Lenna XIII

A week. That was all she was given in the end. On the morning of the seventh day, Maester Loren had crept into the hall as they ate breakfast, a scroll in his hand. It was a terrible pantomime of the day that first raven came, that long ago nameday. He had brought that news, too, the parchment rolled in just the same way, with the same red lion sigil sealing it closed.

Only, on this day, instead of holding the parchment out to her father, Maester Loren brought it to her directly.

She knew it was summons back to King's Landing before she even broke the seal. She slid her finger beneath the wax, unfurled it, and in a glance knew that what little joy she'd had was now over. Without a word, without any hesitation, she had handed it to Sandor. He read it with as little joy as she, resignation and pity reflecting back at her from his hangdog face.

"We are recalled," she said, quietly. "The queen has requested that we be on the earliest ship back to King's Landing."

Her father looked at her with acceptance, almost like he'd expected it to have happened sooner.

"There is a ship prepared in the harbor. You'll be on it this afternoon," he said gruffly.

She nodded solemnly, looking to Sandor. His gray eyes were stormy, and he sat back in his chair wearily, thrusting the parchment away from him.

"Did you know, Papa?" she asked quietly.

"I suspected it may happen. I was rather hoping it wouldn't, but here we are," he replied, pinching the bridge of his nose. The jovial atmosphere that had pervaded the room evaporated, leaving behind a chill sense of loss.

"I should pack, then," Sandor said in his gravelly way, making to rise from his place at the table.

"No, Clegane," her father said, waving for him to sit down. "A squire can do it. Stay with us. Maester Loren," he called, and the little brown man bustled over to him. "Cancel the docket today, and send a maid to pack Lady Helenna's things."

The Maester nodded and hurried out again, leaving the family sitting in stunned silence around the table. Lenna looked at her plate, still full of oatcakes and honey, her stomach now filled with queasy dread. She pushed the plate away, folding her hands in her lap, digging her nails into her palms until they smarted. She was trying very hard not to cry, finding herself staring blankly at one of the murals, a school of silvery cod, unable to look at any of their faces.

"We have so little time left, lass," he father said quietly, and when she looked at him her chin began to tremble. His old eyes were soft and sad, but he had mustered a smile. "Let us not spend it in sorrow."

She tried to smile, not entirely sure she was successful. It was Wynna who led them, rising from her chair and moving to retrieve her fiddle. The rest of the family followed her, settling in around the hearth like it was evening and not mid-morning. Wynna tuned the instrument and began playing the old songs, one after another, the music swirling around them like the painted kelp on the floorboards, dark and rich and smooth.

Lenna seated herself on a cushion at her father's knee, much as she had done as a young girl. She could not fathom how she would walk on board a ship that afternoon, not without knowing the next time they would meet. She wondered if the Lannisters measured their wealth in time well spent. Of course not, then they'd realize they were paupers.

Six years away, just six days at home. A day for each year of her absence wasn't enough, though she treasured them more for it. She could barely complain, the trip home was an unexpected joy altogether, though she did regret the reason behind it. The shadow of the Lannister's hold had hung over them all, even the ones who didn't know it, and it had felt rebellious to ignore it in favor of enjoying each other's company. But they had. Barefoot walks on the strand with Wynna and Wylla, their heads bent as they looked for shells in the sand. Afternoons curled up on the ledge of her father's study, just as she'd done as a child. Long hours spent roaming the castle she'd been born in, rediscovering favorite spots, finding favorite servants. All of the them had spent every evening just like this, together by the hearth with music and laughter and ale. She felt years younger, and even Sandor had seemed to enjoy himself, talking with her brothers, listening intently to the stories her father told and when she sang with Wynna.

She was glad her father had insisted that he stay, comforted to know he would be there looking back at her with his gray eyes. She had once wondered what it felt like to be a condemned prisoner, to wake up on the day you knew would be your last. It had been an impossible thing to imagine, but now she thought she had a fairly good idea. It felt like swallowing a jellyfish, cold and quivering, a hungering for the day, but a dreading of the passage of the time.

It was too much. She tried to do what her mother would tell her, to put on a brave face, but as the day crept by, her last day, her resolve began to crumble. Combine it with the sweet, sad songs of home pouring from Wynna's fiddle and it left her no recourse but to cry. She wished she could crawl into her father's lap the way she had as a child, burying her face against his chest and blubbering as her heart broke again. So she cried, silently and constantly, until the tears had saturated her father's trousers where she had leaned her cheek.

