A/N: I said there'd be a carrot. It's actually a lemon. Rated M. You've been warned.

Lenna XXIV

Numb. She felt nothing else, like her sap had been drained from her and left behind just a husk, a shell. There was no point to worrying, to sobbing, to anything. She had nothing left. All she could do was help prepare Myrcella. The girl was in turns devastated and exuberant about going to Dorne. Lenna tried to feign excitement for the princess as she bubbled over with excitement about her betrothal to Prince Trystane. Lenna found bright smiles and giggles for her, agreeing that the boy was indeed handsome, but in the silence of her rooms, Lenna did nothing but sit or stare out the window, the price of pretending becoming to dear to bear.

No news had returned from Tywin Lannister. Again, and perhaps more potently, she felt like a criminal on the eve of execution. It was a double waiting: word from Tywin coming at an unknowable time, as well as the preparations for the princess' departure. She wasn't sure which one was the cause of her lack of sleep, probably some combination of both.

Lenna was quite sure that she would never see the princess again. The feeling that their farewell would be a final one had taken root in her bones. The child herself had no concept of what her leaving would mean, how permanent it may be. War was looming large on the horizon, that old hurricane about to make landfall. Lenna saw it coming, as surely as the queen did, and while she was glad the child would be safe, far away from them in Dorne, she felt burning pain at the knowledge that it was likely that she would never see the princess again. It was the only thing that cut through the gray nothingness seated in her chest, that scarlet slash of grief.

Lenna tried not to think of such things as she walked with Sansa toward the quay. Though the day was bright, the sky a clear capital blue free of clouds, it might as well have been a Northern midwinter. Lenna had risen early and dressed carefully before walking slowly to attend on the princess one final time, the red book clasped in her hands, an echo of that first day in King's Landing. She wished that time could slow, the past weeks flying by so swiftly Lenna could scarce believe the day had arrived. She grieved that she could not have stretched each and every moment, delaying this inevitable end as long as possible.

The little girl had been a flurry of nervousness, but she had stilled when Lenna entered her chambers. For an instant, Lenna saw the woman she would become, the knowing in her eyes far beyond a girl of ten. The little girl, already tall like her mother, looked at Lenna as if she only just realized that they were to be parted. Lenna smiled at her as kindly as she could, beckoning her to sit next to her on the bed. She held out the red book to the princess, and the child took it in her hands with a furrowed brow.

"I haven't seen this in years," Myrcella said, flipping it open and turning almost immediately to the story of the knight. It pained Lenna to see it, so many memories of kinder times and gentler agonies stealing over her as she looked at the knight and his lady. Myrcella leaned into her side, resting her head against Lenna's shoulder much as she had done when she was little.

"It is my most precious possession, you see," Lenna said, smoothing her hand over the child's shining head. "I brought it with me to King's Landing when I was just a girl, when you were a baby. I want you to take it with you, and if you read it, to think of me."

"I will read it every day," the girl whispered, and Lenna planted a kiss on her head.

"And imagine that I am there with you. Oh, child," she said, her voice cracking painfully. "How we will all miss you."

"I'll miss you, too, Lenna," Myrcella replied. "I wish I didn't have to go."

"Nonsense," Lenna laughed. It was a mirthless sound. "Where you are going is beautiful and sunny, full of interesting people. And you'll meet your prince."

"Will he look at me like that?"

"Like what?"

Myrcella was looking at the book, at the knight in the illustration, but something caught Lenna's eye. Another cut of pain, this one purple and muted, bolted through her breast. Sandor was standing at the door, his hands hanging limply by his sides, his gaze resting on hers exactly like the knight in the illustration. Her heart made a painful leap.

"Of course he will," Lenna replied. "He's good and loyal and true."

Myrcella sighed, burrowing a little more into Lenna, but she kept her eyes on Sandor. His cheek flushed, and she knew that he understood that she was talking to him.

For a long moment, they were as they had been, their strange little trio. The child, the scholar, and the soldier. He looked at her steadily and she felt like she was suffocating, her own misery choking her breath. His gaze was almost physically holding her up, giving her the time to gather her little strength, and when, at last, she was able to straighten her back and breathe normally again, he spoke.

"It's time."

She didn't remember the trip to the quayside, but there was she was, watching Myrcella as she floated away on her little bark arrayed in bright silks, the sun glinting off the gold of her hair. The same sun made Sansa Stark's hair gleam like fire. Lenna was grateful for the girl's arm looped through hers. She had started looking at Lenna with something akin to worship in her eyes since that horrible afternoon in the throne room. She stuck to her like a barnacle at mealtimes and in Cersei's solar, often coming into Lenna's room in the afternoons to chatter away as she bent over her embroidery. Lenna found she didn't mind, craving the distraction as she sat at her desk and struggled with her studies. She found it had become much more difficult to concentrate on anything but her circumstances, but since Tyrion's return he had regularly thrown her assignments in expectation of long discussions. She saw it for what it was, an affectionate attempt to bring her out of her low spirits.

