Lenna XXXIX

The door fell into place with a sound like a stone being lowered over a tomb. Lenna turned her back to it, resting against it after she had put the bar in place. She wondered for a moment if she was dreaming, or perhaps fear had driven her mad. Nothing looked right. Her chambers, so familiar, were awash in flickering green light, licking along the walls in undulations of color that reminded her of the murals in the father's halls of sunlight through waves. The bed and desk, the wardrobe, everything was illuminated with a ghostly glow, the vacillation of the blazing light making them almost appear to be moving on their own. Or, perhaps, like she was looking at them submerged underwater, a lady's chamber in some lost city beneath the sea. The bath of green was almost soothing, mesmerizing, but it filled her with dull, throbbing horror.

They had seen nothing from the Holdfast, the windows facing the city and away from the harbor. She had heard the reports, her heart thudding at the news that Tyrion had used his caches of wildfire. She'd never seen it before, had only ever found illuminations of it, the artist-scribes using their most vibrant greens in such a way that it appeared almost magical.

There was nothing magical about the glow that settled over her room, that drew her to the windows, though wondrous or awesome might do. She made her way to her window slowly, as if drawn against her will, an invisible winch pulling her toward them until she rested both hands on the casement and found herself facing the spectacle below. Lenna's view was of the bay, usually a dark expanse trembling with the soft light of moonglow, but now it was awash with eerie color. The air was rent with the cries of men, echoing off her walls. Lenna, for her faith, was never certain she believed in the idea of the Seven Hells, but if they existed, surely one of them had manifested itself outside the Red Keep that night.

From her height, she could see the whole harbor ablaze, ships rolling and blazing, their shapes almost indistinguishable in the inferno. They roiled violently as if the sea itself was boiling, and even from the distance she could feel the breath of heat on her cheeks.

It was beautiful and terrible, and she could not look away.

"I am going."

She barely heard him over the din of the fire. She had no idea it could be so loud, a dull, aching buzzing that penetrated her bones. She would know the voice that cut through the roar anywhere. Lenna spun around, hand at her throat as her eyes searched the dizzying dance of darkness and flame. He was slumped against the wall beside her desk. She had not seen him, but now the green light played eerily across his features, dipping into the scars, his face a jagged mess that seemed to writhe on its own, his burns like a nest of snakes.

"Sandor," she gasped, panic speeding her across the room to him. Her gut clenched painfully, her fear almost crippling her and sending her sprawling. If he was in her chambers, something dreadful must have happened. She could think of no other reason for him to be inside the Keep instead of out there in the midst of the fighting. "Are you wounded? What is wrong?"

"I will not die here," he rasped. "I will not die for them."

"Stannis has won-" she started, reaching a hand toward him. Even as she said it, she knew it didn't matter. Stannis Baratheon's victory was his death warrant.

"I cannot stay," he said lowly, his voice oddly trembling. His eyes were fixed on hers, the gray cast greenish in the strange light, like a sickness had taken over him. They were wide, the whites almost glowing, and for the first time, Lenna saw true fear in Sandor Clegane's face.

"Where will you go?" she asked, not entirely understanding him. Surely he didn't mean that he was going to try and escape. Her thoughts immediately raced to the maid and the groom, their heads now mounted above the gate of the Keep. If he was caught, he would be put there beside them.

"North," he rasped, grasping the hand that she'd placed on his shoulder. "I'm taking you home."

"I cannot leave-" she started to protest, dread tying her belly into knots. Sansa.

"I'm not giving you a choice," he said ferociously. He staggered to his feet, drawing her with him. He grasped her head between his hands, the pressure of his grip almost making her wince. The eyes were burning into her, filled with pain, anger, and determination. "I will not leave you here. Do you know what will happen?" His voice went thick on the last, his obvious fear choking the syllables as his throat worked double-time to get them out. She thought about the queen, about her predictions of their fates if Stannis Baratheon's forces got to the women in the Holdfast. Hot terror spread delicately through her veins, turning cold as it lingered. She nodded.

"A rucksack. Do you have one?" She nodded again, feeling frozen to the spot. "Good. Where is it?"

She pointed one trembling finger to the chest at the foot of her bed. Sandor moved like he was drunk, wheeling toward the chest and going down on his knees as he dug it out. She watched as he carelessly rifled through her things, stuffing her two old woolen gowns in the bag before proceeding to upend her uneaten breakfast and lunch as well.

"Coin?" he demanded, still absorbed in his task. A pair of boots she hadn't worn since their journey North were added.

She moved as if in a trance to her desk, drawing out the fat bag of money and handing it to him. He hefted it and grunted absently before tossing it into the bag. Her fingers were drawn to the only other occupant of the drawer. She stood frozen at her desk, holding in her hand a box. It had originally been for her pens, but it had become a repository of the things he'd given her: notes from nameday wrappings, the ribbons when she wasn't wearing them, Renly Baratheon's antler.

