Lenna XXII

The morning of the Hand's Tourney dawned bright and clear. She was already up and dressed, her hair coiled around her head, waiting on the children in the breakfast room. Really, though, she was waiting on him. She had risen early, hastily putting on a green and yellow gown as she waited for the maid. The servants were always busy on tourney days, there were many ladies who needed their services, but because she was expected to attend on the queen and Myrcella she had to be one of the first ready.

The girl who did her hair yawned continuously as she plaited and coiled it into the mass low on the back of her head. She'd threaded Lenna's green ribbon through it, the frayed ends tucked deep into the arrangement. Lenna had dabbed the rouge on her cheeks and lips herself, though she had the girl line her eyes with the kohl. Her nerves were such that her hand wasn't steady enough for the job.

She was standing in the window, her stomach trembling in the cold way it tended to when she rose too early or was too excited. Or, in this case, was too nervous. She'd been there for almost an hour on her own, working up her courage. A handkerchief with the Manderly arms was tucked into her sleeve, one that she hadn't carried in years. It had long ago been replaced by the plain linen Sandor had given her, one which she touched almost compulsively, her fingers tracing against its softness like a talisman.

The one in her sleeve she had embroidered as a young girl in a bout of homesickness. In that first year in King's Landing she had made enough to fill a chest, stitching the white merman against the blue like it was some charm against the loneliness. Her fingers were trembling slightly when she touched it, making sure it was still there, the dye making it much stiffer than the one she favored, but it was more than appropriate for its task.

She planned to give it to him before the children arrived, to carry with him through the day. It was a foolish idea, and she had no idea how he would react to it, but she had decided she had try. She could no longer bear the tension between them, and she knew if she waited for him then it would never be addressed. She had cast about for the only available ways for a lady to declare her feelings, and lit on giving him her favor. He might scoff, he might refuse her, but he would at least know. Her only worry was the possibility he may think she was laughing at him. That thought she couldn't abide.

The door creaked open and she turned, smiling a bit too brightly as he walked through the door. He had also made an effort with his appearance, his armor polished to a high sheen. It was the same old suit, he refused to have another one made, and today he was wearing a yellow tabard on top of it with his House's black dogs hunting across his chest.

"Good morning," she said, her voice a little shrill in her own ears. "You're competing." She chided herself for sounding like an imbecile.

"As you see," he said roughly. He was scowling already. He was already famous for his glower, but it had been even more pronounced in the weeks since the business with the butcher's boy. In the scant weeks since they'd arrived back in King's Landing he had been distant. Myrcella's lessons had come to a stuttering standstill as the Keep acclimated to the addition of Ned Stark's household. Lenna was still with the princess daily, but Sandor was often unneeded as they sat in the solar. She gleaned that instead he had been accompanying the prince. She had missed him, and even when they were in the same room he had trouble meeting her eye as he had. She was put in mind of their return from White Harbor, when he had pulled away from her so abruptly, and it made her almost as unhappy.

"I hoped you might do something for me," she said evenly, holding her breath to hold on to her courage, praying she'd be able to remain poised to keep him from seeing how much it really meant to her. Just in case.

"Today?" he asked, his brow furrowed together in slight annoyance.

"It's just a little thing," she replied, reaching into her sleeve and producing the handkerchief. She held it toward him. She felt like a fool. "I was hoping you'd carry this during the tourney."

He stared at her without moving, his eyes fixated on her own before flicking to the fabric. Her heart started pounding. He was taking too long to speak. This was a ridiculous idea, she chastised herself. You know how he feels about knights and ladies and all of that 'horseshit.' Still, she'd begun, and she must finish it, whatever he said, so she moved closer, taking his hand in her own and pressing the cloth in it.

"What for?" he asked, gray eyes full. Hope stuttered in her chest.

"I believe a lady may grant a favor," she said quietly. "To bring her chosen competitor luck."

He was still staring at her, his hand laying open in hers, only loosely gripping the handkerchief. Her stomach began to quiver, the mad courage failing.

"Will you take it or not?" she asked, willing her voice not to tremble. This gruff disbelief was not one of the scenarios she'd imagined. She'd hoped for pleasure, anticipated anger, but hadn't anticipated disbelief.

If she hadn't known him better, she may not have seen the flash of feeling across his face, the slight relaxation of his brow. His fingers curled up around the cloth, pressing it into his palm in acceptance.

"Wouldn't want to hurt your feelings," he said lowly, but there was a quirk at the corner of his mouth. She wanted very badly to lean up on her tiptoes and kiss it. Each time he smirked at her she wanted to know what it would feel like under her lips. It was becoming harder and harder not to find out.

It was consuming her thoughts. That evening in the stables, when he was in such a fury of feeling, he had turned to her, hiding his face in her neck after killing that boy, and it had taken all of her self-control not to cover his face in kisses, scar and all. Only the thought of his pain, of comforting that violent war he was waging with himself, was enough to keep her from it.

