Lenna XXXVI
She was tired and it was still early when Sansa Stark burst into her rooms without knocking, Shae following in her wake with an expression of rage that would shake the gods. Sansa threw herself on Lenna's bed, her thin shoulders heaving, the sounds of her sobs echoing off the walls.
"What is the matter?" Lenna demanded, rising quickly from her desk. Sleep was a stranger, and she had been awake for the long gray hours before dawn. Her head ached and she massaged her temples with her fingertips, fighting off the pang of annoyance she felt at Sansa's presumptuousness. The girl could have at least knocked. She would have answered the door. She'd only been working through one of Tyrion's long translations, taking comfort in the familiar process, looking forward to speaking with him about it. To her dismay, she realized that she had upended her inkwell on the parchment, ruining several morning's worth of work.
"Your friend," Shae hissed. Lenna's looked at her with what she hoped was warning. She didn't like that Shae knew what Sandor was to her, didn't like that anyone knew. While she certainly wasn't ashamed, she knew he was right in thinking that being found out would go poorly for both of them. Shae was speaking rashly to even insinuate such a thing in front of Sansa. The girl was too naive to recognize the danger a stray word could pose.
"What are you talking about?" Lenna asked, simultaneously exasperated and fearful. She could feel the heat creep into her cheeks, but Shae was far too preoccupied with Sansa to care. Luckily, Sansa was too busy sobbing into Lenna's pillow to have noticed the look that passed between them or the tone of Shae's voice.
"Why would he tell her?" Sansa shrieked, her voice muffled . "Why would he do it?"
Lenna's patience was hanging by a thread. She had no time for hysterics, and even less time for puzzles. "Will one of your please tell me exactly what happened?" Lenna said, her voice rising in anger. "I cannot do anything until I know what is wrong."
"Lady Sansa has flowered," Shae replied, pursing her lips and cocking her eyebrow. "And your guard dog has run to tell the queen."
Was that all? Lenna took a deep breath. "Of course he did." She didn't know why Sandor would know, but of course he would tell the queen. He wasn't stupid. The girl's whole future hung in the balance while they waited for her body to catch up with her womanly ways. If she'd flowered, her marriage to Joffrey would be swift to follow. Unhappiness and sympathy rose in Lenna, but while she pitied the girls, she also envied her. How awful that she should wish for Joffrey over her own potential groom.
"I cannot marry him," Sansa said bleakly, finally raising her head and looking at Lenna forlornly. Her face was tear-streaked and blotchy, spots as red as her hair covering her skin unevenly. "I told him that and still he went."
"Sansa," Lenna replied quietly, crossing to her bed and sitting next to the girl. She gingerly placed a hand on the girl's thin back, dismayed that she could count her ribs, feel the knots of her spines. She wasn't eating, and neither was Lenna. "He had to."
"He didn't," Shae bit back, her hands on her hips and her face a fury. "He didn't have to say anything."
"He couldn't lie about a thing like that," Lenna said firmly. Shae was smart, but she still didn't understand the way things were done in the Keep. That much was obvious to her from the little Tyrion had confided in her. Shae continuous flouted the boundaries he put in place, threatening to expose herself. Lenna doubted the other woman knew exactly what that could mean, and she would bet a gold dragon that Shae didn't believe things were as bad as they were. She prayed that the Lorathi wouldn't learn the hard way. "It would be too risky."
"It wouldn't be a lie, it would just be an omission-" Sansa replied, but her strangled voice died away, her eyes drawn to the doorway.
Sandor was standing there looking grim as ever. Sansa's face was tight and she radiated righteous anger. If she was looking for a reaction from him, Lenna knew all too well that she wouldn't get one.
"She said I could trust you," Sansa bit out, spit flying, "but you're just a dog like everyone says."
The insult landed harmlessly, and Sandor smirked. Lenna knew he didn't care what the girl thought of him. Like a hound, he had only one master, the rest of them be damned.
"A dog will die for you, little bird," he said quietly, his voice gentler than Lenna expected. He was exerting an extreme amount of his very limited patience. "but he won't lie to you. Or for you. And he'll look you straight in the face. Hate me all you want. It doesn't change what's done. What had to be done."
"Why? Why did you do it?" Sansa demanded, her face growing redder, the tears pouring down her cheeks. "I can't marry him!" Lenna wrapped the girl into her shoulder, looking at Sandor dispassionately over the girl's head.
"I help you when I can, my lady," he said slowly, his eyes flicking to Lenna's. "But I won't risk my neck for yours."
"But-" Sansa protested. Sandor took another step into the room, ducking his head and addressing Sansa alone. The girl struggled to look back at him.
"You've been in this Keep too long not to understand that everyone here is on their own," he said. "You depend on others to stand up for you far too much. You must stand on your own feet, child," he continued. "Everyone else here does."
"Lenna helps me," she replied defiantly, lifting her chin.
"Aye," he replied, anger pushing him back a step and radiating from him like heat from a fire. He stood at his full height and gestured to Lenna. "And look what it cost her. It could have been her head he made me cut off. Would that have satisfied you, little bird? Lady Helenna's head for your stupidity?"