He turned to her and snatched it from her hand, the way he was moving putting her into mind of some wild thing, a caged animal. He took it from her and opened it, his jaw tightening as he examined the contents. The eyes that found hers were somewhat tamed, the whites a little less pronounced, more of Sandor slipping through. He snapped the box shut and tossed it into the bag without a twitch in his jaw.

"Cloak. Get it," he rumbled, his voice thick. He was blinking at her as if he was waking from a deep sleep.

She did as he told her, opening the wardrobe doors and pulling it out. It was the same one she'd brought with her ten years ago. She'd never had another made, having worn it so seldom. She looked down at it dumbly. He took it from her carefully and slung it around her, fingers again gentle as he fastened it and smoothed it over her shoulders.

"We're going," he said firmly, lifting her chin to him with a forefinger. The fear and the anger had fled. He still looked fearsome. His hair was plastered to his head, sweaty and stringy, and she was sure that the gore on his face was the blood of other men. She looked over him quickly, assured that he wasn't hurt. He smelled of death and fighting, but his expression was open, brow raised and tone as calming as he could make it. She was grateful to him for the effort, though she was sure than any control he had was on the verge of breaking again. She felt as if any second she might accidentally unleash the fear that was roiling in her loose and unchecked. She did not know what would happen if she did.

"We're going now, and I'm taking you back to your father," he said, his broad hand cupping her cheek, thumb digging into her jaw. She nodded. "Come," he said, tugging her hand. She could not move. Fear flickered across his face again. "Lenna, you must move. We don't have time. I don't want to drag you." There was a note of pleading in his tone that woke her from her stupor.

She took a step forward. A bolt of pain raced through her chest and she gasped, remembering. "Sansa. Please, take Sansa."

"No," he growled, seizing her by the shoulders. His calm had vanished, and the face that leaned toward her was almost demonic, his eyes blazing and his teeth bared. Lenna didn't recognize him. "I don't give a fuck about the Stark girl. Let her figure her own shit out."

"Please, Sandor," she begged, hoping his name would soften him. "She's a child. She will be alone. Like I was."

He growled, seizing her by the hand and pulling her out the door. He strode down the hall with her beside him, knocking once on the Stark girl's door. There was, of course, no answer.

"There," he said, again yanking her down the passageway. "We tried.

Lenna wasn't about to leave the girl without more effort. She broke away from him, managing to twist her wrist from his grasp.

"Sansa," she shouted, running back toward the girl's rooms. "Sansa, open your door."

Sandor was trying to drag her away, an arm wrapped around her waist, but Sansa's door opened. Before Lenna could speak, Sandor had wedged himself between them, holding a struggling Lenna away from the Stark girl.

"Do you want to come with us, little bird?" he demanded. Sansa shrank back, looking to Lenna. She could see the horror in the girl's fine-boned features, in her slack jaw and drawn temples. Sandor lunged toward her, dragging Lenna with him. "I'll take you home to Winterfell, keep you safe. Do you want to go?"

"Stannis won't hurt me. I'll be safe here," she said, her voice trembling like autumn leaves, a dry, dead sound. She looked wildeyed between the two of them. Lenna wanted to shake her. She knew Sandor would not insist on taking Sansa with him, not the way he was insisting on taking her. She strained against him where he gripped her waist.

"Let me go," she said. "Clegane, let me go."

He looked down at Lenna with his face shuttered. It made Lenna shrink back from him. She wasn't looking into Sandor's face, but the Hound's.

"Suit yourself, little bird," he said. He more or less hoisted her around the waist, Lenna dragging her feet to slow him.

"Sansa," Lenna bit out. "Please."

To her surprise and fury, Sandor picked her up from the knees and hoisted her over his shoulder before starting down the corridor at a rapid pace. She wriggled to free herself, to look back at Sansa, and in that time, the Stark girl closed and barred her door. Lenna slumped in defeat, going limp against him as hot tears spilled down her cheeks.

They were almost to the courtyard before he stopped and lowered her to the ground.

"Will you walk now, or do I have to carry you out?" he demanded, his face close to hers. He was snarling at her. "Don't do something like that again, Lenna. We haven't enough time."

"But she's right, Sandor, Stannis won't hurt us. If we're caught-" Gods, it doesn't matter, she thought violently. If we're caught we both die, if we stay, just he does. Panic welled in her belly and she looked around in bewilderment, not knowing what to do. There was nothing she could do.

"Look at me," he said savagely, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Stannis is a killer. The Lannisters are killers. Your father is a killer, your brothers are killers. I am a killer. Our sons will be killers one day. The world is built by killers, Lenna. He may have mercy on you, or he may not. Even if you survive unharmed, he will only find a way to use you, just like all the rest. But he sure as hell won't have mercy on me, and I'm not dying in this shit city, and I won't leave you behind. Now, stop wasting time or I'll have to sling you over my shoulder again."

