Lenna XLI

She stood holding the knife like it would bite her, her lip curled in revulsion. She'd never held anything sharper than a table knife, and she did not like the easy way it sat in her hand, the grip warming to her palm. It became comfortable almost immediately, whoever had forged it knowing exactly how to contour it to fit snugly into a hand, to rest and balance even in the most inexperienced grip. Cold it had repulsed her, but now it almost felt like it was supposed to be there, and Lenna hated it.

"What do I do with it?" she asked tensely, watching her knuckles whiten more from agitation than strain. Sandor's face was implacable as he reached out and took it from her again. She released a shaky breath, relief that it was gone, even though she could still feel where it pressed into her hand.

"Nothing tonight," he replied darkly, and she was taken aback to hear anger in his voice and see it in the harsh planes of his face. He practically hummed with frustration and a dark rage, and she watched mesmerized as he spun the blade in his hand with a dexterity that reminded her of what he was and plunged the knife into the table top. The force of his gesture made it reverberate singing as it settled into the wood, swaying until at last it came to a stop. "But he won't have you. I swore to you that I would keep you safe."

She nodded, perplexed, not understanding what exactly the anger was that rose up in him like a wave. It reminded her again of the lone hurricane of her childhood, when she had stood on the ramparts with her father and watched the ocean as it churned, looking almost like it was boiling, the waves so high that she had salt spray in her hair when they went back into the safety of the New Castle. It had scared her. The ocean was an unforgiving and an unpredictable thing, but she was used to it. She respected it. And there it was growing in power and she felt helpless, just as she did in the tide of his unnamed fury.

He crossed the little space between them, and he was relentless. She didn't think he even blinked as he pulled her to him, hands on her waist, on her backside, on her shoulders and neck and breasts through her dress. She had the strange sensation, as she had many times before, that he was mapping her and memorizing her. Just in case. Just in case he never got to again. That terrified her.

It terrified her and it thrilled her. She felt the heat ignite in her belly, the sharp joy in her entrails as his mouth descended on hers, on her neck. She pushed against him without thinking, without care, her hips angling against him in unspoken invitation. Her fingers shook as she struggled with the straps of the plate that still encased him. He ripped at it, barely freeing himself before he pressed the length of his body to hers. Every inch of him was taut, at the ready, full of fury and something else that tasted like desperation when his mouth was on hers.

He pushed her against the doorframe, hands beneath her skirts. She gasped when his fingers parted her. She was almost embarrassed by how slick she already was, but it sharpened the glint in his eyes. Her fingers on the drawstring of his trousers made short work of them, and her eyes widened with surprise and shock when she felt him press into her.

He hooked her leg around his hip and lifted her up with an arm beneath her backside. It made her think back to all those times in the Red Keep's library as he kept her turned away from him, unable to touch him even as he wrought havoc on her. Only a few times had she managed to turn in his lap and run her hands over him, noticing how tightly he held onto the reins of his control, fingers biting into the stone surface of the windowseat, his head thrust harshly back against the casement as he watched her with eyes like furnaces, wresting her hand away from him when she got too close. She'd even had the gall to ask him why he wouldn't let her touch him in the same way, and she had not at all been prepared for his response, her mouth going dry in chastened exhilaration.

"I'd have your maidenhead against this wall," he'd replied. It had shocked her, excited her, and now he had her against the door, and it took all of her strength and determination just to hold on to him as he lost the last vestiges of his control, her own breath coming hard as sounds beyond her control issued from her throat at a disconcerting and exasperating volume. She was vaguely aware that she was cursing, and it seemed to delight him, his eyes never leaving hers, not even as his face went slack and he spent himself with two last, long thrusts, his forehead pressed to hers even as one broad hand cradled her face with a gentleness that was entirely at odds with what they had just done.

He rested for a brief time, the span of a few breaths, pinning her against doorframe with the weight of his body. She tipped her head back as she tried to remember how to breathe, sure that her hair was plastered to her face. A trickle of sweat made its way down her neck and over her collarbones, over the top of her rib cage. He saw it, too, dipping his head to catch it. She groaned.

He released her almost regretfully, slowly easing her down. She felt rumpled and entirely wanton as her skirts fell back into place. He led her back to the mattress on her liquified legs, laying her down and tenderly removing the dress that now stuck to her with her own sweat. He didn't utter a word as he stretched out beside her, regret and apology in his hands and tongue, making his amends until she was hoarse and exhausted from it.

