Lenna XIX

Once more, her trunk was packed and loaded among those of the princess. They had stayed in King's Landing for less than a week, Jon Arryn already eulogized and buried when they arrived. She felt like she'd scarcely had time to draw breath before the King ordered them back on the road, this time North, to Winterfell.

She'd assumed that the honor of becoming the Hand of the King would go to Jaime Lannister. After all, Cersei had spoken of little else since the raven bearing the news of Jon Arryn's death had arrived. She and her father had seemed almost gleeful, like they'd been waiting for such news. It would certainly be to their advantage if Ser Jaime could secure the position. Lenna wasn't so foolish that she couldn't see the immeasurable benefits for the Lions of Casterly Rock.

"Remember what I told you about we Lannisters," Tyrion had murmured, the two of them stretching their legs with a walk during a break on the trek East. "We always do what's best for our own."

They were still a day's ride outside of the capital, and Lenna still felt the jarring of the wheelhouse in her very bones. She hadn't responded, only looking at him warily, wondering where exactly she fit into that arrangement. It certainly wasn't the first time it had crossed her mind since Sandor had pointed out that she was a Lannister servant, just as he was. She never doubted Tyrions affection for her, but she wondered to what lengths he would go to help her should she need it.

There's only one you can rely on unconditionally, and his name is not Lannister.

When they arrived back in King's Landing, the King's choice had thrown the queen's household into a frenzy. Cersei locked herself in her study for an entire day, the only people allowed in and out were her brothers and Lenna herself, much to her surprise. Cersei ordered Sandor to bring her, and Lenna came and went uneasily, bearing flagon after flagon of wine. Cersei barely looked at her when she came in, but each time she made her stay until the wine had run out again, reading to her as she fumed.

"What think you of Lord Stark?" she'd demanded, interrupting her mid-sentence. It was an old tale about a dragon and a maid. When she looked up at the queen, she felt a deep sympathy for the maiden trapped in the dragon's lair.

"From what I remember, your grace, he is a noble and an honest man," she replied, tucking her finger into the pages to hold her place.

"Honest," she chided, drinking from her goblet. "Your father, what does he think?"

"That I do not know, your grace," she replied levelly. "My father and I did not speak of him when I was last at home, and that has been two years ago now."

"Robert trusts him with his life."

"Trust is invaluable," Lenna said neutrally. You wouldn't trust her with a cat.

"Yes," Cersei said. "Jaime I would have trusted best of all."

"Of course, your grace. Ser Jaime would have been a fine Hand."

"Do you think so, really?" Cersei asked, cocking her head. Lenna knew she was on dangerous ground. The queen's eyes were narrowed as she looked at her. Lenna long ago decided that finding something true to say, even if it was weak, was better than uttering a falsehood. It was easier to defend, and easier to remember later. Too many liars were tripped up by forgetting.

"Of course, your grace. Ser Jaime is an exemplary knight. All the qualities that make him an exceptional Kingsguard would serve the realm at large, don't you think?"

Cersei looked back at her coldly, but she didn't disagree, flicking her hand to indicate Lenna should continue with the story as she poured yet another glass of wine.

Lenna could not face the possibility of riding in the wheelhouse with her for the journey North. It would take the better part of a month, and the thought of being locked into the carriage with the queen in such a foul mood was loathsome. The day before their departure, Lenna asked if she might have a mount, explaining that she would dearly love to ride over the moors as she had as a girl. To her surprise, the queen acquiesced, bidding her take whichever horse she wanted from the stables.

She was discussing the matter with the stable master before dawn the day of their departure when Sandor entered to saddle Stranger. She had selected a stout gray palfrey, the very image of her old Prim.

"Will she do, Clegane?" she asked, rubbing the creature's withers. The animal's eyes were dark and liquid, and Lenna thought that if she could, she would smile. She'd be steady and easy, blessings given Lenna's circumstanced. Every part of her hurt, the scant week in her own bed doing nothing to alleviate the sore muscles and rattled bones of their last journey. It was agony to even think of the one ahead of them, but a horse would be better than the rattle of the carriage.