Of course, she thought wildly. He'll die, they'll put his head on a spike. She looked at him, and with a slow breath slipped her hand in his. He did not hesitate, bolting like a runaway horse as he pulled her through the Keep, practically dragging her along to keep up with his massive stride. Lenna was out of breath by the time they reached the stables.

Lenna smelled horseflesh. Sandor pulled her behind him through the stalls. His massive warhorse was placidly munching oats in his stall as if there was nothing at all going on outside. He was already saddled, his bags full. Lenna wondered when Sandor had done it. He must have stopped to ready him before coming looking for her. He did not stoop to launch her into the saddle first. He mounted, then dragged her up to sit before him by her armpits. Lenna grasped the pommel with both hands as he cantered the beast out, ducking his head to avoid the beams and wrapping an arm around her waist. He roughly pulled the hood of his cloak up and did the same for her. She was grateful for the darkness, turning into him and leaning her head into his shoulder.

"Ready?" he asked. Lenna looked up at him wildeyed. His face was grim but his eyes were calm, almost apologetic. "Don't look. Please."

He unsheathed his sword, holding the reins in one hand as he spurred Stranger out of the stables and across the yard. She could hear the swarm of activity the racing patter of footfalls coming in their direction. The smell was overwhelming, the metallic tang of blood combining with shit and mud. There was a heavy thud to her right, and it started to rain, drops spattering against her skirts. She hadn't seen clouds earlier, was momentarily confused until she realized it wasn't rain at all when she heard the sound of a blade piercing flesh, the slide of blood along a sword as it was unlodged from its victim. The body, unseen by her, fell to the mud with a sickening squelch even as the blood seeped deep into her thin silk skirts.

She clung to the pommel, her hands shaking. She lost count of how many thuds she heard, trying to ignore then absolutely barbarous sounds issuing from his throat and chest. She wondered if all men grunted and groaned like that in the midst of fighting, if her own father had shouted viscerally with triumph, with rage, or with bloodlust. If her brothers had. If Ned Stark had. There was a note of enjoyment in it, something primal and terrifying.

She surmised that they were through the gates when the thuds and the grunts became fewer and less frequent. Eventually, they stopped altogether. He was breathing heavily against her, his chest rising and falling forcefully. The streets themselves became strangely quiet the further they got from the Keep. She drew her hood down, her hands still trembling violently. Lenna wondered where the people were, why they, too, weren't keeping vigil on such a night. The windows were dark and the streets rang with the sound of Stranger's hooves against the cobblestones. The whole city was bathed in that queer luminescence. The green and yellow lapped like water over the stones, undulating and flashing eerily. Lenna could still hear the sounds of the fighting behind them as they raced through the city.

They did not stop until they were well past the Sept, Baelor's statue cast in green and gold. Sandor finally paused in Cobbler's Square, looking about him as if making a decision, Stranger pawing at the ground. With a click of his tongue and a twist of the reins, they were hurtling forward again, this time north in the direction of the Old Gate.

They ducked and wove through the narrow streets, and as they approached the gate a din arose. The smallfolk were crowded there, many of them bearing packs on their backs, pushing carts, all desperate to get out of the city.

Sandor didn't hesitate to wade through them, though she was grateful he didn't swipe at them or kick to make his way through. Most scattered at the sound of Stranger's hooves, and they burst through the crowd on the other side like a stone from a trebuchet.

Lenna did her best to keep her seat, but she kept sliding forward, clinging to the pommel. She kept her head down as they rode, and as soon as they cleared the gates and the people became sparser, she heard Sandor sheath his sword. He pulled up on Stranger's reins, slowing him down to a trot, his arm tightening against her waist.

"Lenna," he said into her ear, his voice choked. "Lenna, are you alright?" She nodded mutely. He rested his forehead on her shoulder in what she thought was relief. She didn't move, didn't speak, and she wasn't entirely sure if she was breathing. "Forgive me," he muttered, spurring Stranger again, and sending them barreling off the road and into the thick forest.

Sandor XXXIX

He didn't know what he was doing. The sellsword's nod had broken some sort of tether, snapped it like a chicken bone, and he'd rushed into the barracks. It hadn't taken him but a moment to throw everything of value into a bag, and another ten or fifteen minutes to raid the kitchens and prepare Stranger for a hard ride. The grooms were all huddled in a corner, flinching like dogs about to be beaten when he shouted at them to stay away from the horse.

He didn't remember going to her room, just breaking through the door expecting to find her cowering in the corner. He'd built up the idea in his head, Lenna terrified and alone as she listened to the sounds of battle outside, and him saving her, rescuing her, like some cunt knight, ready to take her away from there. It must have been the war-fever raging in his brain, but he had been devastated to find it empty, the door unbarred and Lenna nowhere to be found. He had slumped against the wall in defeat, sure that this would be his end, thinking of the wraith of Ilyn Payne moving amongst the women with his blade, cutting them down and Lenna among them.

I don't want to die in this shit city.