When her tears subsided, she made the decision to try. She use every bit of her focus to commit everything to memory, from the feeling of her father's warm hand on her head, to the sound of Wynna's music, to the sight of Sandor Clegane holding her gaze like a lifeline from the other side of the hearth. He didn't look away when she tried to quirk her lip in a watery smile, but neither did he return it. She took out the handkerchief he'd given her, softer than she would have expected anything of his to be, and wiped her nose. His eyes changed as he watched her, going soft and gloomy as he swallowed hard, looking just as troubled as he had the night they arrived.

He looked back at her steadily and with deliberation, like he had decided that his gaze would be enough to sustain her, and she remembered how he had held her in the crypts the week before, bringing her into his bulk and letting her curl up in him. It had felt comfortable and safe, his big body shielding her from reality, his warmth reassuring as his fingers traced circles on her side. She wondered if he had been conscious of how he was touching her, if he knew she could hear how thunderously his heart was beating beneath her ear where it lay on his chest. She could have attributed it to discomfort, but she knew better. She knew his heart was thumping for the same reason hers was.

She had gone to bed that night with troubled thoughts, but they had nothing to do with leaving her family. No, she had laid in her bed and stared at the canopy, touching the parts of her that he had touched, her thoughts consumed as she did things she wasn't exactly ashamed of, but was quite sure a proper maid wouldn't do, his name on her lips. It hadn't shocked her. She had turned to him for comfort, and he had opened himself to her. She had felt her heart thundering in her ribcage as she pressed herself against him, at once looking for reassurance and reaching out for something she didn't quite understand. She'd felt hot and cold at the same time, a strange ache taking up residence in her belly, desperate for more of him but never satisfied. It was the strangest pleasure. It felt good to be wrapped up in him, that puzzling throbbing in her gut made stronger by the smell of soap and sweat on his skin, the warmth and strength of his hand against her.

Still she looked at him. We have gotten ourselves into such a mess. There was a depth of feeling in his eyes that she knew was reflected in hers. It's impossible, she thought forlornly. It reminded her of that story of the knight and his lady, who cared for each other in silence, unable to speak about what lay between them. Only now, instead of being beautiful and haunting, it was terrible and painful.

Not only was she about to lose her family, but she knew that as soon as they stepped foot back in King's Landing, she'd lose him in a way, too. She'd see him, and they'd walk side by side through the passages, be in the same room, but he wouldn't be able to seek her out and stand with her looking at the sea. They wouldn't have many opportunities to talk as they had, to share pieces of themselves. She had once thought him hard, but she knew now not to confuse pain with harshness, and she knew he was capable of great tenderness. She wondered if he had thought about who they would have to become again, and whether it had caused him the same pangs of despondency.

Enough, she thought. That is enough. Do not waste your time on things you can't control. Only it wasn't her voice in her head, it was her mother's. It made her sit up straighter. Her tears passed, and she wiped her eyes. She found a smile, turning it on Wynna, and the girl came to stand next to her, striking up the first bars of a shanty they'd sung as children. It was a joyful sound, and within minutes everyone was singing the chorus. Even Sandor was tapping a finger against his knee as he listened, the faint curl of a smirk on his lips that only she could see after years of studying that harsh face.

The last hours were as merry as they could make them, sharing reminiscences and laughing as much as they could. Lunch was served to them off of trays by the hearth, and Lenna was amused to see it was oatcakes again. She tucked in as heartily as she could, knowing it would be a long time before she had such solid fare again. Despite the humor and the warmth, though, it rather reminded Lenna of the wake they'd attended for her mother's mother many years before. They all fell into a bittersweet joy, their words softened and their laughter muted in spite of themselves.

When at last the time came, her father rose and held out a hand. They were to sail with the evening tide, and it was time to go. She took his old hand, letting him draw her to her feet, wrapping her into his arms and holding her close.

"This is your home. You will return to it, and to us," he whispered into her hair. She nodded, valiantly subduing the tears. He released her and kissed her quickly on the forehead. "Bear up, girl."

He moved with alacrity to Clegane, seizing him by the hand and beckoning him to come close. Her father spoke to him lowly and with and urgency that she could see in the tightness of his temples and directness of his gaze. Lenna couldn't hear what he'd said, but whatever it was caused Sandor to widen his eyes in astonishment as he shook her father's hand. The old lord slapped him once on the shoulder and moved toward his sons.