Sandor came over, running his hand over the stout horse's quarters, down the length of the leg to her hoof, inspecting the frog. Watching his hands fascinated her, large and rough and exceptionally gentle as they ran down the horse's legs. She shook herself when her mind wandered to what they might feel like on her in such a way. Since Tyrion's scandalous suggestion, she'd had a difficult time keeping her thoughts from regularly veering in that direction. Take him as a lover, then. She couldn't imagine how they might have that conversation, where she would even begin. How does a woman invite a man into her bed, especially a man like Sandor Clegane? She was too craven to even think of it without her chest and neck flushing and her breath coming short.

"She's sturdy. She'll give you no trouble," he said softly, slapping the animal gently on the rear, completely oblivious to the muddle of her mind.

The stable master had vanished to find a stable boy to saddle the mare, but Lenna went ahead and heaved the pad over her back, not wanting to wait.

"Let me." She had felt him come up behind her, his warmth radiating into her though he was already clad in his armor. She could smell him, sweat and steel and soap, and it made her stomach flip like a fish.

She stepped back to let him tighten the girth, drape the bridle and place the bit, all the while mumbling softly to the animal, the horse's ears pricking up as he talked to her. The horse, Meena, nuzzled him on the shoulder.

"Thank you," she said quietly. He smiled, his mouth quirking almost imperceptibly to one side as he flicked his gaze at her from over Stranger's saddle. It was a quick glance, but she felt it to her core. She'd spent many years thinking about the curve of his lips. It flustered her to think of what they may feel like beneath her own. She watched him, finding herself ruffled for other reasons, too. The staggering breadth of his shoulders, the vulnerable movement of his throat when his head was tilted back as he threw the bridle over the horse's head, the sculpted lines of his often dirty hands as they softly ran down the beast's neck. They made her remember what it had been like to span those shoulders with her arms, to feel his throat against her lips, to have those hands on her. To be wrapped up in him, his scent, surrounding her and filling her lungs like a fur cloak, even if all of their stolen touches were perfectly innocent.

Eight years. They'd been circling each other for eight long years. Tyrion had told her nothing she didn't already know, he'd simply held her feet to fire and made her admit to it. She felt the most pleasurable pain thinking about it, knowing that it was so like her stories, unspoken and potent, always there, latent beneath their everyday interactions. And just like the stories, more or less hopeless. The stories had glorified this affliction, but Lenna found no comfort in it.

They walked out together with that comfortable companionship they'd developed over the years. He held her reins while she mounted, swinging himself up onto Stranger but a moment later. They fell into an easy gait behind the wheelhouse among the entourage for most of the morning.

"Happy to be riding North?" he asked once they were out of the

"Of course, Sandor, it is my home," she responded warmly, turning her gaze forward again.

"How long has it been now?" he asked, his eyes forward, ever scanning.

"Two years," she replied, looking down at her reins in embarrassment. "As you very well know." She felt her throat tighten, though she had counted every day since they'd left her home. It amazed even her that she had been away for so long, especially since the pain of separation seemed so fresh.

"A long time for a girl." His tone was flat, but Lenna knew the note of empathy in it.

"I don't know that I get to call myself a girl anymore, Sandor," she said wryly, looking back at him with a smile. He smirked, at least as much of a smirk as he could muster. "A bit like calling yourself a lad, wouldn't you say?"

"Aye, I suppose," he replied, just the slightest curve of amusement on his mouth. There was no need to say anything else, and she relished their ability to ride together in a comfortable silence.

When he wasn't beside her, Tyrion was. He wasn't going to make the mistake of being confined to the wheelhouse this time either. The weeks plodded along as steadily as the horses as they ranged north, and she found herself enjoying the journey despite her sore muscles and aching bones.