He didn't know what to do. There was no plan, the only inkling of one thwarted by her absence. He couldn't very well go back out into the fray, knew that his defection was more or less final. More than that, he didn't want to. He was not accustomed to humbling himself that way, and he wasn't about to start. There was also no way that he'd be able to convince Stannis Baratheon to let him live. He was fucked if he didn't leave, but he could not make himself move toward the door, not without her.

It snapped open with a bang like a scorpion bolt, and he almost started. She flew in, skirts in a whirl, going completely still as she saw the play of the wildfire on the walls. He watched her, not even convinced she was really there, drawn like one of her damn enchanted princesses to her casement windows. The light spilled across her pale skin gently, the green and gold not dissimilar from her eyes, and they were wide with fright and fascination.

Now.

"I'm going," he said abruptly, and when she whirled to him, he saw the immediate concern in her face.

"Sandor," she breathed, coming toward him on unsteady feet, clutching her skirts and going down roughly to her knees beside him on the floor. Her eyes searched his face and he winced. He knew he was smeared with mud and blood and who knew what else. "Are you wounded? What is wrong?" Her voice was shrill, her hands fluttering like birds at his shoulders, about his face, never quite touching.

"I will not die here," he replied, not know where to begin, knowing he didn't have enough time to properly explain. He would certainly die if he stayed, surely she knew that. There was only one person he would die for willingly, without a fight, and she was kneeling before him in a fright. "I will not die for them."

"Stannis has won-" she whispered. He wished he'd heeded Bronn's advice, he wished he'd taken her away weeks before. The least he should have done was have come up with some sort of fucking plan. He'd been an idiot.

"I cannot stay," he said forcefully. I will not leave you here.

"Where will you go?" she asked, her dark brows huddled together.

"North," he choked, the idea forming from the glow of the wildfire. It grew stronger when he inhaled, the next words igniting like stoked kindling. "I'm taking you home."

"I cannot leave-" she protested.

"I'm not giving you a choice," he bit out with more fervor than he meant to, catching her hand. "I will not leave you here. Do you know what will happen?"

He had thought about it in flashes as he made his way to his bunk, threw a tunic and trousers into a bag along with a bag of money. Horrible visions of her bloody and bruised, cowering, fighting back against- he swallowed thickly, shaking his head. "A rucksack. Do you have one?"

She stared at him unblinking, her mouth open in incomprehension, just barely raising a finger to point to the chest at the foot of her bed. He stumbled to it, resisting the exhaustion that was already invading him and was compounded by the fear that made his heart beat hollowly in his breast. He found the bag and seized her two woolen dresses from the bottom of the chest along with a pair of Northern boots he'd never seen her wear. Her gowns would do them no good where they were going. "Coin?" he asked, relieved to hear her move toward her desk.

He barely turned to take the bag from her, measuring its weight in his hand before tossing it into the bag. Between them, he wagered they had plenty. He'd brought a portion of his tourney winnings, leaving the balance beneath the loose stone under his bunk. He couldn't weigh Stranger down with much more. He'd be carrying two people already, and though used to his oversized master, wasn't accustomed to such a burden.

She had not moved again, and he turned to see why. She was standing by her desk with a box in her hands. He'd never seen it before. It was long and narrow, not particularly deep, and he took it from her quickly. He was having trouble controlling his movements, thrill and terror making him feel drunk even though the Dornish sour he'd gulped had worn off long ago.

He snapped back the lid and felt like he'd been punched in the gut. In it lay the ribbons, slips of parchment with his writing on it, Renly's damned antler. He looked at her to find her gazing back at him like a stunned animal. She didn't even look like herself, fear smoothing her face until it almost wasn't recognizable, her eyes wide and her lips white. She looked like she had that day at the Hand's Tourney, convinced he could die.

We both will if you don't fucking move.

He closed the box and slipped it into the bag, telling himself it was the practical thing to do, had nothing to do with the bright, white streak of inappropriate pleasure. After all, when they searched her rooms- and they would- it wouldn't do them any good for traces of their understanding to be discovered. He also couldn't bear to leave it, his belly hot and cold that she had kept everything, even the first wrapping from years ago, wanting to know what that meant even as he threatened to be driven mad by fear.

Not now.

"Cloak. Get it," he said, feeling like he coming back into himself.

Still she moved sluggishly, hesitantly, and the irritation that crept into his blood made it difficult to be gentle as he wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and fastened it at her throat.

"We're going," he said firmly, lifting her chin to him with a forefinger. "We're going now, and I'm taking you back to your father." Her face was unresponsive, so he brushed his palm along her cheek. "Come," he said, taking her hand and tugging. She didn't budge, and trepidation filtered through him. "Lenna, you must move. We don't have time. I don't want to drag you." I will get on my knees, but you must come.

She only managed a single step before halting again, her eyes flying wide. Her voice came out sharp and cracking. "Sansa. Please, take Sansa."

Always the damn Stark girl, never herself, never me. Sandor knew she didn't understand what she was demanding, did not comprehend that it was either the Stark or them, but it still made him furious. He cursed the day the Starks had come to King's Landing. If they'd stayed in the North where they belonged none of this bullshit would have happened.

