Lenna XXXV
When she awoke the next morning, she was confused about why she wasn't wearing her chemise. Sitting up blearily, she spotted it laying on the floor by the hearth and the events of the night before rose up and overtook her. The sheets and blankets on the other side of the bed were rumpled, the pillow still bearing the impression of his head where he'd rested. She sank back into them, luxuriating like a cat, and turned her nose in them to see if she could catch his scent.
She could, and with it came the intense remembrance of what they had done the night before. When he'd kissed her it had felt like stepping into the illustrations from her red book. He'd cradled her so gently, as if afraid she would break, afraid she wasn't real. His violent reaction to the manner in which she returned his kiss startled her as much as it inflamed her, his hands demanding and grasping. She felt like he was trying to climb into her, to mesh with her, and it excited her beyond telling.
Asking him to stay, that hungry glint in his eyes and the desperation vibrating in his fingertips, had been the bravest thing she'd ever done. She knew that as soon as that door closed, they would walk off a cliff's edge together. It would be done, the years of yearning sealed into something much more immutable.
She burrowed deeper into her bed at the memory of him all around her, inside her. She wasn't so innocent that she didn't know it would hurt, and it certainly had. At first. He'd held himself so still, the effort making the veins and sinews in his neck strain as he gritted his teeth, letting her sink slowly onto him inch by inch. She had felt like she was splitting, but she didn't break, her body conforming to his as if she were a glove being stretched and moulded. His arms had held her tight, his eyes never leaving hers. It was in his eyes that she saw fever, and something else.
And then they were moving, her hips seeming to know what to do as soon as he got them started, undulating against him as he stroked parts of her she previously didn't know existed. Sensation threatened to overwhelm her as she braced her hand on the wall behind his head, their faces so close he could dart up to catch her mouth with his, her short curls brushing his cheeks, catching in his beard.
He looked at her all the while, that same look of devotion, only now it was fierce.
It had never been intense before, the waves and eddies of release. Even when he'd used his hands, she'd never felt like that, surrounded on all sides, her body embracing him so fully. He'd kept moving, his expression almost imploring as he convulsed, those three words pouring from his throat with the same fervor as a supplication, a plea, like he was willing her to believe him.
I love you.
He'd never said it. She'd given them to him in the aftermath of the Hand's Tourney, whispered them fiercely in the Sept and watched as his face went wild with joy and fear. It had tongue-tied him, hearing those words from her, and he'd tried to say them back. He'd failed. She only cared that he'd tried.
She looked down on him in stunned silence, her own thoughts feeling dim and small in her own head, still overcome with the aftershocks of their pleasure. She collapsed against him, her head tucked into the crook of his neck, her entire body rising and falling in rhythm with his massive chest as his breathing slowed to normal. She bit down on her thumb, her brow furrowing. Her reaction to hearing him say it wasn't what she would have expected. She wasn't happy like she'd have thought, she felt solemn instead. It was a tremendous thing, bearing the weight love from a man like him.
"What's wrong?" he'd asked, and she heard fear in his voice.
"Nothing," she replied, sitting up and looking at him. Nothing is wrong, everything is right, only it's just more than it was before. He was looking at her with a film of terror in his eyes, and it pained her. "I...you…"
"What?" he gasped, and it was like the strike of a bell.
"You've never said it before," she murmured, feeling her entire body flush. It was the strangest thing, she felt like every vein was filling with light, some strange power. "You've never said the words."
Realization stole over his face like a thief, the terror replaced by something else entirely. She didn't know how to describe it, it was like he drew a curtain across his eyes, turning his head and letting his hair fall over his eyes. He took a deep breath and she felt him twitch inside her. The feeling took her aback, the fact that they were still joined together not making her current state any less potent, but quite the opposite.
She hoped she was interpreting his silence correctly. She knew that Sandor had always struggled with his feelings. For so long, his feelings of unworthiness, of self-doubt and hatred had overshadowed anything else he might carry. They had made him push her away, time and time again, always convinced that the only person he was hurting was himself. She saw that as the root to most of the times he'd withdrawn himself, cut himself off from her. It had caused him tremendous pain, he was a man of sorrow, and she thought that he more than likely believed he'd be the only one who suffered long-lasting effects from his decisions.