"Clegane," Lenna interrupted. "That was not the girl's fault."
"It was," he replied, looking at her like she was daft. "If she'd done as she'd been told and gone home to Winterfell like her father wished, none of this would have happened. She'd be safe, and so would you. She's angry with me for running to the queen, when it was her running to the queen that started this mess to begin with."
"I didn't know-" Sansa wailed.
"Now you do," he replied, tone sharp as newly-whetted steel. "See that you remember that everything you do has a price."
"My father would still have marched with Robb Stark," Lenna replied softly. "And besides. What does this bickering do? Nothing. It does nothing, and I'm tired of it."
Sandor shook his head, looking back at Sansa.
"I'm sorry for you, my lady. I'd not wish him on anyone, let alone an innocent child like you, but this is the way of things now." He looked to Lenna, taking in her old blue dressing gown, every inch the Hound again. It astonished her how quickly he could throw that cloak over his face. "The queen asked for you, better make ready quick."
Lenna looked to Shae, only to find that she'd gone to her wardrobe already, pulling out a gown. Sandor nodded and went to stand outside the door.
Sansa still sat on her bed looking miserable, her face tearstained and blotchy. Her eyes would be red-rimmed for hours, and Lenna hoped that Joffrey didn't call for her. He hated to see her crying. It made her less pretty for him.
"I'm sorry, Sansa," she said quietly. "You must continue to bear up."
The girl nodded, reaching out and squeezing Lenna's fingers.
"I'm sorry, too," Sansa replied. "About your hair."
Lenna smiled genuinely. "Never mind my hair, child. It'll grow."
She met Sandor outside her door. She hadn't seen him since the night of the riots. He hadn't returned to her rooms, nor had she expected him to. When he looked at her, there was a fullness and a complexity in his gaze that was new and rather unexpected. He didn't know what to do, what to say, and for once neither did she. She settled for staying in step beside him, her shoulder brushing his, wondering if he was thinking of the same things she was.
Something had changed, something that had been wrought between them years earlier had settled into place. There had always been a whisper of sympathy, even in the beginning, and it had grown stronger and stronger until now Lenna was quite sure she was welded to him in an immutable fashion. From the way he seemed to vibrate, his hand so near hers that she could almost feel him like he was touching her, he felt it too.
I am his and he is mine.
As soon as she thought it, she felt foolish. She was a grown woman, not some simpering girl. Strangely, she couldn't think of a more apt way to describe how she felt, even simply walking next to him. The incongruity of them struck her, not for the first time, the Hound having taken the place of Sandor always when it was not just the two of them. He'd cleaned and polished his plate, and he walked in that adversarial fashion that she'd come to associate with his duty, shoulders forward and head lowered, like a bull thinking to charge. If she ever worried that someone might suspect them, she put the thought aside. No one would think this hulking man capable of acting the lover's part.
That made her smile to herself, secret and warm. She blushed deeply when she glanced up to find him looking at her. He looked anxious, his face not quite blank, a humming nervousness in the set of his shoulders, the lay of his hands. His head was tilted toward her ever so slightly, watching her through the curtain of his hair, eyes searching. His eyes closed in what must have been relief when she slipped her fingers into his and squeezed. She was rewarded by the slight upturn of his lips, the brief pressure of his hand around hers before they each let go.
Cersei was in her study. She was standing by the windows, biting down on the tip of her forefinger as she stared out at the sea. Lenna was surprised to see Tyrion seated at her desk, his fingers steepled across his belly.
"Your grace, Lord Tyrion," Lenna said, curtseying quickly.
"Lenna, come in," Cersei replied, turning to her quickly. She made a brisk movement with her fingers at Sandor to indicate he should go. He nodded deeply, not looking at Lenna as he turned on his heel and left. Lenna hated to watch him go not knowing when they'd have the opportunity to speak. She desperately needed to talk to him.
Cersei took up her spot by the windows, gazing out in the courtyard below. She was dressed in pink, her hair streaming around her shoulders. She hardly looked like a dowager queen, the word conjuring the image of a crone, or at the very least, a portly elder monarch. Cersei was still fair, but now her face was perpetually troubled, the indentation between her brows a permanent feature.
"Lady Sansa is a woman," she said plainly.
"Joyous news, your grace," Lenna replied, endeavoring to pitch her voice with joy. "Now she and Joffrey may be wed, and this whole unpleasantness with the North put to rights."
Cersei began to pace, chewing on her thumb. It always struck Lenna as incongruous to see her that way, nervously biting her nails in thought.
"I begin to think," Cersei said, turning to Lenna, "that it is not perhaps the best option to marry Sansa to my son."
"Your grace," Lenna replied with a dry laugh, "you have insisted on maintaining the betrothal, why change it at this point?"
"Renly Baratheon is dead," Cersei replied. "We received news this morning."
