WHO: Wylla and Sandor. (COMPLETED) WHAT: FIGHT CLUB. WHERE: Winterfell, training yard. WHEN: Late afternoon. WARNINGS: The Hound.
Sandor spent more time in the kennels than the training yard, lately. He preferred the company of the hounds. That, and it was slightly warmer in the kennels than it was standing out in the yard sweating and freezing at the same time. Still, he put the time in, for his own benefit more than the men he was training. There were precious few people on his level, was the problem, and it wasn't an arrogant thought. It was hard earned, well earned. When he wasn't half dead from infection he was a quick man for his size, and with his size came strength. He'd knocked his share of Wildings down already who'd come to have a go at the Dog. In good fun, even if he'd blooded some noises and cracked some teeth. The Wildlings (the Free Folk they called themselves) were all right. He liked them. They weren't up their own arses about Lords and Ladies and crowns and they appreciated a good fight just for the sake of it.
It was why when he finished his training for the day, he went to watch theirs. The Thenn's were long gone, but quite a few others remained. Mostly Tormund's people, he thought. It was hard to tell them all apart since they didn't bother with sigils and banners.
Hard to miss the shieldmaiden's, though. He tried not to watch them, didn't want anyone on any side getting any ideas, but today was different. He saw a vibrant flash of color among the otherwise washed out greys of Wildling furs and recognized the Manderly girl. One of them. Sandor knew she was a Lady, but that was the extend of it. W- something. WonkyHair. He'd keep that one to himself.
She was getting trounced by the Free Folk girls, and while the girl was game, she fought like she imagined she were in an epic battle instead of like she was training. Absolutely foolish. It reminded him of Arya and the thought made him smirk.
"You're making the rest of the women in the castle look bad with that shite, Lady Manderly!" he called out. If she was down in the dirt with Free Folk, he didn't think she'd be displeased if he spoke out of turn. Some Lord's and Ladies just had a way about them. Not many, but he knew it when he saw it.
One of the shieldmaidens, a woman with dark brown hair named Roan, snickered and nudged Wylla.
"The big Dog's barking at you," she said, teasing her, "He isn't wrong."
"Not your fault," he added, and since he had everyone's attention now, he made it his business to establish that he didn't care to have it, "You'll never get better if you get trained by a bunch of fucking Free Folk. Too busy being free to learn any bloody discpline."
Roan's snicker died and she frowned. The Dog was an arsehole.