It had made her so angry, and often. Refusing to meet her gaze in the early days, her transgressions still only known to him, then walking away from her after their return from White Harbor. He'd seemed to understand after the business with Ned Stark, when she had kept herself from him, but even then, he didn't quite grasp how painful it had been for her, too. He could conceive of deserving pain, he didn't think himself of enough value to inflict it.
She wasn't about to let him do it again, throw up those walls and push her away. Not after he'd done what he'd just done. What they'd just done. Lenna was more than pleased to take credit for her part in it, the darkest parts of her still thrumming and exulting in the feeling of him there beneath her.
Her palms on his cheeks, she turned him to face her. The gray eyes were open, and they latched onto hers with an expression not unlike a mendicant begging for scraps. It made her shudder in pleasure and in pain.
"It's true," he said, the words thorny and ripped. "What I said...it's true."
She would have liked him to say them again, but she knew better than to expect him capable of it in such a vulnerable state. His hands were resting on her hips, and she leaned forward, feeling him slip from her.
"I know," she whispered, laying her forehead against his, "and I feel the same."
Light broke in his eyes like a dawn, and she smiled. It felt good to feel her cheeks lift, her lips curl. It had been weeks since she'd properly smiled, and she felt unburdened by it. His face had relaxed, those light-filled eyes gleaming back at her, his mouth slightly parted. She hoped she looked at him the same way, hoped he saw that kind of awe and reverence reflected back at him from her own face.
She laughed when she kissed him, chortling into his mouth. It was better than tears, and he swallowed it greedily, drawing her down beside him against the pillows, wrapping her against him. The lamp was still burning, but she didn't bother to dim it, overcome with sleepy satiety.
She woke once in the night, reveling to stir in his arms, prevailing on him to repeat their earlier activities one more time before dawn broke. He'd not relit the lamp, simply rolled her in his arms so she was beneath him. She didn't know it was possible to feel to entangled, surrounded by another person. Every inch of her was pressed against some part of his flesh, warm and firm and intoxicating. His forehead pressed against hers, his hands cradling her shoulders, her head, eyes glinting silver in the dark. She'd wrapped her legs around his waist as if she'd always known that was what she was supposed to do, and he'd pushed into her again and again, those words on his lips again, breathed against her throat in the darkness.
The door of her room opened with a thud, and Shae bustled in with a basket of laundry.
"My lady," she said in surprise. "I thought you'd already be up."
"I slept in," Lenna said, hastily rising and covering herself with the topsheet, crossing to pick up her chemise where it had landed on the stone floor. Shae's expression remained passive, but one dark brow shot up in inquiry.
Lenna felt her cheeks heat as the other woman's cunning eyes took in the scene. Something about the bed startled her, though, and her face knit with determination and concern.
Shae swiftly stripped the sheets off the bed, and as she did so, Lenna saw what had made her react so. There was a dark smear of blood blooming on the bottom sheet. Shae stuffed it all into the fireplace and lit it, kneeling to stoke it to a roaring blaze.
"There," she said as she stood up. She looked levelly at Lenna.
"Thank you," Lenna whispered. "I wouldn't have thought-"
"Just doing as instructed," Shae said, turning back to the laundry.
"How do you mean?" Lenna asked, shrugging on a fresh chemise and tying it quickly. Shae's brow twitched again, accompanied by a wicked smirk, but she didn't reply. "Will you tell Lord Tyrion?"
"Of course, my lady," Shae responded. Lenna looked away in shame. "My lady," Shae said, a smile in her voice, "you have done nothing wrong."
The other woman- Lenna refused to call her a maid- reached out and laid her hand on Lenna's arm.
"I'm sorry, Shae, it's just-"
"Do you regret it?" Shae asked. "I don't think that you do."
"No," she said lowly. "Of course I don't."
Shae looked at her foxily again. "Was it enjoyable? First times can be-"
"It was wonderful," she replied without hesitation. "I wish-"
"That you'd done it sooner?"