"Gods," Lenna replied. Real grief had squeezed her heart like a fist. He was beautiful and kind. She thought of his antler in desk, given to Sandor in a show of humility at the Tourney. "I know that he was thinking to rise against King Joffrey, but the thought of Renly dead-"
"Some foolish story about being killed by a ghost," the queen continued, completely unbothered by the death of her brother-in-law. Lenna's brows show up.
"What?"
"It is claimed that he was killed by a shade, stabbed through the heart by a shadow with his brother's face."
"Quite a tale," Lenna replied. She looked down at her hands, struggled not to gulp in dismay. She'd read accounts of such things, of course, but she'd always taken them with a grain of salt. She struggled to balance her faith in the Seven with tales of witchcraft and sorcery. It seemed to her that there was no magic in the world, not the kind the queen spoke of. No spells or conjurings, just people and their misdeeds.
"Catelyn Stark was there apparently," Cersei continued breezily. Lenna concealed her surprise. She is nearby, then. "But it now leaves Margaery Tyrell a royal widow."
"I had heard they wed. I have never met the lady."
"Nor have I," Cersei said, "but the Tyrells-"
"Do not speak to me of the Tyrells, your grace," Lenna replied, a smirk on her lips. "We have never quite forgiven them their betrayal of us. Them or any of the lords of the Reach."
"You are right, Lenna. Your memory is quite long," Cersei laughed. "Nevertheless, Margaery is young, beautiful, and very, very rich. Considering that it looks like our greatest adversary is not Stark, but Baratheon, it would be a much more suitable match for Joffrey to consider Margaery as a bride than Sansa. The widow of his uncle, a unification of both his houses, in a way. In addition to all the wealth and support of the lords of the Reach and Stormlands, of course."
"Would they rally in opposition to Stannis, do you think?"
"The Reach? More than likely. The Stormlands? Remains to be seen. But I am hopeful."
Lenna took a deep breath. "And Lady Sansa? If this is done, what will become of her?"
"I don't really care," Cersei said flatly. "But I suppose accommodation must be made for her."
"In what way?"
"She will, of course, remain here as our guest," the queen replied, her voice lingering unconvincingly on the last word. "Perhaps in time a suitable match may be made for her."
"Perhaps, your grace," Lenna said carefully, "perhaps she could be ransomed. To her mother. Lord Renly's forces are not so far away, and if Lady Catelyn is with them, then Sansa-"
"No," Cersei said shortly. "She is too valuable as our guest here. It is good to remind Robb Stark that we have his sister. And her mother, too. She will stay. We'll find some little lord to marry her off to."
"I wish her more joy than I have had in that regard," Lenna replied, disappointed that her suggestion had been met with such immediate disapproval. Cersei looked at her sharply, but there was guilt in that gaze. "I'm sorry, your grace."
"Don't be," she replied, sipping from her glass. "We are of the same mind. I wish there was more that I could do."
"Will he not be swayed?" Lenna asked, ashamed that she was discussing her own troubles again. Didn't he tell Sansa to stand up for herself?
Cersei shook her head resignedly. "I dare not push him more."
"Your grace," Lenna said slowly, "what is it that I have done to offend the king so? I always did my best to treat him kindly. I have no idea what it is I have done, other than be born Northern, to have made him despise me so." It was a question that had rankled Lenna since the king was a boy. He had been so sweet and loving with her when he was young, and Lenna could not put her finger on what had changed, why he had gone from affectionate to disdainful.
Cersei's brow knotted and she looked out the window. "I cannot say for certain, but I think perhaps Joffrey dislikes you because Myrcella loved you. Because I love you. He cannot bear not to be loved."
"Surely he knows that just because others have something it doesn't mean it has been taken from him?"
"I don't know," she said swiftly. "But do know this, Lenna. Whatever I can do for you, I will. I do not want you unhappy. Truly. Granted, content may be the best either of us could ask for."
Lenna found the grace to smile at her. "I know, your grace."
"There may be a way, when all of this is over," Cersei said, waving her hand in vague indication of the battle to come. "But you will not like what I propose."
"Your grace?"
"Ser Gregor is a brute, but he has served this family well. As well as his little brother, and better," Cersei said. "Joffrey will want to reward him, as will my father."
"Harrenhal is not enough, your grace?"
"It would be to you and me," she replied. "And to my father, for that matter. He is most displeased. I do think he still had you in mind for Tyrion. I regret that I stepped in the way of that when it was still possible." Lenna looked at her in confusion. Cersei looked uncomfortable, and it was the first time Lenna had seen that kind of apology written on her face. "Years ago, father had suggested it. Shortly after you met Tyrion. It was plain to everyone with eyes that you had formed some sort of friendship under our noses. What more could my Imp brother ask for than friendship? And an alliance with a Great House would have been beneficial to your families. We could have united the seas with such. But I stood in opposition."
Lenna chose not to speak, not to ask for her reasoning. Cersei's expression showed her expectation that she would do so, and she pressed on anyway, her reply ready.