Low spirits. It almost made her laugh. It wasn't low spirits, it was despair. She'd never felt its ilk before. She had lost weight, finding it difficult to eat and sleep, her gowns loose around her ribs in a way that made Shae tut at her. She'd taken to using face cream to cover the dark circles beneath her eyes, but she knew that she fooled no one. Tyrion and the queen both looked at her with growing concern, and Sandor's heart was in his eyes each time their paths crossed. She wanted to be angry, to be upset, anything, but all she felt was the queer, pale hollowness.

Her brow must have furrowed. Sansa reached out and laid her hand on her arm, concern in her blue eyes. Lenna had not spoken of Joffrey's wishes to the girl, had not breathed a word of Gregor Clegane, and she had forbidden Shae from mentioning it in the girl's hearing either. Sansa had enough to worry about on her own without throwing Lenna into her troubles.

The entourage began it's slow wending way back to the Red Keep. At first, Lenna didn't detect anything amiss. She knew, of course, that the queen had ordered the city gates shut to the Riverland's refugees. Lenna found the decision repugnant, but she understood Cersei's reasoning. All indications pointed to the arrival of winter. The influx of people fleeing the violence to the north was straining the city's supplies of grain. There was growing unrest throughout the city, the people furious over the lack of bread, the increased competition for food.

The queen had been wary of the procession's route through the city. They were heavily guarded, Sandor himself behind the king's shoulder. The streets were mobbed, but the crowds had gathered simply to watch them all as they made their way to the quay, the people wanting to bid their princess farewell. It was most touching to see the little girls with their bouquets of wildflowers, the women fluttering handkerchiefs. It was celebratory as much as it was solemn.

But now the streets were noisy, which she expected, and as they got closer and closer to the Keep, the timbre of the voices changed. Instead of excitement, Lenna heard anger. It was astonishing how quickly it grew into a fevered pitch, the voices emerging bodilessly from the masses.

"Monster."

"Pretender."

"Beast of incest."

Then, someone hurled a wad of dung at the king, and it hit him directly in the face. In other circumstances, Lenna might have enjoyed the look of revulsion on the boy's smeared face, might even have laughed, but his next words had her looking frantically for escape.

"Kill them. Just kill them all." His voice was high and vehement, spit flying from his mouth.

The mob surged forward in rage. Sansa was pulled away from Lenna into the crowd, and Lenna tried to find her, dressed brightly in rose, but searched in vain as she found herself carried along in the crowd herself. Hands pulled and pushed at her, tearing at her dress. They didn't seem like people, but one massive, seething beast that was intent on destruction.

She was calling for Sansa wildly, pushing back against the persistent hands, the excruciatingly loud voices, when an arm wrapped around her from behind. She gasped in surprise and dismay, thinking for a moment that this was her end, twisting to face her assailant.

It was Sandor. His face was tight with energy, his eyes wild, his sword poised in his right hand and already slick with blood.

"Run," he cried, pushing her toward safety even as he used his other arm to hew a man in two. The contact of his sword with the man's shoulder made a sickening squelch, and almost instantly the attacker fell to the ground, a geyser of blood spouting from where Sandor had cleaved him asunder. The blood spattered them both, soaking her skirts and bodice, streaming across his face. She shuddered to feel the warmth of it on her skin, reminded for a horrible flash of the Stark guard's blood drying on her neck.

"Why do you not go?" he shouted, grabbing her shoulder with his eyes blazing, the cool grey in startling contrast with the crimson blood and livid scars of his face.

"Sansa," she said frantically. "I do not see Sansa."

"I'll find her," he said, grasping her arm and pushing her none too gently toward the gate. "Now, go!"

She stumbled toward the guards, each step feeling like she was walking against a tide, sluggish and sucking and slow.

Once inside the courtyard, she found a place to sit and wait, aware of how the blood on her skin was drying, contracting and making her feel scratchy and tight. It appalled her, but there was nothing to be done about it.

It seemed like hours, but it was probably only a few minutes. He barrelled through the gate with a figure dressed in pink slung over his shoulder. He paused, looking wildly around for her. When their eyes met across the courtyard, she saw him visibly relax, his face going slack and his shoulders dropping. She found her way to her feet and staggered toward him, then they made their way through the passageways to Holdfast.

Sansa's room was closest. He kicked in the door and laid the trembling girl down upon the bed. Her face was deathly white, her lips bloodless and her eyes wild, her hair tumbling down in ragged copper tresses.

"Stay here. Bar the door to any except me," Sandor rasped, looking down on Lenna with a fervor she hadn't seen since his tangle with his brother. It felt like a lifetime ago. He lifted a hand as if to touch her cheek, but it fell back to his side uselessly. He was looking at her like he would devour her, his eyes burning like embers.

"No one enters until I return," he said, his voice low and urgent.

She nodded, and he pressed his lips together and was gone.

Lenna wiped her hand over her mouth, turning to the girl on the bed. Sansa Stark had been watching them, her eyes wide in shock and fright.

"The Hound…"

"Saved you, my dear," she said quietly. "Are you alright?"

