Lenna XXVII

Walking in the gardens brought her a measure of peace. The breeze stirred the branches of the great trees gently, the warm currents off the harbor kind as they stirred the loose tendrils that had escaped the coil of her hair. She took great gulps of the air, savoring the salt tang it left on her lips, on her tongue, something else to hold on to as she attempted to set herself to rights. She did not know if it was a battle that could be won.

She had stayed away from Sandor since he'd left her at the door to her rooms. She went from her rooms to the queen's study and then back to her rooms. No prayers in the Sept, not evenings in the stacks. She had even begged off dinners, claiming a cold and taking her meal in her rooms. It had been days since she'd seen him, and she felt his absence like a part of her was missing, but she simply couldn't face him.

She was angry with him. Despite knowing that he'd been right, that he'd had her safety foremost in his mind, she could not help but be angry. Though she knew this, she was also aware that any ire she had for him was misplaced. She had no one to blame but herself. Even Sandor Clegane couldn't make her do anything. She had gone to Cersei herself because she was afraid, a coward, too worried about her own skin. It cast a pall of self-loathing over her the likes of which she had never experienced. She shied away from her image in her glass, unable to meet her own eye.

She paced the lower terraces, keeping her gaze on the infinite undulation of the sea, trying to draw comfort from its ebb and flow as she had used to do. As a child, it had soothed her to see its constant motion, knowing that no matter what the water would continue to flow. Each ridge and ripple, so glasslike and hard, was absorbed and woven back into the main, just as she wished she could be, to return to the familiarity of her old self. But her old self was frayed and thin, like an overworn garment, threadbare and prone to tearing. She presently felt so brittle that she thought the odd inhalation would snap her and she would disintegrate into shards and dust.

"Lady Helenna?"

The voice was thin and reedy, and she recognized it at once. Sansa Stark appeared from around the corner of the hedge, her blue eyes dark with tears.

"Lady Sansa, whatever is the matter?" Lenna said, approaching the girl, forgetting her own cares for a moment.

"Father says we are to go back to Winterfell," Sansa choked out, her lovely little mouth taking the shape of a childish pout.

Lenna hid her lack of surprise with disappointment. "I am so sorry to hear that."

"My life is over."

Lenna reminded herself that the girl was very young, and a sense of the melodramatic was to be expected. She wanted to so badly to scream at her that she was lucky to be going home, to not have to make the choice, to not have to choose the capital.

"No, dear girl, it isn't, but I know you have enjoyed your time here."

"I cannot be parted from him," she cried, wringing her hands like the besotted heroine in one of her old books. "I shall die."

"I know it feels that way-"

"I haven't done anything wrong, why should I be punished? I love Joffrey-"

"You hardly know him," Lenna said sharply. If you did, you wouldn't claim to love him.

"I want to marry him and have his golden-headed babies," the girl sobbed. "Father won't listen to me."

Of course not, she thought. Who would listen to the wants of such a silly girl? Instead of saying a word, Lenna wrapped Sansa in her arms and rocked her as she cried. The girl only wanted a sympathetic ear, a shoulder to cry on. She'd get over whatever disappointment she was feeling, quite forgetting it by the time they reached her home.

At least, I would, she thought. And she knew it to be a lie.

It wasn't just her betrayal of Lord Stark that troubled her as she walked the gardens and paced her rooms. What continued to flummox her was how quickly she had refused Eddard Stark's offer to send her home. The refusal had been immediate, rising up from her gut before she even thought twice about the implications, and it had nothing to do with her family's safety or her own. She simply could not fathom being parted from Sandor, not by her own choice. Once she would have taken the chance to go home without question, consequences be damned, but not now. White Harbor, she realized, was no longer her home. He was.

Which explained the tremendous guilt that blanketed her each time she thought of him. He was always in her thoughts, which meant she'd spent quite a bit of time mulling over how she'd withdrawn from him. She had refused to kiss Sandor when they returned to her chamber door from the queen, had seen the disappointment in his face when she had turned her head and darted into her chamber. She couldn't help but think of the long, lonely months after they had returned from White Harbor, when he had withdrawn from her. It had felt like he'd stolen her lifeblood, turning her listless and despondent. Now she was turning the same treatment back on him, refusing to even be in the same room. It was not fair, and she knew it. He was not to blame for their current predicament anymore than she was. It was just Sandor that told the truth, that held nothing back, and that had pressed her to go to the queen. She knew that he'd done it because he wanted her safe, and he had no compunctions when it came to that. The outcome was more important to him than the means.

