298 AC
Lenna XVI
It was Prince Joffrey's nameday. She had been dreading this day for weeks, knowing that she would be expected to attend the tourney with the little princess. A tourney for a lad's nameday seemed excessive even for a prince, but it was King Robert who had demanded it, despite the disgruntled mumblings of his Master of Coin.
She had been unexpectedly privy to the conversation during an evening meal. She had remained after the children had gone to talk with Jaime Lannister. They had developed a cordial acquaintance since Tyrion's nameday banquet two years before. He made an obvious effort to speak with her when their paths crossed, which seemed to both please and annoy his queenly sister. He'd even surprised her by irregularly appearing in the library, choosing books on economics and history, though it seemed to her that he was more interested in being somewhere quiet than he was in study. They talked about what he was reading, and he, like Tyrion, always brought wine. She appreciated him for it, enjoying the company and the exquisite Arbor strongwines in which he tended to indulge. The books often fell into his lap and he'd take to staring into space. It made her smile to see him like that, usually so carefully constructed, though she felt sympathetic as well. It was obvious that Ser Jaime Lannister was a man of unspoken burdens, and she wondered what they were.
He had a wicked and sharp sense of humor, always ready for a laugh at someone's expense. It wasn't his most attractive quality, but Lenna relished being included in his mirth. Jaime had been making a pithy comment about one of his sister's ladies when they both had their attention seized by King Robert's booming voice.
"I don't care how much it costs, he gets a tourney," he roared. Little Petyr Baelish closed his eyes and wet his lips. Lenna detested the sight of the man, with his pointed chin and crafty eyes. Every time they met, Lenna felt like she had been coated with a thin layer of oil despite his impeccable manners.
"Your grace, we are already in debt to-" Baelish said, his voice cajoling and smooth even as his face was hard.
"Cersei," the King demanded, turning to his wife. The queen didn't look back at him, instead raising her goblet to her lips in resignation.
"I am sure his grandfather would be more than happy to loan whatever you need," she replied evenly. When she looked over at Jaime, there was something almost mercenary in her gaze.
The Kingsguard had cleared his throat, raising his golden brows at Lenna, trying to turn her attention back to their earlier conversation, but it didn't sit well with her. It must have concerned him as well, a little notch appearing on his perfect brow. Neither of them were easy for the rest of the evening, and they parted soon after.
Tyrion was set to visit for Joffrey's tournament, and she decided to wear the red gown seeing as how well he liked it. She knew Sandor like it as well, his eyes settling on her with more than their usual frequency when she wore it, and for good measure she plaited his red ribbon into her hair. The maid coiled the thick braid around her head, and she dabbed rouge on her lips and cheeks and lined her eyes. She'd adopted the style since her return from the North two years before. Her position brought her increasingly closer into the royal circle, and she had decided it was in her best interest to look the part of a lady. She still had her unusual reputation, the predilection for subdued colors and quieter ways, but she had a role to play that felt increasingly less like herself.
The morning of the tourney found she and Sandor waiting in the children's breakfast room. He was standing at a window, looking about as excited as she did. When she entered, he looked her up and down with a quick flick of his eyes and a curl of the lip.
"We all know who you'll be cheering for," he said in a flat rumble.
She looked down at herself, wondering what he meant.
He answered her without her even having to ask. "Lannister red. Don't you know that Ser Jaime will wear the white of the Kingsguard?"
"Oh, I hadn't even thought of it," she replied, and it was true. Of course, she wanted Ser Jaime to do well that day. He was everyone's favorite to win, but it had never occurred to her that her choice of gown would be construed as a vested interest in the outcome of the tourney. It was too late to change, and she figured people assuming it was to support to the Lannister Kingsguard, and his family, wouldn't go entirely amiss.
Except for the fact that Sandor, always confusing and consuming, was clearly angry with her for it. He was making an effort to bite back his ire, evidenced by the pulsing muscle along his already taut jaw.