"We are rather near your home, aren't we?" Tyrion asked one morning. They were working their way steadily through the Neck in the direction of Greywater Watch.

"Not far off," she replied quietly.

"No visit planned?" he asked.

"Of course not," she sniffed. He had tried to open this vein of conversation many times in the past, but she was quick to halt it. She thought he would know better by now than to broach the subject again.

"I am sorry for it," he replied lowly, and she managed to smile at him. Tyrion Lannister was a fascinating creature, his vicious tongue and intolerance for stupidity in direct contrast with the depth of compassion that set him apart from his family. She remembered thinking that he was as lonely as she, that he felt the pangs of a conscience where the rest of them were incapable of thinking of others.

It partially explained his gentle treatment of her in the weeks since their conversation in Casterly Rock. Anyone else, she knew, and he'd have eviscerated her with teasing. Instead, his eyes seemed to take on an almost sad cast when he saw her with Sandor. She loved him all the more for it.

"How is your friend," Tyrion asked quietly. He was also disturbingly intuitive. "He's been watching us with avid interest this morning."

Lenna looked over her shoulder and unexpectedly caught Sandor looking at them. As usual, a deep scowl was shadowing his features. She knew was terribly, stupidly jealous of Tyrion, especially since they'd returned from the Westerlands. She had learned not to even mention him if she wanted him to ride with her, lest she be graced with a long string of truly colorful expletives used in a most creative fashion.

"He's looking at me like he's already planned my demise a hundred different ways if I but put one finger out of line. To be rather honest, I feel riding with you may be a risk to my health."

Lenna looked at him with an indulgent smile.

"Please don't let him scare you away."

Tyrion looked like he might say something else, but he must have thought the better of it, instead asking her about a book they'd been trading thoughts on.

When the procession made it to the place where the road forked off toward White Harbor, Lenna found herself frozen at the marker, running her eyes over the worn text over and over. Home could be made a reality in half a day's ride, yet she was bound to continue past it, away from it. The closer she got, the further away home seemed.

"Don't want you to get left behind."

She turned to see Sandor behind her, bringing up the rear. His helm was tucked under his arm, his long hair whipping across his face in the wind, his hands on the reins keeping his mouthy Stranger in check. She smirked at her old friend. Like any horse, he was a fool for an apple or two.

Lenna looked back at the sign. She read it one more time, mentally repeating the words like a charm, then turned the palfrey's head toward the road again.

"Missing it?" he asked, his eyes narrowed against the wind. She blamed it for making her own water.

"You should know better than to ask that," she replied sullenly.

He looked at her askance and she saw an apology in his eyes. She knew, instinctively, that he was just trying to think of something to say. It didn't come easily to him.

"I'm sorry," she said, regretting her tone. His mouth twitched up, the dark gray eyes meeting hers with a measure of warmth. She had always admired the color of his eyes. When he looked at her, they went soft and tender, like she was the only other person in the Seven Kingdoms. He was looking at her that way now, and her stomach fizzed, warm and pleasantly tight. It made her self-conscious, having his eyes lay on her like that. The intensity in his eyes was almost tangible, resting against her as distinctly as a caress, like he had drawn the back of one of those massive fingers down her cheek and along her jaw. No wonder Tyrion had seen it. She wondered how many others knew, for it was obvious to her now though she'd spent so long pretending she didn't.

"Do you think he'll come?" She asked suddenly, choking on the swell of feeling that rose in her. "My father. Do you think he'll come? Have you...have you heard anything?"

"Nothing to report," he replied simply. "But it would be best if he did. Most of the Northern bannermen are expected."

"I hope that he does."

"For your sake, I do, too. Don't get your hopes up too high. You know how he feels about Lannisters."

She tried to smile, to take it as a joke but was mortified to feel tears welling up in her eyes again, turning her face from him. She hated how often she cried in front of him.

