Lenna XX
She did have a mild headache the next morning, but it was nothing in comparison to the overwhelming embarrassment she felt as soon as she'd awakened. The evening before came rushing back to her in a mortifying stream before she even opened her eyes, everything from the incredible amount of ale she'd consumed, the way Sandor had had to take care of her, to how she had practically thrown herself at him in an attempt to make him stay. She had groaned as she lay among the furs, remembering with terrible clarity exactly what had transpired.
She'd been thrilled when he'd lifted her in his arms like she weighed no more than a leaf, carrying her back to her rooms. She'd looped her arms around his thick neck, only when he tried to deposit her in her bed, she hadn't let him go, pulling their faces so close together she could feel his breath on her cheeks. She'd desperately wanted to kiss him, or rather, she'd wanted him to kiss her. She'd felt him press his lips to her temple as he carried her through the hall, and she had fiercely wanted to feel his mouth against hers.
She shuddered with the memory of her clumsy attempts to get him to stay. She blamed Tyrion for even putting the thought into her head that she should in the first place. Sandor had resisted, of course, had firmly but gently pushed her away. She knew he didn't want to, she knew he wanted to stay, she could see the struggle in the play of muscle along his jaw. It had been cruel to ask him, cruel to both of them. Of course he didn't stay, you were drunk. He wouldn't have taken advantage of her in that state, he was too close bound by his old, bloody oath. If he refused to even wrap his arm around her sober in the library, he certainly wasn't about to kiss her when she was inebriated.
So, she'd tried to kiss him, but he'd turned his face, giving her the scar instead. It was oddly smooth and firm beneath her mouth, the ridges hard and almost shocking. It hadn't disgusted her, in fact, it made her curious as to what the rest of it felt like, reminding her of the tabletop maps she'd seen in the capital. But now, instead of desire, she only felt disgust at her own behavior.
Tyrion was clearly leading about a little black beast of his own, and he had been throwing her odd looks all morning. It certainly wasn't helping aid her frame of mind. Even though he tried to get her attention, she refused to pay him any mind. She was too busy stewing, trying her best to get through Myrcella's lessons when Sansa Stark entered the solar, her eyes and nose red with tears.
"Good gods, Sansa, what is the matter?" Lenna asked, rising to her feet.
"It's Bran," she said weakly, her voice high pitched and strained. "Mother asked me to fetch you."
The girl promptly burst into fresh tears, her lower lip trembling as she covered her face with her hands. Lenna went to her without a thought.
"Take me to her," Lenna said gently, rubbing the girl's arms.
The cause of the girl's distress cast a pall over Winterfell. Her own struggles suddenly felt small and insignificant as word spread through the castle that Bran Stark had fallen from a high tower and might not survive. He was unconscious, stretched lifelessly across the bed with his direwolf curled up at his feet. Catelyn Stark, her blue eyes bloodshot and her face haggard, sat by his bedside from morning until night, twisting offerings to the old gods, praying to the new.
Lenna tried to make herself useful, taking both of the Stark girls with her when it was time for Myrcella's lessons. Sansa seemed glad of the distraction, quietly following along with Myrcella. She was a capable student, but prone to mooning over the romances. The younger one, Arya, had a wild streak that amused Lenna. She liked the girl's spirit, and her fierce concern for her brother was touching. The Stark sisters were about as opposite as they could be, and of course that meant they fought like cats. Lenna found it rather exhausting, and Myrcella watched wide eyed as they traded barbs. Sansa could quickly go from sweet to hateful, and Arya didn't even try to curb her tongue. Lenna tried to remind herself, and later Myrcella, that both girls were under a tremendous amount of pressure, both in light of their brother's injury and their own imminent departure from the only home they'd ever known.
Sandor appeared with the prince late the next afternoon. It was the first time she'd really seen him since the night of the banquet. Her cheeks went scarlet when he cut his eyes to her, glancing at her quickly from the corner of his eye. It occurred to her that he was wary of seeing her again, too. She smiled tremulously at him, relieved when he raised his eyebrow in return, his face relaxing ever so slightly.