The girl nodded, but then proceeded to vomit on the floor. Lenna cast about for something to at least cover it with, then decided her own dress was the best option. It was saturated with blood from knee to shoulder, and when she pulled it off she found that the blood had seeped into her smallclothes.

"You can borrow one of my shifts," said the tiny voice of the girl on the bed.

Lenna covered the sick with the silk dress, so carefully chosen that morning, then sponged herself off. The blood had caked at her neck and run down her chest, now a brittle, dark brown smudge. Pulling one of the girl's shifts over her head, she used Sansa's glass to clean her face. There was a cut, at least five inches long on her cheek. She didn't remember receiving it, and wondered when it had happened.

"Sansa, do you have salve?" she asked, turning to the girl. Sansa shook her head, and Lenna found a smile for her. "It can wait, then."

The other girl's face began to crumple and Lenna flew to her. As soon as she'd wrapped her arms around her, the other girl disintegrated. She wept into Lenna's shoulder with the terror of a child, her almost-womanly demeanor crumbling into that of a scared girl. Lenna felt tears pricking her own eyes as she listened to the poor child wail, at last spending herself, still hiccuping from the sobs.

"You are safe now," Lenna murmured into the crown of her head, stroking the girl's extraordinary hair.

"We are never safe," the child whispered. "And never will be."

Lenna agreed, but she'd never say so. It would do nothing to comfort the girl to hear it from her lips.

They sat for a long time, the sun setting a bloody red outside the girl's windows. For most of the afternoon, Sansa Stark huddled against her, clutching Lenna to her and trembling. It took hours for her to go still and quiet. At last, as the sun was setting, spilling eerie rays of crimson light through the windows and across the girl's counterpane, lighting her hair to the same fiery hues as Sansa slept.

Sandor had still not returned.

Lenna kept vigil at the window until she had to light a lamp. The sun set, the blue waters of the sea fading into the darkness until all that she could perceive of them was the endless, soft murmur of the waves. It was a moonless night, the starlight barely illuminating the white crests of the waves as they lapped continuously on.

A light rap on the door came nigh midnight. Lenna had no idea what time it was, not even able to use the moon to venture a guess. The hearth had burned low but there was no more fuel, Lenna stoking it through the evening while the child slept. She stole, barefoot, across the floor.

"Who is it?" she asked lowly.

"Me," he replied. She lifted the bar and opened the door.

She remembered too late that she was only wearing Sansa's shift. It revealed as much as it concealed. Without a word, he swung off his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. It was filthy, covered in grime and a fair bit of blood. It still smelled like him. "Let's get you back to your own room," he rumbled.

"Is it safe?" she asked, looking anxiously into the hall.

"Aye," he replied. "It's quiet now."

She looked back at the girl on the bed. Sansa had woken, looking at Lenna with bleary eyes. Seized with a wave of affection, Lenna went to her and pressed her lips to Sansa's forehead before following Sandor out the door.

There was no one about in the halls, and the Keep was disturbingly quiet. Lenna noted that he was holding his arm gingerly, beckoning him in to her room when they reached it. For his comfort, she pulled off his cloak and shrugged on her robe.

"You're hurt," she said quietly, taking his arm. Blood stained his armor near the jointing.

"So are you," he replied, swallowing thickly, his eyes hollow as he nodded. She raised her fingers to her face, remembering the cut.

"Sit, Sandor. Let me clean it."

He sat down heavily on the edge of her bed, his eyes on the floor.

She quickly rinsed the cut on her face, wincing when it stung. She located her salve and smeared a dollop over it, the pain easing almost immediately. It probably wouldn't even scar, it wasn't as bad as it had first looked. A scratch really. She went back to him and helped him take off his armor. It was filthy, the grime leaving dark smudges on her fingertips as she laid it on the chest at the foot of her bed.

He rose and turned from her to remove his hauberk and tunic, folding them both neatly and laying them next to his plate. Lenna had to force herself not to look at the breadth of his shoulders, the thicket of dark hair across his scarred chest. Instead, she forced herself to reach for his arm to inspect the wound below his right elbow.

Somehow, a dagger or a sword had made it into the joint and through the chain mail just enough to leave a bloody gouge on his forearm. It had bled badly, and it was deeper than she liked. Lenna cleaned it as best she could, but it was evident to her that it needed more than a bandage. She did not like how ragged it looked, the skin torn. He must have been in a tremendous amount of pain, but all he did was inhale sharply now and again, his gaze never leaving her face.

"You need a maester for this," she said lowly, her face close to his. He flicked his eyes away, but not before she saw the yearning in them. It made her chest contract painfully.

"No maester," he replied, pulling his arm from her grasp. "I'll stitch it myself. Always have."

"You'll do no such thing," she protested. "It's your sword arm, Sandor, and you'll muddle the job if you try with your off-hand." The wound had stopped bleeding, but she knew it had to be closed. He would not have much time to heal, and it made her frightened to think of him going injured into whatever battle with Stannis was yet to come. There was no question that it had to be seen to at once. "I'll do it," she said, startled by her own voice.