Lenna nodded shyly. Shae laughed, throwing her head back, dark eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Tyrion does, too," she replied, hanging up one of Lenna's gowns. "He said you've been mooning over each other for years, and he was about to lose his mind. I'd not have thought, though-"
"What?" Ire sparked briefly through her blood at Shae's insinuation that she and Sandor were not a logical pairing. Surely the lover of the Imp should know better than to hold with such thoughts.
Shae pinked across the bridge of her nose. "Love knows no reason."
"No," Lenna replied. "It wants what it wants."
Shae was still laughing when she left a quarter hour later, Lenna dressed and ready for the day. She made her way to Cersei's solar, finding the queen standing at the window with a cup of wine in her hand.
"Good morning, your grace," Lenna said. "Are you quite well?"
Cersei turned, her face troubled.
"I am as well as can expected to be. Lenna," she said her voice suddenly shrill. "You were hurt."
Lenna raised her hand to her cheek. She had quite forgotten the cut. "It is a little thing, your grace. It will heal in no time."
Cersei's brow knitted and she crossed to sit at her desk.
"If the riots weren't bad enough, I have had word from my father. I wrote to him, as did Tyrion, to ask his help in deterring your marriage to Ser Gregor."
Did this have to happen today? she thought. It would have been better to have had a whole day to remember the night before with untainted pleasure. Instead, she folded her hands and waited for the worst.
"What did he say?"
"He agrees with us, he does not want 'to see a lady of such quality come to such an end,' but he fears that an attack from Stannis Baratheon is imminent and begs us hold off on any action we might take."
"I see," Lenna replied. It wasn't a pardon, but she would take a stay of execution.
At that moment, the door to the study opened and Tyrion appeared. Shae had already got to him if his taunting grin was any indication. Lenna averted her eyes from in an effort not to go scarlet with embarrassment.
"Morning all," he said, striding in. He was carrying a roll of parchment in his hand, and he set it on the desk.
"Morning," Lenna replied, begging him with her eyes not to tease her in front of his queenly sister. She knew she'd have it coming later.
"I was just telling Lenna that father has tabled discussion of her marriage."
"Ah yes, in the face of impending battle, there are other considerations to be had. Indeed." He poured himself a glass of wine. Lenna still didn't know how they were all able to start drinking before noon. "I had hoped to find you here, Lenna. Your maid said you would be."
He wants you to know that he knows, she thought irritably. "Here I am, my lord."
"I would you both look at this, then."
He drank the contents of his glass and, with a great sniff, unrolled the parchment over Cersei's desk. The queen went to it first, staring down at it in lack of understanding.
"I don't know what I'm looking at," she said. "The boundaries look familiar. What is it?"
"Lenna?"
She peered down at it and recognized it at once. She'd seen it's like in the records of Aerys Targaryen's Grand Maester. It made her blood run cold.
"It is King's Landing," she said matter-of-factly. "See, here is the Mud Gate, and here the Old Gate. This is the Keep." She traced her finger over the pathways that had been inked on the parchment.
"Nonsense," the queen replied. "These are not the streets."
"No," Lenna replied. "It is the underground." The queen looked at her in surprise, begging explanation. "I have read of it. A network of passageways that runs throughout the capital."
"And these marks," Tyrion said, pointing to a small mark near the Keep. It was shaped a bit like a teardrop. "What are these? Springs? It looks like water."
"No," Lenna answered. "It is a spark. That is the sign of the Alchemist's Guild."
"This map-"
"My guess is that is the work of Wisdom Rossart," Lenna replied.
"So the sparks," Tyrion said. "Those are caches of wildfire."
Lenna took a deep breath. "Perhaps. I do not know."
"Wildfire," said the queen suddenly. "Is it still there?"
"I do not know," Lenna replied. "Besides, wildfire is...tempermental. It hasn't been made effectively since the reign of the Mad King, and even then-"
"I have never seen it," Tyrion said quickly. "Supposed to melt anything: wood, metal, flesh. I just ask what stops it."
