Lenna XXIV

It happened so quickly. One moment the crowd was cheering for Ser Loras, the they were screaming in horror.

The Mountain had taken his longsword and cleaved his horse's head clean off, a tremendous geyser of blood spewing from the poor creature's neck, pooling thickly on the tourney grounds. The crowd was transfixed by this hideous sight and didn't even see the Mountain advance on young Loras with his bloodied broadsword until a harsh voice bellowed over the din of the crowd.

"Leave him be!"

She swivelled in her seat, just fast enough to see Sandor charge down from the royal platform and neatly leap over the railing. He was nimble for a man his size, and once his boots hit the dirt his own great longsword was unsheathed and ready. The two brothers began a slow orbit, shoulders hunched and teeth bared like dogs in a fighting pit.

Despite Sandor's impressive size, his brother was easily six inches taller and ten stone heavier. She didn't catch who moved first. Steel met steel with an awful, scraping clash. The tourney ground had become absolutely silent save for the clang of swords and the grunts of effort from the two men. Time seemed to move more slowly as they parried, thrust, and hacked, but none of the Mountain's attempts landed true. Sandor had nicked his brother in the arm, which further enraged him, the blows growing swifter, more erratic.

"Enough!" road the King. The effect was instantaneous. Sandor took a knee, the point of his sword buried in the dirt, head bowed. The timing was crucial. The Mountain's blade missed him by an inch, the force of the swing stirring his long hair around his face as it passed just over the crown of his head. Lenna pressed a hand over her mouth to prevent the shriek that threatened to escape her throat.

Sandor stood and sheathed his sword, catching her eye. His eyes found hers and held them like flames, tension through his neck, his color high, but with an unmistakable glint of triumph. He was alive with it.

Ser Loras Tyrell, who was to have tilted against him in the final, ceded the tournament right there on the ground.

"I owe you my life, ser," he said, his handsome face still pale with terror.

"I'm no ser," Sandor ground out as the boy seized his wrist and held it aloft. The crowd cheered for Sandor Clegane, but Lenna found her throat stopped, unable to make a sound, arrested by his steady gaze and the expression of hurt and confusion on his face.

Lenna fled as soon as he looked away from her, feeling like someone had cut her free from irons. She was almost certain she was going to be sick. She made it off the stand and walked toward the tents as quickly as she could, her hands clenched by her sides and her legs trembling. There was a buzzing in her ears when she stopped at the base of a willow tree near where the men prepared. She pressed her forehead against the bark, clinging to the feeling of the rough surface against her skin as she took deep, shuddering gulps of air. Her mind continued to race, and she saw the Mountain's sword pass over Sandor's head by just the space of a breath over and over again. She was seized with visions of what could have happened if his swipe had struck true, the idea that Sandor could have been killed causing her stomach to knot in painful nausea.

It was the first time Lenna had seen him actually fight, and it frightened her. For years she had discounted his enormous size, the powerful set of his shoulders and the sword that always hung on his hip. She'd heard him say that killing was the sweetest thing, but she had thought he was being grandiose or trying to scare her. Watching him as he slung that blade through the air with fervor, she'd believed him. There wasn't a second of it he didn't enjoy, even with the stakes as high as they were, and the thought made her shake. Long acquaintance had made her forget that first and foremost, Sandor Clegane was a contract killer, though he made no attempt at pretending otherwise. His sole duty was to physically protect the royal family, by whatever means necessary. He had killed a boy, no more than ten years old, and while he raged over it, he had done it all the same.

While she knew this, she was also certain that he would never harm her, and not just because he'd sworn an oath. No, she wasn't trembling because she was afraid of him, but because she was afraid for him. She had been frozen with fear that he would come to harm. He was clearly matched by his brother, and potentially at the disadvantage. There was bloodlust in the Mountain's face as he looked at his little brother, and Lenna couldn't help but feel this confrontation was a long time in coming, almost predestined. Every swing of the Mountain's sword made her gasp, and she'd watched raptly though for far different reasons than the rest of the crowd. She felt as though her heart had climbed into her throat and sat there stuttering: beating with relief when Sandor blocked or landed a blow, stopping again in terror when he stumbled. She found it difficult to get a breath, taking in air with little hitching gasps that made her feel light-headed.