She'd continued to summon him to the library sporadically, and each time they'd find themselves leaning together on the windowsill as she read. He never touched her, not with his hands. He kept them flat on the stone or occupied with a goblet, not repeating the gentle touches of White Harbor. During those times, something between them stretched pleasurably, as if there were some invisible web between them that tightened and drew them nearer. It was always with resignation that they parted, but he never said a word to her or sought her out on his own.
Now, his gaze simmered as he took in the dress, his eyes flying to his red ribbon in her hair. Oddly, the usual look of satisfaction wasn't there. The red ribbon usually made his face sharpen with brutal delight, but his eyes were hollow as he looked at her, dark with hidden indignation, like she'd done something to purposefully affront him. She might have been offended or contrite if she didn't immediately see it for what it was, and she might have smirked if she'd not been holding his eyes. The source of his fury came to her like an arrow to a bullseye: he was jealous.
She was about to say something to try and placate him, something mundane perhaps, when the children were brought in. Myrcella was a flutter of pink and yellow, her sun-bright hair streaming around her giddy face. She was growing into a beautiful child with a brilliant disposition, and Lenna readily accepted her excited hug, moving to entertain her while they broke their fast, quite forgetting Sandor's dark brooding.
There wasn't another opportunity to talk to Sandor, but they both made their way to the tourney grounds with the family, his face still dark with sullen anger. Cersei took Myrcella with her in the litter, but Lenna preferred to walk. Tyrion had joined them, having arrived late the evening before, and she slowed her gait to his, deciding to ignore Sandor's version of a temper tantrum. It was quite a trek, but she was grateful for the sunshine and the chance to stretch her legs before she had to spend the day on a hard wooden bench, and she enjoyed Tyrion's sardonic stories about his latest activities.
She was not permitted in the royal box, of course, but her seat was the be in the front row. Tywin was already there when they arrived, and Tyrion appeared beside him. He took one look at the arrangement and pulled up his chair so he could easily turn and speak with her. Sandor took up his position in the rear of the box, scanning the crowd and pointedly ignoring her.
"What could cause the Hound to be so exceptionally upset with you?" he said lowly. "He's usually panting at you. Isn't he your particular friend?" His suggestive inflection on the last words irritated her. Tyrion generally shared his sister's disdain for their guard, something which Lenna felt indicated a rather gaping deficit in his otherwise delightful personality.
Lenna looked at Tyrion steely-eyed. "Not today, apparently."
"That color is always so becoming on you," Tyrion said with a smile, raking his eyes over her in the way he knew annoyed her. He popped a handful of grapes in his mouth from the bowl beside him. "Cheering for my brother, then?"
"It was a coincidence, but of course I hope Ser Jaime does well."
"As do I. And my sister. To the tune of fifty thousand dragons. How much have you got riding on him?"
"Sorry?" she asked, bewildered.
"No bets placed? Gods, what's the point of a tourney if no money is to be won. Otherwise, they're rather tedious, don't you think."
"I think they're tedious either way," she replied drily.
"You would," he smirked. "Priss."
She rolled her eyes at him, which made him cackle.
"Look, here comes Jaime," Tyrion said, leaning over the railing. His brother was at the end of the tiltyard, resplendent in his Kingsguard armor, his mount hung in white.
He easily beat his opponent after two runs, and when he made his round before the royal box, he spared a wink for her. She blushed to the roots of her hair.
"I'm beginning to think my brother likes you," Tyrion said with a chuckle.
"Is that so hard to believe?" she retorted. If she were quite honest, she rather liked Jaime, too. He flirted with her, and she enjoyed it even though she didn't believe he meant anything by it. He flirted with everyone.
"No, not at all," he replied seriously, his expression suddenly appraising. She felt tetchy, turning away from him and trying to focus on the contests.
A young knight entered the lists, and from the reaction of the crowd he was a favorite. He had yet to place his helm, his handsome face surrounded by a plethora of fair curls swarming around his face like bees. She could see the white flash of his teeth even from her seat, and he was gesturing and bowing to the crowd, working them up into a frenzy of excitement."