Lenna turned her attention to her nieces who had gathered her between them, their heads all bent together as they said their farewells. Even her brothers embraced her, and she could still feel the rasp of their whiskers on her cheeks as they walked into the courtyard together.

It was all happening too quickly. The cart with her things had already been sent to the quay. A maid had brought her cloak, and Prim was there standing next to Stranger, placidly tonguing her bit.

Impulsively, Lenna turned to Wynna, taking both her hands in her own. "I want you to keep her. I never ride her, and you'll be good to her. Take her out beyond the walls, let her walk on the sands for me," she said urgently. "It isn't fair to take her back."

Wynna nodded, her chin trembling but her expression resolved. She held out Lenna's cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. Her blue eyes were brimming as she kissed Lenna's cheek before she turned to join the line of Manderlys standing solemnly on the paving stones, their faces like marble.

Lenna told the stable boy to take Prim back to her stall. She turned to Sandor, and he nodded. Approaching Stranger, the huge mount swung his head around to look at her with his enormous brown eyes, so chestnut in color they were almost red. He snuffled when she ran her hand over his nose.

Sandor had crouched low, webbing his hands together. She put her right foot in them and let him toss her onto the saddle as easily as if she were a leaf or a blade of grass, hooking her leg around the pommel. He swung up behind her, his warmth and size enveloping her like a cloak, a chill running down her spine when he leaned forward to take the reins and his chest came into full contact with her back. He put both arms around her to control the reins, and she wished she could have leaned into him as she had that day in the crypt. Instead, she sat bolt upright, and he dug his heels into the destrier's sides and nodded to her father. They two men exchanged a look she didn't understand, but it was grave and almost like a oath had been sworn. Perhaps one had been.

She made herself smile at them as Sandor pulled Stranger about. They all smiled back at her, and she loved them all the more for it, for giving her this last memory of them looking at her with shining faces. She raised her hand in a meek wave, which they returned. Then she straightened her spine and faced forward, determined that she would not look back again.

When she knew they could no longer see her for Sandor's bulk, she sagged against him, leaning her head back against his shoulder and closing her eyes. She felt him lower his head, his hair brushing her cheeks, and she turned her face into his neck for the briefest moment, taking comfort in the fact that he still smelled like sweat and soap.

The captain of the guard led the detail that escorted them to the harbor where the ship lay at anchor. She looked about herself dazedly as they passed back down the Castle Stair, through the Seal Gate, and came to a halt on the wharf. Sandor dismounted and reached up to her, his hands settling around her waist, so enormous his fingers nearly met. She braced her hands on his shoulders and let him lower her slowly down until her feet touched the ground.

"Alright?" he asked lowly.

She nodded, unable to muster a word for him. Sandor's hand came to rest on her elbow, urging her forward, and together they walked slowly up the gangplank.

The captain met them on deck and showed them to their cabins. She was only vaguely aware of Sandor asking if she was alright, her mind was on other things, the memory of her family in the courtyard, the sight of tears in her niece's eyes, the possibility that it would be a very long time before she saw them again. If she saw them again. A strong wave of grief washed over her, and this time, rather than fighting it, she let it overtake her, stepping into her cabin and bolting the door.

Sandor XII

She didn't emerge from her cabin for three days. He knocked and called her name, every morning, noon, and night. Nothing. He left her trays of food, pots of tea. Nothing. He even put a flagon of ale at the door, but she didn't touch it. He only knew she was alive because he could hear her moving about, and once she had told him to please leave her alone. It was enough to satisfy. The girl had a right to be upset.

In a perverse way, her retreat was a relief. He didn't rightly know how to face her. His mind was in a constant state of agitation, and he chewed on the events of the in White Harbor over and over again. Standing with her on the ramparts, her glances and songs, seeking comfort in his arms in the crypts and on the back of his damned warhorse, her face buried for the sweetest instant against his neck, her breath on his skin. He'd have locked those memories away, kept them to take out and ponder out in his darker, solitary moments, all the nights in his bunk that stretched endlessly ahead of him.

But then Wyman Manderly had seized his hand there in the courtyard of the New Castle and pulled him close enough that only they two of them could hear.

"Keep her safe, Clegane. Bring her through this, and I will be indebted to you. Anything you ask within my power I shall give without question or protest."