When the king finally put an end to it she thought she might fall to her knees in relief. She went completely still despite the seething mass of spectators all around her, her hand still clamped over her mouth. Her chest had collapsed once her mind registered that the danger had passed, but she found it almost impossible to refill her lungs. In a haze, she realized she was sobbing though no tears dropped from her eyes.

Now they came like a fountain, pouring down her cheeks and dripping off her nose as her breath came in little sobbing hitches. She tried to be quiet, pressing her hand so hard against her mouth that her fingers turned white. She stood there for what felt like an eternity, forcing herself to listen to the whisper of the tree's long, wispy branches in the wind. It was a soothing sound, and it lulled her into calm.

Then there came a harsh clomping of boots and she looked up to see him plodding back toward the pavillions. He had taken off his gauntlets and held them in one hand, and his helm must still be back in the royal box.

She had never been more glad to see anyone in her life.

"Sandor!" she cried, and she was ashamed that it sounded so weak in her own ears. He stopped abruptly, turning to her with the darkest scowl she'd ever seen on his face.

He seemed so angry, his face hard when he finally looked at her. She couldn't fathom what she had done wrong to inspire that amount of rage.

"You are well? Uninjured?" She scanned him from top to bottom, but there wasn't a mark on him. He was sweating and still breathing hard, but he was unhurt.

"Aye, as you see."

"Thank the Seven," she replied, hugging herself. She suddenly felt violently cold, relief flooding her and setting her nerves to shaking. She felt small, like a child, fear still bubbling quick in her stomach. "He could have killed you. You could have died."

It was her worst fear. Worse than never going home again was the thought of Sandor Clegane bleeding and dying in front of her eyes. She couldn't keep the tears at bay, wiping at them hastily when they escaped. She knew he didn't care for tears, as many of hers as he'd comforted.

"I'd have killed him first."

She wanted to believe it. "He almost took off your head." Even with her eyes open, she could still see the blade of his brother's sword pass over the crown of his head, the force of the swing sending his hair to fluttering gently, as if in a summer breeze. It was the eeriest thing to see.

"But he didn't."

Practical, realistic Sandor. He was right. Gregor Clegane had not cleaved his head from his shoulders, and he was standing before her a tourney champion. She felt the crash of remorse overtake the panic, seeing hurt in his face. He thinks you're disgusted by him, she thought with sudden clarity.

He reached into his armor and produced her handkerchief.

"Here," he said, holding it out to her. Lenna fought the urge to cry in earnest. She was making a muck of things if he thought she wanted her favor back. She didn't. She wanted him to carry it, this little piece of her, always. She shook her head, but he was already reaching for her hand and shoving the fabric into it. It was damp with sweat, the embroidery soiled from where it had ridden against him the past two days. Without another look or word, he turned to stalk away.

"Sandor," she cried, his name ripped from her. She still looked down at the fabric in her hand. "I don't want it back."

She held it back out to him, but he didn't move to take it. She took a deep breath and approached him like she would a snarling dog, like he might strike out. He didn't resist when she took his hand, pressing it back into his palm where it belonged. He looked at her with a ferocity she couldn't interpret.

"You would do me honor to keep it," she said, a poor imitation of the ladies in the romances. She didn't feel like one of them, she felt wretched and raw. Had they almost vomited from worry that their lovers would come to harm, too? Did they have visions of their knights' bodies laid out on a tourney ground, their blood a scarlet puddle beneath them? "I'm proud that you carried my favor to such a victory."

He didn't move or speak. He wouldn't, and she knew that it wasn't something he could do. For all he spat on honor, he wouldn't ever move to her first. He'd proven that time and time again. She would have to do it, just as she had before, and now was better than never. After all, the ladies in the romances always gave their knights a boon when they were victorious. A trinket, or a love-note. Or a kiss.

With more courage than she felt, she raised on tiptoes and tentatively pressed her mouth to his cheek, just grazing the corner of his mouth. The warmth of him comforted her, proving that he was still alive, still standing in front of her. He remained stiff, but then he tilted his head just slightly. She could feel the warmth of his exhalations against her lips and cheeks, forceful little gusts keeping rhythm with the beating of his heart. Their mouths were so close together all she would have to do was tip her chin upward. Closing her eyes, she did, consequences be damned.