Though she took her dinner in her rooms again, still claiming to be suffering from her cold, she forced herself to go to the library when the rest of the Keep had gone to bed. She was relieved when Sandor showed himself in the library. She truly hadn't expected him to come. She feared she may have undone all the progress they'd made with him feeling comfortable with her. She regretted being so cold with him, struggling to read there in the silence. She was trying to distract herself with the First Men, wanting to be as far away from the present as she could, tracing her fingers along the strange runes the maester-scribe had recorded on his vellum, harsh and jagged, just like her thoughts.

She found it impossible to concentrate, instead toying with the end of her braid, wrapped in his green ribbon. She'd taken to wearing it as she used to when she retired for the night, finding comfort in unweaving it from the heavy coil and plaiting it so simply. The green ribbon was still her favorite, reminding her of those earlier times when she didn't have the faintest clue about Lannister treachery, when she'd simply been miserable because she was lonely. He had seen that loneliness, and he'd given her that token of friendship. Of love, she thought. It had always been love, even if they both tried to deny it, and it tore at her to remember the expression on his face, the hurt in his eyes when she'd turned her face away from him.

When he stepped into the circle of her lamplight he looked grave and apprehensive. His face was shuttered, his eyes dull as that little muscle twitched underneath the scruff of his beard. She felt full to the brim of remorse as she looked back at him, still so disgusted with herself that she couldn't find the words to reassure him. She usually had too many words, but she could do nothing but look dumbly back at him, not even knowing where to begin.

"Are you still angry with me?" he asked quietly, and she knew how much such a question cost him. He struggled to speak his feelings, and such a query showed just how vulnerable he was, how much she'd hurt him.

"No," she replied, compelling herself to stand up and walk around the table. "Are you with me?"

He shook his head. "I never was."

"Neither was I," she replied. "Not really. I was angry with myself, and I couldn't face you. It was wrong of me. I hope you can forgive-"

"Of course," he said quickly, his eyes burning into hers, his expression ferocious. He didn't speak for a long minute, just stood there looking at her with great pain in his face. "Is this how it felt for you? When I wouldn't-"

She nodded and he set his teeth, looking away from her. She hated to think of those days in their past when he had pulled away from her so completely. She knew his reasoning, even found it noble in a strange way, but it had not deadened the hurt and the loneliness. If anything, the past few days had been eye-opening for her as she realized it wasn't anger that kept her from looking at him or from going to their usual places. It was shame.

He approached her slowly, quietly, as if still worried she didn't want him there. She wanted to throw herself at him, needed the reassurance of his arms around her, but keenly felt that it was not his job to make her feel better.

"You didn't go to the Sept," he said, tentatively slipping his fingers into her palm. "Why?"

"I'm too ashamed to face them," she replied harshly, willing herself not to cry.

"Lenna," he said, lifting his hand to her cheek. She closed her eyes, aware of the tears on her cheeks, of his fingers brushing them away like a murmur. You hurt him and he's the one comforting you. "You did what you had to do. You did nothing wrong."

"Then why does it feel like I have?"

"Because you're good," he said. "Much better than them, than me. Better even than Lord Stark."

"I betrayed-"

"You protected yourself. If anything happens to you, Lenna, I don't know what-"

"Don't talk like that. It isn't so dire, is it?" When she looked at his face, she realized that perhaps it was.

He didn't reply for a long time, just stood looking at her with his thumbs running along her cheeks and jaw. Those grey eyes were full and so sad as they held hers.

"I'll be gone for a few days," he said quietly. "I did not want to go without seeing you. I didn't want to leave things like they were."

Her heart swelled and she wanted to go on to her knees for his forgiveness again.

You don't deserve him.