"Your golden Ser Jaime wouldn't take it then?" he asked, a hard glint in his grey eyes despite the teasing of his voice. Still jealous, she thought. It made her heart beat a bit quicker.

"I have never offered it to him. Or anyone else, for that matter," she said softly. "I've never had a champion before you."

For a moment, he looked stunned, as if her words had landed on him forcefully, but there was a glimmer of pleasure, too.

"Not even in your younger days?" he retorted, his good eyebrow quirking. Watching his brow lighten was like watching the clouds scatter before the sun. He was just as changeable as the weather, going from dark brooding to wicked humor in an instant.

"You wound me, Sandor," she said with mock indignation, placing a hand over her breast, deciding to make light of whatever strange mood had overtaken him, just pleased that he'd taken the bloody thing. "But you know I haven't. In my experience, knights aren't much interested in ladies who want to talk about history and politics. Too busy talking about their own… accomplishments."

"I don't mind listening to you," he replied, back to not looking at her. He was carefully folding the handkerchief, laying the edges together before slipping it into the gap between this breastplate and hauberk. Her heart glowed with delight.

"Ah," she replied, holding up a finger, a smile twisting her lips to hide her breathlessness. "But as you've said, more times than I can count, you're not a knight."

It was as if she had startled the chuckle out of him, because it was more a bark then a laugh. Her heart swelled to see the grooves that framed his oddly beautiful mouth deepen, his even teeth flashing white.

The door creaked open again and he moved away from her to look out the window, he wary of being caught standing too close to her.

The nurse came in, distracted by the children. Myrcella was dressed in pink, her hair done up in the imitation of an lady's. Lenna didn't like it. The girl was already growing up too fast. Joffrey was even there, scowling and looking imperious as he lounged in his chair. His arm was still bandaged, and Lenna scoffed at him to herself. He was exploiting the bite for all it was worth.

She sat and ate with Myrcella and Tommen, trying to still her stomach with a pastry and a cup of tea. It would be hours before they ate again, and she didn't want to be faint.

"I wish you were going to be in the box with us," Myrcella said, reaching for another piece of fruit.

"I'll be close by," Lenna replied. "Front row, as always."

"Of course she's not going to be in the box, Cella," Joffrey drawled. "She's barely more than a servant."

"Watch your tongue, Joff. Lady Helenna has always been kind to you, and she's far from a servant."

Lenna enjoyed watching Joff's arrogant little face go white at the sound of his uncle's voice.

"Good morning, Ser Jaime," she said, and Jaime came to sit beside her, his white plate dazzling in the morning sun as it streamed through the windows.

"Good morning, dear Lenna," he replied, brushing his fingers over the back of her hand. "Aren't you just a-quiver with excitement?" He popped a grape into his mouth and chewed it noisily. "I hear that you do love a tourney."

She looked back at him flatly with a purse of her lips.

"I'm excited," Myrcella said. "I can't wait to see all of the knights and their armor. Uncle Jaime, and Ser Loras, and Sandor."

Joff looked at his sister slowly. "He's not a knight, 'Cella. He's just a dog." He pushed away from the table. "I've had enough of this stupid chatter."

They all sat silently as he left. Jaime popped another grape into his mouth, his face carefully blank.

They walked to the tourney grounds, she and Myrcella and Tommen. They could have taken a litter, but she'd suggested that they stretch their legs since they'd be sitting all day. The queen and Ser Jaime rode behind. Sandor walked with them, leading Stranger by the bit. She knew he didn't want to tire the mount by riding. He'd been curried extensively, his coat a glossy black, the yellow blazon of his master cast across his quarters. He pranced like he was proud of himself, and Lenna thought he had plenty of cause to be. He was magnificent. They both were. She may have been imagining things, but it seemed to her that Sandor was holding his chin up a little higher than usual.

She settled into her usual spot, Jaime handing her a cup of wine over the railing with a white flash of teeth. The tourney began with an unusual amount of fanfare. Jousts were not uncommon at Robert's court as he loved the spectacle, but Lenna couldn't recall one on this scale before. The one for Joffrey's nameday had been grand enough, and it was small by comparison. Of course, it was all in tribute to the King's new Hand.

Lenna hadn't seen Lord Stark and his daughters since they arrived in the capital, but she thought that he had aged ten years in the short span of weeks. When he took his seat with his daughters he looked almost haggard. Arya Stark looked like she was going to itch to death inside that dress, her little body wriggling with impatience and discomfort. Her hair had had been done up like it had been at the Winterfell banquet, and Lenna did not envy the maid that had been sent to do that job. Lenna hid a smile, sympathizing with the girl. She hated these things, too. Beside Arya sat her pretty older sister, demure and lovely in her own gown, her hair streaming around her shoulders like flames. When she saw Lenna, she waved, making her way over and sitting on the bench beside her. The child is strikingly pretty, Lenna thought, reaching out to greet her properly. She'd grow into a real beauty with her fiery hair and eyes the color of cornflowers. Her face was suffused with excitement, her cheeks pink, as the competitors started their review, putting their horses through their paces, shouting their battle cries.