He touched her lightly on the back of her hand where it lay on the pommel of her saddle. She loved his hands. Though enormous, they were beautiful. They were calloused and brown, the nails close bitten and dirty, but the muscles and bones and tendons were uncommonly sinewy and fine. They were like the hands on the statue of the Smith in the Sept, strong and unexpectedly graceful.

Without a thought, she compulsively covered his hand with her own, gratified when he turned his palm up and squeezed her fingers before quickly pulling away, making sure no one had been watching.

Sandor XIX

Winterfell was a dreary, homely place. He didn't much care for it's muddy yard and dark hall, but he found that he liked it. After so many years in pretentious King's Landing, he felt himself relax to be among such simple, straight-forward people. He remembered Ned Stark from his youth, and though the lord was much older, he still had that melancholy air of nobility that Sandor grudgingly admired.

The family had gathered in the muddy courtyard when the caravan arrived, the children all assembled. Sandor had donned his helm, riding in next to Joffrey. With the princess and prince Tommen in the wheelhouse, he spent most of time on-duty with the adolescent cunt. Unfortunately for him, Joffrey seem to like him and his rough ways. Sandor found that he didn't hate being able to roughly speak his mind, and the boy encouraged it. He was still the Hound, after all. He'd begun to think the beast had been killed, but he surfaced all too readily when Joffrey whistled for him.

She had ridden in behind him, but he didn't miss the flash of a glance her eldest niece shot him. The girl was a little bit taller than when they'd seen her last, but her eyes were just as quick and observant as they had been, and he was quite sure she'd smirked at him. She'd taken in how close he'd stayed to Lenna as soon as Joffrey had dismounted and joined the royal family, how he'd grabbed her palfrey's reins as Lenna dismounted. Wynna's eyes saw it all. He had forgotten how discerning these Manderlys were.

Wyman had grown even fatter, and though Sandor had hung behind while they greeted Lenna, the old man found him at the earliest opportunity, shaking his hand like they were equals or friends. He found himself overcome with fondness for the old lord, answering his queries with patience and a distinctly un-Houndlike lack of annoyance.

A feast was ordered three days after their arrival in celebration of Lord Stark's consent to become the king's Hand. He would find it amusing to watch the Lannisters try look like they were happy. They were always miserable at it. The queen and her twin were a gloomy looking pair these days. They had rushed back to King's Landing upon hearing of the death of Jon Arryn only to find the king already in preparations to travel North to ask Eddard Stark to take the job.

Here they were, over a thousand miles North overland, and Ned Stark had agreed to take the job. If someone had asked Sandor, he thought the whole trip was a bloody waste of time. A raven would have sufficed.

He'd been with Joffrey all afternoon, and what little patience he had was wearing thin. The last thing he wanted to do was stand guard at a banquet. Lenna came in with Myrcella as the sun started to dip below the horizon. She was wearing a dress of rich blue, a shawl spread over her shoulders, the red ribbon in the dark coil of her hair. He was struck again with how at home she looked, just as she had in White Harbor. Her movements were somehow softer, more relaxed, her eyes brighter. It sent a pang through him to remember how wan she'd been the last time she'd had to leave, wondering if it would be the same on their return.

She spared a smile for him, her lips and cheeks rouged, her eyes accentuated with kohl, large and limpid in the torchlight. The little princess was excitedly chattering to her mother about the afternoon they had spent with the Stark girls.

"Lady Sansa is so kind, mother," Myrcella gushed. "And so pretty."

"I'm glad you like her, sweetling," Cersei replied. "She's coming back with us. You'll get to see her often in King's Landing."

"It will be good to have a friend."

I'm glad you like Lady Sansa," Lenna chimed in. "She will be a perfect companion for you. She always was a pleasing girl." Sandor was the only one who noticed the quick quirk of Lenna's eyebrow as she said the last. He wondered what she really thought of the child.

"Is she much changed?" the queen asked.

"Since she was five? Of course, your grace," Lenna laughed. "Quite the little lady it seems. Frankly, I'm surprised she remembered me at all."

"Little ones take to you," the queen commented.