"Nothing, my lord," Lenna replied. "It is impervious to water. It burns out when there is no fuel left. It is what makes it so dangerous. It cannot be stopped once it is aflame."
"But Aerys harnessed it."
"No, your grace," Lenna answered. "His pyromancer claimed to do so, but we do not have any evidence of it. This map, I wager, was Aerys' last attempt to keep the capital out of King Robert's hands. But it was never unleashed."
"So it is still there."
"Who's to say?" Lenna felt sick to the pit of her stomach. "Forgive me, your grace. I would take some air."
"I'll join you," Tyrion said brightly. "I wish to stretch my legs as well."
"Of course," Cersei said distractedly, her attention again seized by the map. Lenna watched uneasily as she traced one finely manicured finger over the passageways, lingering on the sparks.
Lenna gulped in the air and soaked in the sunshine. She felt like she was suffocating as she stood in the study talking of wildfire. There were few things that set her on edge in the history books, but both the Reynes and wildfire made her feel low. The Reynes for obvious reasons rooted in her own past, but wildfire because it was so unknowable. From what she had read, no one in recent memory had actually managed to produce the stuff, the Alchemists themselves nearly vanishing since the deposition of the Mad King, but if possible, the substance was more destructive and deadly than any other force save dragon fire itself. Wasn't it wildfire that Aerion drank in an effort to become a dragon? Then there were the stories of how easily it caught fire, how difficult it was to harness. Something as innocuous as the sunshine that currently splashed across her cheeks could cause it to catch, and then incinerate everything it encountered.
"Dark thoughts, dear Lenna," Tyrion said quietly. "I'm surprised, on a day like today."
Lenna looked down at him, displeased with the smirk that was twisting his odd face.
"I was not the one who brought up talk of wildfire, my lord," she said tersely. "You are foolish if you think to use it in the battle against Stannis."
That sobered him immediately, his eyes darkening. "We need a plan of action, Lenna. Would you see the capital fall?"
"Of course not," she replied quickly, her breath catching. "But wildfire, Tyrion? It cannot be controlled, not truly. So many lives will be lost."
"Let me worry about it," he said, reaching for her hand. "I didn't mean to trouble you. I was going to ask you...no. I see now that it would be took difficult for you."
"My lord?"
"I have been reading. Histories, you see. Looking at past sieges."
Lenna gulped. "I see."
"I was hoping you'd have some insight."
She smiled wanly. "Military stratagem was never my forte. Diplomacy, sure. Not siege tactics."
"Of course," he replied. "Foolish of me. I shouldn't have even thought it."
She made herself take a deep breath, looking out at the sea. They'd wandered to the terraces by the water, the same place where Tyrion had made his futile proposal the month before. It wasn't foolish of him to come to her about sieges. She'd read all of the histories, understood them as well as she reckoned they could be understood, but so had Tyrion. She had no new visions for defense, at least not conscionable ones, and she blessed him for recognizing that she could not plot something like she felt he was planning.
"How long?" she asked at last, the question having been pressing for weeks. Everyone wanted to know how long they had. What would they do with such knowledge? What would it change?
"A matter of days. Perhaps a week."
Her throat closed and she squinted against the sun. So little time.
"That long," she said lamely.
"You will be safe in the Keep with my sister, only Lenna," he squeezed her hand, "if the battle comes to a close and we seem to have lost, do something for me."
"Yes, my lord?" she replied absently, her thoughts with someone else.
"Go to your room and bar the door. Do not stay with my sister."
"My lord?" Alarm spread through her at such a request. Her place would be by the queen's side from the moment she was called until the battle was resolved. The women and children would be pulled deep into the Holdfast, where they could not be harmed. She could not fathom why Tyrion would tell her to leave the safety of the queen's protection in such an event. She had not fear of Stannis, but she did not know why he would send her unguarded into an occupied Keep.
"Just...just do it. Please." The note of polite pleading in his voice made her look at him hard. His eyes were dolorous, and she felt the sick stirrings of dread in her belly Lenna narrowed her eyes at him, but she nodded. Tyrion raked a hand through his hair and tried to smirk at her, squeezing her hand again before releasing it.