Lenna almost rolled her eyes.

"Here we go," said a slick voice. She turned see that Petyr Baelish had taken the vacant seat behind her. Lenna stood when he did, masking her distaste by clapping as the competitors took their places.

It was time for the tilts to start. When she looked behind her, Sandor and Ser Jaime had vanished, no doubt preparing for their turns. She was pleased to see Jory Cassel unseat two riders early on. She had liked the man when they'd met in Winterfell. He would be a welcome addition in the Keep, and she was disappointed when he was defeated by Lothor Brune. And it was a treat to see old Barristan Selmy, a man who always had a kindly look for her, triumph against two younger riders before being defeated, with a gesture of regret, but Jaime Lannister.

Jaime appeared before the box to take a glass of wine, keeping his horse prancing as he drank. He'd already had three victories that morning.

"You look anxious, my lady," he said, tossing back the contents of his goblet.

"It's noisy," she said quietly. Truthfully, she was anxious. As much as she wanted Sandor to do well, she was afraid for him.

A rider appeared at the end of the tiltyard bearing his familiar yellow and black tabard. Her interest piqued, and Jaime Lannister turned to see who she was looking at with such avid interest. But it wasn't Sandor. If possible, this man was even more massive than Sandor, his mount looking positive diminutive under his bulk. She understood the name now, the Mountain that Rides.

"Have you never seen the Mountain before, Lady Helenna?" Jaime asked, smirking at the look of horror on her face. "The Hound is the runt of that litter."

A slight young knight was waiting on the other end of the yard. He was flying the colors of the Vale.

"Who is he?" Lenna asked, breathless, nameless fear settling in her gut.

"Ser Hugh of the Vale. Flouting his lady's orders, no less. Lady Lysa forbid her men from riding."

"Why?"

"Mourning? Who knows, she's an odd duck," Jaime replied, reining his horse around to better view the bout.

It wasn't going to be a contest, there was no way the other knight was going to beat the Mountain, but neither did any of them anticipate what happened. When the Mountain's lance struck Ser Hugh's armor, it splintered and slid upward, driving into the young man's neck. He fell from his horse limply, grasping at his throat, the blood gurgling through the rough hole in his skin, pouring from his mouth.

"For gods' sake, Lenna, look away," Jaime hissed.

She couldn't look away, but she did see Cersei grab Myrcella and pull her close, and Lord Stark did the same with his girls. The Mountain made his round in front of the royal box, his visor lifted. She was so stunned that she didn't avert her gaze when his eyes met hers. They were dark, not at all like his brother's grey ones, no spark of intelligence in their depths. Eyes like an animal's. He leered, and she looked away. No wonder he hates him, she thought.

She closed her eyes and said a prayer for the young knight, his broken and bloody body carried from the yard on a litter. It was hard to derive any pleasure from the matches, though she did make herself cheer when Sandor tilted. He neatly unseated opponents she had no doubt of him beating, but it was nearly an hour before her attention was truly called to the end of the yard, again caught by the black and yellow of his blazon.

They were getting close to the end of the day's contests and he was still in the running. He'd been performing brilliantly, actually. He sat astride Stranger, his snarling helm gleaming. He steadied the lance, tossing it to firm up his grip. At the opposite end of the tournament yard was Renly Baratheon, resplendent in his bright green armor and his gold-antlered helm. He'd been sitting a few rows behind Lenna for the morning, pleasantly talking with his companions. He'd smiled at her once or twice when she turned, handsome with his black hair and blue eyes. She wondered if the King had once looked at him. It put her in mind of strange Ser Davos, who had remarked on how alike the Baratheon brothers looked. She hoped Renly didn't let himself grow fat and lazy like his kingly brother did. It would be a pity.

The signal fell and the two men careened down the yard toward each other. Lenna held her breath, her hands clenched on her thighs. Renly was no match for Sandor in size, but it wasn't that uncommon for a slighter man to win in a joust. It wasn't a melee. On the first pass, they both scored points and retained their seats. On the second, Sandor struck, but his lance didn't shatter and Renly didn't fall. It was on the third pass that he was able to strike Renly first, powerfully, the black and yellow lance splintering and the younger Baratheon sent violently over the back of his horse, his antlered helm fracturing from the force of it. Renly leaped to his feet, but quickly bent down to pick something off the ground. When Sandor took his turn, Renly proffered it to him, and it shone golden in the sunlight. Sandor took it, a long length of the helm's antlers, broken off from the violence of his opponent's fall.