She had no idea that it would be like that. No idea that she would be able to feel it all the way down in the darkest parts of her. If she had known, she would have done it sooner, and not waited eight bloody years. He wrapped his arm around her like iron, pressed her against the rough bark of the tree, his hands demanding on her back and in her hair. He pressed his palm along her side, brushing the underside of her breast and making her heart stutter. No one had ever touched her that way before, and it made her weak, her legs shaking so violently she was grateful to him for how he was crushing her, annoyed that she was pressed against his armor and not his body.

He groaned and growled, and the sounds made something feral in her wake, her hips pushing up against him in search of she knew not what. She'd opened her eyes to look at him, the intense expression on his face not at all unlike the one he'd worn earlier in the heat of his battle with his brother. He was ferocious and fierce and gods, she didn't have words for what she wanted from him.

She knew what women did with men, she was no innocent child. She'd only ever heard it discussed as some sort of unpleasant duty, but if it felt anything like his kiss did she wouldn't have objected if he'd done it right there against that tree. From the expression on his face, he wanted to. Badly. While there was an immense amount of fervor in his actions, there was also an incredible amount of control. She felt it in the tension of his arms, the deliberate nature of his touch. He was holding himself in check even as he ravaged her mouth.

She didn't want to pull away from him, but she knew she had to. After wanting it, wanting him, for so long, the last thing she wanted was to leave, to go pretend that something monumental hadn't just happened between them. She tried to leave, but she faltered, and in her giddiness, she went straight back into his arms, gratified when he grabbed her by the hips and pinned her against him without any hesitation, his lips seeking hers. It had not been chaste or gentle, and she loved it.

She loved him.

He had looked just as dazed as she felt, a spot of color in his cheek, his eyes full of something she'd never seen before, akin to wonder or awe. Worship and lust. Again she ripped herself away, afraid someone might be sent looking for her. It had taken all of her mettle to press one last kiss against that scarred mouth and walk away, assuring herself it wouldn't be the last.

She stumbled back toward the crowd, her legs quivering, barely able to carry her as she tried to repair the damage done to her hair. She was sure she had lost a few pins, but by the time she made it back to the box, she was sure she was presentable.

She walked back hurriedly after seeing Myrcella tucked into the queen's litter. As soon as she reached the keep, she went in search of a maid to have her hair repaired, now noticing that the ribbon had worked itself out under his hands and was trailing down her neck. While she was aware that no one could possibly know what had put the flush in her cheek, what had mussed her hair, she felt absolutely brazen, like everyone would know what she had been doing with Sandor Clegane under that tree.

Now she looked at herself in the mirror and wondered if she was insane. She had put on the red dress, and the maid was in the process of winding the crimson ribbon into her braid. As the girl worked, Lenna dabbed on cream, rouge, even hesitantly swiping on a smudge of kohl. Her eyes were bright, and she felt like she had a new self-awareness, like her skin was suddenly sentient and alert.

She made her way to the queen's chambers in search of the princess. She assumed that she would be seated with Myrcella at the feast again. She hoped she'd be able to see him easily. It made her smile with pleasure to know that, as tourney champion, he would be seated with the rest of revelers instead of being forced to guard. She imagined him in his jerkin and tunic, plain by appropriate, sitting at the long table of competitors as they feasted and toasted. He'd probably hate it.

But they didn't go to the feast. Cersei was in the foulest temper Lenna had ever seen, prowling around her chambers like a caged lion. Jaime Lannister had thrown himself across a chair, a goblet dangling from his own hand, but he was taciturn, his face stormy. Cersei tossed back more goblets of Arbor sweetwine than Lenna could keep track of, all the while darling little Myrcella and Tommen just sat and picked at the dinner that had been put in front of them.

"I want to go to the banquet," the princess pouted, pushing her food around on her plate.

"Sweetling, you were up far too late last night. It wouldn't do to stay up so long again. Eat your dinner," Cersei said with ill-disguised rancor.

"But I wanted to see Sandor-" The child had the good sense to be quiet as soon as she saw her mother's face.