"Ah, the Knight of the Flowers, Ser Loras Tyrell."
"Handsome," she said with a quirk of a brow.
"Renly thinks so," Tyrion replied, grinning into his cup. Lenna opened her mouth in a startled o, a laugh chortling its way out.
He was set against one of Walder Frey's sons, which one Lenna didn't know and didn't really care to know. She had heard the old lord's grating voice behind her and had purposefully not turned around lest he meet her eye. She wondered absently if his son Emmon was there. Really, she wondered if it was Genna Frey's eyes she could feel boring into her back.
Ser Loras lowered his helm and came galloping down the field, neatly striking his foe and taking his lap around the grounds. His lance had not splintered, and they repeated the dance again, this time the tip shattering and the younger Frey losing his seat, crashing to the ground. The crowd leaped to its feet in applause, and Lenna was surprised to find herself on her own with them
She attended carefully to Ser Jaime's jousts as well as the young Knight of the Flowers, but the others were tedious. The afternoon dragged on and on. Not even the goblets of wine Tyrion passed her or their conversation did much to alleviate her boredom. Finally, the last tilt was set. It had come down to Jaime Lannister and the young Loras Tyrell.
To everyone's surprise, and the consternation of many, Loras Tyrell carried the day. Jaime acknowledged his defeat humbly, shaking the other man's hand and presenting him to the crowds. The masses would have been happy with either, she thought. A wreath of white roses was placed on his head, and Lenna felt gleeful for a moment that the color had been chosen for the intended victor, the Kingsguard and Kingslayer Jaime Lannister
She was clapping and laughing with Tyrion, wryly pointing out the fact that the white roses had been robbed from him, when Tyrion's face took on a look of utter surprise.
Ser Loras Tyrell had stopped his mount in front of her and was extending the crown of roses to her.
Lenna looked at the young man, wondering what on earth he was doing. He had to have been five years her junior at least, but she knew better than to argue, reaching out and seizing the crown with a gay peal of disbelieving laughter. He made a courtly salute to her and rode on his way.
Tyrion quirked an eyebrow at her as she looked at wreath in her hands.
"You've a new admirer, it seems," Tyrion teased.
"What on earth was the boy thinking?" she said. "Presenting an old maid with such a thing."
"You aren't that old," Tyrion said seriously.
"The spinster tutor of the royal princess, unmarried at twenty-two," she jeered. "I suppose I should enjoy it. Surely, it will never happen again."
She put the damn thing on her head, turning to Tyrion with a smugly sarcastic grin, and against her will she glanced at Sandor. He briefly met her eye, but when he looked away he looked bitter and angry. Lenna's fingers went to the wreath, trailing against the petals as the momentary humor shrivelled and evaporated.
There was a bit of a commotion in the royal box, hushed but angry voice, then the queen rose sharply and stormed out of the royal box.
"These things truly bring out the best in people," Tyrion said sardonically, rising to follow his sister. Lenna trailed after him.
They returned to the Keep to prepare for the banquet. She sat in Cersei's solar with the princess as her mother paced. Myrcella was in awe that Lenna had been given the victor's crown, and Lenna was more than happy to let her wear it as she flitted about the solar, pretending Loras Tyrell had extended it to her instead. Sandor stood against the wall as was his custom, looking at Lenna from under the fall of his hair. His eyes were dark with fury.
Jaime Lannister entered the solar and his sister looked at him with rage in her eyes.
"Don't look at me like that, Cersei, the boy rode well," he said diffidently. "I can't win them all."
"He wasn't supposed to unseat you," she said.
"It's a bloody tourney. What was he going to do? Forfeit for no reason? He came to compete, so he did. As did I. It happens."
"I lost-"
"I lost a hundred dragons," he laughed. "I'm not sore about it. I suppose it's my comeuppance for betting on myself." he replied, shooting Lenna a smirk. She was inclined to agree. "Lady Helenna certainly looked fetching with her roses."