"No," he replied hotly, "I don't give a fuck about the Stark girl. Let her figure her own shit out."

"Please, Sandor," she said, and he flinched at her use of his name. He hated when she used it like that, as a weapon. He was sure she wasn't aware that he knew, that he was fully cognizant that she was wheedling him. It tried his patience at the best of times, even as it worked as effectively as a charm. Now, it made him angry. "She's a child. She will be alone. Like I was."

No, she wasn't like Lenna had been. Sansa Stark had come with her family, had been protected and lived. A spoiled highborn brat. He'd felt from the moment the girl came to the Keep that Lenna would do something foolish to protect her, and he'd watched her come to closer and closer to losing her own head for the chit time and time again. Had she forgotten that even if they survived this battle, she was to be sold in marriage to his monstrous brother? Had she forgotten standing in the throne room as his blade sliced through her hair, grateful that it wasn't her throat? All because of the Starks and their damnable pride.

He seized her by the wrist and propelled them down the passageway, her bag slung across his shoulders. She wanted to bring Sansa Stark? Fine. He'd ask, but he knew the girl would not go. He would at least escape with a clear conscience. He pounded his gauntleted fist on the Stark girl's door once. It reverberated through the bones of his hand, making them ache.

"There," he said, pulling her away, hoping it would suffice. "We tried.

It didn't suffice, and Lenna twisted wildly from his grasp, careening back toward the girl's room. He lost his grip, not expecting her to actually fight him.

"Sansa," she shouted. "Sansa, open your door."

What the fuck is she doing, he thought wildly, chasing after her desperately and throwing an arm around her waist. He'd just hauled her away from the door when it opened and Sansa's peaked little face peered out.

She's going to get us all killed, he thought, not knowing if he meant Lenna or Sansa.

"Do you want to come with us, little bird?" he demanded, relieved to see the girl draw back in horror. He took a step forward menacingly hoping to scare her off completely. "I'll take you home to Winterfell, keep you safe. Do you want to go?"

"Stannis won't hurt me. I'll be safe here," she said, her weak voice shaking. He had a flash of how they must look, and it made him fiercely glad. Him, a beast covered in blood and gore, his arm wrapped around a struggling lady, intent on carrying her off.

"Let me go," Lenna said, pushing against his arms. "Clegane, let me go."

Her attempts to free herself were futile, and they both knew it. He had gentled his strength for years with her, but he wouldn't now. Her entreaties would not be heard, and he'd not budge, not with something so important in the balance.

He turned his attention to Sansa instead, leveling her with his flattest glare.

"Suit yourself, little bird." He hoped he never set eyes on the damn girl again, hauling Lenna against him and turning them away from her. In a last burst of effort, Lenna tried to escape his arms.

"Sansa," Lenna cried. "Please."

With a low growl, patience entirely spent, he slung Lenna over his shoulder like a sack of flour, just as he had the Stark girl on the day of the riots. He didn't run, but he set off at a good clip, his panic-fueled anger growing with each step. As long as the girl's door was in sight, she writhed against him, but when they rounded the corner, the fight went out of her and she sagged over his shoulder.

He sat her on her feet. Her eyes were down cast and for a moment he thought she'd bolt, his hand wrapped nearly double around her wrist, fragile as bird's bones.

"Will you walk now, or do I have to carry you out?" he asked, hearing the rage in his own voice. Calm down, dog. The anger was quickly replaced by something else. "Don't do something like that again, Lenna. We haven't enough time."

She looked up at him with her open face and he damned her eyes. They'd always held him immobile. "But she's right, Sandor, Stannis won't hurt us. If we're caught-" Her eyes crinkled at the corner and her chin began to wobble. Fuck, she's going to start crying.

"Look at me," he said harshly, and all he could think about was the minutes as they slipped away like pebbles in a landslide, minutes that should be seeing them fly North. "Stannis is a killer. The Lannisters are killers. Your father is a killer, your brothers are killers. I am a killer. Our sons will be killers one day. The world is built by killers, Lenna. He may have mercy on you, or he may not. Even if you survive unharmed, he will only find a way to use you, just like all the rest. But he sure as hell won't have mercy on me, and I'm not dying in this shit city, and I won't leave you behind. Now, stop wasting time or I'll have to sling you over my shoulder again."

She looked at him a long moment, the slipped that slender hand in his. He closed his eyes in relief even as he started down the passage at full tilt.

The rest he didn't really remember. She'd struggled to keep up with him, but she no longer dragged her heels, her hand grasping at his rather than laying limp. In the stables, he mounted Stranger and dragged her up in front of him after he'd loaded her bag. She trembled against him like a birch leaf, thin and fragile, her fear a silver underbelly. He gathered her to him, his arm around her waist clutching at the reins even as he unsheathed his sword. He'd drawn their hoods up, and he was gratified when she turned toward him, her face in his shoulder.