Lenna sat quietly, her hands in her lap. She wanted to see Sandor, too. It took all of her resolve not to ask to be excused. She knew to do so would be a mistake, especially with Cersei in such a humor. She wondered if the queen had lost another tidy sum on the tourney, if that was the source of her anger. It must have been a great deal of money judging by her behavior. The room was disturbingly quiet, the only sound that of Cersei's roving feet.

"Lady Helenna," she said at last, stopping by the window. "Will you not give us a song?"

Lenna was startled. Of all the times she'd be expected to sing, this was not one of them

"What would you have, your grace?'

"I believe I'd like to hear Castamere," she said lowly, slowly pivoting and looking pointedly at her twin.

Lenna cleared her throat and did as she was bid.

Myrcella and Tommen were taken to bed shortly after, and Lenna rose to go after them only for Cersei to stop her.

"Take a glass with us, Lady Helenna," Cersei said, pouring a measure of wine into a goblet. Jaime looked at her with a flicker of apology in his eyes, his face still dark as a thundercloud. She took the glass and sipped slowly, the first of too many, consumed in a tense silence. She did not understand why she should have to endure it.

When she finally was given leave to go to bed it was well past midnight. The Keep was absolutely still, but Lenna had a mad hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd have gone to the library, knowing it was her haunt. When she slipped through the doors, her heart leaped to her throat to see lamplight glowing from the back of the room.

She nearly ran, wheeling around the corner to see the lamp sitting on the table, but no Sandor in sight. In the dim glow, she could make out an object, and the sight of it made her heart feel like it was fighting to escape the cage of her ribs and take flight.

A wreath of red roses, the victor's crown.

Sandor XXIV

She didn't come to the feast. As soon as he noted the queen's absence, as well as that of Myrcella and Tommen, he knew why. Cersei kept her close to Myrcella, and if the princess didn't come, neither would she. It did not blunt the stab of disappointment. He'd taken care with his appearance, donning the best set of clothes he had. He'd even washed his hair, spending most of the interim between the tourney and the banquet mooning around the barracks. No matter what he did, he could think of nothing but kissing her. It consumed every inhalation.

He even went to the library after, that crown of roses in his hands. So little to offer, but he knew that it would speak for him far more eloquently than anything he could say. He didn't have a way with words, and he shuddered at the thought of trying to tell her, of trying to talk to her.

And she hadn't been there, nor had she come in the hour he waited. He'd left it there sadly, letting the lamp burn down, just in case, and returned to his room, forty thousand dragons richer but lower in spirits than he had been in quite some time.

He was prone to melancholy and anger, but that day had vacillated violent between despondence and elation. From the glorious rush of crossing swords with his brother to the sweet sounds from her throat while his mouth was on hers, he couldn't recall a better day in his entire life, only for it to be tarnished by her absence at dinner, the loss of a chance for them to speak.

What would you say? Nothing. He knew that he'd be able to say nothing. He wasn't a Lannister with their pretty speeches and soft, sibilant voices. But he could show her. He'd thought about it all afternoon, what it might be like to wrap his arms around her without his bloody armor, to hold her against him and use what skills he had to show her how she made him feel, had always made him feel.

He'd thought about that quite a lot since the business with the butcher's boy. There'd been something between them from the moment she smiled at him in the queen's solar, a maid of fifteen. He'd been harder then, twenty and full of spleen and violence. Not so far apart in age, really, but so very different. The contrast wasn't lost on him, and he had no idea how a woman like that could ever have grown to care for the likes of him, but he knew she had. Perhaps she'd come to it slower than he had, but she had all the same. It made him a little bit proud to think that'd he'd loved her first, that he'd loved her longest. By the time she was seventeen he'd been long gone with love. It had started before he knew what to call it. He'd always thought of it as simple lust, but he was deep in the middle of something else before he was completely aware that he'd begun. She was a pretty young woman, and he was a young man with more than his share of urges. Urges that he'd habitually sated in the brothels of Flea Bottom, or with tavern wenches in dark alleys for a few pieces of coin. Rutting. Painless and without responsibility. He had never been a lover, wasn't accustomed to giving or receiving soft touches and gentle words. But with her, the urges came with a heftier price than gold. They cost him his piece of mind, longing slicing through him at every turn, with every word and glance. Such pain amid the pleasure, and he relished it. He should have known that since it hurt, it was something much more serious than mere lust.

