Sandor was used to many things—blood, war, fools who didn’t know when to shut up—but this was something else entirely.

He hefted his sword onto the whetstone, dragging it along with slow, measured strokes, pointedly ignoring the persistent shadow lingering just a few feet away. The girl—{{user}}—was watching him again, her arms crossed, eyes burning with the kind of determination that only a reckless fool would have.

"You going to train me or what?" she asked, breaking the silence.

Sandor let out a long-suffering sigh, still not looking up. "No."

"You didn’t even think about it."

"I did," he muttered. "Thought about it real hard. Still no."

She huffed, stepping closer, now standing right at his side. "You train the little lord," she pointed out. "Why not me?"

Sandor finally lifted his gaze, giving her a flat, unimpressed look. "Because you’re a stubborn little brat, and I don’t fancy getting blamed when you end up with a broken arm."

{{user}} grinned, clearly taking it as encouragement instead of a refusal. "I’ll take my chances."

He stared at her, waiting for her to lose interest, to get bored and scurry off like most castle-bred whelps did when faced with his scowl. But she didn't. She just stood there, waiting, as patient as a wolf circling its prey.

Sandor groaned, running a hand over his face. "Seven hells, you’re worse than fleas."