"I am so very sorry about your brother, my lady," Joffrey said courteously. Lenna could hear the insincerity in his voice the moment he opened his mouth. "I am at your service, and of course your brother is in my prayers to the Seven."
Arya looked on with ill-concealed aversion, but Sansa's cheeks pinked in pleasure. Her voice and gaze were shy when she looked on the prince, thanking him for his consideration.
Lenna and Sandor briefly exchanged a worried look. Lenna would have given the girl credit for better sense, but remembered her own ways at thirteen. She, too, would have been flattered by the cajoling words or a prince, especially a handsome one like Joffrey. There were already whispers that the two would one day be wed, and Lenna quailed at the thought. She wished Joffrey Baratheon on no maid, even if she would be a queen.
Preparations to return to King's Landing were a subdued affair. There were no more celebrations, just practical considerations out respect for the family. The young Stark lad was still not awake. They left just a few days later, riding out at midday. She hadn't been able to speak with Sandor, and she was still embarrassed enough to wish to avoid him. He seemed rather intent on avoiding her, too, riding beside the prince with that damned helm on, the visor down. It was odd, but she could tell that he was trying not to watch her, forcing himself not to turn around and look. She was so accustomed to his gaze that the absence of it was palpable.
Her family travelled with the entourage as far as the fork to White Harbor. Lenna relished the opportunity to ride with them, though it did distress her when she had to bid them all farewell in the middle of the muddy road. Sandor had pulled alongside her, dismounting and holding Meena's reins for her as she hugged her father and brothers and pulled her darling nieces close out of sight of the queen. She had endeavored to keep up her part when the queen was in sight, not being overly affectionate or effusive with them until she had gone. They all seemed to understand, to play along, warmly polite to each other in public view, but sitting together late into the night in hall with music and laughing.
Wynna had tears in her eyes as they embraced, and it took all of Lenna's remaining control to let the girl go, her arms falling reluctantly by her sides. She stood and watched as they rode away, their backs as stiff as her own. A family trait, she thought wryly. She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket to wipe her eyes and nose. It was Sandor's, the one he'd offered her all those years ago in the Sept of the Snows, soft and plain. He had come to stand quietly next to her as she watched them go, and she wondered if he saw it. His eyes were doleful when he glanced down at her, and behind the cover of the horse's flank, he briefly wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pressing her lightly into his side, before nudging her back into her saddle.
It was an exhausting ride south. Tyrion had left them, going to the Wall with Jon Snow. She missed his company acutely, especially since something seemed to be weighing on Jaime. He would ride beside her, but he spoke little, care and worry creasing his brow, so distracted that when he tried to talk he would lose the thread of the conversation.
They rested at Castle Darry. It was near the Ruby Ford, and Lenna was grateful for the respite. She had been travelling almost continuously for two months, and she was tired of feeling like she was riding even when she lay down to sleep at night.
The countryside was beautiful, and she enjoyed rambling through it with Myrcella and Tommen, stretching their legs in forgotten ways. Myrcella was as much a chatterbox as ever, glad to be out of the wheelhouse in the sunshine, and Tommen was always a joy. The little boy had grown into a sweet and considerate child who openly adored his sister. Lenna could help but notice what a contrast he was with his elder brother. Joffrey seemed to grow more peevish and sullen with every day.
Not that it deterred Sansa Stark. The girl had become positively moony when it came to the prince. Lenna tried to be tolerant of the girl, reminding herself, as she did the princess, that Sansa was anxious to please and away from home for the first time. She remembered what that felt like, though she prayed the little grace never would. Even with her father there, Sansa Stark was more on her own now than she ever had been, her little sister vanishing more often than not. The queen had requested that Lenna befriend Lady Sansa in an attempt to make the girl's transition to court easier.
"A Northern face would be welcome, and she very well may be your queen one day," Cersei had said, tossing back a goblet of wine. "I'd like it if you'd take her under your wing."