She settled for laying her lips against the back of his hand, not missing how his lips parted or the soft sound of pleasure or relief from his throat. His hand traced down the side of her face until it rested against her neck, his thumb on her pulse. He liked to feel it thrumming, often resting his hand there on her neck, sometimes replacing fingers with his mouth, like he was reassuring himself that she was real. Alive.

"Where are you going?" she asked softly.

"The prince is to go hunting with his father. We should be back before the end of next week. Maybe sooner, depends on the prince."

She nodded, taking another small step toward him. She laid her other hand on his elbow, comforted when he raised his arm to wrap around her waist, drawing her closer. His hands were warm against her, and she took a moment to lean her forehead on his breast, her nose in that soft triangle of hair that peeked above the neck of his tunic. She felt his mouth against her head, his touch light.

He dropped her hand, raising his own to lightly cup her cheek again as her own fingers trailed over his shoulder and into the hair at the base of his neck.

"Look at me," he rumbled. She tilted her face up to him, trying to smile.

There were times when he looked at her like that when she felt a blush start all the way at her toes. She felt unworthy of that kind of devotion, especially after the business with Lord Stark. She felt sullied and little even when she wasn't thinking about going to the queen, turning over such a paltry piece of information to help preserve her own skin. And then worse, she'd turned from him in the most cowardly way.

She realized now that it hadn't been the book that was important. Sandor knew that. She didn't know the purpose of the book, its value, and neither did he. It was an odd happenstance, that was all, though she was sure there was some significance to both Arryn and Stark wanting it. She also had decided she didn't want to know. And she knew that Sandor would be furious if she tried to find out.

The value in telling Cersei had been to leave the queen with no doubt as to her loyalties. She had less spied than she had proven that she would go to a Lannister over her own liege lord. She didn't like what that said about her.

"Stop," he growled.

She realized that while she had been looking at him as he'd bidden her, she had stopped seeing him, her thoughts so consuming that her vision had gone blank.

"What?" she replied, startled.

"You're punishing yourself, and you need to stop."

"It isn't that easy-"

"You have to try," he said with finality. His eyes were somber. "You have to be what they want. If I can see it, they can."

"They won't. No one knows me as you do," she replied. It was true. Just as she could read his face, he could see her thoughts as well. She doubted anyone could tell that she was disquieted but him.

"You can't risk it. You've missed supper for five days. The queen will start to wonder why."

"I've told her I'm sick."

"It will stop working. You have to-"

"I worry that I'm forgetting who I am," she said quickly, finally voicing that growing fear. Lenna Manderly of White Harbor was being replaced bit by bit with an unrecognizable woman, one who was selfish enough to play that game, however clumsily, who looked like them, spoke their honeyed words, who watched and waited and took care of her own skin first.

Sandor smiled, just the barest upturn of his scarred mouth.

"I won't let you," he said quietly. "You're still my Lenna. Nothing has changed that. You protected your family in refusing Lord Stark. You didn't put them at risk by turning your back on the queen. You didn't speak a falsehood when you told her about his question, either. You don't like that you put yourself first, that's all. And you wouldn't have if I hadn't made you. Blame me, if you must."

His eyes were melancholy and his hands had gone tense against her, like he was preparing for a blow.

"You didn't make me," she whispered. "I couldn't blame you, Sandor, not for protecting me."

His lip quirked again and something beneath her breast cracked painfully.

"See? My Lenna, same as ever."

Her heart pounded with alarming strength when he called her that again. He'd never said her name in that possessive way before, his eyes warm and so close.

She raised up on her toes and kissed him, her hands in his hair. She'd missed this. He drew her against him, his hands sliding slowly down her sides, resting on her backside as he pushed her closer. It thrilled her when he did so, grasping her there. She didn't think she could ever be close enough, pressing herself against in him a way that would have once made her blush.

Instead of being shy, she touched him boldly, running her hands along his arms. They were as big around as cannon, and she still marveled at the size of him. The muscles moved under his skin as he gripped her to him, his hands still roving as she moved her own across the breadth of his shoulders, up the thick column of his neck. He liked it when she twisted her fingers in his hair, tugging at the scalp, and it pulled the loveliest sounds from his throat, rough and raspy and full of need.