"I did not want to lose you as Myrcella's tutor," she said quickly. "Her guardian, for you were more than her tutor. That word does not quite express what you were to my girl. I nearly hated you for how she loved you, but how could I hate someone who would love her as you did? I was selfish, and I do regret it very much. You should have been allowed to marry, to have a family of your own, and I kept that from you. If I had, you would not be facing Gregor Clegane."
"Your grace-" Lenna said, shaking her head. While it was true that she would not have been in her current situation if she had married Tyrion early on, it would have cost her Sandor. Foolish as it was, she wouldn't have traded what little time they'd had for it. At least, that's what she told herself.
"No, Lenna," she said. "I don't often apologize, but I will say that I am sorry for it. I regret it. I never imagined that we would find you in such a situation. Rest assured that it is in my thoughts, as well as those of my father and brother. There must be some remedy for this. We will find it when this business with the Baratheons blows by. There is, however, something that may sweeten the medicine, sway the king."
"What is that, your grace?"
"This business with the North will be put down, and soon. Houses will need to be brought back in line. We will unite behind a common enemy."
"Stannis," Lenna answered.
"Yes," she replied. "And we will lose part of our fleet in the battles to come. It is too late for your father to aid us now, of course, nor would he while standing with Robb Stark. Stannis' fleet is a day's voyage from our harbor. But after- you might prevail on him to send reinforcements. In exchange for a shift in prospect."
Lenna gritted her teeth. "Who, your grace?"
"I'm sorry, Lenna, but the only option we've alighted on is Sandor Clegane." Lenna felt as if the floor had opened beneath her, the sensation of falling, no, flying, so strong she nearly spilled out of her chair. Cersei looked at her apprehensively, noting her unsteadiness and moving quickly to extend a hand. "One dog for another, but at least he's not mad. He is not nearly so bad as his brother, Lenna. I had rather thought you were friends of a sort."
"Yes," Lenna replied. "I am not unhappy about such a prospect, your grace."
"You looked faint. It is an insult, I know-"
"No, your grace, I am not faint, or insulted. Relieved. I am relieved." Her voice was a whisper. It wasn't a lie. She was relieved, but relieved did not encompass the queer hope in her breast.
"Your father," Cersei said carefully. "Will he be prevailed upon to approve?"
"I believe so," she whispered. "He liked Clegane. If I am allowed to explain-"
Cersei cocked her eyebrow, pausing for a long moment. "We will do what we may. But you will consent?"
"Aye, your grace. With my whole heart."
Lenna never thought she'd spoken truer to the queen, not at all unaware that the significance of such was lost on Cersei. She did not care. Something bright and white had unfurled itself in her breast, and she would not let it be repressed.
Sandor XXXVI
He could no longer bear it. He tried the Sept, he tried the gardens, he even tried to pace the passageways in hopes of crossing paths with her. She did not appear. The night he went to the queen about Sansa Stark's flowering, knowing that Stannis Baratheon's siege was imminent, possibly the next day, he found himself stealing through the Keep after midnight and stopping in front of her door.
He raised his fist to rap, pressing his tongue against the roof of his mouth and gritting his teeth in determination. He needn't have bothered. The door opened to him before he could knock, and he found himself face to face with her.
He wasn't quite prepared for the wealth of feeling that surged over him to see her as Lenna, not her courtly counterpart. It had been difficult enough walking down the passageway with her that morning, even harder when she slipped her slim fingers into his. He's been anxious, not at all sure what he was supposed to say or do, nervous that she had thought better of what she had allowed him to do. Liberty didn't begin to describe it. He felt like together they'd done something final, immutable, complete. And gods, he didn't want to change it. He didn't want to hear her say that it had been a mistake because it was the only thing he'd ever done that had felt true, even if he'd had no right to do it.
She was in her dressing gown, an old, blue silk thing that was frayed at the bottom, and she was smiling ever so softly at him. Relief rained down on him, just as it had that morning when her hand took his. He felt his entire body go lax, his fist hanging stupidly in the air where he'd been about to knock, frozen mid-action. He dropped it quickly, feeling a fool, and looked at the floor.
"Aren't you coming in?" she asked, stepping aside. He looked briefly past her into the room's warm interior. If he had a conception of the seven heavens, his would look like her chambers, awash in the glow of a stoked fire, her four-poster laden with soft bedding and blankets, and her holding the door open to him.
Mine. He took a breath and crossed the threshold.
She closed and bolted the door behind him, moving quickly to her desk. It was strewn with parchment, and it made him smile to see her fluttering about like a nervous bird. She replaced her quill in it's stand and capped her inkpot, sprinkling her sand over her writing and quickly storing the remnants.
"Sorry," she said with a quirk of her lips, her gaze only briefly meeting his. The bravado of the doorway had vanished in the intimacy of her chamber. He, too, was all to aware that they were alone. "Tyrion set me on a translation and it has kept me up."
"No sorry needed," he replied. "I did not wish to bother you." It sounded formal in his own ears, and he wondered what in the hells a man was supposed to say.
"I was hoping you would," she said, her eyes gleaming. She closed her eyes briefly, and he knew she was gathering courage to say something. She always found the courage to speak. "I have missed you, Sandor."