The old man had held his gaze, and Sandor Clegane stood wide-eyed looking back at him. An flaming arrow had just pierced his gut, igniting his belly, choking his lungs. Manderly's promise sounded like- he didn't want to think about what it sounded like. Impossible, foolish, he thought, daft. Surely, he meant money, or a position, or anything other than the thing that he wanted most.

You're a daft cunt for even thinking it, he thought bitterly. To even consider that Manderly meant that he'd allow him...and her...no. Impossible. Folly and madness.

His gut disagreed. His gut said that Wyman Manderly meant exactly what he said: he'd give him anything he asked for if she weathered whatever was coming safely because of him.

And what did he want? Her. Always her. From the minute she had appeared in Cersei Lannister's solar, a forgotten part of him had recognized something in her. She'd smiled at him, and a hardened piece of himself had cracked open and begun to bleed. It had never stopped. Perhaps her innocence had been what drew him in, or her candidness. When she looked at him, he felt like a whole person, not a monster. He wanted her, beast that he knew he was. He wanted time when he could simply stand next to her without explaining himself, to have the chance talk with her, to have her songs for his ears. To have her warmth next to him, the freedom to run his hands through her hair, to taste her mouth-

You don't just want her, you foolish cunt. You love her.

The admission cost him greatly. He spent two days aimlessly wandering the deck with his teeth gritted together against the sensation that his chest might just implode, the strange feeling that he might collapse in on himself under the weight of the word itself. He had been content to call it lust, to believe he wanted her in that vulgar, bawdy way men wanted maids. He did, oh gods, he wanted that so badly, but there was more to it, something much softer, more delicate. Something more powerful and destructive than he thought possible.

Something she could never, under any circumstances, know about. The thought of her knowing, of not feeling the same way for him- she could never feel the same way for him. A woman like that would never be able to look at a dog like him with anything more than friendship. It was a miracle she felt that for him to begin with.

To have said it to himself, to know what to call that powerful, uncomfortable, wretched feeling, made that old vow sit even more heavily on him. He'd spent years wondering why, and now he knew. And like many revelations, it had come with more knowledge than he knew how to handle, how to navigate. Sandor Clegane was prone to melancholy, self-hatred and self-pity, but he wasn't used to utter despair.

The old man's story about the Reynes had shed abundant light on why Lenna had been brought to King's Landing all those years before, but it did little to give him clues as to what Tywin was preparing for. As far as Sandor could tell, the realm was at peace. There were no threats to their shores, not even from the exiled Targaryen prince and princess, supposedly harbored somewhere in Essos. There were no whispers of treason. He, of all people, would know.

But something was coming. He smelled it like a bloodhound might scent a fox. It may not be for years, but something was coming. He wondered if she would still be in King's Landing when it did, but he imagined that she would. Cersei had imposed her will on the girl, had given her a taste of her freedom and pulled her straight back in by royal decree. There was nothing Lenna could do but board that ship and sail back to her duty, just as there was nothing he could do. To even think otherwise would be folly.

At least Wyman Manderly was a wise man. Sandor had had plenty of time to think over the conversations he'd had with the old lord. His initial reaction, to leave Lenna with her father, to convince him to keep her instead of sending her back, that was unusual for him. It came of a place of feeling, not a place of cunning. He knew better, but where she was concerned there was nothing he would not do to secure her health and happiness.

And Wyman Manderly had been absolutely right on one account. No harm would come to Lenna if Sandor Clegane had a breath left in his body.

It made him blush with embarrassment, wondering how much the old man had guessed and reckoning that he had seen everything. Those two nights as he lay in his bunk he hadn't been tormented with lustful thoughts. He'd instead been tortured by the idea of a yellow and black cloak spread over her shoulders, the sight of her sitting as she did so often with Myrcella in her lap, only instead of the princess a robust babe with an unruly mop of hair and gray eyes was cradled in her arms. He dreamed that he would wake up and see her face turned to him, her head resting on the pillow beside his.

Fucking hells, you're worse than the damned knight in the story.

When she emerged on the third day, she was so pale she looked like the heroines in her fairy stories with her dark hair falling in sharp contrast against her skin. He swallowed his nerves and steeled himself. They paced, they talked, and he even told her stories. Bawdy stories that made her laugh, stories he meant to be heroic but which turned out to be wretched. He even talked about his parents, his sister, though he hadn't spoken of them in years.

He talked more than he thought he'd ever talked before. He wasn't a talker, that was supposed to be her job. She was the one who was full of tales and tidbits of interesting knowledge. It was her bloody duty, for fuck's sake. He was no good at it, but he tried. For her.