He didn't drink that night, at least not much. Four or five tankards, not even enough to make him pleasantly tipsy. By the time he'd gone back to his bunk, he was fully sober, falling into bed in a mass of disappointed hope, not even bothering to shuck off his tunic and trousers. Feeling like a lovesick squire, he seized the handkerchief from his table and thrust it under his pillow, not a bit ashamed to fall asleep with a finger on her embroidery. It was his to do with as he wished, damn it.

The next morning, he rose at the regular time, a squire coming to fasten his armor. He wished he had a glass, but he'd long ago thrown it away. He knew what he looked like, he didn't need a mirror to remind him. Before he left his room, he retrieved the handkerchief and refolded it, tucking it back into his armor on the left side. He might have felt foolish if it didn't make him feel powerful. But it did, knowing that her favor, a token of whatever care she felt for him, was resting on his chest was enough to make him stand a little straighter. It was his, and hers. Theirs.

She was seated on the floor of Cersei's solar when he came in, flanked on either side by the princess and the elder Stark girl. She looked up, and he forced himself to meet her eye. Cersei wasn't paying attention to them, but he didn't smile back when she beamed at him briefly, a flush of pink splashing across her cheeks like a dawn breaking. He hoped she knew him well enough to see how pleased he was to see her.

"Oh, Hound," Cersei said, glancing in his direction. "Congratulations are in order, I believe."

Her tone was icy and he wondered if he hadn't made a mistake by throwing Ser Jaime.

"Thank you, your grace."

"Quite a heroic showing, especially the end. You've received your prize?"

"Yes, your grace," he replied, thinking of the chest full of money locked in his room. He had no idea what to do with it.

"Prince Joffrey wishes to bestow another on you," she said softly. "He was so impressed that he quite begged me for you."

"Your grace?" His hackles rose at the insinuation that he was a thing to be granted at the prince's request.

"He's growing, and in need of a personal guard. He has requested you for the office."

Sandor felt his pleasure flee. He forced himself not to look at Lenna, instead looking back at the queen and nodding his head.

"Yes, your grace," he replied, his chest cracking. With that, their mornings were over. No more standing in the shadows and watching her with the princess, no more shared glances over the child's head. Just like that.

"He's with his father in the yards. You may go."

He bowed again, balling his hands into fists, feeling his shoulder creep up toward his ears as he wheeled around and walked out of the solar, keenly aware of her eyes on his back as he went.

The boy was a cunt. It was a frustrating morning for more reasons than he could count. When midday finally came he was dismissed, and instead of finding his way to the mess, his feet turned him toward the Sept. He had to see her.

It had been weeks, if not months, since he'd stepped foot inside. There had been no opportunity, so much of their time dedicated to preparing for the damn tourney once they'd returned from their travels. He hadn't watched her as she lighted her candles for some time. The prospect made him feel calmer, some of the tension releasing from his shoulders. It would give him time to rally his courage, to think on what he might say.

Now, as he took in the arrangements of tapers around the Sept, he was confused. In the past there had always been two, one for the royal family and one for House Manderly. How many times had he heard her repeat those prayers? If he'd believed in the gods, he would surely have thought no harm could ever befall them based solely on the faithfulness of her prayers.

But now there were three.

She was lighting the final trio at the feet of the Mother, dressed in sober blue with his red ribbon in her hair. He fought the urge to come up behind her and place his lips against the white curve where her shoulder met her neck.

"Gentle Mother, watch over the royal family, especially the children who are so dear to you. Keep House Manderly in your grace, and may we continue to serve the Faith as our forebears have. And look with kindness on Sandor Clegane, and continue keep him safe from every harm. All my thanks for keeping him safe during the tourney and bringing him to victory."

A sudden lump rose like a stone in his throat as he glance around, noting the clusters of three at the foot of every statue, the Stranger included. He wondered at it, remembering that night in the stables when she had said she'd pray for him. He'd taken it as an empty offer, so many people said it, but he should have known better. Lenna Manderly did what she said she was going to do. If she said she'd pray for him, then she would.