His breath caught and he groaned internally. She had no idea the effect of his bloody name on her lips. Parts of him that were already on alert now stood at the ready. If he wasn't so far gone he might have been embarrassed.
When she finished tidying up, she came to him slowly. He realized with a bolt that her hesitance was shyness as she quietly laid a hand on his chest. She wasn't looking at him, her lashes fluttering dark like feathers on her cheeks, and he put his own hand over hers. It was soft and small and warm, and he squeezed it, bringing her eyes to his. He knew she could feel his heart in his chest, loud as thunder.
He'd felt nervous in the beginning, just after the tourney when she had first kissed him. He'd been impressed with her boldness then, the way she had risen on her toes and pressed her lips to his. It was unexpected, yearned for, and he couldn't believe it at first. After, he wondered if he had her permission to do the same, to kiss her when he wanted, and he had learned that he did. There was still a twinge of fear when he dipped his head to hers, the painful thought that perhaps he'd lost the privilege. Or never had it to begin with. Surely he had dreamed the last few months, all of their time together just a figment of his own imagination. Even if he did believe it, so much had transpired since the Tourney of the Hand. Now, having had her maidenhead in the bed not two strides away, he wondered if he still had her leave to touch her as he wished.
She peered up at him through her lashes and he ducked his head jerkily, his mouth catching hers. He couldn't resist, didn't want to resist. She readily returned it, and something tightly wound in him went slack with relief.
"You've missed me, too," she said playfully, pulling away from him. His cock was already hard and ready between them, but he had things he needed to say.
"Aye," he replied. "Are you well?" You're an idiot.
"I am," she replied. "Sit?"
The only option was to take a position on the edge of her bed, which he did gingerly. He had to keep his head clear, and Lenna with him on a bed in any position would sorely tempt him to lose it. He needed to talk to her, for them to address what had happened. For him to tell her about what he'd been thinking, the idea that Bronn had put into his head.
"Wine?" she asked. He nodded gratefully, taking the glass from her and almost smiling to taste Dornish sour. "I know it's your favorite."
He nodded, watching her as she uncertainly sipped her own. She was less than a foot away from him, and he could feel her heat through the dressing gown, through his tunic, almost like they were skin to skin. Fucking hells, think about something, anything, else.
"I needed to see you," he said at last. "We need to talk."
"Aye," she agreed, and before he could speak again, she did. "I saw the queen today."
"And?"
"There is to be no decision made regarding a betrothal until after the battle to come."
"That's what Tyrion said."
"You've spoken with him?"
Sandor grunted affirmatively. "Few days ago. After." He colored hotly. He wondered if she knew that Tyrion was well aware that Sandor had been in her bed. That he'd stained her sheets.
Lenna didn't seem bothered in the slightest. "The queen offered me an interesting alternative," she said lightly, looking down at her glass.
"She did?" he asked, his breathing becoming shallow. He'd not said a word to her about Tyrion's idea, not for weeks. He couldn't stand to think it wouldn't come to pass, could not share that hope with her until it was more certain.
"Aye," she replied slowly. "She suggested that another man be substituted for your brother."
"Who?" he asked lowly, still not believing the conniving siblings would really offer him.
"You," she said softly, turning her moss-green gaze to him. It felt like a fist to his kidneys to see such hope there. "She offered you."
"And what did you say?" he asked, throat working. She could have said no...she could have refused...she should refuse...it's daft...
She looked at him with real offense. "I agreed, of course." She pulled away slightly.
He grabbed her hand even as a hot blade of joy slashed him in the stomach. "I'm sorry," he said lamely. "I didn't mean-"
"I do not regret what we did," she said quietly. "I'm glad it was you. I've only ever wanted it to be you, and I'd do it again."
Sandor didn't know if that was an invitation or not, but he took it as one. His earlier reticence to be the first one to act vanished in a puddle of want. He slid his arm around her single-mindedly, dragging her to him as he buried his other hand in her hair. As soon as his mouth found hers, she opened her lips to him, and he felt himself burn with frenzy.
Before he knew quite what he was doing, he had torn the dressing gown from her along with her chemise. They puddled on the floor where he threw them, not bothering to look where they landed. His tunic and trousers followed soon after. She moved to stretch out against her bed, one knee drawn up as she reclined on her elbows, looking like a goddess in repose. Within moments he was looming above her, fitting himself against her, insinuating himself between her legs. She parted them willingly, a hand wrapping around the back of his neck. Her mouth was opened and her eyes had gone dark, and gods help him, he knew he wouldn't stop again. He looked away, clamping his jaw, trying to calm himself enough to at least go slowly. Her other little hand came up to rest on his cheek, turning him to look at her.
Fuck, he thought, looking down at her with her eyes shining, her breasts heaving. He nipped at her mouth, wanting to see it red and swollen, wanting to feel her little gasps and pants as she stole his own breath. She rewarded him by arching against him, pressing her chest to his, the softness of her making it difficult to think at all, let alone think straight.