"However inappropriate they may be," she said. Myrcella plopped them back on her head. They were beginning to look a little worse for wear, the outer petals wilting and tinged with brown.
"Not inappropriate at all. A victor can select any woman he wishes to be his queen of love and beauty."
"Even this old maid," she replied sardonically. "Who am I to argue with Ser Loras."
Cersei was barely calm by the time they went into the banquet. Lenna was seated far down the table with the children as usual, but she had a good view of the room. For once, she didn't mind her vantage point. Instead of worrying about being watched, she was enjoying watching. She didn't miss it when Petyr Baelish approached the queen and with a smarmy smile presented her with an emerald brooch. She recognized it as one the queen favored wearing. It took but a trice to figure out that she'd lost it one a bet. At first Cersei protested, but in the end she accepted with pleasure on her face.
After the meal, the benches and tables were taken out to make room for dancing. Lenna knew she'd be called on to go down the first dance with Ser Loras. He appeared for her right on time, and she admitted that she like the young man. She also fully believed Tyrion's insinuation that Ser Loras' taste ran in a rather more masculine direction by the time the dance was over. She wondered why he had picked her, deciding that perhaps he'd simply wanted to pick someone, anyone, and she fit the job well enough.
It surprised her when Jaime Lannister begged the next dance. He rarely danced, even more rarely than she did. He was unsurprisingly agile and she enjoyed herself, laughing at his cheeky commentary in her ear.
Then a young Frey appeared, and she danced with him out of politeness. Afterward, another Frey lad bowed and extended a hand, followed immediately by yet another of his kinsmen. She was beginning to wonder if they had all formed a queue, but she was finally able to beg a break after the third.
She was hot and lightheaded, thirsty for water and knowing she'd get none. She tried to stand out of the way, wishing very much that she could go back to her room, instead finding a refreshment table and throwing back a goblet of wine. The wine was hardly sufficient, she was so thirsty, and she was surprised when a gloved hand extended another.
The man who held it out to her was older, with a rough face and a graying beard. His eyes were kind, and he smiled a little as he held out the goblet to her.
"Thank you, ser," she said quietly, noting immediately that the fingers on his left hand were shorter than they should have been.
"My pleasure, my lady," he replied, putting both hands behind his back and taking in the room again. "You look like you needed a breather."
She laughed. "I do, truly. I have never been so popular before."
"You've hardly sat down."
"You don't have to tell me, Ser…"
"Davos. Davos Seaworth."
"I'm…"
"Helenna Manderly," he replied quickly. "I've heard plenty of people talking about you."
She must have looked shocked.
"All favorable, I assure you. You apparently have many admirers."
"I don't know about that," she replied.
"Tyrion and Jaime Lannister both seem very taken with you, as does Tywin. The latter is a bit of a surprise. And Ser Loras Tyrell. Game of you to dance with him, I could tell you didn't want to."
"Could you?"
"Of course. I get the feeling that none of this is what you want to be doing. You wouldn't be wearing that crown if you had your druthers."
"You'd be right," she allowed with a wry smile.
"And that one's certainly not happy about it," Ser Davos said, nodding toward Sandor. She looked up just in time to see him look away. "He's been watching you all night."
"It's his job, you see," she said quietly. "I'm tutor to the princess, and he's our guard."
"Ah, that's right. Fine girl, isn't she?"
"She is," Lenna said proudly. "She's bright and sweet and everything a princess should be."
"Uncanny how like her mother she is," Davos said lightly.
"Aye, but the same could be said for me."
"She must be a beautiful woman," he said, looking at her seriously.
"She was," she replied with a small smile.
"I'm sorry," he said gruffly.
"Thank you. I am so like her, people say I could be her twin. Except for the eyes. I have my father's eyes."
"But none of the children take after Robert at all. Strange," Davos replied.
"How so?" she asked curiously.
"Seems like dark coloring trumps fair, doesn't it? Stannis' little girl, Lady Shireen, her mother is fair. She had the dark hair of her father."