He pulled away from her slightly, looking down his nose at her.

"You're still sad," he said.

"I'm trying not to be," she replied, another hot blast of guilt rising up. She didn't want to spoil their last evening together for a few days. She'd already wasted so much time with him.

"I'll make you forget," he rumbled, eyes suddenly intent. His lips barely moved as he spoke. "Let me make you forget."

She nodded tentatively up at him, and he swooped down to catch her lips with his own. Without pulling away, he lowered himself until he could loop an arm underneath her backside and pick her up. It was always odd when he did so and she found herself suddenly the taller of the two of them. He carried her to their ledge with ease, like she was a straw or a blade of grass. He settled her on the cushions before him, chucking a pillow to the floor before he knelt between her knees.

"This is different," she said as he pressed his mouth against her neck, in the little space behind her jaw and below her earlobe. He nipped at it with his teeth.

"I want to watch you," he replied, and a dark jolt of pleasure rushed through her at the thought of his eyes on her.

He took his time, just as he always did, working her to a fevered pitch with his hands on her breasts, tickling up her thighs over her dress. He unlaced her bodice slowly, loosening it so it fell open. Her chemise was nearly sheer, and she raised a hand to cover herself, strangely shy. He'd touched her there many times before, but there was something different and alarming about him kneeling between her knees. She'd never been able to see his face before, and the hunger there was alarming and exciting, making the pit of her stomach trembled and her gut tighten. His gaze was ravenous and it made her self-conscious.

"None of that," he growled. "I want to see you. Please."

She let her hand fall, and he replaced it with his own, tracing and cupping her through the thin fabric, thumbs flicking over her already pert nipples. He was teasing her mercilessly, eyes darting between her body and her face. She could feel the heat spreading across her chest and up her neck, aware that her mouth was open and gasping. Seeing his hands on her was making her feel drunk.

He smiled at her with a wicked glint to his eyes and lowered his head. When his mouth closed around her nipple for the first time she thought she'd scream. She could feel him smile against her skin, tongue lazily lapping at her through the fabric, making her pant as she held his head in her hands and pressed him against her.

"I can't help you be quiet like this," he murmured, his hand roving below her skirts, breath hot against her sensitive flesh. "You'll have to try."

"How?" she panted, painfully aware of where his hands headed. He still hadn't touched her there yet, but she felt like she was going to die if he didn't do so soon. She was unabashedly grinding her hips toward him, but he tsked at her as she did.

"Your problem, not mine," he growled.

He pulled her forward so he was in the crux of her legs as she sat, her knees drawn under his arms on either side of his chest. They were nearly the same height like that, their positions giving him greater access to her, and he pulled on the tie to her chemise slowly, the fabric loosening, exposing her breasts to the cold air of the library.

"That's better," he said, warm hands on her again, tickling up her ribcage and dancing across her belly. She watched his face, his reaction to seeing her, and it sent a powerful rush of heat between her legs. She whimpered when his fingers brushed against her nipples and his eyes flew back to hers. He kissed her harshly, tongue hot and seeking, absorbing the sharp sound she made when his hand found its target beneath her skirts.

He cradled her face in his palm, moving his head to run his lips over her neck, to find her pulse with his mouth. He lingered there a while, a thumb find its way between her lips. Without knowing what she was doing she suckled and nipped at it, pleased to hear his grunts against her throat. He kissed his way down the length of her, pulling open her chemise further so he could press his mouth down her chest, between her breasts, pausing at her navel. She felt deliciously exposed, and might even have found the sensation ticklish if his other hand was not so pleasurably at work between her legs. Instead it made her gasp in delight.

With little warning, he rucked her skirts up, baring that part of her to his view. She froze, overcome with shame, pushing them back down even as she continued to mewl under his fingers.

"What are you doing?" she asked brokenly.

"I'm going to make you forget," he said, pushing her skirts back up again, his breath hot on her thighs. She didn't know what came over her, but she let him, letting out a strangled cry when his tongue touched her there and falling back on her elbows. She felt him smile and it made her shudder.