To her consternation, the crowd booed. She knew that Renly was popular, but it made her blood boil. She made sure to rise to her feet applauding. When he passed, she smiled broadly at him, and even though she couldn't see his eyes for his visor, she knew he saw her.

That night at the banquet, Lenna was irritated to see him standing guard rather than enjoying the meal like the other competitors. She was seated with Myrcella, Sansa Stark to her right. The girl was next to Joffrey, and she tried to ignore her peals of delighted laughter. Joffrey was being particularly solicitous, though she knew it was because he'd been threatened within an inch of his life by his mother the day before. It had been decided. He would be betrothed to Sansa Stark, and he was instructed to start treating her with the care and respect she deserved as such.

Lenna was tired, not looking forward to another full day of contests. She did have a vested interest in the jousts, however, wanting very much to see if Sandor would continue as he had, rousting one opponent after another. She felt an irrational pride in the fact that she knew her handkerchief was tucked into his armor. Part of her wished he could carry it openly as some of the other knights did, wrapped around the grip of his lance or threaded through Stranger's bridle.

The melee was to take up the morning. She couldn't abide it. So much noise and chaos, and all of it happening so quickly she could barely follow who was winning and who wasn't. The king was loudly pledging to fight in it himself, growing drunker by the second.

"My love, would that be wise?" the queen protested. The king ignored her, continuing to boast about his past victories.

Again and again the queen protested, always in that maddeningly moderated tone of voice that she employed so well.

"No!" the king exploded, slamming down his wine. "You do not tell me what to do, woman! I am king here, do you understand? I rule here, and if I say that I will fight tomorrow, I will fight!"

He was red-faced in his anger, his jowls shaking beneath his beard in rage. The hall grew astonishingly silent, and Lenna felt uneasy. Without a word, the queen rose and walked gracefully out of the room. If Lenna wasn't so stunned, she might have admired her dignity.

Ser Jaime approached the king to calm him, but as soon as he got close enough, the king pushed him away, knocking him off balance and sending his own Kingsguard sprawling. She saw Jaime's teeth clench and his cheeks go red with rage as he was helped from the floor.

"I could still knock you in the dirt, Lannister," the king snarled. "If I had my warhammer, no one could stand before me."

"As you say, your grace," Jaime muttered, his fair face dark with fury.

The merriment after that felt a little forced, everyone exchanging knowing looks and nods over the rims of their cups. It had evidently embarrassed Joffrey as he turned to Sansa rather suddenly.

"It's getting rather late, don't you think, my lady?"

Sansa made some sound of acquiescence.

"Here, let us find you an escort back to your rooms. You must want to rest for tomorrow."

Sansa nodded, but the light had gone out of her face.

"I'll go with her, my prince," Lenna said, rising. "Come, Sansa."

"No, there are far too many strange knights about for me to send two ladies out alone. My Hound will see you back." He beckoned Sandor over. He approached slowly, as if wary.

Sansa looped her hand through Lenna's elbow, drawing her close enough to whisper.

"I am glad you are with me. I would be frightened to go with him alone."

Lenna weighed her response. "He may be fearsome to look at, child, but remember that outsides and insides are often in opposition. You will not find a more honest man in the Red Keep than Sandor Clegane. He would never harm you." There was so much she wanted to be able to tell her, so much she wanted to warn her about. She only hoped the girl didn't learn the hard way how deceiving appearances could be, but she imagined the end of that story would not be a happy one for Sansa Stark.

Sansa looked at her, then flicked her wide eyes up. Sandor looked down at her, his face carefully neutral.

She and Sansa talked quietly as they went back to her chambers in the Tower of the Hand. She hugged the girl briefly before she disappeared into her rooms, turning back to Sandor.

It was chilly, and she wrapped her arms around herself as they started the long walk back to the Holdfast. It would have been more efficient to see Lenna back first, but she wanted the time. From the troubled expression on his face, she wagered he did, too.

"The little bird will have a hard time here," he said lowly.

"Little bird?" she asked, a hint of laughter in her voice.

"She repeats the shit her septa tells her like a stupid little bird."

"Goodness, Sandor," Lenna breathed. "Do I have such a nickname, too? I shudder to think what you'd come up with for me."

"You don't need one," he replied, looking down. "Lenna is enough."

Something in her went still at the way he said her name. He said it so often, but it sounded awfully like an endearment when he let his tongue linger on its sounds.

"You rode well today," she said, the tension between them strong as spider-silk and just as delicate . "My favor brought luck, it seems."

"Not hard to unseat little knights," he replied.

"Still," she allowed. "You'll advance tomorrow. You need your rest if you're to win."

They'd reached her door, and when she turned she laid her hand on his elbow. He looked down on it, his jaw working and his brow knotted. He dug around in his hauberk and produced a pouch. For a terrible second, she thought he would try to give her favor back.

