you screamed my name. You would know what it is to be taken by a true man as I bury my seed in your belly."
A shiver ran down Sansa's nape and she found herself no longer in the courtyard, but on her stomach in Ramsay's bed, clutching the furs and crying out in anguish as he rammed into her from behind with no mercy. She felt her composure slipping and knew that in seconds she would have to hurry away from this vile man before her, leaving him with no doubt that she feared him and what he could do to her. And he would pass that knowledge on to Cersei who would exploit it.
Then she heard heavy footfalls in the snow beside her and the briefest warmth of something large and solid brush against her. The Hound stood there, silent as he had ever been at Joffrey's side, but giving Euron Greyjoy an expression Sansa would certainly never want to be on the other end of. His hands were at his side, but then again, he did not need to arm himself to do damage to the much smaller man in front of him.
Unimpressed, Euron chuckled at the sight of the Hound beside Sansa. "You protect her as well, dog?"
"Only against vermin," replied the Hound. "They tend to emerge from shit long enough to be a nuisance."
"She already has the giant woman here, what need has she of you? Unless…you've already staked claim on her? Put your mark on her, have you? Warmed her bed, warmed her belly. If she's had your cock, she'll be stretched wide enough to take mine. A taste of a mutt when she deserves a kraken."
Sansa heard a growl and only after she saw Euron take a wide step back did she realize it was not the Hound who had made the sound, but Ghost, stalking forward with his body one straight line from his nose to the tip of his tail. His unblinking red eyes dared Euron to advance as he came to stand beside the Hound.
"The fuck is that?" asked Euron.
"I'd go so far as to say a wolf," said the Hound, sounding rather pleased at Euron's fear though he too looked surprised to see Ghost.
"A direwolf," said Sansa, taking heart from both of her bodyguards. "Hounds and wolves share a common ancestor and tend to work well together as well as speak for each other. I believe what he is saying to you at this moment is to be on your way."
To prove the point, Ghost snapped at Euron who retreated with as much dignity as he could, stalking off to plot some other way to engage Sansa in unwanted contact. Only when he was well out of sight did Sansa dare to breathe again.
The Hound was also watching the spot where Euron had disappeared and slowly turned back toward her. "Will the wolf stay with you?" he asked, looking just past her ear and not directly at her.
"If he senses danger still, yes."
The Hound gave a curt nod and left her without explanation or even a glance. His hasty exit was a retreat, a flight from a situation he was not equipped to handle now that he did not know in what standing he was with the Lady of Winterfell. Euron Greyjoy had accused him of both raping and making love to Sansa and he was ashamed of it. Perhaps not ashamed to have someone blatantly observe what might have happened if she had chosen to go with him long ago, but rather ashamed because he knew that she would know that some part of him secretly wanted her, in whatever way.
She could feel his attraction as a slight pull on her, but from what little she knew of him, he would not take liberties, not when death was so near and he had given up running from it. Even in desperation, with the wights scaling the walls and cutting through the sea of defenders, the Hound would never force himself on her, even if he did want her.
"My lady?"
Sansa realized she had been standing for well over a minute in silence after the Hound's departure and Brienne was watching her with concern.
"How conveniently quick he was to come to my assistance. He was following me from the moment we left the great hall and you knew," Sansa said and it was not a question.
"I know he will not harm you, my lady, and there are precious few individuals in this world whom I trust, but he is one of them and for that reason, I allowed him to trail you. It is not my place to say, but I have observed him in his attempts to protect both you and your sister and he was the same man just now as he was the day I fought him over the right to defend your sister. Threats against your family anger him. I believe he sees himself as your protector, perhaps a father figure, but nothing more."
Sansa did not want a father figure and even if she did, she most definitely did not want it to be Sandor Clegane. She could never envision him in the role once played by Eddard Stark. The very thought did not sit well in her brain, especially when she knew that there was some part of him that desired her.
She sifted her fingers through Ghost's fur in thought until he stalked off, sensing that she was in good and capable hands. "I am going to the godswood," she said on sudden inspiration. "You may allow in those who are known to me but I need hardly add who I have no desire to see when I am in there."