The smile did not reach his eyes, vanishing as quickly as it appeared, leaving them both long-faced as they gazed at the harbor, improbably beautiful in the bright sunlight, the Blackwater sparkling like a field of gems.
Sandor XXXV
He lived in anticipation of glimpsing her. The riots had been put down, and it had been two days since he'd left her in her chambers. If he had been an expressive man, he might have smiled whenever he thought of it. He didn't, but it did make his heart do a queer little flip in his chest each time he remembered her as he'd last seen her, snuggled into her bedding, hair in disarray across her pillow, milky shoulders bare, the subtle rise and fall of her ribs beneath the skin of her chest as she breathed. She'd been peace personified when he took his leave, dawn spilling in waves of peach and pink, tinting that impossibly pale skin, making the rose of her mouth deepen, purpling the shadows of her lashes against her cheeks.
She looked innocent and good as she slept, a hand resting by her cheek. He'd stayed at her side as long as he could, her head resting on his arm instead of a pillow. It had put his shoulder to sleep, put an uncomfortable crick into his bones, but he'd ignored it. What was a little discomfort to the pleasure of watching her sleep next to him.
In a bed, no less. His chest expanded grandly and then collapsed. In another man, it would have been a sigh. It had been one thing to hold her against him on the window ledge in the library, but another thing entirely to have been in her bed. It made his breath short just to think of it.
Of course, memories of it had consumed his thoughts to the point that even he thought he was mooning. He was lucky mooning looked like scowling on him, and the other guards had given him a wider berth in the wake of the riots.
Except for Tyrion Lannister's runty cunt.
"Lord Tyrion calls for you."
Sandor grunted, turning to find the sellsword leaning against the wall with careful casualness picking his nails.
"I don't care what your little lord wants," he replied tersely. He was just off duty, and he thought he might catch her in the Sept if he went quickly.
"'Bout your woman," the sellsword said. That got Sandor's attention, his scowl deepening. Without a further glance at him, Sandor turned his feet toward the Tower of the Hand.
Tyrion Lannister was pacing up and down his study. He halted when Sandor entered, placing his hands behind his back and looking him up and down appraisingly.
The Imp cocked his eyebrow, and Sandor saw red.
"Don't you fucking dare-"
"I wouldn't dream of it," Tyrion said, putting both his hands up in front of him in surrender. "Only I do hope, Clegane, that you have taken the necessary precautions." Sandor paled, feeling like a rutting boy called to his father's carpet. "I'm sure you don't want a pack of whelps running around just yet."
Whelps. Pups. Children. He hadn't thought about it, not once. Gods.
"Judging from your face, I gather that you didn't. That could complicate things."
"That why you called me here?" he growled.
"In part," Tyrion said. "And to update you, of course. We heard back from my father. He is tabling discussion of Lenna's marriage."
Sandor's hackles rose again. "Why?"
"We are awaiting imminent battle," Tyrion said flatly. "All resources, physical and mental, must be put to the defense of King's Landing."
"What of her defense?" he demanded. "He wants her married off as part of the victory celebrations."
"Indeed, but wouldn't it look like a fine trade to paw her off on the hero the day?"
"What are you getting at?"
"A command. I'm giving you one. Let it be considered a tactical move."
Twin flashes of pride and anger flashed through him. A command was a compliment, a display of confidence. He had not compunction about taking one. He had some pretty fair ideas about how he'd defend the city. He'd been thinking on it. It confused him, though, that it was Tyrion who was talking to him about it. "Why is the king not informing me?"
"The king is a boy, and he is not in charge of our defenses," Tyrion replied testily. "I am. And I am choosing you to lead a contingent of men to stave off any attack via the Mud Gate."
"Mounted or on foot?" he demanded, his brain automatically running scenarios. The Mud Gate opened onto the wharves, but Stannis was likely to land his men on the beaches as well. The Gate itself was a position to fall back to, any sortie would venture far out of its protection. That meant sand, and he didn't like sand.