"Here," he said, producing the contents of the bag. It was the piece of Renly Baratheon's antler.

"What have I done to deserve your trophy?" she asked, taking it. The metal was warm in her hand from where it had laid against his chest. "It's worth a small fortune."

"It is mine to give," he said gruffly.

"Thank you," she replied, her heart beating strangely. "I'll treasure it. My first memento from my only champion."

He was looking at her severely. He stepped close to open her door, and she was always astonished at his height when they stood so near. He tilted his head forward and he opened his mouth like he was going to say something, his eyes then flicking to her lips. She'd bet the worth of that gold trinket that he was thinking to kiss her.

"Goodnight, my lady," he said roughly, pushing open her door suddenly and standing aside, pulling himself to his full height. She didn't miss the use of her title rather than her name, and she wondered why he was so suddenly detached.

"Goodnight, Sandor," she replied, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice, her eyes.

Sandor XXI

He'd watched the melee dispassionately, glad to be so far away from Thoros of fucking Myr's fucking flaming sword. He'd foolishly fought against the Red Priest three times in the past, and each time had gone craven in the face of that green blade. He wouldn't do it today, not in front of her.

He'd spent the morning feeling rather foolish about the night before. It was the first time they'd talked properly since the nasty business on the kingsroad. He had been less than pleased that Sansa Stark was with them, the little bird twittering behind her hand as he walked behind them. When Lenna's feet had turned toward the Tower of the Hand rather than her own room he'd felt a soft thrum of pleasure course through him. It wouldn't be long, but it was what he craved most.

He wasn't sure what had come over him standing in front of her door. The bloody antler had been worth a small fortune, but he'd wanted to give it to her, make some gesture like the poncey knights in her books did. He'd seen that before, a knight giving a lady the trophy of his victory in exchange for her favor. He wondered what she thought of it, though his cheeks burned that he should even attempt such courtly ways.

He went to the tents as soon the melee was over, shaking his head to clear it. He could not go muddy headed into the tilts. He fully intended to win. His armor needed to be tightened, having worked a bit loose over the course of the morning. The squire did as he was bid, rubbing an extra bit of polish on it. While he wasn't looking, Sandor refolded the bright blue handkerchief and replaced it near the center of his chest.

Its owner was seated in her customary place. She looked lovely in her dark blue gown, even if her hair was coiled in that complicated knot at the back of her head. It had been too long since he'd seen it down, and it figured prominently in his nighttime musings. He imagined removing the pins, one by one, until it fell about her so he could twist is about his hand like a skein of silk. He thought about it tickling across his chest, his thighs, pressed against his lips.

She had the most infuriating and intoxicating effect on him, from the her hair to her eyes to her mouth, the swell of hip and breast. He'd forgotten to inhale when those rosy lips formed around his name the night before, her lips rouged to a coral that made her look like she'd just been properly kissed, and so near he would have only needed to tip forward and he could redden them himself. He had been so close to kissing her, and he was ashamed he hadn't worked up the gumption. She had lifted her face to his in such a way that he was fairly certain she'd have welcomed it, strange and ridiculous as the very thought was.

And then there was her favor laying against his chest, given with no provocation, just handed it to him with a smile and blush. He thought he might have gone on his knees there and then, like one of her cunt knights. He certainly wanted to. But he didn't, taking the little scrap with some off-hand comment, but feeling his heart thunder in his chest as he slid it under his armor. He could feel it, almost like her hand was pressing into his breast where it lay.

The sound of a lance shattering brought him back to his surroundings. He tried to banish any thought of her. He needed a clear head to compete today. He loved a tourney, even if he had to stop short of killing. State sanctioned violence? He'd take it. Especially given the insurmountable frustration he was currently experiencing when it came to his relationship with Lenna Manderly. Anything to cut the tension. He didn't even mind that there would be many who cheered against him. Their disdain almost made him fight better. He felt, though, that there was something else riding on this day. It wasn't the promise of forty thousand gold dragons or the adulation of the crowd. He didn't need that much money, though it would buy a great deal of Dornish sour, and he certainly didn't give two shits about what people thought of him. Most people. Everyone, really, except for the woman with the near-black hair and eyes like moss.

The stands of onlookers applauded and cheered and booed and hissed with alarming volume. A great sea of undulating emotion, ebbing and flowing in reaction to knights charging and clashing and falling. He watched her as she sat idly, occasionally leaning in to say something to the princess or Ser Jaime when he wasn't preparing. She didn't notice when he slipped out of the stands to prepare for his first tilt, but he saw her stand when he guided Stranger toward the tiltyard. He was too far away to see her face before he shut his helm, but he looked for her before he did so. She was just a blur of green as he turned his face toward his opponent.