"Yes, my lady."
She made quick work of her walk to the gates to the godswood and was light on her feet as she trekked through the light layer of snow to the springs where she knew she would find her quarry. For a man who held no religion, he came here often to seek the silence of the woods, as she did. The stillness calmed her and brought her mind peace and most likely did the same for him. As expected, she found him pacing the edge of the pool but he did not grant her the courtesy of acknowledgement as she came closer.
Deciding that he would call her out on a lie if she gave it or on prattling on about a subject other than the one she came to speak to him about, she was forthright when she spoke. "I already have a sworn shield."
"A woman who Euron Greyjoy doesn't take seriously," returned the Hound.
"Are you saying she isn't dangerous because she's a woman?"
"You know that's not what I bloody meant. I fought against her and earned myself a near death experience, didn't I? I know she's dangerous but he doesn't and that wasn't the time for him to find out. With the younger generation of Greyjoys coming to the fight, there's more bad blood to settle and I'd be surprised if there are any krakens left to fight when the battle finally comes. And on that note, what business have you in striking up an alliance with the Greyjoys? Last I heard, Theon Greyjoy betrayed your brother Robb for the Salt Throne after putting your home to the torch."
"Not that it's any of your business, but Theon Greyjoy was the one who liberated me from the Boltons while they held Winterfell. And I have publicly forgiven him, as I forgave you."
"He murdered your people, members of your household—"
"I recall that you did the same," Sansa snapped.
"I was told to."
"You might have refused."
"And gotten my head taken off for it. I'm not stupid, girl."
"You could have fooled me into believing otherwise."
The Hound made an involuntary motion as if he was exercising great restraint to not grab her by the arms as he had so often done many years ago to shake some sense into her. It had frightened her to be touched by him, but it was always to deliver wisdom and advice in the form of harsh truths. Now, he would not dare, not when too much time had passed, not when she was a woman grown and unafraid of him. But it had certainly crossed his mind.
"If you have a rebuttal, you're welcome to use it," she invited.
"What's the use if I know you're not going to heed it?"
"I might surprise you."
The Hound nodded to the dagger at her waist. Per Ser Bronn's strange request, Sansa had begun carrying a blade underneath her cloak, though she did not believe herself capable of using it to much effect when and if the time came to do so. Still, it gave her a sense of added security that she had not felt before.
"Who told you to arm yourself?"
"No one. I took it upon myself to keep a blade on me at all times," she invented.
"What good will that do you against the dead?"
"It isn't for the dead—"
"Because the dead aren't the only ones that want to kill you. You let Lannisters into your home and now Greyjoys. People from both houses have tried to kill you on their own whims. You trust that boy who serves his sister when he's the reason you were brought back to this castle in the company of strangers instead of members of your own household. Of his own free will, he did that. And yet I'm the stupid one here."
"Only in your accusations. Theon Greyjoy wronged me, saved me, and begged for my forgiveness which I willingly extended to him. The same could be said of you. In obeying Cersei's orders you wronged me, in protecting me from the mob you saved me, and you earned my forgiveness in your service to my house. And I have known Theon far longer than I have known you, making his betrayal harder to forgive, yet I have done so. Tell me why I should continue to distrust him while you remain immune?"
"Because I know for a fact that I'm not trying to kill you. Your brother's men, the wildlings, and the Dragon Queen's armies are the ones I know are not trying to kill you. The two armies you just let into your castle and offered beds to haven't convinced me that they're not trying to kill you."
"What does it matter to you how soon I die if we're all going to die anyway?"
She had him now. He had admitted how little he cared for his own life in choosing to stay, fight, and most likely die but his disturbing concern for her life led her to believe that he was not letting on all that was going through his mind. He had an ulterior motive and he was stubbornly withholding it from her. It was not to cleanse his soul of his past wrongdoings; he needed to be religious to believe in such things. No, his motive was to appease a part of him that he would not willingly share with her.
"I ask you again, Sandor, what does it matter to you?"
"What's it matter to you how I spend my time? I've always made damn sure that nothing gets close enough to rape you while I'm around and old habits die hard. Least I could do is let you go to your grave with some dignity."