He lowered his mouth to her neck, her mouth by his ear as he licked and suckled the pale flesh over her pulse. "Don't hold back," she whispered. "I don't want you to hold back."
The denial splintered, and he hauled her toward him, hands beneath her hips. His cock brushed against the spot that drove her wild, and his fingers trailed across her body, tweaking and twisting all the places he knew she liked, dipping between her thighs to find her dripping already. He groaned heartily, and it turned into a gasp as her slim fingers closed around him and guided him towards her.
Gods, but she's always been bold, he thought before all thought fled, replaced only by sensation, the heat and slick and softness, a crimson haze.
He sank into her slowly, relishing the sensation of her giving way under him. He slid in easily, though she was snug around him. Her breath hitched and he worried that he'd hurt her again, but then her hips twitched and he lunged, her head thrown back as she grasped his arms. He rocked into her with little regard for her pleasure, but her soft, throaty cries propelled him onwards, the way her hips bucked against his, unschooled but eager, telling him that she did enjoy him. Release came upon him quickly, too quickly, and in a thrill of terror at Tyrion's warning, he pulled away from her and spilled himself in thick, pulsating arcs across her belly.
She lay beneath him with her hands about her ears and panting, a rosy flush spreading from her breastbone to her cheeks. There was a rivulet of sweat running between her breasts, and he wondered if it belonged to him or her. He slid a hand between her legs and within minutes he had her keening beneath him, her body taut and gleaming with exertion, her hair spread around her head in a pillow in a wild tangle. He felt prickles of shame along his neck even as she came apart beneath him, clutching at him and breathing the syllables of his name in no particular order. He hadn't meant for it to be so quick. He'd lost his control, hadn't thought about making it good for her. She looked up at him smiling, eyes darkened and sated, but still he wished he'd taken his time. He didn't know how much they had left.
She rested beside him and he stroked her soft curls, still mourning the loss of their predecessors, looking forward to them growing again. They twisted around his fingers, clinging and twining, and she regained her breath. She shifted against him and he made himself get up.
He went to her ewer and moistened a cloth, moving back to her and wiping her belly clean. She watched him so intently that he felt his neck heat, but his tongue had grown thick and he could think of nothing to say. He felt like a green lad who had been too eager and had spilled himself inconsiderately.
"Sorry," he said quietly. "I didn't mean-"
"Why did you pull away?" she asked, interrupting him. "Isn't a man supposed to-" now she colored, clearing her throat, "inside a woman?"
Now he was blushing like a squire. She could be blunt, almost as blunt as he was, but certainly about different things.
He crawled back into the bed beside her, going face down into her pillows as he lay on his belly so she couldn't see his expression. He took a few long, shuddering breaths, feeling her hand running along his ribs. He turned his head to look at her, feeling undoubtedly shy now.
"Not trying to put a pup in you," he said at last, feeling like he couldn't get any air.
"Oh," she said, a realization clicking into place. "No." His heart shrank and withered in the space of the word. "Not yet."
Yet.
The word stretched with possibility. She wanted his pups, and hope fluttered against his ribs wildly. He'd dreamed of it, certainly, of watching her grow round with them, cradling them to her breast, singing to them and playing with them. It had been one of his fondest and most troublesome imaginings. She said she loved him, and now she had confirmed that she would be be pleased to marry him, to bear his pups. It didn't make sense, and it muddled his head.
One part of him rejoiced, just as it had that day in the Sept when she had told him that she loved him. The same war of disbelief and elation was battling beneath his breastbone. It was at once the thing he most wanted and the what he most dreaded. He wanted her with a ferocity that made him quail, but he also wanted to keep her safe from every possible harm. Marriage to him was certainly not the death sentence that it was with his brother, but he was hardly a desirable husband. He had little to offer her besides himself. His holdings were paltry, especially in comparison to what she'd been born to. Marriage to him would be more than a step down, it would be a fall in itself. He wasn't respectable. He was the second son of a minor knight, and he wasn't even a knight himself. He had no honor, and his name was a slur on most tongues. He wasn't ashamed for himself, but he might be ashamed if he tarnished her in any way, even if it meant she was his.
His only shame was knowing he could not refuse. At least she wouldn't be tied to his brother.
He was lost in his own head, only brought back to where he was when she whispered his name. She had wrapped her arms around him, little as they were, and she was looking at him intently, something like sorrow on her face mixed with a good bit of fear.
"Do you...do you not want children, Sandor?"
He looked at her in disbelief. She thought he didn't want children with her? The realization that she was just as uncertain as he was hit him like a blow to the stomach. Here he'd spent years denying that she could ever think of him as anything other than a friend, it had never occurred to him that she would be unsure of what he wanted from her. You've never told her what you want, he thought, pain lacerating through him. Tell her while you can, if you can.
"Yes," he croaked, letting the answer be torn from him. "Of course I do. With you." He thought of them, robust little brutes with gray eyes and curling hair. How often had he seen them in his imaginings? In his dreams? The image of her swollen with his pup, or cradling a hearty infant, or singing to them in their cradles had haunted him for years, bittersweet and full of crackling hope. A life spent next to her, their sons running wild just as he had. And maybe, if the gods were real, there would be a girl, as pretty as her mother with a little rosebud for a mouth.