"I told you to be quiet," he said, looking up at her from between her legs. She nodded feverishly, but nearly cried out when he lowered his head again. He chuckled against her, raising a hand to her face and plunging his fingers into her mouth once more. She wantonly closed her lips around him, gratified to hear him groan, sliding her tongue along his fingers as they stifled her cries.

She could no longer think, fully concentrated on the feeling of his mouth on her, his fingers in her, stroking against a place she hadn't known existed, grinding herself against him like a wanton. The long moment of shuddering pleasure came, and she felt herself clench around him. But he didn't stop, only softening his touches for a few moments before sending her over that precipice again and again until she slumped, sweaty and spent, against the casement.

He sat back on his heels, his beard shining and his eyes gleaming. She didn't even bother pushing her skirts back down, but he pressed a kiss to the skin below her navel and pulled them down for her looking quite pleased with himself.

She didn't think she could stand, but she did retie her chemise and turned for him to take care of the fastenings of her dress. His hands dragged across her back, lingering as he did so, like he regretted the action. More than anything, she wished they were somewhere else, somewhere she could shuck the gown and the chemise and the smallclothes off, where she could pull of his tunic and trousers so she could press herself against him with nothing between them. Then, perhaps, they would be close enough.

But they weren't somewhere that private. He clambered up beside her, and she sank bonelessly against him, resting her head on his chest. Even if she'd wanted to tease him, to touch him, she wouldn't have been able to. She could barely lift her head. His hands were still active, running over her back and shoulders, playing with her braid, tugging at the ribbon.

"Take it down," he whispered. She had long noted his fascination with her hair. She'd always considered it her great beauty, thick and curling and dark. One of her first clues to his interest was the gift of his ribbons, the fierce pleasure in his face when he saw them woven into her hair. When he'd first kissed her, he'd plunged his hands into it, fingers twisting against the pins. She sat up now and pulled the green ribbon free, moving to untwine the plait, but he stopped her. He ran his fingers through it like a comb, separating the curls from each other until they cloaked her.

She didn't know how long it was that they stayed that way, her drowsing against his chest as his fingers played in her hair, but the sky was beginning to lighten outside the window when he gently shook her awake. She stifled a yawn, aware of her stale breath, surprised when he kissed her.

"Morning," he rumbled, his eyes intent.

She smiled back at him. "Morning."

What would it be like to wake this way each day?

"Let's get you back to your rooms."

She nodded again, quickly rebraiding her hair as she followed him along the still sleeping passageways to her door, her hand tucked into his. He drew his fingers along her jaw and kissed her quickly before he left her, the faintest twitch of his lips lightening his brow.

Sandor XXVII

He'd cradled her against him, his hands in her hair, relishing the feel of her asleep against him before he'd seen her back to her room just before dawn. He wondered what it would be like to wake her every morning, for her face to be the first thing he saw, his voice the first thing she heard. He had savored watching her wake, the sleepiness in her dappled eyes sharpening under his gaze, the unsuppressed yawn, the way she stretched and pressed against him. Bidding her good morning was such a simple thing, and he couldn't quite grasp why it felt so important.

He'd engulfed her little hand in his as they walked through the passages, able to imagine for just a little while that they didn't have to hide themselves. It had taken determination to leave her at her chamber door, making his way back to his own bunk to pass the brief hour or two before he was to rise and leave. He should have slept, but he didn't, instead laying in his bunk and going back over all of it in his head, the taste of her still in his mouth, the image of her wanton still in his mind.

That had always been a particular dream of his, lapping at her like that, and it had produced a result far superior to his imaginings. One did not lick a whore's cunt, but it seemed a good thing to do to a lover. He'd heard men with more experience than him talking about what it did to a woman, and he knew it was what that bloody ballad was about, but he'd no idea how effective it would be. He'd smiled wryly thinking of The Bear and the Maiden Fair and how even that ribald song could make him tremble when his brain transformed him into the beast. He certainly needed no help imagining her as the maiden fair, "sighing and squealing and kicking the air." She'd done that plenty the night before, and he was quite pleased with himself for doing that to her.