She wished she'd had such a friend when she entered the Red Keep. You did, she thought with a small smile.
Lenna assured the queen that she'd be more than happy to look after the girl, and try to rein in her wayward sister. She went walking with the Sansa one afternoon at Castle Darry, just the two of them, though the girl brought along her pet. Lenna was wary at first as the child's pet was no pet at all, but a direwolf. However, the huge beast was gentle and her name, Lady, suited her quiet and friendly nature. Even Lenna couldn't resist rubbing the wolf's ears as they walked, though it was all she could do not to roll her eyes at the girl's constant litany of Joffrey's virtues. She asked Lenna endless questions about 'her prince' and Lenna answered them as diplomatically as she could. It wouldn't do to tell her that Joffrey was cruel and vicious, not to mention petulant and obnoxious, though she did relate a choice childhood story or two.
Upon their return to the castle, they encountered a retinue of newly arrived guards, including two familiar faces. Lenna beamed broadly to see Renly Baratheon in his green armor and dignified Barristan Selmy in his Kingsguard white plate. The old man smiled at her as he spoke with Prince Joffrey.
Another figure emerged from the crowd, but this time Lenna didn't smile. Ilyn Payne was not a welcome sight to her. The gaunt man looked more like a wraith than a person, and while she had become accustomed to Sandor's fearsome looks, this man's weren't softened by his behavior or expression. His eyes were pale, his cheeks hollow, and the sight of him made Lenna's skin crawl.
She heard a startled gasp and turned slightly to see that Sansa Stark had stepped backward right into Sandor. He looked down at the girl, his face in its most neutral mask. At least, Lenna knew that it was. It was clear to her that the girl, well-bred as she may be, had not yet grown used to Sandor's face and was gaping at him rather openly.
The girl didn't know where to look, between Sandor or Payne, so she went down on her knees and wrapped her arms around her wolf's neck, burying her face in her fur. Lenna could only think that she had a lot of growing to do if she was going to survive in King's Landing, least of all become a queen.
Sandor flicked his eyes to her, his face carefully composed. He was thinking the same thing. Joffrey appeared beside them and Barristan Selmy and Renly Baratheon approached. They both made their courtesies to the prince before turning to the two young women.
"Lady Helenna, it is always a pleasure to see you. I hope the journey has been pleasant thus far," Selmy said, taking her hand in hers as she rose from her curtsy.
"It has been long, Ser Barristan, but uneventful. We are lucky that you have both joined us."
"We are the lucky ones," Renly said, looking from Lenna to Sansa. The girl had risen to stand beside her.
"Forgive me. This is Lady Sansa, Lord Eddard's eldest daughter. She's coming with her father to King's Landing. This is Ser Barristan Selmy, Sansa, the captain of the Kingsguard, and-"
"No, no, let her guess," Renly said, a solicitous smile on his lips. Lenna pursed her lips, amused by Renly's preening. Sansa looked up at him wide-eyed, but made quick work of placing his armor and antlered helm.
"You must be Lord Renly, the king's brother," she said politely, blushing under his eyes.
"Smart and pretty," Renly commented, taking her hand in his. The girl's cheeks pinked even more.
"My lords," the girl murmured, managing to bob a pretty curtsy, but cutting her eyes back to Ser Ilyn.
"He frightens me oft-times as well, sweet lady," Selmy said with a smile.
"My apologies, ser," Sansa said, making herself look at Ser Ilyn in the face. The man didn't respond, but turned and walked away.
"Ser Ilyn has not been feeling talkative these past fourteen years," Renly said with a smirk in Lenna's direction. She felt her cheeks go hot at the poor attempt at humor. "If you'll excuse us."
"Why did he not speak?" Sansa asked in a small voice, clearly worried she'd given some additional offense. Joffrey barked out a laugh.
"The Mad King ripped his tongue out. He can't."
Sansa went pale, looking to Lenna. She pressed her lips together in a quick attempt at a comforting smile.
"My lady," Joffrey continued. "Won't you walk with me? We are very near the Trident, and I would see the water."