When he ran out of stories he didn't mind her hearing, he even read from her little red book. He wasn't used to reading. It was hard and he stumbled on some of the words, which made him feel clumsy and stupid. Without him noticing, his focus entirely on the book and not making a bigger fool of himself than he was already, she sidled up beside him where he sat on a pile of rope and canvas, his legs stretched out in front of him. He felt her before he saw her, and when he turned his head their noses almost touched. Heat flashed over him, heat and want as he flicked his eyes to see if they were being watched. It was one thing to sit together on the deck to while away the time, it was another to be so close.

"Tenacity," she murmured. He looked sideways at her, knotting his brow together.

"What?"

"Tenacity," she repeated, tracing her finger underneath the word he'd just butchered.

"Tenacity," he parroted dumbly. He might have flung the damn book away if her hand hadn't snaked into the crook of his elbow. Before he knew it, her sharp little chin was digging into his shoulder.

"Correct. Carry on," she said. He could feel her breath stirring warmly against his ear. He fought the current of energy that ran along his neck, raising gooseflesh.

"What does it mean?" he asked, swallowing hard.

"Persistent. If you have tenacity, you are determined."

"To do what?"

"Whatever you decide, I suppose," she replied.

Then he noticed he was reading the damn story of the knight and his lady-fair. He hadn't meant to, but he read automatically, paying little heed to the what he was saying. He was in the middle before he was really aware that he'd begun. The book was open to the illustration that he hated, the knight looking at the woman so helplessly. His own hands grew slack and he let the book fall across his knees, so aware of her nearness he could feel his skin thrum like it was calling out to her.

He cleared his throat and snapped the book shut.

"Enough of that," he muttered roughly.

She pulled away from him, and he missed her warmth against him. It was also a relief, he didn't know how to respond when she'd touched him. He both craved and hated it.

She rose and went to stand at the railing, her hair whipping about her face. She'd left it free, and he watched as the wind contorted it into graceful shapes in the air.

"You hate that story anyway," she said, turning back to him and leaning back against the rail.

"How do you know?"

"You always have," she said, picking at a fingernail. "When I would read it to Joffrey, you'd always look so cross. Granted, you usually look cross."

He cocked an eyebrow at her and she giggled.

"Why do you hate it so? I always loved it."

"'Course you did," he said lowly. "Silly maid."

"It's beautifully tragic," she said, but her voice was no longer teasing. It was grave.

"It's daft," he replied sharply. "Nonsense about duty and honor and love. As if that's what being a knight's about."

"And you do hate knights," she said flatly.

"Aye," he replied.

"You practically are one."

"No, I'm not," he said through gritted teeth. "I have taken no vows. I do not make promises that I won't keep."

"What was it you were saying about honor?"

Her tone was teasing but it made him wince. "I have none."

"I beg to differ," she replied, her voice gentle again. "I think you'd make a very good knight, for what it's worth."

"I wouldn't want to be caught up in the lot of them," he said.

"My father? My brothers? Ser Barristan? They are all good men and good knights."

"They aren't all like your father."

"No," she said slowly, "but they aren't all bad. There must be a reason-"

"Here's your reason," he thundered, pointing to his face. "That good enough for you?"

She looked taken aback. "Sandor, you've been asked, that doesn't prevent you-"

"The one who gave me this is a knight now, you know that? And why? Because I was playing with a toy that belonged to him. I didn't steal it. I was just playing with it. A wooden knight of all things. And he held me down while I screamed."

Her face had gone white again.

"My brother," he bit out. "I was seven, and he was old enough to know exactly what he was doing. Our parents told everyone it was an accident, that my bed caught fire. They acted like he hadn't tried to kill me."

"Oh gods, Sandor," she said. "You've never said."

"I've never told anyone," he muttered. "Why would I? It's bad enough I'm Gregor Clegane's brother, but for them to know it was him who did it?"

"You were a child."

"And he was a monster. A monster they were all clamoring to take vows. He did, knighted by a king no less, and what has he done since? He raped and murdered Elia Martell and killed her children. That's the worst, but not the only thing he's done. He was already an anointed knight. Vows didn't stop him. They didn't make him a knight because he was good or honorable, they made him a knight because he's a killer. Same reason they want me."

She'd fallen silent, looking far off across the water with her eyes squinting against the sun.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking back at him.