"They do seem to," Lenna smiled. "I knew the boys better. Always getting into scraps. Why, I remember one time they painted all of the horses' hooves pink, then tried to pin it on us girls."

"When was that?" the queen asked. He could hear the note of interrogation that came into her voice whenever she was fishing for information.

"The last Harvest Festival I attended here. I would have been fourteen, your grace."

"How old was young Robb, then?"

"Oh, I don't know. He's what, fifteen, sixteen now? So, still a little lad. Eight or nine. He and Jon and Theon were quite a handful, but between Benjen and I, we kept them in line."

"Benjen Stark?" One of Cersei's hair pins could have dropped and he would have heard it.

"Aye, your grace. He always had a soft spot for the little ones, too," Lenna smiled.

"He's due tonight."

"He is?" her face broke into a broad smile, and Sandor's chest went uncomfortably tight. "I should dearly like to see him."

It seemed to him that her face went strangely wistful, like she was remembering something. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what it was. There was affection there, and he felt like he'd missed out on some key piece of information. He'd had no idea she'd known the Stark children, though he guessed it should have come as no surprise. He sometimes forgot that she'd had a past apart from King's Landing, apart from them. That's why he'd looked on in surprise when Sansa Stark, the pretty elder girl, had shyly approached Lenna in the courtyard on their first day in Winterfell. Lenna had quickly wrapped the girl up in her arms with a smile and a laugh. The three young men of the house, Robb Stark, his bastard brother, and the Greyjoy hostage, had been waiting almost bashfully behind her, bowing to her like the little lordlings they were. Lenna had further taken him aback by greeting them each with a sound kiss on the cheek and a hug.

But it wasn't handsome young Robb Stark that bothered him, it was the appearance of Eddard Stark's little brother. He came in late, but Sandor noted him immediately. The banquet itself was a hot sea of bodies and noise. He hated them, too much to watch. His eyes scanned and darted, but there was too much activity for him to focus. At least that's the excuse he gave himself. He'd been watching Lenna, her features agile and active as she laughed, throwing her head back as she sat with her family as she had in White Harbor.

When the dark man came in, he spoke to his brother first, but he might as well have gone straight to the Manderly table. She had looked up at him, a flush of excitement in her cheeks, and she had stood to greet him. They regarded each other stiffly for a moment, then Benjen Stark said something and Lenna had laughed, throwing her arms around him like a girl much younger than her years. When the Ranger had pulled away, Sandor had recognized the slightly stunned look on his long, handsome face. He felt it on his own often enough. Even though the man was wearing the black of the Night's Watch, a sworn brother of the Wall, he couldn't help the angry twitch of jealousy as he watched the other man smile down into her upturned face, both of her hands in his.

It put him in an even fouler mood, and the night passed with infuriating slowness. Gradually, the hall emptied, the royal family retiring for the night along with the Starks and most of their brood. Benjen Stark had disappeared long ago, but not before he had said goodnight to the Manderly's, pressing Lenna's hand in his once more.

Tyrion, never the first to bed, had bravely made his way down to the Manderly table, though Wyman had eyed him warily at first. Tyrion had the gift of setting people at ease, even though Sandor could see how mercenary the talent really was. However, when the little Lannister caught Sandor's eye and waved him over, he couldn't help but follow.

"Join us for a drink, Clegane," Wyman said, slapping the table with a grin. "We've partaken together in the past."

Sandor hesitated for a moment, looking to Lenna before he sat. She looked back at him with a blush on her cheeks. Her nieces had already gone to bed, but she had remained with the men as they cavorted and drank. It was obvious to him very quickly that she was rather drunk herself, her movements slow and her eyes slightly unfocused but clearly enjoying herself.

He drank two tankards with them in silence, but when the third came around and Lenna reached for another, Sandor caught it and slid it away from her with touch of pique in his gesture.

It caught Wyman's attention, and he looked closely at his daughter, swaying a bit himself.

