Time stretches with each pass of the blade against the iron. Metal on metal is rarely a pleasant sound; Sansa grew up around it, heard it in the courtyards when her brothers and their men are training, heard it in King's Landing every time a noble man fell out of favour, heard it so many times over the years with few good memories to associate the sound to.
Death, almost always. If her hold on Lady tightens, she does not mean it to hurt.
The sharp scraping noise echoes in the quiet clearing, too, ringing clear in the absence of woodland creature noises. Noise attracts a lot of things, from natural predators to men of ill ambitions, and Sansa finds herself looking over the young man's shoulder and furtively scanning along the treeline and wherever else she could look for any movement.
"It's getting too quiet," Sansa finds herself saying. "How much longer?"
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Death, almost always. If her hold on Lady tightens, she does not mean it to hurt.
The sharp scraping noise echoes in the quiet clearing, too, ringing clear in the absence of woodland creature noises. Noise attracts a lot of things, from natural predators to men of ill ambitions, and Sansa finds herself looking over the young man's shoulder and furtively scanning along the treeline and wherever else she could look for any movement.
"It's getting too quiet," Sansa finds herself saying. "How much longer?"