"On foot, naturally," Tyrion replied. Sandor suppressed a grunt of annoyance. He spoke it like a man who had not seen his share of fighting.
"It isn't natural, my lord," Sandor said tersely. "Sand is unstable, especially to men in plate. Horses fare better in sand that boots do. Four legs and hooves distribute their weight, where men slip and lose their footing."
Tyrion looked at him and cocked his head. "That is a valid point."
"I know." He couldn't resist the note of challenge in his voice. Of course he fucking knew, he didn't need the little lord to tell him so. He'd done it, for more years now than he'd been alive when he'd started fighting for the fucking Lannisters.
"You'll have your pick of the city guard," Tyrion said. Sandor humphed. The gold cloaks were not exactly an elite fighting force. The Imp looked at him peevishly from under the mop of his hair. "Poor leavings as they are, they are what we've got."
"As you command, my lord," he replied woodenly.
"One other thing," Tyrion said, suddenly serious. "Should this battle go to Stannis Baratheon, I have instructed Lenna to leave my sister and return to her own rooms."
"Why? She'd be safest with the queen." Sandor was now quite sure that Tyrion knew exactly what had happened, and, what was more, that the sellsword did, too.
Tyrion looked back at Sandor mysteriously. "The further she is from my sister in that event, the better. They will only have Ser Ilyn to look after them."
He felt like ice was trickling down his back, making him shudder. It had never occurred to him that Cersei would preemptively take her own life, deprive Stannis Baratheon of the pleasure of taking her hostage. Of course she was too proud to suffer such humiliation. He shuddered.
"Stannis will not harm her," Tyrion said, taking in his reaction. "Or Lady Sansa. Their fathers and brothers have not declared for him, but they very well may. He will not jeopardize them or let any harm come to them."
"Noble thoughts, my lord," Sandor said lowly. Stannis might, but it wouldn't be Stannis that got to them first. If he was the victor, Sandor would be unable to protect them himself.
"I just wanted you to know," Tyrion replied flatly. "I have not forgotten her."
"Neither have I," Sandor rasped savagely, feeling the accusation in his words. No, she consumed every breath, that old vow now sitting heavier than ever.
"So I've heard," Tyrion riposted. They were growling at each other like tomcats, Sandor startled to hear the sellsword chuckle. He'd forgotten all about him.
"Make no mistake, Clegane," he said, straightening himself. "We won't lose."
"How do you know?" he demanded. The smug assurance on the man's face annoyed him. He wanted to plant his fist in his face and make that nose even more crooked than it already was.
"Because I have the most important part to play, and I won't fuck it up."
Sandor growled.
"It is rather ingenious," Tyrion said. "Found it in a book, of course. Stringing a chain across the harbor to prevent retreat on the attack has been made. Should Stannis wander in…" Tyrion pulled a face and made a slicing motion across his own neck. "Still, if we don't, know that she'll be safe."
"And if we lose, she'll be just as much in danger as she was before," he rasped. "Sounds to me like she's at risk no matter which way it goes. May I leave now? Have you further use of me?"
"No. Certainly go," Tyrion replied. "Gather your men, have them train as long as you can. On horseback and on foot."
"Aye, my lord," he said, turning to go. To his consternation, Bronn followed. He didn't much feel like company, annoyed that his chance to find her had been taken from him. Not that he knew what he'd say. If he was being honest with himself, the thought of seeing her terrified him. He felt that something had happened, something he couldn't explain. He had few words to begin with, but he certainly didn't have the right ones to talk about what had happened between them. He needed to think, and he wouldn't be able to do that with the sellsword on his heels.
He turned his feet toward Flea Bottom and the ale house he favored, Bronn falling into step beside him.
"Why are you following me?" he growled.
"Fancied a drink," he replied. "Can a man not get a drink when he wants one?"
Sandor scowled, not knowing how to get him to leave him alone. He took a seat opposite as Sandor sat down on the ale house bench. He didn't look at him, keeping his eyes in his ale.
"You're awful long-faced for a man who's just-"
"Shut up," Sandor barked. "I wouldn't talk about it with him, and I sure as fuck won't talk about it with a cunt like you."