"Don't need your pity."

"Good," she responded waspishly. "I have none. Not for you."

He was exhausted by her foolishness just as he wished so badly to preserve her innocence. How she would survive, now knowing what she knew, he didn't know.

"Knights are just contract killers," he said. "They're war machines. They have one purpose, and it has nothing to do with honor or love. The sooner you know that, the better."

"My father wasn't a contract killer, and neither were my brothers," she said flatly. She had drawn her mouth into a angry little rosebud like a pouting child.

He laughed. It was mirthless, but he laughed. "What do you call it when you're paid to kill other men? Not only that, your father was fighting for the Lannisters. And your brothers fought in the rebellion. What honor was there in deposing a king?"

"It didn't stop you," she bit back.

"No, but I never pretended it mattered one way or the other to me. I never pretended at honor. I had a calling. I was good at killing, and I enjoyed it. The sweetest thing-"

"That's vile," she said, interrupting him.

"Vile? Aye, maybe, but you'll be glad of it some day. Your father certainly is."

"What do you mean?"

"Why would your father, the great Lord of White Harbor, be content with sending his lovely daughter back to a nest of vipers in the south? Because you're with me, and I'm good at killing men, and he knows that I made a promise."

"You take no stock in vows, it's a wonder you've bothered to keep it," she said derisively. "If vows mean so little to you-"

"I will keep it," he rumbled, his voice rising until he was almost yelling.

He knew he was looming, knew his face was contorted and livid. She went pale, her eyes like those of stunned rabbit. He'd always been careful, so careful, to control his temper around her. He didn't want her to see him that way, all straining muscle and bared teeth. As much as that rage helped him do what he did best, he was afraid she would think differently of him, that it would change the way she looked at him. Anger was still flickering through his blood, but he was also awash in remorse. He turned away, dragging a hand across his face, through his hair, covering up the scars. He wanted to hide. He wanted to go back in time and avoid this whole conversation.

"Lenna, I'm-"

"No, Sandor. You're allowed to be angry. Even with me. It is I who should apologize. I have needled you, and I shouldn't have. I'm just-"

"Afraid. As well you should be. I've said it before," he said lamely. "Still."

She looked back over the railing and he thought he saw the wind blow tears from her eyes. He hated that he should have made her cry.

"I shouldn't have yelled," he continued, finding it hard to form the words. "I frightened you, and I'm sorry. I would never hurt you. Not on purpose."

"I know that," she answered. "I know you wouldn't."

And he believed her. She looked at him with eyes full, not of tears but of something else. She came to stand by him again, and they stood watching the waves in a full silence. The waves soothed his fractious mind, the gentle, angular rising and falling lulling the roiling frustration in him. He watched as the little waves crested in lines of frothy white before being absorbed back into the water like a whisper.

The woman standing next to him irritated him and amazed him in equal measure. All her confidence in goodness, in champions, made him scornful. The world was not a just place, and men were more often monsters than not. At the same time, he knew that it wasn't that she thought knights were good, it was simply that she wanted them to be. He didn't give her enough credit for knowing what the world was really like. He knew that. It was the only world he'd ever known, the cruel one, though he'd gotten a taste of a gentler one in her. How she could still believe in it, he didn't know. He sometimes forgot that she'd been on her own for six years, that the closest thing she had to a friend was him of all people. She knew what the world was, for all she told Myrcella the stories of valiant knights and ladies, for all the stock she put in vows and promises. It was a kind of admirable wishful thinking.

Tenacity, he thought, remembering the word. A determination, a persistence in believing the best even when all of the proof said otherwise.

He didn't know whether she was foolish or valiant, but it didn't much matter. She'd need every ounce of that tenacity to get through what lay ahead. He suspected he'd need it, too, in order to keep them both afloat through the storm they were headed back into.

When she looped her arm through his elbow and leaned her head against his arm, he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Her eyes were troubled as she looked out across the sea, the green and gray and amber a perfect match for the deep waters. Her father had talked of hurricanes, and while he had no experience with them, it sounded about right to him. The Lannisters would bring her to them, he would pass on the information he'd been sent to gather, and she would be absorbed back into their circle. Only this time, instead of ignorant of their capabilities and motives, she would be going into it with understanding of both. It would test her. Eye of the storm, indeed.

A/N: Thank you all for your kind words, I really do get inspired to keep working when I read them! This is the longest chapter yet...they just seem to get longer and longer. Hope you enjoy!