The thrill of his early victories was lessened when his brother took the field. He rode a mount as massive as his own Stranger, but Sandor was most definitely the runt of the Clegane litter. At seven feet tall, Gregor was monstrous. Truly, a mountain that rode. He watched in sober attention as he defeated half a dozen adversaries with all the effort it might take to swat an errant fly or squish a flea.

Unbelievably, the semi-final was down to the Clegane brothers, Loras Tyrell and Jaime Lannister. Sandor and Jaime faced off, and Sandor briefly considered throwing the match in the Lannister's favor. He decided not to. His reasons were twofold: He'd known Jaime since he was a boy, and he knew the Kingslayer would hold it against him. He also wanted to prove to Lenna Manderly that he was the better fighter. He didn't like the way Jaime flirted with her, and he didn't like that she enjoyed it. So, with much the same proficiency he showed in his previous tilts, he neatly defeated Ser Jaime, sending him out of his seat and sprawling through the dirt much as he had been on the banquet hall floor the night before.

Then it was his brother and Loras Tyrell. The young Knight of the Flowers, looking like he'd stepped straight out of a storybook, did the impossible. Sandor hated the sight of him since he'd handed Lenna his tourney wreath on Joffrey's nameday, but even Sandor had to bite back the yelp of triumph when his monster of a brother was unseated and knocked from his horse. There was speculation that Tyrell's animal was in heat, had distracted Gregor Clegane's mount, but nobody cared. For as little as the crowd loved Sandor, they loved his brother less.

They were all distracted by the young victor until his brother cleaved his horse's head from its body, leaving it spouting a fountain of blood as he charged Loras Tyrell.

Sandor didn't even think.

"Leave him be!"

He leapt over the railings, relishing the metallic clash of his blade against his brother's. Perhaps today will be the day, he thought wildly. It went quickly, the thrusts and the parries, the grunts and the curses, but the King put a stop to it. When he took a knee, his sword's point in the dirt, he felt his brother's blade pass so near that it stirred his hair about his face.

Gregor stalked off, and he stood, still breathing hard, so exhilarated he almost smiled.

He found her at once, deathly pale, her skin and hair in such stark contrast that she looked like a doomed heroine out of one of her fairy stories. Her face was livid, her eyes wide and terrified.

His feeling of triumph wavered. He'd wanted her cheering for him, smiling at him. But there she sat with an expression of total horror, her eyes burning into his. He knew what he must look like, his chest heaving, shoulders thrown back, the thrill of fighting still fresh in his tendons. He was a brute. He hardly registered Loras ceding the tourney to him in thanks, but looked away from Lenna when the boy called him Ser and grabbed his hand, raising it in his in victory.

"I'm no Ser," he grumbled, feeling the fact keenly in a way that had never bothered him before. The crowds were cheering. For him. He was torn between enjoying it, as it had never before happened as wasn't likely to happen again, and being intensely disappointed to have lost sight of Lenna, who seemed to have disappeared.

Sandor scowled and stalked toward the tents at the earliest opportunity, uncomfortable with the sustained attention of so many people. He couldn't get the image of Lenna's terrified eyes out of his mind. His humor was black and getting darker as he made his way back, pulling his gloves off, cursing her for tarnishing the win of forty thousand gold dragons. Then he spotted her unexpectedly, standing a bit away from the tent camp beneath the fall of a willow, her forehead pressed against the trunk of the tree. His hands curled into fists at his sides and he kept walking, unable to stomach the thought of her disgust up close.

"Sandor," it was a quiet, tremulous cry, but it achieved its purpose. She sounded almost relieved, and he stopped against his will and turned. She was so pale. With a growl he allowed his feet to carry him toward her, but he refused to look at her.

"You are well? Uninjured?" The tremble in her voice pulled his gaze to her face. Her eyes were wet with tears, and she was shaking from head to toe.

"Aye," he replied gruffly. "As you see."

"Thank the Seven," she whispered, crossing her arms and hugging herself tightly. She blinked and he was astonished to see two fat tears roll down her cheeks.

"He could have killed you. You could have died," she whispered, her voice, a tiny sound, breaking on the last word. She swiped quickly at the tears, swallowing hard.

"I'd have killed him first." His voice was steely and flat.

"He almost took off your head," she protested, reaching out and grasping his elbow.

"But he didn't." Sandor looked down at her hand on his arm in confusion. He'd just won the bloody tourney. He'd have expected congratulations, but not whatever this was.

He was the tourney champion. He was standing in front of her in one piece. He saw something that might have been relief course across her face. She stood up a little straighter but continued to tremble. She was staring at him with an intensity he didn't understand. She wasn't angry, she wasn't afraid, but he could still see her shaking. He took it for disappointment, perhaps even well-concealed disgust. She'd never seen him fight before, not a real fight, and a small voice inside him wondered if she wasn't thinking again of the boy and the night in the stable. It made him inexplicably angry. Hurt. He broke his gaze to shove his hand between his breastplate and hauberk, grabbing for her handkerchief. The bright linen was rumpled, damp with his sweat, the white embroidery soiled.