The worry and discomfort that had been on her face evaporated in an instant, her blue eyes once again glowing.
"Of course," she agreed immediately. "Lady Helenna-"
"Will stay here. As will your dog. And mine," he said with a rakish grin, shooting at look at Sandor. Lenna's gut clenched in anger.
"Who will protect you, my prince?" Lenna asked, raising her eyebrow at Joffrey. He didn't intimidate her. She remembered him from his childhood only too well.
"I will," he said, tapping his scabbard. He was about as skilled with it as she was. She might actually be a better swordsman. Lenna did not roll her eyes, though she wanted to.
They watched as the two walked off together. Lady was tied to the wheelhouse axle, and Lenna felt sorry for her. She knelt to scratch between her ears.
"Big beast," Sandor said behind her.
"Indeed. Does she remind you of the ones you raised?"
"We didn't raise fucking wolves," he spat. She hid her laugh in the creature's fur.
She passed the afternoon with Myrcella and Tommen, taking them into the little woods around the castle and letting them run. Sandor accompanied them, and they stood in a clearing as the children played.
"They don't have the opportunity to do this nearly enough," Lenna said quietly.
"They have a role to play," he replied. "They are not like other children."
"It saddens me." She paused, looking for the right words. "Sandor, I feel I need to apologize. For my behavior in Winterfell."
He took a deep breath. "Nothing to apologize for."
"I was not myself," she said, looking up at him from under her eyelashes. "I hope I did not cause offense."
"You didn't," he replied, but he would not look at her.
"And I should thank you."
"No thanks. Not from you."
"Aye. You took care of me, just as you always do. It was appreciated."
He pressed his lips and nodded, looking at the children as they frolicked instead of at her. She felt her cheeks burn with shame. There was so much she wanted to say and couldn't, that she wasn't sorry that she'd asked him to stay, just that she'd been drunk. She was sorry she didn't have the courage to talk to him properly about this depth of feeling between them, sorry that she didn't have the words to...well, she didn't know. She had thought long about Tyrion's suggestion, that she take him as a lover. She could barely even think the word, and couldn't imagine proposing such a thing to him.
It would hurt him, if it wasn't done in the right way.
The silence that stretched between them now was uncomfortable in a way it never had been. Lenna felt regretful to have been the cause of it, wondering if she should have simply kept her mouth shut. Perhaps it had been wrong of her to bring that night up at all.
She didn't have long to think about it, both she and Sandor's heads going up when they heard the commotion from the direction of the castle. She called for the children and they came running, and they all hurried back to the Keep.
Sandor XX
He was almost glad for the distraction. She had been apologizing for her behavior the night of the banquet, and it was almost more than he could bear. He regretted it, too, but he had hoped there was some truth in her actions that night. He'd always agreed with the saying 'a drunk mans words are a sober man's thoughts,' and he felt almost sure that there had been a measure of truth in her wanting him to stay with her, her lips against his cheek.
It had bothered him at first, that she had kissed his scar. It made him deeply uncomfortable to have it touched, but later he took it to mean something else. She'd voluntarily laid her mouth to it, she hadn't shuddered or shrunk away. Even if she was drunk, he had a firm notion that she simply didn't care. That realization was sharpened by the Stark girl's reaction to backing into him earlier. She had looked up at him with those blue eyes so wide, forcing herself to meet his eye even though he could tell she was uncomfortable doing so. While she had been able to look at him, he had seen how he looked to her reflected back in her gaze. It wasn't a pretty sight. But when Lenna looked at him, it was a different. It was perhaps the thing about her he'd loved first, that she looked at him the same way she did people with fair, whole faces, not a hint of revulsion. There was nothing in her eyes that indicated she saw anything but him, not the scarred man, but just Sandor. He knew that she didn't see him as the Hound, she just saw her friend.
Friend, he thought bitterly.
The melancholy reverie was destroyed when they returned to the castle. The yard was in a furor, and they all made their way into the Ploughman's Hall. There the king was in high dudgeon.