It wasn't the prayers that mattered to him. He thought prayers were worth fuckall. Words that died like wind, heard by nothing but the air. No, it wasn't the prayers that moved him. It was the sight of Lenna Manderly on her knees in supplication on his behalf that made his chest tighten and his breath come faster.

"Lenna," he said, clearing his throat. He watched as her spine stiffened and her shoulders went back. With deliberate grace she rose to her feet and turned to face him. Her little hands were loosely hanging by her sides, but he saw her surreptitiously wipe them against her skirts.

Seven hells, she's nervous, he thought wildly, taking in the flushed cheek and the downcast eyes.

"Can we...can we talk?" he asked lamely. She nodded, flicking her eyes up at him through her lashes as she passed. She didn't mean it to be flirtatious, but he could have seized her right then and there in the sight of the Seven.

He followed as she led him into one of the alcoves, near the one they'd met in years before. Perhaps it was the same one, he didn't know. He just knew he wanted to kiss her, just like he had then. It was the only thing he could think of, all other thought had fled.

She had brought her hands together, wringing them slightly as she continued to look at the floor, at her feet, at his chest. Look at me, he thought desperately.

"I'm sorry I was not at the banquet, the queen-" Her speech was rushed, like she was afraid he wouldn't believe her, that furrow appearing between her brows. He wanted to kiss it, just as he always did, and he wondered what she might do if he did.

"I figured that out," he replied, putting his hand on her elbow, running it down her forearm until her hand was in his. She blushed deeply, her fingers curling in his, and his blood rose. Of its own volition, his other hand rose to her shoulder, then her neck, until he was cradling her jaw and tipping her face up so he could see her. She smiled uncertainly up at him.

"I didn't want you to think I...thank you for the roses." If she kept smiling at him like that, all maidenly shyness, he didn't know what he would do. It was already a struggle not to draw her into him.

"They belong to you." It was true. As soon as the bloody things had been presented to him, he had thought of nothing else but giving them to her. Like Loras Tyrell, but in this case, if would mean something, not some trinket given to just any beautiful woman. He had imagined it as he waited in the library. He would have asked her to take down her hair, and he'd have placed that crown on her head and kissed her like the damn knight she persisted in thinking he was. A foolish dream, he thought, but he'd been disappointed all the same.

Her smile gained confidence, still a little, hopeful thing, and he felt himself return it in his fashion.

"You know, I even wore my red last night. With your ribbon."

"Did you?" he asked stupidly. The vision of her in that dress with his roses in her hair made his mouth go dry and all thought vanish. He'd thought of nothing but standing with her since the moment she'd left him the day before, and now here they were and he could think of nothing to say. All he could think of was her eyes lifted to his and her hand pressed against his palm, warm and slight.

"It would have been...fitting, I suppose." She looked away and tried to laugh, but it was an airy thing.

They were both nervous. Never in the past had they been so timid around each other. Silent, yes, but never hesitant. Something new was being wrought between them, though. Something untested, still fresh and growing. Fragile and powerful.

Fuck it, he didn't have words. He wished he had fucking words.

He slid his palm along her cheek, gratified beyond telling when she closed her eyes and leaned into the rough surface of his hand. The thought had occurred to him that she might regret what had passed between them, have thought better of it, but seeing her dark lashes flutter against her cheek as she leaned her face against his hand with her lips parted alleviated that fear in the most delightful way. She wanted him to touch her, she wanted to be standing there with him in that shadowed alcove, like two lovers.

That's what you fucking are, you cunt.

"I don't know-" he started, tongue-tied and clumsy as he tried to find a way to say what he was feeling. There were no words that he knew that could do the job.

"You don't have to say a word, Sandor," she whispered, putting her hand over his, lifting her face up to him. He felt his lip twitch, his eyes on hers as he bent his head.