"Dear Lenna," he said coaxingly. "You'll have a sore head in the morning. Perhaps it's time for bed."

She nodded, perhaps a little embarrassed, making to stand. Sandor wrapped an arm around her waist just in time to keep her from stumbling. Her eyes were wide with astonishment and confusion.

"Steady," he murmured. She looked up at him, her focus bleary and unfocused.

"Clegane," Tyrion said, his words slurred, more that a little intoxicated himself. "See her back, will you? You're the only one left half-sober."

"You'd have my thanks," Wyman said, looking rather sheepish. "I should have kept a better eye on her. And myself." He looked into his cup as if bewildered as to how it had become empty.

Sandor grunted but he didn't refuse.

He stayed close to Lenna as she tripped and stumbled through the dark passageways. It almost made him smile. She was not a graceful drunk, and when she slumped against the wall for a third time, nearly going to her knees, he bit back his reticence and earlier perturbation, swinging her up in his arms.

She hiccupped, looking into his face, her eyes drooping. She looped her arms around his neck and nested her head in the crook of his neck and shoulder, just as she usually did. His arms tightened around her and he turned his face into her brow, pressing a hard kiss to her temple.

He felt guilty for it. She was clearly intoxicated, and he'd never have dared do such a thing if she were sober.

He nudged open her door with his foot, bearing her in as quickly as he could. He left it open as he carried her to the bed heaped with furs. He tried to deposit her gently, but she wouldn't release him, her arms still twisted tightly around her neck.

"Let me go," he said lowly. He was stooped over her, nose to nose. She looked up into his face and shook her head, a little smile about her mouth. "Lenna," he said sternly, reaching up to pull her arms away. Instead of relaxing she pulled herself up to him, their faces just a whisper apart.

"Stay with me."

"No," he rumbled. He was getting irritated again. He'd already sent half the night torturing himself over Benjen fucking Stark, and he wanted to be alone. She had no idea what she was doing, she was not herself, but it was also becoming extremely difficult not to do something he'd hate himself for.

"You want to stay," she said quietly.

"You're drunk, Lenna. Let me go," he said harshly, refusing to look at her any longer. He wanted to yank her arms from him, but he couldn't bring himself to be rough with her. He angled his face from her, turning the scar toward her.

"I want you to stay," she pressed, and he snorted in protest. She has no idea what she's saying. He felt her breath on his cheek, just a faint tickle of sensation through the scorched flesh, and then felt the pressure of her mouth on it. He shuddered and fought not to push her away or pull her close.

"Let me go," he said again, this time it was a growl, each word the victory of his better self. She relented and he could have sighed with relief, her arms sliding from his neck as she lay back in the pillows. She looked up at him with disappointment in her face, still lovely among the piles of fur.

He gentled himself, taking a deep breath to stem the tide of panic that had erupted in his bones when she pressed her lips to his scar. No one touched it, he hated when it was touched. He reminded himself that she was drunk out of her senses and not fully in control of herself. She certainly wasn't making this easy on him.

He looked around in deliberation. There was an ewer of water on the table with a cup. He poured some out, then returned to her. She looked up at him with a scowl. Under other circumstances he may have barked a laugh to see his familiar expression on her face.

"Drink this," he said firmly. "You'll regret it tomorrow if you don't."

"You're angry with me," she said, her voice peevish.. "I don't know what I did, but you're angry with me."

"I'm not," he replied. Not exactly a lie. "Now, drink."

She took the cup from him and tried to gulp it down, spilling it. He rolled his eyes, but took it and poured it down her throat himself, making sure she took it slowly so she wouldn't overwhelm her stomach. She was going to have a very difficult morning, and overloading her belly wouldn't help her. He repeated it with a second cup, wiping her chin where she'd dribbled a bit with one of the furs, finding himself smirking at her again despite his annoyance. She was usually so poised that seeing her like this was oddly enjoyable. He knew she'd be mortified in the morning.