Joffrey was seated near his mother, a rough bandage on his arm with two faint pinpricks of blood. Sandor furrowed his brow, the queen immediately finding him in the crowd.
"Where were you, dog, when your prince was being attacked."
"I dismissed him, mother," Joffrey simpered. "Ow."
Sandor's eyes narrowed. The queen hushed him, smoothing a hand over his golden, priggish head. Sandor's eyes quickly found a snivelling Sansa Stark, the girl's pale face blotchy and red from crying.
"What the devil happened?" King Robert demanded.
Eddard Stark came in like windstorm, several of his guards at his back and his face nearly feral with worry. "Your grace," he said. "Arya is gone."
"Gods," the King railed, looking around himself. "Find her. Go!"
Sandor briefly touched Lenna on the elbow before going out into the yard. Search parties were formed, and he was put in charge of one of them. He saddled and mounted Stranger, riding off into the direction the girl was last seen.
They searched for four days before the girl was finally found, but not by his men. They returned as the girl was being questioned by the king and queen. Sandor hung back by the door, easily able to see over the heads of the assembled retainers as the little Stark girl was petulantly defending herself.
"Why was she not brought to me first, your grace?" There was thunder in Ned Stark's voice as he strode into the hall. He went immediately to his daughter, catching her up in his arms and admonishing her for running away. Sansa stood to the side, Lenna behind her, one hand on the girl's shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Father, I'm sorry," Arya cried, tears running down her face.
"What happened? Where have you been?"
"Your daughter attacked my son, her prince," Cersei said, venom lacing her tone. She looked over at Joffrey, holding his bloody arm like it had been savaged. Sandor grunted deep in his throat.
"I did not!" Arya protested. "I was playing with Mycah, then the prince threatened him with his sword. Mycah only had a wooden one, a toy, but the prince wanted to fight him with real steel. So I...so I hit him with a stick. The prince came after me, pinned me against the tree, and Nymeria...she...she bit him. I called her off, but she didn't attack him, not like he says."
"My son disagrees," Cersei said savagely. "He was attacked. I want her disciplined and I want the wolf dead."
"Cersei," the king interrupted. "They're children. The boy has a bite."
"He could have lost his arm. That girl and her friend ambushed your son, the crown prince, and went after him with clubs, set a wolf on him-"
"Yes," Joffrey said. "They attacked me, Father!"
"Liar!" yelled the little Stark, pulling against her father's grip. Sandor couldn't help but admire her. She had spirit. He wondered how long it would last.
"Control your daughter, Ned," the king bellowed. "I don't know who to believe, my own son or your daughter." He was red-faced with exasperation.
"If you'll permit me, your grace," Lenna said. "Lady Sansa was there as well. Perhaps she could clarify matters."
Sansa looked at Lenna in fear, but she stepped forward to stand next to her father.
"Well?" the king asked.
"I...I...I don't remember, your grace."
"What do you mean? What happened?"
"It happened so fast, I don't know. I don't remember." She's a bad liar, Sandor thought in disappointment. Her future in the capital was looking more and more grim.
"Liar," her sister hissed, lunging toward her sister, and Sansa shrieked.
"How can we believe her?" Cersei asked, rage in her modulated voice. "She's positively wild. I insist that she be punished for what she did to my son."
"Look, Ned," the king said, frustrated and tired by the business. "You discipline your daughter and I'll discipline my son. We can't get a straight story out of either of them, so I assume there must be fault on both sides."
"How can you-" Cersei protested.
"Silence."
"I demand that the beast be killed. One hundred gold dragons to whoever brings me its pelt," Cersei said.
"Where is the wolf?" the king demanded, speaking directly to the girl.
"Gone," Arya said lowly.
"Then I demand the skin of the other," Cersei said.
The elder Stark girl started to cry loudly. "Not Lady. Lady didn't do it, she didn't do anything wrong. You can't kill her!"
"Your grace-" Lord Stark began.