"Ready?" he asked. She did not respond, but she did turn her head and he saw the green glow of wildfire in the terror of her eyes. There was also trust, trust he wasn't sure he deserved. He took a breath the gird himself for what was to come, knowing that as soon as burst out of the stable doors the guards would be upon them. Keep her safe, he thought sternly, trying to put all of his concentration on the fight to come, the fight she didn't know was coming. "Don't look. Please."

Battle-rage was more effective at erasing his memory than too much ale. He could always feel it starting, slowly pumping through his chest, down his legs, into his toes and fingers until every last inch of him was tense and ready. Then it took over, and all he saw was white, all he felt was the joyous stretch of muscle and the deep, satisfying clash of bone.

The next thing he knew it was midmorning.. The sun wasalmost overhead, and he was riding through underbrush, along a streambed that winked and played over smooth stones. He had little recollection of the flight through the city, wading through the crush of people as he lit out of the Old Gate and headed North. Not the Iron Gate, but the Old Gate that opened into the forests where Robert had enjoyed his hunting, where he'd been gored. The trip was hazy, bits and pieces creeping out here and there as he slowed Stranger to a relaxed trot. The sound of the battle had been deafening, but now all he heard was the singing of birds in the trees over head. He looked down at the top of Lenna's head, still in front of him on the saddle. She was slumped against him, her head lolling on his shoulder, and it was the scent of her hair as her hood fell away that brought him back into himself. He brought Stranger to an abrupt halt there in the wood.

Even though they'd stopped he still felt the reverberation of movement in his marrow. He'd seen many fractured bones before, seen the strange honeycomb that made up their insides, and he felt like his own bones were full of bees, dipping and whirling and buzzing to get out. His head hurt, he was starving, and the arm around her waist felt welded into place.

"Lenna?" he said, his throat parched, and she stirred against him. He slid from the saddle, barely catching her as she toppled from her perch. At first he thought she'd fainted, her head lolling on her neck, caught against his shoulder as he managed to lift her. She felt heavier than ever she had before, his own exhausted strength struggling to carry her the dozen paces to a low, rocky outcropping. His soldier's brain must have chosen the place without his knowledge, the old instinct to look for shelter having awoken without his bidding. He approved. It would be an easy place to rest, and they both needed it. He laid her down beneath the ledge, running his hand across her wrist to reassure himself, her pulse fluttering like a hatchling's wings against his fingertips. She looked awful, her hair hanging in a rat's nest about her face, the circles under her eyes almost crimson, but her breast was rising and falling, and she squeezed his hand weakly, eyes already closed. Laid out like that in the dry leaves she looked like some kind of enchanted maid, and she was deeply asleep almost before he had a chance to unfasten his cloak and lay it beneath her head.

He was exhausted, too, but there were things to do. He cut pine boughs and stacked them to keep out the wind and rain, though he doubted they'd see any. The sky was a brilliant blue above the treetops. He started clearing the space for a campfire, building the necessary layers of tinder, kindling, and fuel, stopping between each to check in her. After a half hour he felt the tension in his neck go lax to find her eyes looking back at him.

He went to her immediately, fuel logs falling with a clatter that made her wince. Water, and food, that would help, he thought. He grabbed the water skin he'd managed to pack.

"Drink," he said, noting the tremor in her hands when she reached for it. He held it for her, tipping it so she could let it trickle into her parched mouth. She drank greedily, wiping what had sloshed from between her lips from her chin with her hand. He took a long drink himself, realizing that he, too, was parched.

"Where?" She asked weakly.

"Forty miles north, give or take," he replied, his eyes searching her face avidly. He looked for all the things soldiers know to watch for, the blackened eyes, slurred words, the sluggishness. She needed to go back to sleep, they both did. He could feel it creeping through him like a shadow, a great black chasm.

"The road?" She asked, looking around at the clearing.

"Dangerous. Best go through the wild."

"I'm so tired."

"Rest now," he said, smoothing his palm over her hair. She sank back into the leaves and he stretched out beside her, one arm extended above her head as he curled himself around her still in his plate. He fell asleep almost immediately.

He woke in the late afternoon, four or five hours later. The sun was sinking low, just starting to stain the horizon red. She was still asleep, but she looked better already, color back in her cheeks. She'd snuggled into to him in her slumber, her head tucked into his armpit. He ghosted a finger over her cheek before slowly pulling away to tend to the campsite.

He built the fire and asked himself what the fuck he had done. What the actual fuck had he been thinking, throwing her over his shoulder and slinging her across his saddle like some savage. She had fought him, he hadn't expected her to fight him, but after watching his men slaughtered like pigs, he'd had one thought.

Fly.

He couldn't leave her, not to face them on her own, whoever they happened to be, but now he might have made it worse. Might have put her in more danger than that which they'd left.