"Surely it doesn't always work out like that. My brother Wylis is fair and my mother was as dark as I am."
Ser Davos looked like he was about to respond, but he halted abruptly and bowed low.
"Lady Helenna."
Lenna turned to face the queen with a deep curtsy and a smile.
"Your grace."
"Don't tire yourself out, my dove. We'll leave in the morning."
"Your grace?" she replied in surprise.
"I have decided it is time to visit my home. We'll start for Casterly Rock at first light." Cersei began to sweep from the hall, pausing briefly to turn back. "Clegane, see Lady Helenna back to her chambers."
"Of course, your grace," he rumbled, surprisingly close behind her shoulder.
She looked back to Ser Davos with an apologetic smile.
"An adventure, my lady," he said lowly.
"Yes, something like that," she replied, downing the wine he'd proffered him. "It has been a pleasure, Ser," she said, bobbing a curtsey.
"Safe travels, my lady," he replied, and she could feel his eyes on her as she went.
Sandor stayed slightly behind her shoulder as they walked. She didn't care for it when he did that. She had to crane her neck back and up to look at him. She purposefully shortened her stride, but she was surprised when he bumped into her, the force of the collision nearly knocking her off her feet. He must have been distracted. The wreath of roses became dislodged, falling to the floor in a shower of petals.
He stooped to pick it up, giving it back to her with a snarl on his lips. She took it, but didn't move to replace it.
"I'm surprised it made it this long without falling apart. Flimsy thing," she said, looking down at the ruined flowers in her hand. "I'm glad I don't have to wear it anymore."
"Seemed to enjoy it," he said darkly.
She smiled. "I admit that I did."
"Made a fool of yourself, dancing with every man who asked you, wearing a crown of flowers like some daft girl."
She felt like he'd dealt her a physical blow, her cheeks burning hot like he'd slapped them. He'd been annoyed, even angry with her before, but he had never been explicitly hurtful.
"It would have been impolite for me to refuse," she said lowly, the pleasure of the evening quickly draining, looking down at the brown, wilted flowers again.
"And you always do just what they fucking want you to do."
She looked up at him slowly. "Isn't that what you told me to do? To play my part? To never forget my loyalty lies with them?"
"With the Lannisters, not with every fucking knight who asks you to dance. Don't pretend that you didn't enjoy it, acting like a stupid, foolish idiot as soon as one of those perfumed cunts looked at you. One hint of flattery-"
"No more," she exploded. "I am many things, Sandor Clegane. I may be naive, and I may be too trusting, as you have long criticized, but I am not stupid, or a fool, or an idiot. Never would I have thought that you, of all people, would stoop to call me such things just because you're jealous."
She spun away from him, hurrying down the corridor as fast as she could without running. She heard him keeping pace with her, barely having lengthen his stride.
"Lenna."
She ignored him.
He reached out and grabbed her elbow. "Lenna, I'm-"
"No," she said forcefully, wheeling away from his grasp. "I don't want to hear it. How dare you talk to me like that, like I've done something wrong when I haven't. You're right. I did enjoy it, Sandor. I enjoyed being admired and asked to dance. It's not something I've ever been able to enjoy before. What woman wouldn't like it? As you say, I'm no girl. Was is so awful for me to have just one evening where I got to be treated like any other lady might? To be admired and flattered-"
"Fucking poncey knights," he thundered, the half-formed apology he'd been attempting to make dissolving into his anger.
She turned again, praying that the passage would shorten itself and they'd arrived faster. She was fuming. How dare he, she raged. It had been two years, two bloody long years, since their return from White Harbor, since they'd formed that odd understanding of each other. Nothing had come of it. He no more cared for her then than he did before, at least not to show it. She knew he was jealous, but he never acted on it. If she were to look elsewhere for such attention, it was his own fault.
She yanked open her door, looking forward to slamming it shut in his face, surprised when he wedged his boot in it to prevent her from doing so.
"Leave me be," she hissed.