She retrieved her embroidery silks with more bravery than she felt, choosing an undyed skein and threading her needle. The light was too low, so she stoked the fire and lit the lamp, carrying it to where he sat awkwardly on the edge of her bed, braced on the heels of his hands, his head drooping to his chest.

He raised his eyes to hers through the fall of his hair, looking so very tired it made her heart rend.

When she was ready, she next to him and brought his arm gently into her lap. She sewed the wound up carefully, pretending it was a sampler and not his flesh she was passing her needle through. She rinsed it again with water from her ewer and dabbed a healthy portion of salve over it.

"Don't want it to scar," she murmured.

"What's one more?" he asked lowly.

She looked up at him from beneath her lashes with distaste and he chuckled. She bandaged it as best she could, ripping an old gown into makeshift bandages. It made her think back to the first day she'd been brought to the nursery to work with Myrcella. He'd busted his hand training, or at least that's what he'd said. She'd eavesdropped on several people saying he'd been the one responsible for Meryn Trant's swollen nose and black eye. She'd bandaged his hand as she did now, dabbing the salve of lavender and honey across his knuckles, wrapping the bandage snugly, amazed by the warmth of his hand in hers, his stillness as she worked on him.

Still just as he was now, only this time he was looking at her openly, something wild and desperate in the way his gaze settled on her face. They were so close it was almost painful. She made herself pull away from him to fetch the basin and ewer.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, rearing back as she guided a moistened cloth toward his face.

"Believe it or not, Sandor Clegane, you are even more fearsome when your face is covered with another man's blood."

He closed his eyes but held still as she sponged the gore from his face, from the crevices of the scar. As she did, she became less able to ignore that he was sitting with her alone in her room, shirtless, the large expanse of his densely hairy, heavily muscled chest bared to her sight. She tingled, the sensation of her numbness fading like a limb that has fallen asleep being painfully wakened. He stirred something in her. The memory of him under her fingers was still fresh, and she could smell him, sweat and soap and strength. Her hands slowed as she struggled to keep her focus on her task.

She didn't miss the way his chest had begun to heave like bellows working torturously, and she knew it was with great effort that he sat through her ministrations. It must have been as unbearable for him as it was for her, because he caught her hand in his and stood, reaching for his hauberk and breastplate. The shortsword still hung on his hip. When he unfolded his tunic to put them on, clearly intent on leaving, something bright fluttered to the floor.

Lenna bent to retrieve it, stunned to be looking at her handkerchief. It was worn, the embroidery a dingy, dishwater gray, but it was evident to her that it had been cleaned faithfully. The aqua dye had faded, leaving the fabric soft against her fingers. Breathing became difficult.

"You carry it?" she asked dumbly. It had never occurred to her that he would carry it beyond the tourney. She wondered if he had taken it with him every day since. Pleasure and pain prickled.

"Always," he replied simply, his lips barely moving.

"Sandor-" she said, but his name came out as something pitiful and weak.

He crossed to her in two careful strides, his hands trembling as he lifted them slowly, as if in supplication. She did not pull away, and he cradled her face, bending his head to hers. It was a chaste kiss, almost devout in its passion. She was overwhelmed with feeling. It was as powerful as the first time he'd kissed her, her gut sizzling, her stomach fluttering. Her heart pounded as she opened her mouth to him.

The force of his response sent her reeling. It was animalistic in its fervor, everything about him hard and tense as he clutched her to him. His lips were merciless, tongue running along hers, teeth nipping at her mouth like he meant to devour her.

She felt alive for the first time since Joffrey had shattered her hopes.

He abruptly pulled away, an expression not unlike his battle-rage making his scarred face look like it was carved from jagged stone.

"Tell me to go," he pleaded harshly. "Tell me to go, Lenna, or I'll-"

"Stay," she whispered.

He needed no further invitation.

Sandor XXXIV

He wasted no further time.

The terror of the day was still wild in his veins. When he had seen her standing there in that sea of carnage, he had felt the most unholy thread of fear strike through him, white-hot and furious. He had barely reached her in time to cut the man running up behind her to the cobblestones, his hand releasing the upraised dagger he held as Sandor's longsword pieced his entrails and sent them flying. His heart had thrummed in brutal victory even as he drew her, bloodspattered and terrified, through the crowd.

She had been wildeyed, frantically searching for the damn Stark girl. He had shoved her roughly toward the Keep, making sure she got to the gate before he went in search of the girl. He'd found her...her didn't want to think about where he'd found her. It was too easy to imagine that it was Lenna they had spread out and held down to the ground. He'd slit every last one of them from cock to throat, the girl a trembling mass of shock and abject horror at his feet before he slung her over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

When he'd taken her to the Keep, depositing Sansa Stark safely in her room, Lenna had been rushing around like a mother hen, fluttering over the girl while she still had blood soaking her dress and coating her face. He wanted nothing more than the grab her and kiss her, not give a shit if the Stark girl saw. He had saved her, he had kept them at bay, and he wanted to assure himself that she was still there, still his to protect. It had taken every ounce of willpower to go back to the fray and not push her up against the doorframe.