He hazarded a glance at her only to find her looking solemnly back at him, the barest tendril of a smile making a dimple appear in her cheek. "Good," she replied.
"Lenna," he said, only it came out a whisper as he tried to gain courage from her name. "You must know that I… I want…"
"What?"
"I want you," he exhaled. "I want all of it with you." Whatever you'll give me, he thought wildly, babes, a home, my colors around your shoulders. Whatever you'll give me.
She smiled and he thought his heart would break. Her throat was working, and he knew she was struggling for words. His Lenna, who always knew what to say, was at a loss. Her cheeks were wet, but she was smiling. He'd never understand why she cried so damn much, but it was a relief to see tears running down her cheeks. She'd been dry eyed and hollow for so long, it made him glad to see such feeling. Still, she couldn't talk, instead she buried her face against his neck and curled her hands into his hair.
She didn't sob, didn't wail, just lay like that against him with her tears on his neck as his hands traced up and down her back. He didn't know what to do, and he wished she would talk. He felt raw, nerves flayed and trembling. She couldn't possibly know how disturbing it was to him to have said that, to have told her. He perversely felt that if he spoke about such things he was writing his own doom. He'd learned early to have no expectations of other people, of life at all. To have them was to invite disaster and despair. He was cursed by the gods, if they existed, cursed by the world if they didn't. He fervently wished never to bring such misery down on her.
It had been the root of why he'd kept her at arm's-length for so long, even as he grew addicted to touching her, kissing her, hearing her soft cries in his ears. He'd become dependent on her smiles, her fingers in his, her quiet words and encouragement. She said she loved him, but what did she know of love? What do you know either, except that you love her? He had no doubt, not any more, that the cumbersome thing he bore around in his chest was love. He wondered what it felt like to her. It grew heavier by the day, by the hour. Did it threaten to crush her, too, or was it the kind of feeling the maids in her damn books felt, all tremulous sighing? He didn't much care, except that he did. He was convinced that one day she would look at him and see what he really was, not what she'd always wanted to see, and what she felt for him would die a fleeting death at his unmasking. He was only a lumbering monster with a blackened core, grasping and greedy for the one sliver of grace that had ever been offered to him.
"Good," she murmured against his shoulder, dragging his attention to her. "I'm glad. I had been afraid...never mind. I want it, too."
He pressed her closer, fingers counting the bumps of her spine. "I'm not sure it would be for the best," he said lowly. "But I'll not say no. I'm too selfish." Aye, he'd take her without compunction.
"Why wouldn't it?"
"Not everyone thinks of me the way you do," he said quietly. "Most think I'm a monster. Just like him."
"They don't know you," she replied, and his lip twitched to hear the defensiveness in her voice.
"It won't be good for you, being tied to me."
"Yes, it will," she replied ferociously. "I don't care what anyone else thinks or says, Sandor. You should know that. I've survived this long without their approval, I can go on without it until the end of my days. As long as I'm with you. I'd sneak to the West with you tonight. If you wanted me to."
"You would?" he asked, twisting his neck to look down at her, Bronn's idea echoing in his head.
"Aye," she said softly. "I'd follow you anywhere."
He said nothing else, drawing her back so she rested on his shoulder.
The bells started tolling the next afternoon. He closed his eyes to hear them, knowing what was coming. His men were still exercising, grunting and sweating with the effort, but he called them down and sent them to rest. They'd need it.
He went to the small council almost immediately. Tyrion had instructed his commanders to come as soon as Stannis' fleet was sighted. He found the Imp poring over the maps with his hands braced widely, his clever eyes darting hither and thither.
"Clegane," he said sharply. "Your men?"
"Resting, my lord," he replied, "but ready."
Bronn slipped into the room, along with Jacelyn Bywater, commander of the city watch. The four men leaned over the maps. Sandor quickly took in the position of Stannis' fleet, still at sea but approaching the harbor.
"He will bring them in here, along the Rush. They will attempt to take the Mud Gate, and barring that, to scale the walls there. They were are lower there, but well-defended. We have scorpions, trebuchets, large numbers of archers, but we will need to head them off on the beaches."
"Aye, my lord," Sandor said.
"We'll provide cover," he replied. "I'll be here, along with Bywater. Once the fleet has passed into the mouth of the Rush, Bronn will raise the chain."
"How?"
"It's already been laid," Bronn replied. "My men will winch it into position when the time is right."
Sandor nodded. "What about the ships left in harbor? The bulk of the fleet will surely stay out of the river. Not enough room."
"Yes," Tyrion replied. "They will certainly be attempting to weaken our defenses there. Our fleet is ready, and I have a plan. Have no worries there." Sandor looked at him skeptically. The Imp ignored him. "The watch bells have tolled. Now we wait. When they toll again, we will assemble in the throne room. We are ready for them."