"No one is going to rape me before I die, of that you can be sure. I will not ever be that helpless again. I may have a sworn shield, but I will fight tooth and nail before I allow a man to lay hands on me."
The Hound chuckled. "How many times do you think waving that dagger at someone will work before they knock it out of your hand and have their way with you anyway, girl? You'll need to know more than how to unsheathe a blade to hold off anyone who wants at you. Assuming you can steer clear of all the humans in this place who would do you harm, you have at best three weeks to learn how to make yourself useful for what's to come. Think you can manage that?"
"I'll have to. Would you teach me?"
"No."
"And why not?"
The Hound made a very obvious and scathing point of raking his eyes from her brow to her feet but unlike how she had felt when Euron Greyjoy did it, she knew the Hound was examining the weak points on her, her ineptitude for battle. "Because this," he gestured at her in her entirety, "isn't made for the combat that I know. You'd be better served having your sister teach you something that she picked up wherever the hells she went to these past few years."
"She and I are built quite differently. What suits her might not serve me just as well," said Sansa, beginning to despair that she was indeed just as useless as she had ever been in having others fight her battles for her. But having Euron Greyjoy visually assault her and having to rely on two other people and a wolf to protect her, she did not ever again want to feel as helpless as she had while the castle belonged to Ramsay.
"Then I suppose you'll be wherever all the rest of the women and children are, where you belong."
"Is that where I belong?" she challenged, now hurt that he still thought so little of her.
"Aye, as long as you're a hindrance, that's where you belong. Where you don't belong is where you aren't experienced. A person who can't fight does more damage to their allies than you'd think."
"I will not be deemed so incompetent. Surely, with your knowledge of warfare, you could think of something I might be able to partially master within three weeks with vigorous training and discipline?"
"I would suggest archery, my lady."
It did not surprise her that Littlefinger had been listening in on her conversation. Almost nothing was sacred from him, not even in her own home, though she had given Brienne leave to permit anyone except Lannisters and Euron Greyjoy into the godswood. She would have to be more thorough next time. However, she was properly intrigued by Littlefinger's proposal and prompted him to explain as he approached looking rather pleased with himself.
"What about my physique suggests that I might make an adequate archer, Lord Baelish?"
"You have a slender form, tall, but balanced. Not enough strength to wield a sword in a way that would do you any good and not small enough to be quick and difficult to catch. You could pick up an axe or a knife and have the best men in those fields tutor you through the next few weeks and still be abysmal at it. You could learn how to defend yourself with these close-range weapons and promptly drop them and run when the dead come for us. Or, you could learn to mark your target from a safe distance and provide some sort of help to those out in the thick of it."
"Speak from experience in when it's best to run, do you?" asked the Hound.
Had it been anyone else, Sansa would have reprimanded the individual for speaking to a lord with such disdain, but given that it was the Hound and that he insulted a man Sansa did not much care for to begin with, she said nothing. Littlefinger, however, kept that all-knowing grin as he addressed the Hound.
"I was never a swordsman. Lady Sansa's Uncle Brandon struck me down when I challenged him and but for my small and narrow frame, he might have cut me open far worse than he did. But I did and have practiced with a bow in recent years, something I can certainly take up again and something I would be all too willing to assist Lady Sansa with."
"It is something you will take up again, Lord Baelish," said Sansa. "You are able-bodied and have knowledge and experience in combat. If you are gifted with the bow, you will teach me and then I will leave it to the archery master to decide if you are talented enough to serve in battle."
Looking sick at how his goal to privately tutor Sansa had turned on him, Littlefinger opened his mouth to backtrack but Sansa cut him short before he could begin as a messenger boy arrived with news that the war council would be held off until the evening to allow Yara Greyjoy ample enough time to recuperate (and hopefully enough time for Cersei to stop acting the part of the incompetent she was).
"We are in luck, Lord Baelish. It would seem that our immediate plans are postponed, leaving us enough time for you to reacquaint yourself with the bow and to take me on as a pupil. Let us begin."