"Lenna, please-" his voice was genuinely contrite, and she could hear a tremor in it she hadn't heard before.
"I said leave me be, dog." It came out unbidden, without a thought, but she was immediately horrified to have said it.
She whirled to face him, and she felt absolutely abominable when she saw the expression on his face. There was no anger, no ire or protest or rage, just abject humiliation and hurt. His eyes had gone entirely blank, but she could see a tremble in his jaw as he drew himself up to his full height.
"My lady," he said tightly, nodding deeply. The closest he came to a bow. She wanted to run to him, to throw her arms around his neck and tell him she didn't mean it, but she couldn't. She let him close the door behind him, listened as his boots echoed down the hall with quick report.
She hurled herself onto her bed like a petulant girl and stared at the canopy. Hot tears pushed their way out from her eyes as she nursed the hurt done to her and the hurt she had done.
Sandor XVI
He didn't want to follow her. He was returning from relieving himself in the woods outside the camp when he spied her slipping across the meadow. She was so pale she practically glowed, her hands like marble as they clutched her dark cloak shut at the neck.
They had been nearly two weeks on the road. In all that time he had barely looked at her, riding in the escort astride Stranger, his visor down to deter anyone from trying to speak to him. She had been riding in the wheelhouse, and as much as he wanted to hate her, he wondered how she was faring, trapped in that infernal space with Cersei and Tyrion Lannister for days on end, jealous of the Imp for getting to be with her, wondering if she was laughing with him.
She had been right the night of the tourney. He had been intensely, painfully, jealous. To have watched as Loras Tyrell, young and handsome and whole, had given her that wreath of roses, led her in a dance, with her cheeks glowing, eyes sparkling, lips laughing. She had been so beautiful it made him ache, and then to have to stand there while man after man, knight after knight, claimed her in a way he couldn't have even if he'd wished to was unbearable.
And he'd taken his own feelings out on her, exulting in laying her low, saying things he'd never thought he'd say, not to her. She had shrivelled and her eyes had narrowed, and she had seen right through him. He had hurt her deliberately.
And then she'd called him a dog, and it had worked as effectively as striking a cur, forcing him to retreat with his tail between his legs.
And then she had ignored him. She avoided his person and his eye for two weeks, sequestering herself with them even though he knew she must be about to run mad. He knew what she was doing and where she was going as soon as spotted her. There was a tree on a little grassy knoll about a quarter mile away. He'd noted it himself, thinking he might go there to sit and think and be alone. Probably get drunk. He'd spent the better part of the last fortnight alone, nursing that wound, the sound of her voice calling him a dog echoing in his ears. He wagered her could recall it exactly, in pitch and volume. In eight years, she had never once demeaned him in that way, her lip always curling in revulsion when the queen or the prince or some other lordling lobbed it at him. Now, she was the one turning it on him, and for the first time in almost twenty years it fucking hurt.
He cursed rather colorfully under his breath, wishing he could turn away. He couldn't, so he gathered his anger around him and followed after her, sticking to the tree line to avoid drawing attention to himself. Not that it would have mattered, his reputation was such that no one would have said a word to him, let alone challenged him
As he strode across the meadow, he became more and more irate. What the fuck the girl was thinking walking off into the night he didn't know. It made his heart pound with fear. He could only protect her if she followed the rules, if she told him what she was planning. It had served them well for eight years, and this stunt made him wonder how often she'd crept away before without his knowledge. How often she'd risked herself. She was too old to make such a mistake, and he fully intended to let her feel his temper again, even if it turned her from him forever. He knew these parts intimately, knew the creatures that inhabited these woods, the wolves and the damned lions. She didn't, but it was no excuse. After all they had been through, to risk her safety on a moonlit stroll was the daftest, stupidest thing he could imagine. It made him furious that she would do something so idiotic. Better she never speak to him again than be killed by her own stupidity.
It terrified him that he could lose her over something as ridiculous. As much as she had hurt him, he could not shake his duty. She was his to protect, and, by the Seven, he would keep her safe.