When he'd finally come back, she'd been dressed only in that damn shift, her nipples pushing through the thin fabric. There was a long, angry cut on her cheek, and he felt a bolt of savage rage to see it. He'd slung his own cloak around her shoulders to save his own self-control, and he'd found it nearly unbearable to sit next to her as she'd cleaned and stitched him gently. She behaved as if nothing was amiss, that she had to stitch him up regularly. He wondered if she even realized how close she'd come to dying that day, how that man could have pierced her chest with that dagger if Sandor had been a half-second later. Here was was, though, warm and breathing. His blood rose. They were sitting on her bed damnit, and all he wanted to do was press her into the mattress and prove to himself that she was alive.

Her damn favor had doomed him, fluttering lazily to the floor as he tried to dress, too overcome with her nearness to stay any longer lest he do something irrevocable. She'd picked it up, running her fingers over it, surprise on her features.

"You carry it?" she asked, her voice incredulous. It hit him in the chest.

"Always," he growled. Always, every moment of every day. He slept with it under his pillow at night, tucked it against his chest each morning. Relied on it to remind him that he'd been loved once, that he had reason to live even if what he wanted most could never come to pass.

She'd looked at him sharply, and for the first time in months he saw Lenna, her face relaxing, the mask melting away.

"Sandor-"

His name from her mouth was a spell, calling forth his better nature, and he didn't even think before he stepped toward her, his hands gentle, shaking as he cupped her head to hold her still. He kissed her like he'd wanted to kiss her that day of the Hand's Tourney, or beneath the tree in the Westerlands, or on the ship from White Harbor. He kissed her like one of her make-believe knights would, all tenderness and devotion. If it was to be the last, he wanted it to be perfect. He never wanted her to doubt him again, even if they never had the opportunity to speak or touch or kiss in this lifetime.

And then she'd opened her mouth beneath his, and all thoughts of chivalry and knights vanished, replaced only by scalding need. It felt indescribably good to have her pressed against him again, to have her moans in his mouth, her hands in his hair. There was no getting enough of her, and he felt like a sword being reforged, melted down to liquid heat and being wrought anew, enmeshed with her.

"Tell me to go," he whispered savagely. "Tell me to go, Lenna, or I'll-"

"Stay."

He looked at her wild-eyed for a single moment before her hand slid up his chest and he let his restraint go. A seriousness settled upon him, a gravity as he accepted her invitation. He'd longed for this, for her, and he'd been foolish to push it away for so long. He was not a philosophical man, but the terror of seeing her, covered in blood and frozen in fear, had made him reckless.

He put his hand on her waist, thrilled to feel the heat of her skin through the whisper-thin material of the shift. He pushed the heavy robe from her shoulders, his breath catching when she took a step back, a nervous, somber smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She couldn't possibly have known, but standing in front of the fire in that almost sheer chemise revealed every curve and plane of her body.

His mouth fucking watered at the sight.

After a long moment of staring at her, drinking in the vision that he had so missed, he pulled her to him. His hands were at work again, digging into her hair, mouth on hers as her nimble little fingers went to work on the straps of his armor. He let it fall with a crash, kicking the braces aside. He removed his own hands reluctantly to strip off the cuisses, greaves, and boots, but she continued to kiss him, her hands pulling at his tunic. He paused just long enough to tear it over his head, standing up and pressing her to him. She smiled against his mouth, pushing away with her hands flat against his chest.

At first he was confused, thought she was rejecting him, had changed her mind, but he watched in slow fascination as she reached up to the neck of the chemise and pulled on the ribbon there, understanding dawning as the cinched fabric gave way and it fell down her shoulders, her arms. The gossamer thing pooled on the floor, leaving her standing there in front of him, softly bathed in firelight. The warm light of the flames licked at her skin, turning her skin hues of rose and gold, her nipples, the juncture of her thighs dusky and almost purple in contrast.

Her hands were shaking. She was entirely bare, but all he could see was her face, spread over by the most delicate blush, her eyes hesitant. She reached toward him and pulled on the drawstring of his trousers, her fingers dipping just below the waistband in a way that made his skin convulse and his lungs collapse inward. Then they were on the floor.

He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face to his. Her eyes were wide and a little apprehensive, but she stood before him boldly. She made no attempt to cover herself as she had in the past, though her body hummed with nervousness.

She's worried that she doesn't please me, he realized, and it made him smile. It was a wicked, fleeting thing, overtaken in the next moment by a wave of want that he didn't bother to subdue, pulling her against him and wrapping her arms around his neck. He groaned at the feeling of her pressed against him, skin to skin. In all their explorations, he had never let her take the damn chemise off. Feeling her against him like that, all softness and warmth, he knew he'd been right to keep that barrier between them. He wouldn't have been able to stop, and he wasn't going to now. He felt his restraint crack and break away for good, crumbling after a decade of discipline.