It was the first time he'd kissed her, really. She'd kissed him the day before, ladylike Helenna Manderly boldly on her tiptoes. This time, he'd closed the distance, and it was different. He could feel it in his bones. There was no desperation in it, no need for courage. It was slow, and sweet, and warm. Familiar, almost, and delicate. It was saying something new, something much more potent than the frantic caresses of the day before. That had been a declaration, all bravado and violence. This was a promise, all of the feeling he'd long carried pouring out of his chest and into her, eight years of longing and fervor. To his amazement, he felt it returned in equal measure, her little hand splayed against his cheek, running along his beard. It had a richness to it that made him want to weep. He seemed to be doing quite a lot of that these days.

She looked up at him gravely when he pulled away, her eyes like moons reflecting back at him.

"What are we going to do?" she asked softly. He ran his fingers across her brow, pushing his fingertips into the wave of her hair.

"I don't know," he replied plainly. He had no idea, he hadn't gotten that far in his thinking. He'd only been able to think of holding her again. There where, when, and how he hadn't quite worked out yet.

"You can't leave me again," she said urgently. "They reassigned you, but you can't."

"I won't." Gods, but it felt like an oath.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly, and this one felt more like a contract, a seal, than a gesture of passion. She laid her head on his armor, and he allowed himself to turn his face into her hair, to bring his hand up so he cradled her against him, and he pressed his mouth into the crown of her head. He couldn't count how many times he'd thought of doing just that, prevented by his own sense of unworthiness, of the impossibility of her wanting him as anything other than a friend. A friend would kiss him, wouldn't press her body against him as wantonly as she did, and that made his lip curl.

When she lifted her head again and her mouth found his, he was left in no doubt that whatever it was Lenna Manderly bore him, it was far from chaste friendship. He knew he shouldn't do such a thing to a lady, but he couldn't help himself. She was a tall woman, but he had to stoop to kiss her. Wrapping his arms around her, he lifted her up until their faces were level and pressed her against the wall. His hands weren't free to touch her as he wanted, but hers were, travelling over his face and neck as they had the day before. Then her mouth was on his brow and on his cheek and his chin.

Then it was on the scars.

He froze, and she must have felt it because she pulled her face away from his, still cradling his cheek in her little hand.

"Does it hurt?"

"No," he responded bluntly. It didn't hurt, not in the way she meant. It hurt within, her lips on it reminding him of what and who he was. Guilt was threatening to slay his pleasure, guilt and that terribly sense of unworthiness. He had forgotten he was the ugly Hound while her hand was in his and her eyes were lifted to him with that sweet expression in them. When she touched it, reality came crashing back, the little voice whispering its venomous lies. Not for you...couldn't want you...laughing at you.

"Sandor," she said quietly, her eyes on his. He took a deep breath and looked back at her, using her gaze to still his mind. "It is part of you, and I want you. But I won't touch it if it bothers you so much." His chest felt like it had been cleaved open, light and blood leaking out into the darkness. She wants you.

He swallowed thickly. "S'alright."

"You're sure?"

He nodded, and closed his eyes when she traced her fingertips over it, followed by her lips. She left none of it untouched, from his face to his scalp to the long line down his neck. He could barely feel it, but by the time she pulled back from him, resting her forehead against his, he knew his cheeks were wet. It didn't shame him, her seeing him cry, if anything it bound him more forcefully to her. Even though the skin was deadened, immalleable, her ministrations had soothed him.

"I love you, Sandor Clegane," she whispered, her eyes intense upon his. "All of you."

He thought he might erupt from his armor at those words, waves of disbelief and terror came crashing over him with enough force that he almost pushed her away. They were then brutally slain by a triumphant joy that slammed up from his gut and against his ribs, his heart thundering. Loves you..loves you. It took every last ounce of strength and verve to hold her gaze, not even aware when the words were ripped from his throat.

"And I...you."

A/N: Eh, so I had some unexpected extra time. I'll be travelling for the next little bit, not sure when the next chapter will be posted. Still on the sooner side, just getting polished. I work a few chapters out and tweak as they need to be posted.

Once again, thank you all for the kind words. I love reading them, and they make me want to work. I am so glad the last chapter made you all as happy as it made me. I may be pushing the rating a smidge as we move forward, just forewarning. I hope that's alright with everyone, I certainly don't want to offend. If I need to change it, I will.

Review! Pretty please? Yep, have resorted to begging. You're where I get my best ideas!