"Drink this whenever you wake up," he said, pouring another cup and leaving it at her bedside. "You'll feel wretched if you don't."

"I already do," she groaned. He wanted to smooth his hand over her hair as he had in the Westerlands, but he didn't.

"Aye," he replied, quirking his brow. "I bet you do. Sleep's the best thing for it now."

He tucked her in, moving her legs and settling the furs around her. When he looked back at her, her face was already relaxed against the pillows though her eyes were still open. He couldn't resist, leaning over as he pushed a lock of her hair out of her face before turning to leave.

She reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling it to her chest. He clenched his jaw as he looked down on her, drinking in the sight of her, her hair messily framing her face where it had escaped its coil. Her eyes were shining even though she was still unable to focus them on him.

"Thank you, Sandor," she mumbled, pressing the back of his hand to her cheek. He smiled wryly and chucked her gently under the chin like she was Myrcella, willing himself to turn away once more. He closed the door behind him, pausing a moment to tilt his head back against the wood as he recovered himself, then moving back toward to hall with the sole purpose of getting completely, disconsolately drunk. Whatever would chase away the sight of her smiling up at him from a bed of furs.

He regretted it the next morning. He was ready to leave, stymied by the interminable waiting. He felt guilty, simply wanting her back with him in King's Landing, away from her family, from Benjen Stark and his handsome nephews. It was a terrible, selfish wish, to take her away again, and he found himself brooding over it as he sat next to Tyrion Lannister, pulling on his greaves. His head hurt and he squinted into the morning light, but at the very least he was faring better than the Imp.

Tyrion was sluggish, struggling to get his feet in his boots, still swaying slightly. It was quite possible he was still drunk.

"Rough night, Imp?" he ground out.

"If I get out of here without squirting from one end or the other it will be a miracle," he said, his voice rough with drink. A flicker of cold anger ran through Sandor's veins. He couldn't help but think back to that night at Casterly Rock, the Imp entreating her to consider what he'd said. Sandor was still more or less sure it was a marriage offer, and it made his blood boil to think that Tyrion was still going around fucking gods knew what when he may be married to her. If it were him- he couldn't finish the thought.

"Didn't take you for a hunter," he said churlishly.

"The greatest in the land. My spear never misses." There was a pugnacious pride to it that made Sandor want to punch him.

"It's not hunting if you pay for it," Sandor growled.

"Ah yes, and the Hound would be an impressive hunter, wouldn't he? Bred for it, I would think. Only I don't seem to see your quarry. Have you let it get away? I'm sure if you put forth some effort-"

"The fuck you talking about, Imp?"

"I never took you for a fool, Clegane. A brute. A dog. But never a fool. What she sees- ah, I have said too much already."

"What was that?" he demanded, his brain painfully clear.

Tyrion was already walking away, turning to smirk back at him with an exaggerated shrug as he staggered away. Sandor sat in agonizing bewilderment, wondering what, and who, the Imp meant. He lit on the one possibility that made sense, but he shook his head violently at the very thought. The little Lannister was still clearly drunk, and his head was so foggy he couldn't make sense of any of it.

Bloody fool.

A/N: This is not my favorite chapter, but necessary all the same. In the original version, Benjen played a much bigger part, but it has morphed and changed so much. I just couldn't let him completely go by the wayside, so go gentle on this one, it's not my best. Forgive any typos! I'm trying to give you all what you want by Friday :-) It's just a matter of cleaning things up. Yep, dangling that carrot.

Thank you to everyone who has continued to leave comments: BarbyChan, Charlotte, Miss Luny, meurcy, purple-pygmy, knox, bellaphant, PtLacky...if I missed you, I'm sorry! It makes me so happy to see these names crop up again and again, and I'm so pleased you've stuck with me!

Special shout-out to MisfitCarter- I hope everything is on the up-and-up!

Read! Review! It makes me happy and keeps me motivated. Thank you for all of your kind words. They are, as always, very much appreciated.