He mulled over it as he sparked the fire, that he'd swapped one set of dangers for another. Brigands. Starvation. Thirst. Illness. Injury. All better, in his opinion, than what they'd left behind. He'd kill anyone who threatened her, and he knew how to live in the woods. At least there, on the road, he knew there would be nothing standing in his way if she needed defending, not like in King's Landing where there were too many eyes watching, where he was as much a threat to her safety as he was her guardian. He'd get her to White Harbor and she'd be safe with the people who cared for her: her father, her nieces, her brothers, and him.

He heard her stir and turned to see her approaching the fire. Her face was dark, pinched with strain, her lips thinned.

"You need to rest," she croaked. "I can tend it."

"I'm fine," he replied, and it wasn't a lie. He was exhausted, but something heavy and dark had vanished from his breast. He could keep going as long as he needed to knowing he had his back to King's Landing. "You hungry?"

She shook her head but he grabbed the saddlebags anyway, pulling out the fat parcel he'd stolen from the kitchen. Funny, he didn't really remember doing it, but panicked, fire-mad Sandor had stocked them well with cheese and bread, even a half dozen apples.

"Eat," he said, holding out the cheese. He noted with distaste that his hands were filthy. "You can't travel with an empty stomach."

She took it sullenly and moved away, not speaking and not looking at him. Sandor felt himself shutter up, not understanding. He could not tell what was bothering her, but he wagered disgust and anger were wrapped up in it, and he wondered again if he had done the right thing.

You did the only fucking thing that could have been done, he screamed internally, but he doubted she would see it that way.

"You're angry with me," he said when it became clear that she would not speak again, making himself chew slowly to give his mind a purpose. It wanted to whirl.

"Yes." Her voice was small and hollow. She did not look at him. He sighed through his nose.

"You're disgusted by me," he said.

"Not exactly." It hit him in the pectoral and lodged there like a poisoned dart, making him reel like an animal in pain, anger and indignation flooding him.

"Are you going to talk, or what?" he demanded.

"I always do the talking, Sandor, perhaps it's your turn. Your turn to tell me what the fuck is going on."

It honestly shocked him to hear the curse fall from her lips. She'd said it before in his hearing, but it had been carefully chosen then, daintily used and humorous, not thrown out coarsely, the depth of her agitation in the brief, fricative syllable.

He chewed on his tongue, trying to find words that would help her, help them.

"I had to leave," he said at last. "I thought you'd understand."

"How can I understand?" she replied. "You explained nothing."

"There was no time," he snapped. "I didn't have fucking time to allow you to give your opinion on every godsdamn detail, and then you risk us both by insisting on the going to the damn Stark girl."

"Sansa is a child-"

"Sansa is not my problem," he roared. "You are. No one else, just you." She shrank back from him, wrapping her arms around her knees. "You're stuck with me now, anyway." He wanted to howl with the hurt, wanted to shake her. She should be happy. "Thought you'd like being rescued. Isn't this something like one of your fucking stories?" He gestured at the fire, the overhang with its little lean-to, Stranger gratefully listing in his standing-sleep. He tore off another chunk of bread with his teeth. "I couldn't leave you there."

"Stannis-"

"Stannis fucking Baratheon doesn't give three shits about you, at least not in the middle of a siege. His men would've found you, and you'd have been-" his voice failed him, throat working against him. "You'd have been hurt. I promised you, promised your father. I will let nothing hurt you."

She looked at him, her eyes wide. "I know."

"Then why-"

Her face crumpled and she bent her head over her knees. When he reached out to her she drew away from him half-heartedly, but he didn't let her, pulling her to him until she was sitting in his lap, curled up like a child. She made no sound, but the shaking of her shoulders was unmistakable.

Does she not know how fragile she is? he wondered, tucking her against him. His plate was filthy, and she was still clad in her lady's gown, the muted green soiled along the hem, bloody arcs across her skirts.

"He was there," she whispered into his neck, arms creeping around his neck to his relief.

"Who was?" he asked, drawing back so he could look down on her.

"Ser Ilyn," she replied. "He was there and she was going to have him murder us."

"I know," he rasped. "You did right. You did what you needed to do, you got back to your room. I should have-"

"They're all dead," she said. "The queen and Tommen, all the ladies and their children."

"Likely."

"And if they're not dead, then they-"

"Lenna," he said softly. "You are doing yourself no good."

"And Sansa," she said, her voice going high pitched and tinny. "What did they do to poor Sansa? What would they have done to me?" She looked so lost. "She's probably dead. She's dead and I'm not."

"Stop it," he said lowly. "Stop it now." She looked at him sharply. "There was nothing you could do to help them, not then, and sure as fuck not now. You are safe, and I will keep you safe. You are going home."

She nodded, her throat working. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I'm sorry, Sandor."

He tightened his arms around her and felt a strange loosening, like someone had cut him free of bonds, the ropes slack and falling from him. It was fear, fear that she'd hate him for stealing her, not understand.