/ /
She had seen experienced archers, masters of the bow, and the images she held of them did not match Littlefinger at all. So used was she to seeing him in his figure-hugging finery that she was properly jarred to look upon a man dressed for battle in an archer's garb. Greaves at his wrists, tight-fitting clothes to provide less of a chance that the arrow would snag, a belt that could support a waist-fitted quiver, light, springy leather for boots with little cushioning in the sole.
Sansa had had time to change into more appropriate attire herself and found that she would need special alterations made to pre-existing clothes so that she could move her legs freely. It would not do to be an archer stuck in the confines of various layers of skirts. She had tied her hair back and fitted herself with greaves of her own as well as a finger-guard. Blisters were to be expected, but she needed to avoid them with so little time to spare waiting for them to heal.
After finding a bow to match her height, Littlefinger had the archery master, Killick, run her through the proper form and basic stances before leaving her to Littlefinger's tutelage. He had her watch him for the better part of twenty minutes before he allowed her to try her hand at it. To no one's surprise, least of all her own, she was rubbish. The bow was foreign in her hands, the stance was awkward, and the target seemed much too far. Her only solace was that it was only her first day, her first hour.
And she had three weeks, if that, to get it right.
Her training had to be diligent, thorough, and extensive. Every spare hour had to be spent in the practice yard or she was wasting both hers and Littlefinger's time, though he was not nearly as juvenile as she had hoped he would be.
He was fairly accurate, but more importantly, he was quick to the draw, a skill that lent itself well to him with his small, lean frame. He would snatch an arrow from the ground quiver, fix it into the bow string, and mark his target with a speed Sansa could not match, much to her frustration. She tried not to let her chagrin show as she watched him hit the target time and again, marking eight out of ten deadly shots for every thirty of hers.
When her arrow sailed clean over the target and struck the wall behind it with enough force to snap the entire shaft, Littlefinger set his bow tip in the mud, leaning slightly on it to watch her with amusement.
"Does my failure entertain you, Lord Baelish?" asked Sansa clippingly.
"Not nearly as much as your frustration with yourself does, my lady," he answered. "You cannot expect to be an excellent marksman in a few weeks when others have taken lifetimes to perfect their craft."
"My sister is an excellent shot with no one to train her but herself. It is in my blood to be able to do battle of some sort."
"That might very well be true, but you are focused entirely too much on trying to best me and prove yourself instead of trying to hit your target. Pretend I am not here and think only of trying to sink your arrow into the target. Remember that none of us are here to judge your marksmanship. You will still be in the crypts when the battle comes, but if the defenses fall and the dead breach the walls, the number of defenders in the crypts will be few and far between. You may have the ability to rally those who have taken shelter with you if they see that you are ready, willing, and able to fight."
"She's not the problem; you are," said a cheery voice and Sansa saw Ser Bronn approach with far too much amusement for her liking. "She can't concentrate with you 'round. Clear off for a bit, see how much she improves when you come back."
"I find that hard to believe," said Littlefinger scathingly.
"Rest for a few moments, Lord Baelish. I can manage without you," ordered Sansa and Littlefinger excused himself, glaring at Bronn as he went.
"Scheming little twat, he is," said Bronn when Littlefinger was out of earshot.
"And a fair marksman, which is why he is training me."
"I don't care if he's the best marksman in the Seven bloody Kingdoms, he's still a twat. And he doesn't have as good of form as he thinks he does. And you're just learning bad habits from 'im. Stop stickin' your arse out. Tuck it all in, plant yourself, but stand tall. Less of a target to others, but not easily knocked down. Y'need a solid foundation or the tiniest gust've wind will knock you right over."
Bronn set about to correcting her posture, placing his hands where he needed to in order to get the desired results. Sansa let him, more at ease than she knew she should be as he moved about her. Finally, when he was satisfied with her positioning, he pointed to the painted mounds of hay and cloth several dozen yards out.
"Don't aim for the target, aim for the center. The smaller your target, the smaller chance you'll miss. If y'aim for the whole body, you'll miss the whole body. If y'aim for the heart, you'll still hit the body even if y'miss what you were aimin' for. Take a breath, let it out, take another, an' fire on the exhale. Always on the exhale. Your body moves on the intake. Try it out, now."