"A direwolf isn't a pet, Ned. Get the girl a dog. She'll be happier for it."
"Whoever gives the order must carry it out," Lord Stark said gravely. The king looked at him with a touch of scorn, stalking out of the hall. The queen remained in her seat, her gaze imperious as she watched the distraught Stark girls sobbing. Arya was wrapped up in her father's arms, and Sansa had buried her head against Lenna's breast. Lenna found Sandor's eyes over the crowd and pressed her lips together in an unhappy line.
They left, Lenna following the eldest Stark girl when the queen nodded sharply at her. She glanced at him briefly, her eyes dark with distress. The assembled retinue began to disband in a flurry of whispers, and Sandor went to go.
"Hound."
He stopped, closing his eyes tight before he turned back to look at the queen. He found the will to walk the twenty paces to where she was seated.
"Your grace?"
"I want you to bring the boy to me. Dead or alive." There was a mad glint in her eye, and he glanced between she and Joffrey. The prince had a smirk playing around his mouth that made Sandor's hand itch to backhand him. Instead, he nodded deeply and stalked out of the room.
He called for Stranger to be brought to him and mounted him swiftly. It didn't take long to find the boy, a chubby lad with a shock red hair. Dead or alive, he thought. He felt sick, weighing what to do. He normally had no compunction about following out these kinds of orders. He didn't care what happened to most of the men he'd fought, killed, or captured for them. He did what he was told, and he did it well. This situation had to be weighed however, and he looked at the boy as the considered the options. There were of course, only two.
He could capture the boy and take him back to the queen and Joffrey. They would take him back to the Black Cells and he would be Joffrey's plaything for a while until he tired of the game and had him killed. He would die a long, painful death.
Or he could make it clean. One thrust, thirty seconds, and then it would be over.
He clenched his jaw and dug his spurs into Stranger's sides, the boy understanding what was about to happen and turning heel to flee.
Ned Stark was exiting the kennel when he returned, the boy's corpse still bleeding across his saddle.
"Gods, you ran him down," Lord Stark breathed, rage in his face.
"He ran," Sandor replied icily, leaving the boy's body in a heap on the ground. "But not very fast."
Lord Stark looked him dead in the eye, but said nothing.
Sandor walked past him, leading Stranger into the quiet of the stables. He roughly fumbled with the girth, removing the saddle with more force than necessary. He was angry. The horse looked at him, a narrow rim of white around his eye, and Sandor struggled to calm himself. The beast's withers were wet with the boy's blood. He went for a bucket of water and a brush, carefully rinsing his coat, keenly aware of how red the water ran as it sluiced off Stranger's sides.
He kept at it until the water ran clear, and he was working on drying him off when he heard the footsteps behind him. He didn't need to turn around to know it was her. He didn't turn to her, but she didn't speak either.
"He shouldn't have run," he whispered raggedly, leaning his head into Stranger's flank.
"What have you done, Sandor?" she demanded, her voice hard and low with horror. She'd have already heard, then.
He grimaced, baring his teeth. "I have never lied to you about what I am."
"What have you done?"
"I killed him," he answered plainly, like he was saying he'd shoed a horse, or mended a fence. It was his profession, after all.
"The butcher's boy?"
"Aye." He managed to stand up straight, beginning to run the towel over Stranger's coat again. He felt her come stand next to him, struggling to keep his face slack, unbearably aware of how close she was, wondering how she could stand to be near him.
"Why?" she asked lowly, and he could feel her eyes on his face. He tilted his head forward so his hair swung between them. It was sweaty and limp and did little to disguise him. She was on his right, the scar between them, his hair scant on that side to begin with. He felt like a depraved monster with her eyes on him like that.
"It's what I do, remember? It's what I'm good at."
"You didn't have to," she whispered.
"Didn't I?" he demanded, feeling the steel of anger. He did have to. Killing was what made him useful to them, what kept his place. "What choice did I have, Lenna?"
"You could have brought him back alive."