He held her loosely in his arms, staring off into the distance. She watched his face, burrowing into his shoulder, wondering what had come over him. It had never been like that, so fast and stormy. He'd relinquished control before at her urging, but there had been anger in it, and that was not something that had been there before. Desperation. Fear. But never anger.

"Sandor?" she asked, his eyes still distant. She followed his gaze and found it resting on the dagger where he'd plunged it into the table. "Are you alright?"

Gray eyes met hers and she knew that no, he wasn't alright. "I shouldn't have brought you here." His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, but his eyes looked hunted.

She furrowed her brow, raising up on her elbow. "You'd have left me with them?"

He shook his head in frustration, his jaw tight. "No. But if we'd stayed, they might not have made the announcement, might not have told Gregor of Joff's plan. If we'd stayed, we could have ridden it out."

"Or, he could have done exactly as he has done, but we'd both be trapped in King's Landing," she said, trying to be reasonable. She had finally stopped believing that there was any predictability when it came to the Lannisters and their plans. It seemed to her that they used everyone and anyone in any way they liked, with little consideration.

He closed his eyes, breathing in harshly through his nose, wrestling with something he wouldn't disclose to her. "I should have done what the sellsword wanted."

"Sellsword?" she asked, sitting up completely. "Bronn?" His nostrils flared and he wouldn't look at her, but he nodded. "What did Bronn know about it?"

Sandor looked at her, a hint of shame again in his eyes. "He told me to steal you. Before the battle. I should have. I should have done it then. I shouldn't have waited. I've put you in more danger than before, Lenna, I failed."

She smiled sadly at him. "I doesn't matter. And you didn't fail. We're here now. We'll figure it out, won't we?"

This seemed to perturb him greatly. He looked back at the table and he nodded to himself. "Aye. I will get you out. But I won't like it. I won't like showing you how to use that thing. You should never have to touch something like that."

"You do all the time," she tried, but she thought she understood his meaning.

"We are not the same, Lenna," he whispered. "You are made for better-"

"Hush up," she said firmly. "I don't want to hear any of that nonsense, Sandor Clegane. There is none better, not for me."

He grunted and she knew he was arguing with her in his head, but she was grateful that he didn't want to continue to conversation. It settled like a shadow in her lungs, filling her whole chest with darkness as she fell into an uneasy sleep, determined not to cry. Crying would do neither of them any good.

He woke her before dawn by rocking insistently against her backside, his hands running up and down her ribcage and over her breasts as he nipped at her neck and earlobes. It was a dreamy awakening, and she stretched against him as languorously as a cat, not quite smiling, as parts of her that were still a little sore from the night before roused themselves and set to aching for a more pleasant reason.

He was curled around behind her, the arm beneath her coming up and stroking her chest, tracing sides, the other dipping between her thighs, just as he had the previous night with no preamble at all. He had been frantic, and now he moved slow, his breathing harsh in her ear and on the back of her neck as he stirred her awake. There was no anger now, but the way he moved and breathed was sorrowful and muted, subdued even as she responded to him.

"Morning," she said, turning her head and almost surprised when his mouth found hers in lieu of a response. He tasted bittersweet, breathing harshly into her as he lifted her leg slightly beneath the knee before sliding where she most wanted him. She gasped and groaned into his mouth and kissed her harder in response.

"Morning," he chuckled, a dark sound, holding her limbs in place as he began a slow rhythm, his face tucked against hers side by side, the scar pressed cool and rigid against her cheek as she brought her other hand along his beard, digging into his hair as she arched back against him. He was strangely unhurried, the desperation of the night before dissolved in the gray morning light, hovering in that half-place between dawn and day. As soon as it was light enough, they would be running again, and she prayed to the gods to extend the inbetween, to give them just a little more time. She gave herself over to him, sighing into a soft and unexpected peak as his breath came faster against her ear until at last he pushed away, dragging her to his chest as he rolled onto his back, jerking as he finished.

He lay for a long time without looking at her, his thumb running in lazy circles on her upper arm. His features were dark, and she noticed how much more deeply the lines were carved into his forehead, around his mouth. She wanted to smooth them, but didn't know how. She doubted there was any way to erase those crags, especially now.

"What if we just stayed here," she said, curling into him, closing her eyes against the brightening light. "You could wake me up like that every morning."

She was hoping to coax a smile out of him, a playful retort, anything that might dispel the heaviness that had settled upon them the day before. She had had little time to process the news of the previous day, the story he'd told of the people talking about them. She didn't want to think about it. If he was right, and she was sure that he was, there would be men on the lookout for them, ready to take them both to Harrenhal to face the Lannisters, and his brother. To send them to their deaths, separate and alone.