He mapped Lenna Manderly with lips and tongue, cataloguing each dip and curve from her collar bones to her breasts. He ran his fingers over the insides of her arms, relishing the quickening of her breath as he did so, nipping at the soft skin of her neck with his teeth to win the little gasps that sent bolts of heat and lightning directly to his cock. He knelt before her on the stone floor, pressing his face against her belly, dropping kisses over her hips, his tongue darting into the juncture of her thighs.

She mewled and he stood, gathering her up easily and laying her out on her bed. The sight, the realization of what he was going to do slowed him down. He was going to have her, and by all the gods, he was going to make a good show of it. He'd make her his, make her want to be his. He bent over her, suddenly tender, running his hand over her face, tracing her brows, her cheekbones, the sharp ridge of her jaw, at last his fingers tangling in her hair. It was still thick and lush, the short curls twining around his fingers like they were reaching out for him, just like her arms were. He knelt above her on the bed, then let himself be drawn down to her, pressing against her shoulder to hip. His cock was already straining, hot and stiff. It was almost painful. She arched her hips toward him and he shuddered.

"Not yet," he murmured.

He wanted nothing more than he wanted to sink into her, but he wasn't about to spend himself too soon. For all his earlier fervor, he wanted to draw it out as long as possible. He might never have this chance again. All of his imaginings, years' worth of sweaty, lascivious musings, came rushing at him in an irrepressible onslaught. There was so much he wanted to do with her, for her, and from the almost steely determination in her eyes, she was going to let him.

Lenna had always been eager before, but now there was an uncertainty about her he found irresistible. She was worried, anxious that he was going to be disappointed with her. He wished he had the words to tell her that there was no possibility in all the seven heavens, seven kingdoms or seven hells that he would find her lacking. He didn't deserve a hair on her head, yet here she was, spreading herself out before him like some delectable feast. He was starving.

He propped himself above her, again running his fingers along her jaw. When he kissed her, he kept his eyes open, watching her as she looked back at him. Drawing his fingers down the length of her neck and between her breasts, he was gratified when her eyes closed involuntarily as she gasped beneath his mouth.

He couldn't think, he could only feel, only look. Her skin was so soft, so pale, his own hands rough and brown in startling contrast. He loved the sight of his fingers splayed against her ribs and belly, smooth and plush and white. He still couldn't believe she let him touch her, wanted him to touch her, but it was evident that she did in the way that her thighs had instinctively opened to him, baring her to his view. His shaft jerked to see her gleaming.

She was watching his hands on her, her own palms running along the breadth of his shoulders. He knew she liked his shoulders, he noticed how she'd dig her fingers into them, try to span them with her arms. One hand laced through the hair at the base of his neck, the other traced through the hair on his chest, snaking across his abdomen. His muscles were taut, quivering under her touch, and he caught her hand before it reached his target. If he let her start stroking him there, he'd be spent before he had a chance to begin. Instead, he seized both of her wrists and pinned them to the bed with one hand, eyes raking hungrily over her. She was spread out for him, her skin glowing pale as snowfall, her eyes lustrous and dark, her mouth parted.

It wasn't the first time Sandor felt knocked back on his haunches by that look on her face. It was the same expression he had suppressed for years, yearning and devotion and want. He'd struggled with it long, at last recognizing that he didn't want Helenna Manderly, he needed her. It was unbearable to him to think that he might be separated from her, that she would be lost to him. He'd felt it that afternoon in a much more visceral way than he had even when the threat of his brother arose. That was in the future, it could be staved off, and Sandor knew that under no circumstances would Lenna Manderly go to Gregor Clegane. He'd steal her first. But that afternoon, he very well could have lost her.

What was more unbelievable was that she seemed to need him, too. It surprised him each time she smiled at him, touched him, spoke his name. He never particularly cared for his name, had no feelings about it one way or another, but on her tongue it was a benediction. The first time she'd spoken it, quietly, shyly, he'd thought he'd go to his knees. She'd sought him out, and he'd been torn between anger and a feeling much more powerful, one that made him want to plunge his hands into her hair. He'd never really kissed women before her. There had been a tavern wench or two, but they were the exception. He couldn't even recall what they looked like. And kissing wasn't something you did with whores. But he'd wrestled against kissing her that day when she'd said his name, wanting to very much to run his fingers across her cheeks, her jaw, the graceful curve of her neck. He'd wanted to see if she was as soft as he imagined her to be, as smooth, and he had held himself back.

So much fucking waste, he thought, looking down at her and allowing himself to see and acknowledge that she wanted him. She didn't tolerate him, she didn't pity him, she wanted him. No one in this world knew him better, knew what he was capable of, and still she wanted him. Stretched out beside her, skin to skin, he was filled with the regret of pushing what she continuously offered him away with two hands, refusing to believe she could feel anything for him, for closing himself off. He would have saved them so much pain.