He stalked through the tall grass, his fists clenched, but all his fire fled when he found her. There was the old, gnarled tree on a knoll, and she had made a seat among its roots. She was sitting there silently, her head tipped back to look at the sky, her face a sad pale moon. She looked almost gaunt, her face hauntingly lovely with her dark lashes spilled across her cheeks, the sleek slash of her brows on her brow. She'd always been beautiful, but drenched in starlight she was the most bewitching thing he'd ever seen. If he'd had pretty words he might had said she looked like night itself come in the form of a maid with stars for eyes.
Not a poet, any more than I am knight.
The angry words he'd been brewing evaporated and instead he'd stood dumbstruck in the shadow, watching her until he realized he had forgotten how to breathe again. It happened more than he wanted to admit whenever he looked at her. Given how things stood between them, it made him hate himself with an even deeper passion. She kicks you, and you'd still die for her. He didn't know how long he'd stood there, but it was long enough for him to know he needed to make himself known.
"You shouldn't be here," he said quietly. She started, her body become taut with tension.
"Leave me be," she said lowly, her voice tired, her eyes averted.
"Can't do that," he replied. "Let's get you back to camp."
"No." The iron from their argument was still lacing her voice.
He couldn't see her face, it was turned from him, but he thought it likely she was scowling. Like you. It made his hackles rise, so he did the thing he thought she'd least expect. He sat down beside her in the grass, looping his enormous arms around his knees.
"What are you doing?" she asked tightly.
"If you won't go back to camp, then I'll have to stay to fucking guard you," he bit back, looking out over the fields, searching for glinting eyes of lions or wolves.
"Don't feel obligated," she replied airily, turning her back to him once more.
He didn't even try to reply, feeling the growl low in his chest and deciding not to risk it. The last time he'd felt that rumbling, when the damned roses had fallen at his feet, he'd lost his temper and said things he shouldn't have. It had been such a terrible day, kept from the tourney, then forced to watch as she, decked in Lannister red, was admired and flattered by better men than he. Jaime Lannister had smirked and winked at her, and it had made his blood simmer, but when Loras Tyrell, looking like one of the illustrations in her damn book, had presented her with those damnable roses he had wanted to kill something. Later, when the knight's arms were wrapped around her in a dance, he'd wished he were a different man, that he could have challenged the nancy right then and there in front of everyone and no one would have laughed. They would have known she was his.
The silence stretched between them, and it felt like pulling a newly-healed wound, tearing and sharp and vicious.
"Lenna," he said softly. Her head raised up, turned toward him ever so slightly. "Lenna, I shouldn't have said those things."
"I don't want to hear it," she said lowly, but he detected the tremor in her voice that said otherwise. It took a lot of effort to swallow his pride, but he tried.
"No, you don't, but I didn't mean it."
"Then you wouldn't have said it," she replied harshly. "A friend-"
"What do you want me to do?" he asked, hearing the own tone of pleading in his voice. It chastened him, even more than he was already chastened. "I can't take it back. I'm sorry. Of course you deserve to be...admired." It took all of his resolve to say the last.
"And I never wanted to call you dog," she said, and he heard tears thick in her voice. "Sandor, I'm so very sorry, I don't know what came over me, I hate myself for calling you that, I never-"
"It's alright," he said, his own throat working. It bothered him how much it had hurt, how he had retreated without a fight as soon as she landed that blow.
"It's not," she wailed, turning to him fully. "It will never be alright." Her voice was frail and small and scared.
"Aye, it shall be," he replied, trying to sound reassuring.
"Do you forgive me?" she asked tremulously, unsure. It made his heart feel full to bursting with the saddest, sweetest feeling.
"Aye, of course," he replied, the disbelief in his voice from being astonished that she, of all people, was asking forgiveness from him.