He kept his visor down as they rode out because he could not keep the smug smile off of his face. It had gratified him more than he wanted to admit when he'd made her shudder like that. He'd stuffed his fingers in her mouth to keep her quiet, but found that it excited him beyond measure, spurring him on when her tongue twined around him. It was easy to imagine that tongue doing the same thing somewhere else. It had been the first time he was truly tempted to let her touch him there, he was straining with need, painfully swollen, but he managed to keep his focus on her. It wasn't just about pleasure, it was about comfort, and she needed it, which was made even clearer by the way she had rested against him, her arm wrapped around his torso, her head fitted into his shoulder afterwards. He didn't know what to call that feeling, the fullness and satisfaction of giving her delight and then comfort, but he wanted more of it.

There had been something ineffably sweet about watching her sleep, watching her wake after having passed a night together. Our first. He'd been able to feel her stretch and sigh and yawn, and it had made his chest feel full, eyes greedily watching, storing it all away. To go from making her convulse to rousing her from sleep felt right, her trust in him warming. He wished he could do it every night and wake her every morning.

He thought about it more than he should, but it was a welcome diversion from having to listen to Joffrey prattle on. Sandor wasn't fond of hunting despite having done it most of his youth. His family's hounds were bred to the purpose, and he'd trained dozens of them in in it himself. It was a chore when one was on campaign, but he never derived much pleasure from it himself. Perhaps it lacked enough of a challenge. He'd take a man with a sword over a boar any day.

Not that boars couldn't be ferocious beasts. They certainly were, and the one they had spent the better part of three days tracking was no exception. It was a wily thing, eluding them and driving the dogs mad as it careened through the forests around the capital.

He didn't mind the evenings spent around a campfire, but the prince did. The boy was getting fractious, but they reminded Sandor of his days in the army, the camaraderie of a united purpose, a time when men didn't look at his scars. If anything, his face had been an asset in those days, striking fear into his enemies. This gathering was little different, and he enjoyed drinking a tumbler of ale and listening to the men talk so long as he kept his distance from the flames themselves. Even the king was jovial. He thought, as he often had, that Robert was the least likely king, though he wasn't upset it was his arse on the throne.

He vividly remembered the Storm Lord who had risen up against Aerys Targaryen. The Robert Baratheon of his youth had been a brute of a man not unlike himself, granted a few inches shorter. Robert had been powerfully built, handsome in the way that women liked with dark hair and blue eyes, and so good-natured that even Sandor liked him against his will. He was coarse and approachable, talking more like a soldier than the lord that he was. His younger brother, Stannis, had been the more proper of the two, clearly disapproving of his elder brother's ways.

Ways that involved an excessive amount of feasting, drinking, and carousing through every brothel and alehouse he came across. In the intervening years since he'd won the Iron Throne, Robert had grown fat, walked like he was always slightly drunk, and become tempestuous if bothered with affairs he didn't want to address. Which, in Sandor's opinion, was most of what was needed in the running of his kingdom. Robert Baratheon had been a fine leader in battle, but as far as Sandor could tell, he was a shit king, leaving the administration of the realm to a series of perfumed prigs who may or may not have the best interest of the people in mind.

And Robert was raising another shit king. Or, rather, he was ignoring one in the making. Joffrey attended his father every single day, and Sandor was flummoxed by how little the king actually had to do with his own son. It was like Joffrey was a pet lapdog, trotted out for some amusement before the king expected him to go back into his kennel. Sandor didn't like feeling sympathy for the little prick, but he wondered if the boy would be different if his father actually cared two figs about him. Instead, Joffrey tagged along at the rear of the hunting party or sat listening to his father tell stories that no lad should hear from his own father's lips.

Who tells their twelve-year-old son about "making the eight"?

Sandor could tell that Renly Baratheon was annoyed by it as well. The King's youngest brother was hunting with them, and he'd been more than civil to his nephew. He'd ridden alongside them for several days, trying to make up for the King's lack of interest in the boy's presence. He'd even made small talk with Sandor, mostly about their meeting at the Hand's Tourney, quizzing him on how he sized up an opponent.

"I do believe," Renly said, reigning his mount beside Joffrey's as they ranged through the wood, "that your guard would have unseated Ser Loras had it come to it. The man saved himself the embarrassment of being saved by and defeated by the same man. You should make him take vows."