"Sandor?" she asked, her brow furrowing. What little caution he had left vanished, and he brought his mouth to hers again, teasing her as he kept her hands above her head. He dragged the rasp of his chest across her breasts, feeling her nipples pebbling against him, his free hand cupping and squeezing, plucking. She whimpered into his mouth, pressing herself against him with arching back. He did not refrain from crushing himself against her, her eyes flying open at the feeling of him hot and rigid on the soft round of her belly.

She pulled against him, trying to free her hands, and he grinned wickedly. He released her but he became the bear again, kneeling before her on the bed, hands digging into her rear as he pulled her closer, making her writhe simply by breathing hotly against her. He drew his tongue along her, garnering him a shuddering sigh, the hands he'd just freed twisting in her sheets as she threw her head back. Her neck arched, and he groaned at the way her body tensed, straining toward him. He lowered his head and lapped at her eagerly, watching her even from his position, enjoying the tug and pull of her hands as they groped for his head as his maiden fair squealed and convulsed against him, her mouth open in wordless pleasure.

He'd forgotten how impatient she was. She tugged forcefully enough for him to know that she wanted him beside her, so he slid up the length of her, replacing his tongue with his hand, his fingers dipping into her wetness, causing her hips to buck against him, her body twisting so that she could touch him. She ran a hand purposefully over his chest and abdomen, eagerly heading for his cock again. This time he didn't draw away, wanting to feel her so badly. He was like iron and felt prone to bursting when she drew one finger tantalizingly up his length from base to tip, the barest hint of sensation. She kept teasing him until he growled, then she wrapped her hand around him tightly, tearing a curse from his throat.

Her eyes were nearly black and they never left his, even as she pressed herself into the bedclothes, arching her back. Her free hand ran a thrilling path from her shoulders and down her torso to meet his between her thighs, her fingers lightly tracing her own curves in a way that made him savage. She touched herself even as one hand continued to stroke him, his own fingers stretching and filling her. It made him whimper with need. He watched her, mesmerized, and he didn't think he'd ever see anything as beautiful.

She must not have realized what she was doing, because she blushed when she saw where he was looking, pulling her hand away and turning her face from him. He caught her wrist and guided her back to herself. She looked up at him from beneath her lashes, her cheeks scarlet.

"Don't stop," he pleaded, continuing to drive his fingers into her, curling them forward in the way he knew made her quake. He memorized every movement, every detail, knowing he'd probably lay in his bunk and dream of this sight for the rest of his life. If by some awful chance they were interrupted at that moment, the way they were entwined, her breathy cries in his ears as he devoured the vision of her in such fulsome pleasure, that alone would be ample fodder for the remainder of his days.

She was beginning to crest, and he encouraged her, murmuring wicked words, telling her exactly what seeing her that way did to him, how beautiful it was, what it made him want to do. A few more moments and she came apart beneath him, breathy sighs and variations of his name from her throat. He could feel her tightening then go languid in the long tremors, her keening absorbed by his shoulder as he slowed his movements to draw it out, whispering encouragement to her, words and phrases he'd never say except to her. Her eyes were shining, and if it wasn't for her uneven hair, he'd have thought they'd gone back to the time before Joffrey had become king.

As she looked up at him, her smile went wicked and his stomach flipped. She raised herself over him, sliding down the length of him until he could feel her breath against his cock, hot and damp. His hands dug into her bedclothes when she traced the tip of her tongue up his length and then circled him, a strangled groan escaping from his throat. He threw his head back when her mouth closed over him, her little hand twisting around his base. For a few long moments he let her continue thus, his hands ghosting over her head, the curls twining around his fingers, gods knew what spilling from his mouth. Words were spilling like a half-formed torrent, and he wasn't at all aware of what it was he was saying. He gritted his teeth at the sudden, white-hot threat of release and pushed her away.

She looked up at him in confusion, but he couldn't speak. He didn't know how to ask her, so he hauled himself up until he was half-sitting against her headboard. He took her hand and pulled her toward him solemnly, eyes holding hers and willing her to understand what he wanted. He swallowed heavily as she drew nearer, clumsily settling over him with a knee on either side of his hips. He didn't know what to make of the mixture of excitement and determination in her eyes, but it made his mouth go dry.

Her cheeks and chest were still flushed from her earlier release, her mouth a ripe, currant red, lips still parted, that wicked little pink tongue darting out to wet them. She practically glowed, her skin pale as milk in contrast with her brows, the blowsy curls that fluttered about her face. The long, graceful column of her neck was exposed without the fall of her hair, curving as she cocked her head and looked back at him. He wanted to nip at it, to find the spot that made her gasp again.

He felt the surge of arousal and fear in his belly as he reached out to her side, fingers following the curve of her ribcage, urging her closer. He could feel her ribs beneath her skin, detect their subtle expansion as she breathed, then he traced the dip of her waist and over her hips, drawing her closer to him by sinking his fingers into the ample softness of her hips. Shifting forward, she grazed along his length. He groaned to feel her heat against him. The smug little smirk on her face was quickly changed to startled lust when he pressed himself upward, pushing against the place his fingers had just been, her mouth open and panting.

"Please," she said. "Show me."