He didn't respond, didn't take her bait. He seldom did even though she wanted him to, and she thought that perhaps, finally, she understood why. It could only lead to disappointment, dreaming like that. They had already been through so much, nothing was a given, and planning had done them no good in the past. She wondered if that was where his reticence was rooted, an aversion to tempting the gods. Instead, he drew the back of one long finger down the length of her jaw, his eyes tracing her face as if he was memorizing it again. She realized she was doing the same, her fingers in his beard as she took in his features, almost relaxed, the new dawn washing kindly over the unscarred half of his face as some of those fissures and ravines softened. She couldn't help but smile, thinking for what could have been the thousandth time that he was handsome in his way. She'd seen it as a girl in spite of the scar, and she saw it clearly now that the scar meant nothing to her. She traced her finger where his other brow should have been, over the drooping of his brow, and his lip quirked infinitesimally, the gray eye again warm.

"We need to get moving," he said, but neither of them stirred for a while, they just lay there looking at each other. The anger had abated, even though she was certain it would return. He wasn't angry at her, that she was sure of, and he leaned into her hand like a dog or a cat might when scratched, nuzzling her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. Then, he closed his eyes and let out what sounded suspiciously like a sigh before rising and wiping himself off without another word.

She watched as he began the long process of dressing, continuously distracted by the flashes of light against the knife blade that was still lodged in the table. The leaves were fluttering outside the little window, their dipping and dancing casting mottled sunlight across the room. It made the knife wink at her. It reminded her that they had to go, that to stay there would be folly. She forced herself to get up and pull her chemise over her head, to settle the woolen dress and lace the ties. She fumbled briefly, and was sadly satisfied when she felt his fingers tug and tie them for her without her asking, his hand smoothing over the curve of her waist as he silently moved away from her. Again, she wished this could be their every wakening, only without the mantle of worry and danger about their shoulders.

She returned the favor by tightening the straps of his armor as deftly as any squire, and when he rose again he was more the Hound than Sandor, resolutely making the two strides to the table and yanking the dagger from its surface easily. He turned to her with it shining in his hand, his eyes doleful and full of himself instead of the Hound, and he knelt at her feet on the dirt floor.

She refused to cry as he lifted her skirt and slid the blade into its sheath and then into her boot, his hand lingering on her ankle as he did so. He stayed at her feet a moment longer than he had to, and she didn't miss how he wiped his nose on the back of his hand in an attempt to recover himself.

"You'll start learning how to use it today," he said, glancing up. "When we stop to rest." She must have looked miserable because he rose quickly and dropped a hard kiss on her mouth. "I don't like it any more than you do."

She was keenly aware of it from the moment he slid it into place. It was unfamiliar and stiff against the outside of her ankle, digging in uncomfortably as they rode. She was glad he'd brought a sheath with it, glad she at least didn't have to be aware of the cold steel against her skin. The very thought of it made her shudder.

It was a beautiful day, but neither of them noticed it. They rode in silence along the river, headed northwest. They had lost time by going to Maidenpool first, along with the whole of the previous day. She did her best not to think about what that could cost them, what might happen if they ran into a contingent of Lannister soldiers, or worse, his brother's men.

At midday, he stopped as promised. Stranger was grateful for the break, drinking greedily from the riverbank as they quietly shared bread and cheese. They were beginning to run short of it, and she noticed that he took about half of his usual. She followed suit, but he pushed her regular portion into her hand with a look of disapproval. It tasted like sawdust in her mouth.

"Time for your first lesson," he said when she was done, swiping his hands together and getting to his feet. He extended his palm to her, and she took it, standing resolutely.

"Draw it," he said, and for a moment she saw a flash of Sandor as a commander. She bent and awkwardly withdrew it. "Have to do better than that," he said. "I could have killed you a half-dozen times."

He taught her to swipe at her skirt as she crouched, to draw it swiftly and hide it against the folds of her dress. He made her do it two dozen times, her thighs unused to that kind of squatting and rising, shaking and burning much to her chagrin. She felt weak, soft, and not in a good way, cursing her highborn upbringing. It didn't help that every time her fingers closed around the cold metal she wanted to faint.

"Show me how you want to hold it," he said, watching as she extended it.

The weight of the knife in her hand was still unfamiliar, but it nestled into her palm like a friend. Her wrist was not used to holding something so heavy, only accustomed to pens and quills and needles. It was a little thing, a slender dagger with a bit of elegant chasing on the handle, but her tendons quickly strained as she tested it with a slow arc. She grimaced, not liking the feel of it in her palm.