She turned to him and flung her arms around his neck, burrowing her head into his shoulder. He smiled, bringing her closer, letting his own arms wrap around her, stroke her side, tuck her head under his chin. Her shoulders convulsed, and he tightened his grip, wishing he could lessen her pain. He felt her lips moving against his neck, heard her voice repeating "I'm sorry" over and over again like her litany in the Sept.
He shushed her, allowing himself to smooth a palm over her hair, hating himself for enjoying the way she turned into him, the feeling of her tears against his skin, her warmth against his side. One of her hands knotted itself in his tunic, balling the fabric up into her little fist as the other threaded through the hair at the base of his neck.
"Better?" he asked, when her sobbing had subsided, her tears drying on his skin.
She nodded against his chest, her head dropping onto his breast from his neck. It felt wonderful to have her wrapped up in his arms again. He'd spent two years dreaming of her resting there again. Now, she had practically crawled into his lap, and he wasn't about to push her away.
"We should go back," he said quietly, close to her ear. She shivered against him when his breath hit her skin and he relished it.
"No," she murmured, her lips grazing the skin of his neck. It was his turn to shudder, but he tried to hide it by turning his head and resting his scarred cheek against her hair. There wasn't much feeling in it, the scar, but he could feel the smoothness of her hair, the undulation of the thick waves but a whisper of sensation. It was the nearness of her that he wanted, the smell of her hair again in his nostrils. "Stay with me awhile."
As long as you'll have me, forever, he wanted to say.
"Tell me about where we're going." Her voice was still little and tentative. He almost smiled.
"What do you want to know?"
"What do you remember?"
Fire, the smell of burning flesh and hair. Illness and death. Cruelty.
"We had dogs," he said at last. "Dozens of them. I raised my first litter at five, from birth until we sold them, or gave them to the Lannisters at the rock. I don't remember which."
"What kind of dogs?"
"Hounds," he said wryly. "Hunters. Big beasts with sharp noses."
"And good dispositions."
"Aye," he replied. "Loyal beasts, and true. I wasn't allowed to name them, but I did. Silly names, like Pretty Girl."
She laughed a little against him, and he absorbed it with pleasure. "I'm sure they adored you."
"They did," he replied. "It was the dogs that-" His throat seized.
"That what?" she asked quietly.
"They didn't care," he said softly. "After."
She tightened her grip on his neck and if he'd had more sensation in that part of his body he might have been sure that she pressed her lips to his skin, to the knotted scar that ran down his neck, that she'd voluntarily buried her face against.
She asked no more questions, but her hold on him didn't weaken, not until he felt her breathing go deep and regular. Asleep, he thought, savoring her warmth against him, the weight of her settling against his chest.
He held her for a long time, maybe even a few hours, not wanting to let her go. By the time he shook her gently awake, the moon hung low in the sky.
She rose with a start, stretching and yawning as he greedily watched, her face still glowing in the moonlight. Without a word, he rose and reached a hand toward her. She took it without hesitation, pulling herself up until she stood next to him. For a long moment, they both looked out over the meadows awash in starlight.
"It looks like the sea, that night in White Harbor."
"Aye," he whispered, just then noticing that her hand was still in his. A wolf howled. "Come."
He loosened his grip to see if she would pull her hand from his. She didn't, and he tried not to think too hard about it, simply enjoying the feeling of it in his own, soft and small and warm. He delivered her back to the tent she was sharing with the children, lifting the back of it and crouching low while she scrambled through. Before he let it drop, she seized his hand again, pressing the back of his knuckles to her cheek with a sad expression in her eyes, even in the darkness. He grunted, turning his hand against his will, dragging his fingers along the curve of her jaw, forgiveness and apology together in one gesture.
She smiled gently and vanished into the dark, the flap falling behind her, but he stayed crouching there in the long grass, reconciling his breathing and for once, just once, admiring the beauty that was a moonlit night in the Westerlands where he'd been born.
A/N: Another one down. Thank you to everyone that continues to leave reviews. It makes me happy to see so many names appear again and again! I take what you write very seriously, and it has altered some imminent plot points. We'll see how they go! Keep the feedback coming!