"Here," he said roughly, holding it out to her.

Her expression changed to confusion and then to hurt. The word was harsh, and he spat it out like bile. She made no move to take it from him, her eyes now a brighter green. He didn't understand her wounded eyes, but he was getting frantic, desperate to get away. He grabbed her hand in exasperation and shoved the cloth into it coarsely.

He turned to leave, to stalk away, but her other hand caught his forearm, her face stricken again, eyes pleading.

"Sandor," she started, words failing. Her throat was working and he realized she was trying not to cry. "I don't want it back." She held it out to him in a trembling fist, her face raised to his with a strained expression, the skin pulled tight across her temples and cheekbones as she clenched her jaw.

He stared back, watching the tears well in her eyes again, a trickle of understanding overtaking him. Her pallor was due to fright. For you, not of you, fool.

She continued to hold it back out to him and he stood there dumbly. Her little fingers were wrapped tight around his sleeve, and he could feel their tremors. His eyes went from them to her other hand holding out that ridiculous handkerchief, unable to act.

"Sandor," she said softly. He still didn't move, his eyes fixating on her white hand proffering the blue linen. She took his hand in hers slowly, as if unsure of what he would do, and turned it palm upward, putting the little scrap of linen back in his palm.

He couldn't help himself and he looked at her face. He felt helpless. He stood mutely, watching in fascination as color crept back into her cheeks, her lips, intensely aware of the warmth of her hand on his. He wanted to turn his own and grasp hers, knowing how little it would feel in his. He wanted to feel the pressure of her fingers against his, to stand under this willow like the knights in her infernal story books did with their ladies. But he wasn't a knight. He wasn't honorable, or good, or handsome. He was quite the opposite. They were some perverted version of the romances, he thought darkly. She an innocent lady, and he the scurrilous brute who wanted her.

Who loves her.

He was afraid that if he even exhaled the wrong way she would fly from him. But she didn't. He gently closed his fingers around the little hand still laying atop his and pressed it. His breathing had become shallower, and his attention was dedicated solely to the feeling of her hand in his and the gravity in her eyes. It would be the easiest thing in the world to just bend toward her, he thought. He wondered what she would do if he tried, his eyes flicking to her mouth for a moment.

Her lips were slightly parted, and he could see the dampness on the inside of her bottom lip. He ached to taste it. She licked her lips to wet them, and he nearly came undone.

"You would do me honor to keep it," she said quietly, her voice shaky. It broke whatever spell had been wrought between them, and his eyes returned to hers. "I'm proud that you carried my favor to such a victory."

She moved toward him hesitantly, and bit her lip lightly as if deep in thought. His head was a muddle of want and confusion, and he didn't understand what she was doing. He had just been wondering what those lips would feel like, how soft they might be against his, when she raised them toward him. She rose on her tiptoes, resting a hand against his opposite shoulder, snaking it around his neck. The other stayed in his. He stood frozen in shock, only recognizing what was happening when he felt the press of her mouth, warm and dry, on the very corner of his mouth, almost entirely on his cheek. The touch of her lips was uncertain and light, but it felt like a cataclysm rocking through him from crown to foot. He simply stopped breathing. The spot where her lips had touched his felt like it had been branded.

He was no longer capable of thought, or control, and he turned his head just a few inches, his mouth hovering over hers, their breaths mixing in a warm cloud between them. She was just a whisper away. He was breathing heavily now, the exertion from keeping himself away from her taxing him, his eyes riveted on hers even as every last inch of him was screaming out for her. It would take the slightest inclination of his head and he would be kissing her, if only he could muster the courage to do it.

To his shock, she did it for him. In a fraction of an instant, she pushed up on her toes and her mouth took his. He thought his heart had stopped, his eyes widening before slamming shut as he leaned into her. Those much thought-of lips were soft and ripe and sweet beneath his, just as he had always imagined they would be, but they were also fire, burning a searing, shaking path through him. The heat pooled thickly in his belly, his loins. It only took him an instant to take full advantage of her courage. Before he was quite sure what he was doing, he had wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her tight against him. One hand splayed possessively across the small of her back, seeking the curve of her waist and hip, fingers digging in slightly as he clutched her to him, wanting to touch all of her at once. Her free hand travelled up his still-sweaty neck, and she exhaled a breath into his mouth as her fingers buried themselves in his hair.

He couldn't subdue the groan that was torn from his chest, from his gut and groin, and in answer she made a sweet, soft sound in the back of her throat that compelled him to walk her firmly back until she rested against the smooth trunk of the tree, determined to hear it again. Her handkerchief dropped forgotten as his hand slid along her face, savoring the smoothness of her cheek beneath the calloused skin of his palm, sliding his fingers into the mass of her hair, not caring when it fell from its pins. It was warm as silk around his fingers, just as he had always thought it would be, heavy and smooth.