Trying to bear all his advice in mind, Sansa let her arrow fly and was properly surprised when it struck in the second ring from the center.
"See? Don't ever take advice from someone who's watched a battle when you can learn from someone who's been in battle. Your Lord Littlefinger's always had an army between 'im an' anyone who'd do 'im harm an' doesn't know the first thing about shootin' at a movin' target. His kills have been stationary an' non-lethal. He's never had somethin' or someone comin' at 'im while he tries to reload. I'd bet all the gold in the world that he'd shit himself if he went up against an opponent that tried t'kill 'im at the same time."
"Have you often served as an archer in battles, ser? I was led to believe that you were more of a foot soldier."
"Jack of all trades, m'lady. It's true, I don't often start out with a bow but I can use one just as well as I can use me sword an' dirk."
"And when was the last time you shot at something that wanted to kill you?" She did not mean to sound condescending; she was merely curious.
"Last time it was one've them dragons, m'lady," said Bronn plainly. "Stalemate, but I still hit 'it. An' trust me when I say that if Lord Littlefinger had been up against that for an opponent, he would've shit clear through his trousers. Now, try again."
Sansa resumed her stance and fired but was disappointed to see the arrow land along the fabric lining the target and nowhere near the center.
"Now, don't get upset with y'self," admonished Bronn when Sansa swore under her breath at her failure. "Until y'get more comfortable with it, y'can't try t'do better than the last time. For now, just try t'get the same results. Then, when you're consistent with it, then you can try to do better."
Once again, Sansa struck up the archer's pose, let her breath come and go twice, and fired on the exhale. Her arrow found its mark quite close to where her first arrow had gone in. Bronn clapped twice in approval and made to grasp her arm but seemed to think better of it. Instead he nodded at her back end.
"Remember, keep that arse in. Even men with no arse to speak of stick it out an' fuck up their whole stance because've it. Keep it in or watch it get shot off."
"I appreciate your time in teaching me, ser. I do see the merit in learning from an experienced fighter, though my initial choice refused to help me. He seemed to think it would be a waste of his time."
"Waste of our time," corrected the Hound, and Sansa was peeved to find him leaning against the nearby arcading with his arms crossed.
"How long have you been standing there?" Sansa admonished.
"Maybe an hour."
Furious that he had refused to train her with the claim that it would do no good and then deliberately remaining silent as he watched her train with someone else anyway, Sansa shouldered her bow and marched over to him.
"I find your attitude to be entirely disrespectful and unhelpful. I asked for your help, you declined, claiming you had better things to do, and so I allowed Lord Baelish to take your place but you have stood here since I began practicing."
"I'm not an archer, girl. Never was. I could tell you to fit the arrow to the bow, pull back, and let go, and that's as much as you'd learn from me. Littlefinger knows a mite or two about archery, so I let him take the lead since he seemed so eager to please you. You'd be as inexperienced in three weeks as you are today if I'd taught you. You'd learn nothing and I'd teach nothing. But you're learning now and I'm watching, so we both benefit from it."
"Go and watch someone else," Sansa snapped.
"Do I make you nervous, girl?"
It was a challenge, a dare for her to touch on the forbidden subject both of them knew but neither one would bring up. He wanted to hear her thoughts on the matter, hear some small admittance from her, but he would be sorely dissatisfied if he had come to observe her just to get that tiny bit of satisfaction from her.
"Your presence is an irritation at best. If you plan to stand there and do nothing, do so in silence or make yourself useful and go out to help dig the trenches."
"There's enough Unsullied and not enough room for a man of my size to do the digging."
"Then I say again, be silent. I am trying to do my part to contribute to the battle and I do not appreciate you hindering my attempts. I do not want to rely on brutish and boorish men like you to do my fighting for me."
She turned her back on him, returned to her place at the end of the shooting lane, and nocked an arrow to her bow. Sensing that the Hound was still watching her, she turned her head to face him and released the arrow, glaring at him for being a distraction. Only when one of his eyebrows cocked upward and a tiny grin appeared at the corners of his lips did Sansa turn back to see that she had made center-target.