"Maybe I just wanted to kill him. It's been a long time since I had the chance. It is the sweetest-"
"Don't you dare say that to me again." Her tone was surprisingly firm but free of anger, and he hazarded a look at her. She was turned to him, looking up into his face with her own like the smooth surface of a lake. There was no expression there, and it calmed him. Whatever she was thinking, she was concealing it. That, or she was waiting to decide what to think until she'd heard him out.
"There is nothing sweet about riding down a defenseless boy, Sandor.'
"No. But those were my orders."
"She told you to kill him."
"She told me to bring him back. Dead or alive."
"And you chose dead. Why did you choose dead?" Her voice was subtly rising in pitch, her breath hitching, and he felt like she was screaming at him.
"It would have been worse," he choked. "If I'd caught him and brought him back. It would have been worse."
"How? How could it be worse than dying over a childhood scuffle?"
He looked at her, not wanting to talk about this, about the Black Cells and what went on there. He wasn't a torturer. He didn't enjoy making men suffer that didn't deserve it. But Cersei did, and he had seen enough of Joffrey to believe that he would, too. He thought about all the little, almost innocuous violences he'd seen the queen commit, including the one's against Lenna herself. She may have never hurt the girl bodily, but hadn't Cersei tormented her for years, isolating her, more or less turning her prisoner into her servant through confinement and lack of love? The queen had no conscience, nothing beyond doing what best served her, them, and that included whatever would have befallen the butcher's boy. The lad would have been tortured, his inevitable death stretched out for days or weeks or months.
"They'd have tortured him. You don't know what they're capable of. I do."
"Who?"
"Joffrey, her," he said, unable to say more. Her eyes narrowed, that furrow appearing between her brows. He always wanted to kiss it when it appeared, but now the very thought made him feel like tucking his tail between his legs and cowering.
"Gods, Sandor," she whispered, and he looked away, unable to bear the sight of her face, and he couldn't stand to see if she was looking at him with revulsion, or pity, or worse, fear. It was something that kept him sane, the knowledge that she didn't fear him, that she trusted him, knew he wouldn't harm her. Never. But now she'd seen what he was capable of, what he could do and had done countless times, and he found that difficult to think about. He walked away from her, hoisting the saddle up so he could work on getting the boy's blood out of the leather. It would surely smell for weeks.
"I'm damned to the seven hells anyway," he said darkly, wiping the leather in long strokes, trying to soothe himself with the methodical movement of the cloth over the saddle. It wasn't killing that bothered him. There were many times where it wasn't a choice, and he wouldn't be standing there if he hadn't done it. He believed that most of the men he'd killed had deserved it, either for their own evils or simply because they were too stupid to avoid it. If they didn't deserve it, it mattered little, it was done and there was no bringing them back, even the boy. He regretted that he'd had to do it, not that he'd done it, but he could see what it would look like to her. Lenna, who had never seen violence like that, though she'd endured a barrage of silent cruelty for years. What worried him most was the possibility that they way she looked at him would change, and it would have nothing to do with the fucking scars, that she'd see him, but it would be him that made her cringe. The prospect was agony.
He heard a soft sniffling and turned to look at her only to find her crying. He didn't have the strength to comfort her tears, not right now.
"What are you crying for?" he asked, not bothering to check his irritation.
"You," she replied simply. He humphed, a deep, yawning crack opening in his chest. "Do you feel nothing?" He heard the desperation in her voice, willing him to show some human reaction.
"Aye," he replied tightly, scrubbing at the leather as if he were rubbing out Joffrey's face. If the boy hadn't been such a cunt, if his cunt mother hadn't been so cruel, he wouldn't need to be doing this with her. Ever. "Do you think I'm some kind of monster? I know I look like I belong in a fairy story, but I'm just…"
"Just what?"
"I'm not a monster!" he roared, turning to her. He was breathing hard, taking great gulps of air, trying valiantly to quell the panic that was rising inside of him. Hearing it out loud, in his own voice, was gratifying, and it silenced some of the racket that was bludgeoning his brain. He felt like a monster, he looked like a monster, and gods save him, he acted like one, too. For all his belief that killing was often necessary, what he hated most was his lack of power. He hadn't killed because he'd wanted to or needed to. He'd killed because he'd been told to, just like a hound on a hunt running down a fox, the choice he'd been given no choice at all.