"I am, too," he said. "I'm sorry about the Stark girl." He wasn't really, not in the way that she was. He regretted Sansa Stark the same way he regretted the butcher's boy. It wasn't his loss, but he didn't want to be diminished in her eyes, found wanting. "I couldn't have brought you both. Stranger can't carry three."

She nodded, biting on her lip. "I wasted time. I could have gotten us all killed. I nearly did."

"Enough," he said roughly. "That's enough." He punctuated each word with a squeeze and she leaned into him.

"Where will we go?" Her voice was empty, muffled by his neck where she'd pressed her face.

"I told you," he replied. "White Harbor."

"But how?" she asked. "We've no maps, no road-"

Thinks we need fucking books. He cradled her head and drew her face to his, kissing her abruptly, not caring that he smelled and looked awful. He chortled a little into her mouth.

"I don't need maps. Or a road," he replied. "I told you, we'll go through open country. Not hard to find North, not this time of year. We'll make for Maidenpool. Might take a few days, then see about finding a ship to take us the rest of the way."

"How long?"

"A month? Won't be easy."

She nodded firmly, then looked up at him through her lashes. He wanted to drag her against him right then, she looked so lost and vulnerable, so out of her realm of comfort. King's Landing might have been a cage, but for her it had been a comfortable, familiar one. She could name plants and trees and flowers, but she didn't know how to use them. She knew the maps of the realm like the back of her hand, but she had never walked the hills and forests, did know her east from her west. But he did, and she knew it. Lenna Manderly, who found her comfort in knowing, was at a loss and at his mercy. He saw her coming to terms with it play out of her face, her lovely face, long and sharp, and when she looked at him again something in his chest bloomed. The narrow suspicion that had been their earlier, the anger and the disgust, were replaced with that bizarre trust she had placed in him when he first smiled at her.

So that's what he did. He let his lip quirk at her, let the fear and rage of the last months and years go, and he looked down at her and smiled.

She blushed and his pulse quickened. "You look fearsome," she said, her lip twisting. "You don't smell much better."

He laughed at that, standing up and extending a hand to her. "I hate to tell you, Lady Helenna Manderly, but you don't smell like a rose yourself." He retrieved her rucksack and handed it to her, retrieving a lump of lard soap from his own bag. "Here, you go first."

While she presumably bathed in the stream, he set about finding supper. It wasn't hard to pick off a few of the ground birds that had been cooing from the brush with a sling, three fat gray doves. He hadn't hunted like that since his time in the army, before his arrival in King's Landing. He'd learned it as a boy, running through his father's lands with his sling in one hand, his quarry in the other, a dog or two at his heels. It was almost a happy memory, as happy as remembrances of his boyhood got, and he found he hadn't lost his knack for it, much to his pleasure.

He had them already plucked and spitted before she returned from the stream. Her hair was wet and she was still squeezing the water out of it with her old shift. She'd washed it, the stains dim, and her eyes were brighter. But that wasn't what caught his attention and made his throat thicken. The old dress strained over her form, clinging to still-damp skin, and she was nearly spilling from the top of it, her chemise standing in for a towel.

Fuck, he thought, suddenly aware of how alone they were, how alone they'd be indefinitely. It excited and terrified him in turns, his palms sweating and itching.

It was his turn to blush. "Can you roast them?" he blustered, rising abruptly and striding toward the stream himself. He felt hot, decidedly hot. They were alone. Entirely alone. In the middle of the woods with no one else for miles. His armor was suddenly far too small, and he tore at it, wading into the water as soon as he was free of it. It was blessedly cold and he sat in the middle of the creek and dunked his head under the water, staying below until his lungs burned, throwing his hair back when he finally resurfaced, the water running down his face and through the ravines of the scar.

"Are you trying to drown yourself?"

He jolted and glanced over his shoulder to find her standing on the bank. She held his change of clothes against her chest, the lump of soap dangling from her hand.

"Need these?" she asked, her voice lighter and almost teasing. His cock stiffened despite the icy water. She held out the soap to him and he reached for it, but then she snatched it back with a giggle. He lunged after it with a growl, excitement in his veins. She shrieked and dropped the soap and his clothes with a laugh, darting back through the trees.

"Where are you going?" he called.

"I don't want them to burn," she replied, eyes raking over him when she paused to look back. Trousers and tunic were plastered to his body, and her gaze went to the spot that was most attentive to her antics. She bit her lip and he nearly decided to let the birds blacken, but with a turn of skirts and a flash of bright ankle she left him.

He settled back into his bath and decided she'd pay for it later, when the birds were eaten and the sun gone down, no one in the lonely wood but the two of them and the horse.

A/N: Well, folks, they made it out. No telling what will happen next.

Forgive typos, please. I wrote a lot of this on my phone on a plane or in an airport. I'm bound to have made some. Be kind. Estimating a week before the next chapter. Negotiating a cross-country move. Oof.

Reviews are love. I'm obsessed with them. Take fifteen seconds and leave one. Have a suggestion? Want something to happen? I'm open to ideas and feedback, but I'm not psychic! Let me know what you think!