Her lips parted beneath his, and he thought he might die on the spot when her tongue hesitantly flicked at his lips. It was all he could do not to crush himself against her, frustrated with the barrier of his armor. More than anything, he wanted to feel her softness against him, as he had so many times in the quiet of the library, on that bloody ship to White Harbor. This time, he wanted to feel her breasts heaving against him, her hips tilted toward him. There was nothing innocent or childlike about what they were doing, and he wanted to feel her, all of her, to make sure this was actually happening and not just some delusion his degenerate brain had concocted.

She was so eager it made him dizzy, the blood rushing down from his head in a southerly direction as her lips moved tentatively under his. Fuck, but she was inquisitive, her hands in his hair and finding any other part of his skin she could. She flicked the tip of her tongue against his lips again and he growled, each little experiment on her part making him hungrier and hungrier, desperate to keep her lips beneath his.

He opened his eyes to watch her face only to find her looking back at him, measuring his response just as he wished to measure hers. The moment they looked at one another was just long enough for them to both realize what they were doing. They parted quickly, but he didn't move his hands, one buried in her hair as it tumbled down from its pins, the other ranging her side in firm circles. Her own arms were still twined around his neck, and Lenna lowered her eyes, a deep flush spreading across her cheeks, her lips bruised and parted. She'd never been lovelier. You did that, you made her look like that, he thought lustfully. He drank in every last detail, the shadow of her eyelashes on her cheek, the flutter of her pulse against his thumb where it absently stroked her throat, the dark, curling lock of hair that had fallen down to lay on her breast. He relaxed his hold on her, but he didn't pull away, waiting in agony to see what she would do, what she would say.

"I must return before I'm missed," she whispered roughly, looking up at him from under her lashes, pulling away from him slowly. Her eyes were shining and he wondered at the expression on her face, half shyness and half awe, her eyes almost black. He figured he looked about the same.

He nodded, still not able to look away from her or to speak, his mouth burning and his breathing labored.

She smiled uncertainly, bashfully, then squeezed his hand and released it. He let it go with resignation, watching as she retreated with a longing in his veins that was more powerful than anything he had ever felt before. He turned, wiping a hand across his face, touching his mouth with his fingertips in disbelief.

She only made it a handful of steps before he heard her turn back to him. He met her halfway, reaching out and bringing her flush against him, his hands on her hips, his mouth finding hers again. There was nothing tentative in this kiss, it was hard and bruising. Eight years, he thought, I've waited eight fucking years. His hands cradled her face, fingertips running across her cheekbones, down the line over her throat, over her shoulders. She tried to pull back, but he held her to him as he kissed her more deeply, a thrill of energy coursing deeply through him when she parted his lips for him, her tongue drawing shyly against his in a way that made him exhale sharply, and she moaned deep in her throat. Gods, that's the sweetest sound. He softened his onslaught, surprised when she laughed into his mouth, and he swallowed the joyful sound greedily, until finally she put both palms flat against his tabard and gently pushed him away.

He kept his eyes closed, wary of her anger or her shame, afraid of facing the reality of what they'd done. No going back, not after that.

"Sandor," she said softly, and he made himself open his eyes. His stomach fell into his boots to see her smiling up at him, her mouth swollen and eyes still bright. Her hand came up and traced his cheek, another tingle of heat flaring in him as he leaned into it. "I'll see you at the banquet."

She rose on her tiptoes to plant one last chaste kiss on his mouth, and then she walked quickly away, her hands busy trying to repair the damage he'd done to her hair. The sight of her so disheveled made his groin throb.

He watched her go with a strange, ebullient sensation in his chest. Joy. It wasn't something he felt very often, and he almost didn't recognize it, but he could still feel the press of her mouth, the pressure of her fingers, and an odd effervescence was bubbling through his chest. He could feel himself smiling, not a smirk but a fucking grin. He spotted her handkerchief and picked it up. He stood beneath the tree for a time, that little scrap of linen clenched in his hand as he pressed his forehead to the bark of the willow, waiting for his breathing to slow and the grin to subside. It took him long minutes to pull himself together, until at last, after long deliberation, he settled her handkerchief once again against his chest, this time on the left.

A/N: Are y'all as relieved as I am? Oy. Hope that carrot was a good enough reward!

Please review! Every time I get a notification, it's like a little mini-Christmas morning. I love hearing what you have to say, and I can't tell you just how much y'all have influenced this piece so far. You leave the very best, most detailed and thoughtful comments a girl could as for. Keep 'em coming, and I'll do my best to do the same.

I will be slowing down a smidge. I was careening to get them to this place, but I just can't chug out 5k-8k words every three days! Goal is once a week! Hope that suits!