"Fair enough," Bronn said, sniffing cheerfully. "So, what are you going to do?"
"What do you mean?"
"You can't honestly tell me you're going to wait around for the fucking Lannisters to step up and do something about your brother, can you?"
"They will keep her safe." At least they will try.
"So they say, but what happens if we win this battle and your brother comes in a hero and a victor? What if the king dislikes little Lord Tyrion's suggestion? He hates his uncle, he won't bow to his wishes for just any reason. Even if Lord Tywin backs him, it's still not a sure thing."
"What do you suggest I do, then?" he growled, balling his fist on the table. It was almost as big as the tankard, and the sellsword eyed it with a flash of wariness.
"If it were me, if I had a woman like that sneaking me into her bed, a highborn lady with a face like hers, and a temper so sweet-"
"Get to your point."
"Don't like hearing your lady praised? Should make you proud." He wondered if Bronn was aware of how very close he was to being killed.
"Get. To. Your. Fucking. Point."
"If it were me," Bronn said, hunkering over his ale with sudden seriousness, hands wrapped around the tankard, "I'd steal her."
"Steal her?" Sandor asked incredulously. Did the man think she was an object that could be secreted away?
"Aye," he replied, both brows raised conspiratorially. "I'd throw her over me pommel and light out of them gates like the hounds of the seven hells were on my heels."
"That would make me a traitor." He said flatly. Treason would land his head on a spike and her in just as much danger as before, if not more.
"Since when you care what the fuck anyone thinks about you?" Bronn asked with mocking laugh and a swig of beer. "I don't know you well, but I know you enough to know you don't give two shits what these cunts think about you. Who cares if you're called a traitor."
"They'd send men after us. Lenna is the queen's closest lady."
"Lenna?" Bronn said, raising his eyebrow. "You have gone deep, haven't you?" Sandor glowered at him. "You're right, they probably would, but you'd move fast, take her somewhere safe."
"There is nowhere safe."
"Her brothers are up there with Robb Stark, north of the Oxcross. It's not that far. A week of hard riding, at worst? And if you were to leave, say, dark of night…you'd have a head start."
"Why should I listen to you?"
"I like her," Bronn said. "If I didn't think you'd turn me inside out and wear my skin for a cloak, I'd steal her myself. Seems a very put-upon lady," he said thoughtfully, leaning back. "She's suffered."
"Aye," Sandor replied quietly, watching the bubbles trickle upwards from the bottom of his ale and break like stars on the surface. "She has."
"So have you."
"Same could be said of everyone like us," Sandor replied, acknowledging their similarities glumly. The sellsword smirked.
"Odd, isn't it?" he asked thoughtfully, his gaze going distant. "Men like us, all we ever can do is take life out of this world. We're good at it. We like it. It stirs our blood. How does a woman like yours, all soft and sweet and good, how does she care about one of us? How does that happen? She should have some handsome little lordling with a fine keep and riches to shower on her, but she chose...well, she chose you." Sandor looked at Bronn through his hair. "You might be the biggest, ugliest fucker I've ever seen, but you are one lucky son of a bitch, I'll grant you that," he said drinking deeply, flicking his eyes back to Sandor's. "Luckier than you deserve."
Sandor couldn't disagree. He drained his cup and lifted a finger for another, his mind aswirl with the sellsword's words, the thought of throwing her into his saddle and riding through the wild looking more and more appealing.
A/N: I love how I say I'm going to slow down, and then I don't really. Goodness. I can't let them sit once they're done. I have to get them out there. Granted, this one is much shorter. The next will be a similar length, then I'm toying with ways to break up the next bit. Lenna and Sandor might get entirely separate chapters. I know y'all like getting a double-dip of POV, but I want to avoid a 10,000 word chapter. Ha.
Thank you for your feedback on the last chapter. I was very nervous posting an actual lemon. Eek. They're scary. I'm glad you seemed to like it. Reviews are the best, please leave one. I love seeing all the familiar names, and seeing some new ones, too!