He kicked out viciously, splashing the contents of the bucket across the room, splattering her skirts and startling Stranger. His fist came down heavily on the leather of his saddle again and again, until the pain in his hands gave him enough to focus on that he could stop and stand upright again.
"No," came the soft reply, "you're not. You are not a monster, Sandor Clegane."
He looked at Lenna where she stood, her little white hands balled into fists at her side. Her face was oddly defiant, her pointed chin raised, looking as imperious as a queen.
"I'm just a killer of little boys. Of fragile things. Nothing but a damned dog," he whispered brokenly. He saw her start, sure that she was going to fly from him, wishing that she would. He wasn't fit to even look at her, let alone breathe the same air. He tiredly wished she would just leave him be.
But she didn't leave. She crossed the distance between them slowly and he looked up at her, knowing how he must look with his heaving chest and wild eyes. She reached out slowly, like he was a skittish horse, and ran her hand over his hair, over his cheek and beard, resting her palm on his cheek. Gods help him, he turned his face into her hand, and when his knees inexplicably buckled, she went down with him, her arms around his neck. He didn't care that he was crushing her, and he clutched her tightly to him, fingers digging into her back. He buried his face in her neck, just as she so often had him, and gritted his teeth against the horrible feeling of tears reaching up to strangle him.
Just like a damned dog, you're so fucking grateful she's not kicking you, not chasing you off with a stick. You don't give two shits about the boy, not really, only what it would have meant if he'd cost you her.
She cradled him awkwardly against her, swaying slightly like he was a child and not a massive beast who had just killed an innocent boy in cold blood, her lips against his ear, her humming sweet. He felt himself go slack against her, leaning into her warmth as her hands ran through his hair. She was humming one of her bloody hymns, one to the Mother. She cradled his face in her hands and wiped the tears from his cheeks with her fingers, and he didn't flinch when she caressed the scar, her fingers a soft whisper against the deadened flesh. She held his eyes, and he clung to their light like a man dangling from a cliff might cling to a root, hoping against hope it was enough to keep him from falling. She was still looking at him when she leaned her forehead against his, and his hands rose to her shoulders, then her neck, until he was framing her face with his fingers, the fragile curve of her skull cupped in his hands.
You could crush it, but would you if they told you to? It was not something that brought him comfort.
"I'm sorry," he said thickly, but he wasn't even sure what he meant.
"I know," she replied, brushing the hair off of his forehead, running her hand along his beard. "I know you are, Sandor. Now hush."
"I'm damned." That he meant. He was. Plain and simple, a man without honor or even the backbone to say no when his master whistled. If you'd refused, who would see her safe? Something's coming.
"Then I'll pray for you," she whispered. "I don't know what else you could have done, Sandor. You were in an impossible position. You cannot deny the queen, yet you did the boy a mercy. A terrible mercy, but a mercy all the same."
He closed his eyes, slouching back until his back rested against the stall. Her terrible, innocent faith in him, her pardon, was enough to make him tremble. How he wanted to be that man she saw. She sat beside him in silence, and it was a long time before she left him. Before she went, he felt her turn to him, carefully laying her hands on his cheeks again as she pulled his face close and laid her lips against his forehead.
He couldn't look at her, terrified to his core that she'd see through to the dark part of him if he did. At that moment, he wondered which he would have preferred: fire, or Lenna Manderly's eyes.
A/N: SO CLOSE, PEOPLE! This one was hard to write, and I hope it satisfies enough to tide over until Friday. Thank you for your gentle words about Ch. 21. I did struggle with posting it, and I greatly appreciate your encouragement.
Read and Review!
Look out for another on Friday. I found a massive plot hole that I'm working to fill in, but that carrot is getting closer. I just hope it's a big enough carrot!