Sandor nearly rolled his eyes at the little lord's attempt to affect a commanding tone. He wondered if it helped such men to speak like that, if it aided them in gathering their courage. He'd never had a taste for fine speeches. He'd rather just get it done with.
"I suggest you all rest as you are able. We will need our strength."
Sandor grunted and turned, Bronn on his heels. Sandor didn't even have the will to be annoyed at his company.
Together they stumbled into the mess. Sandor ate quickly, knowing better than to go into such a situation on an empty stomach, but wary of eating too close to battle. That kind of exertion made men ill, caused them to lose precious time in retching. He washed down the stew with ale, he and Bronn sitting without speaking. He found himself actually wondering what the sellsword was thinking. He was uncharacteristically silent.
"What are you still doing sitting there, man?" Bronn asked peevishly over the rim of his mug. They'd just finished their third beer, and Bronn lifted a finger for another. Sandor hoped the sellsword was sober by the time the attack came. It was one thing to take liquid courage into battle with you, another to be so drunk you couldn't swing a sword, or winch a chain. Bronn was looking back at him with an eyebrow cocked, hands wrapped around his tankard like it was a bloody cup of tea. "If you don't go to her now, I will, and convince her to elope with me. It's not too late to run, and I can be very convincing."
"Shut up," Sandor said with a scowl, looking around.
"Go on," Bronn said again. "I'll take care of your lads. Say your goodbyes."
Sandor quickly quaffed the beer and rose from his seat to make his way to her room. Her door was already open when he knocked, Lenna pacing anxiously up and down the length of her chamber. When she saw him, her shoulders visibly relaxed and she went to him quickly, closing the door behind him.
"I'm to go to the queen immediately," she said quietly. "She just sent a runner." He laid his hand over one of hers, picking it up and pressing a kiss to her palm. She was trembling.
"And you should go," he said. "She will worry where you are."
"I was waiting to see if you'd come," she whispered.
He tried to smile, but it was impossible. He grimaced instead. She looked up at him with fear in her eyes.
"What will happen if-"
"Don't worry," he replied. "I've told you before. Not while I draw breath."
You cannot think of the alternative.
She nodded, then lay her head against his chest, her eyes closed. He knew she was listening for his heart. He raised a hand and let it rest for a moment against her dark head. It was a promise he didn't know if he could keep. He had forced himself not to think of it, to focus solely on winning. He did not want to consider the possibility of Stannis Baratheon carrying the victory. He did not want to think of what that might mean.
He knew Tyrion believed himself when he said that Stannis would do her no harm. And Sandor even believed that himself. Stannis Baratheon would indeed make sure no ill befell the daughter of Wyman Manderly or Sansa Stark. Both their houses could be far to useful to him, if only they would bend the knee, swear themselves to him. Sansa and Lenna would become his hostage-guests rather than Cersei's, probably treated better, more like the highborn women they were. He had no doubt of that. But it wouldn't be Stannis himself that stormed the Keep. He knew what happened to women in sieges, and he did not dare even think of that even with all of Tyrion's assurances.
Go to her room and bar the door, he thought derisively. A door doesn't stop a warhammer and a man with rage in his blood.
He focused on feeling her breathing against him, on her warmth in his arms, making a promise to himself that it would not be the last time. He wondered how she wanted him to behave at a moment like this, both of them aware of what was at risk. Did she want him to pretend at being a knight? To whisper nonsense to her, to make vows?
A look to her face relieved him. She was gazing at him, and he saw no trace of anything but concern and agitation. Lenna Manderly did not want some poncey knight. She was well contented with her brute.
"You have to go," he said at last, taking in the darkness of her eyes, the green muted and swirled with the amber and gray like a whirlpool, the pale gleam of her skin luminous. "If she's sent for you, you must go. Before someone is sent looking for you."
She pulled back, drawing her palm along his cheek. He turned his face and kissed it. "Do you have it?" He nodded, her handkerchief just tangible between his hauberk and plate. She nodded seriously. "I'll be praying, love."
The endearment on her lips did warrant a quirk of his lip. With a swift sweep of his hand across her face and the most perfunctory of kisses, he was out her door again and striding back toward his men. He had the burning desire to look back at her over his shoulder, but he did not want to see her crying, or to see that she'd already turned from him. Instead, he briefly closed his eyes and conjured the sight of her as she had stood just a moment before, her face turned up to him with that staggering expression of concern and care written across it. He stood up a little straighter, and he did not look back.
A/N: Are you ready to rumble?! Hooah.
Forgive me. A baby carrot cake with lemon peel to get us through the next bit. Thank you again to everyone who has been reviewing and leaving thoughts. Apparently, I can't write anything less than 8,000 words any more. Thanks for bearing with the long chapters.
A guest asked last chapter if I had it plotted through S7. The answer is yes. From where I'm sitting, I'm looking at turning out about 30 more chapters. Yeah. I probably should have broken the damn thing up into parts, but...too late now! Hope you stick around for the ride!
I might be MIA for about a week. The next couple are done, but they want polishing and this is a busy, busy week. Just a heads up. Love.