Joffrey had looked at his uncle, then back at Sandor with a little smile about his mouth.

"I like that he's not a knight, uncle."

"Do you?"

"Of course. If he were to become one, that would make him a liar, wouldn't it, dog?"

"Aye, my prince," Sandor replied.

"How so?" Renly asked.

"Dog?"

"I swear no oaths I can't keep, my lord. I'm not my brother."

Renly looked at him shrewdly, and it occurred to Sandor that where Robert failed as a king, Renly would probably excel.

The party grew tense whenever the messengers arrived in the afternoon, bearing word from King's Landing. Everyone was on tenterhooks to know what was going on in the Riverlands, whether Jaime Lannister had engaged with the Tully House forces yet, if Lord Tyrion had been returned to his family. Of course, Gregor was the topic of discussion as well, with everyone expressing their disapproval of what he was doing if the rumors were indeed true.

"Do you think your brother capable of such?" the king asked, cocking an eyebrow as ale ran sloppily down his chins. They were all seated around the campfire passing flagons between them, Sandor a little ways away where he could be far from the flames but still stay warm.

"Aye," Sandor replied, irked to be lumped in with Gregor, to answer for him.

"What would you do if you saw him?" the king asked.

"Kinslaying is looked down upon, your grace, but it would be tempting."

"Because you want the keep?" Robert Baratheon was looking at him directly, and Sandor didn't enjoy his scrutiny. For all Robert was a lazy king, he'd always been a solid judge of character. Sandor knew better than to lie to him.

"Because he's a fucking cunt," Sandor replied. At first, Robert's regard remained steely, an icy blue, but then the corners of his eyes crinkled and his whole face crumpled into laughter, guffawing so hard and long that his fat belly shook.

"You'll have the Keep then, just for making me laugh," Robert said. Sandor looked at him flatly over the rim of his cup. "What? You don't believe me, Clegane? Barristan, fetch me paper."

The captain of the Kingsguard rose and did as he was bid, briefly inclining his eyebrow at Sandor as he did so. Robert scrawled across the paper and signed it.

"There. It's yours now. No one will take it from you." Robert held out the paper and Sandor took it without a word.

He looked down at the piece of paper in his hand and read it through carefully, then once more for good measure.

To Sandor Clegane I grant the lands and holdings attached to Clegane's Keep in the Westerlands, to do with as he sees fit, and to be held by he, his heirs, or his assigns, forever.

R. Baratheon

One sentence. That was all. A small collection of words and a royal signature, witnessed by a prince, the captain of the Kingsguard, and the king's brother. It couldn't have been more binding if he'd done it in the presence of his small council.

Mine.

He must have been looking at the parchment strangely as Renly Baratheon leaned over to him.

"Do you want me to-"

"I can fucking read," Sandor murmured.

"Congratulations, then," Renly replied, clinking his tankard to Sandor's. He grunted.

That night when he bedded down he put the damn thing in his pouch, keen to show it to Lenna when he returned back to King's Landing. It was one thing to hope that the king and Tywin Lannister would grant him his brother's holdings, it was another to have the slip of paper that made it so in his grasp. He was almost afraid of the tenuous hope that had taken hold in his breast.

That night, he dreamt of standing on the ramparts with her as they had in White Harbor. There was a breeze and her hair was free and loose about her shoulders as she looked out from the walls, her little hand in his. He had an arm cast around her shoulders and she was leaning back with her head against his chest, her eyes fixed on some vague point on the horizon, but instead of the ocean of the North they looked out over the rolling hills of the Westerlands. Far away there was a sliver of sea, flaming in reflection of the red sunset that was spread across the sky. It cast a rose and scarlet glow over the old stone of the ramparts, and he dreamt that she squeezed his hand, turning her face into his neck as she so often did to press a kiss against his throat.

A/N: Sorry for the looooong delay! I calculated that I drove a little over 2,000 miles in the last week and a half. Lots of scooting around.

Thank you, as always, to everyone who has been leaving reviews. You know how much I love feedback! Keep it coming.