His heart stammered in his chest as he reached down between them to guide himself into her, resisting the urge to thrust into her, to take her like he wanted to. It was going to hurt her, he knew that, but he wanted her to remember this with pleasure, not with pain. He would not forgive himself if she regretted this. He thought that he might die if she regretted it.

He stopped her mouth with his to distract her, groaning as she lowered herself slowly on top of him. It was agonizing trying to hold still. All he wanted was the press up into her. Her breath hitched and he felt her wince, and he was struck with how unfair it was that he should be flooded with so much pleasure and she should not. He'd make it up to her.

She settled around him, clinging to his shoulders as her body yielded to him. Gods, but she was so hot and snug around him, he couldn't breathe. She felt so fucking good he was surprised he didn't spend himself immediately. She was still, her own breathing labored and her eyes closed. When she opened them, he didn't see pain, he saw fire. His cock twitched in her and they both shuddered.

"What do I do?" she asked, her expression serious. He dug his fingers into fleshy hips, guiding her against him, showing her how to roll her hips, to raise and lower herself. He thought he would die of bliss when she started to move of her own accord, her breathing becoming shallower, bracing one of her hands on the wall behind his head. He lifted his chin to kiss her, her mouth gasping above his as he grasped her hip in one hand and stroked her breasts with the other, rolling and twisting her nipple, enjoying the way she ground against him and cried out sharply when he did.

He touched her the way he'd long learned she liked, and it wasn't long before the pain abated, if the way she was undulating her hips was any indication. He went between biting his lip and gritting his teeth to maintain his control, letting her set the pace, the depth, everything, and knowing he must look vicious from the strain in his neck and arms. It was worth it when she went wanton, much to his fierce delight, coming apart around him with her head thrown back and her breasts thrust forward. He buried his face in them as she crested. He didn't bother trying to subdue his curses and groans, words again pouring out in a deluge he couldn't control. He wasn't much longer, her body still convulsing around him, squeezing and gripping, speeding him toward his own release. He spilled into her hotly, muffling the loud groan he couldn't subdue into the crook of her neck.

She slumped against him, boneless and pliable, resting against his chest with unexpected stillness. Once he got his breathing under control, he leaned back to look at her. Her face was still flushed, but her eyes were full of some emotion he could not identify.

"What's wrong?" he asked, suddenly afraid. She looked grave, her cheeks flushed, and she would not look at him. She regrets it, oh gods, she regrets it now that it's done.

"Nothing," she replied. "I...you..."

To his horror, her eyes welled up with tears.

"What?" he barked in terror, hoping against hope.

"You've never said it to me before," she murmured. "You've never said the words."

Oh gods, he thought, remembering suddenly that as he'd spent himself he'd groaned three words into her shoulder over and over. Three words he'd never been able to say.

Shy wasn't the right word for what he was feeling. Exposed. Defenseless. Vulnerable. He didn't know why, but he wanted to hide from her, turning his head so she couldn't read his face. Then she'd laid her soft hands on his face and brought him to look at her. Her eyes were shining at him like they contained their own candles.

"It's true," he whispered. "What I said...it's true."

"I know," she replied, "and I feel the same."

She smiled and kissed him, laughing lightly into his mouth. He'd learned that she did so when she was especially happy, it being a second to tears. He hadn't seen her happy in months, if not a year. He honestly never thought he'd see her happy again.

He felt like he was simultaneously collapsing and exploding, joy and doubt running through him in equal measure. He let his hands wander, lightly stroking her sides, running over her soft stomach, letting himself go lax as she rested against him like a languorous cat. He had no words for her after that, the evening had taken more than what he thought he could even give.

He slept. He shouldn't have, but he did, falling asleep for an hour or two with her warm and soft against him. She burrowed into his shoulder, her fingers twined into the hair on his chest, and when he awoke it was still dark night outside her windows. The lamp on the bedside table had gone out, the fire had burned down to embers. When she lifted her face to him, it was a white moon in the darkness, her eyes glittering. If he wasn't mistaken, there was a flash of mischief in them.

"Can we do that again?"

He wasn't feeling particularly playful, but he'd give her what she wanted. Instead of answering, he rolled her in his arms and covered her mouth and her body with his, cradling her against him. He was slow, he took his time, and he stored away every flush and trembling, each gasp and cry, praying to whatever gods were listening that it wasn't the last time they'd be together thus. She was always a quick study, and he felt like he was melting into her when her legs wrapped around his waist as he buried himself in her again and again, clutching her tight to his chest, their foreheads pressed together. When they'd exhausted themselves, he wrapped himself around her, an enormous hand splayed across her belly, and let her sleep. Despite being deliciously drained, he was wakeful and watched for dawn, not wanting to leave but knowing he could not risk falling asleep there beside her again. That was a luxury that wasn't for them.

When the first tendrils of light made their way through the window, he rose and strapped on his armor as best he could, kissing her tenderly, her eyes dreamily watching as he snuck from her chamber and back into the uneasy silence of the Keep.

A/N: Finally.