His hand wrapped around hers on the handle and he readjusted her grip. She held it out like it was a snake.

"It's not a sword," he said lowly, a hint of a smile on his scarred mouth. "You keep it close to you."

"I don't want to keep it at all," she retorted.

He humphed, moving behind her. "I don't want you to need it either, Lenna. Here." He stretched his arm along her and brought it in, showing her where to hold the blade. "Keep the edge up, hold it away from you, but not too far. You don't want to lose time or open your arm up to an attacker." His other hand ran up between her shoulder blades and she shivered despite herself. She could hear the smirk in his voice when he spoke again. "Keep your shoulders hunched and your head down. Protect your neck and face at all times. Facial wounds will distract you, but a neck wound would kill."

She shuddered again, but for a different reason. He moved to stand in front of her.

"Block me. Don't let me touch you."

"I don't want to hurt you," she replied, swiping at him when his arm shot out toward her. She went for it with her opposite hand, swatting at him like he was a fly.

"You won't," he chuckled. He was right. She missed him, but still he seemed pleased. "Try again," he said, "but never use your off hand. Only block with the hand that holds the blade."

"Why?"

"Because you'll probably be blocking a knife. Better let metal meet metal than your arm. And if he's unarmed, you can slash him. Now, try it again." She did as she was told. His smile grew, his eyes brighter. "Needs a lot of work, but you'll get it eventually. Half of using that knife is just keeping whoever it is away from you until someone else can help or they get distracted."

She didn't like the way the metal had warmed to her hand, or the way that her wrist had adjusted to the weight. It was strange when she slipped it back into its sheath, returning it to its place in her boot, her hand feeling oddly bereft, like something was missing. She did not like that feeling at all.

Sitting in front of him, she furrowed her brow and wondered if that was how he felt all the time, like a piece of him was missing when he didn't have a sword in hand. It put her in mind of all of the times she had seen him transform himself, going between Sandor and the Hound with the taking off and putting on of his armor. She had spent years believing that they were two separate entities living in the same body, that he was the Hound because he had to be, but now she wasn't so sure.

She knew him best of all people, both sides of him, having spent the first years of their acquaintance solely keeping company with the Hound. It hadn't been until he'd invited her to use his name, the sounds of it gentle and slurring on her tongue, that she had seen more than the barest glimpse of Sandor at a time. He'd appeared at her door the night before he'd given her his name in a mere cloak and tunic, and she had seen a man instead of a man-at-arms, overwhelmed by his size and the strange, uncertain tenderness of his demeanor. The first time she'd truly seen him as a person and not a war machine.

He had laid himself bare for her whether he meant to or not, his breath catching when she bent her head of his hand, his skin warm. It had surprised her, how warm he was. Then there had been the night not so very long ago when she had realized that he would do whatever she asked of him. That was the night she understood, at least in part, though it had taken her years. No questions from him, just action, and he used that great physical strength of his to achieve her wishes, infrequent as she expressed them. He'd carried her letter when she was but a girl, the risk then so unbelievably low in comparison to that which they now faced. He'd kept her company, sneaking into the library, later into her rooms, knowing full well what might happen to him if he was caught. He'd done it for one reason, and one reason only. To make her happy.

It was then that she realized she did not know what made him happy. Being with her, certainly, but that couldn't be the only thing he enjoyed. Killing, he'd told her that years ago and it had turned her stomach. Now it didn't so much as make her turn her head. Keeping you safe. That was the crux, wasn't it? His happiness was all tied up in her physical well-being, and his frenzy the night before, his hesitancy to discuss the future, his strange ability to take her love while not quite accepting it, they made sense now.

Sandor Clegane thought of himself as a liability. The dagger that was in her boot was a symbol to him, a sign of his failure. If he'd done his job the way he wanted to, she would never have to hold such a thing, never have to think about using it. He felt, and Lenna was sure of this, that he was simply not enough. He was her sworn shield, though she had refused to let herself think about what that meant, but he knew that shields faltered, shields fell, and if that happened, there would be no one. No one to keep her safe.

She laid her hand over his where it rest on her waist and turned her face into his neck. His head dipped next to hers for a moment, his hair brushing her cheeks, and she resolved not to cry, not unless she had to. She felt helpless. He's wrong, she thought, he's not the liability, I am. She was a lady born and bred, she had never dreamed of having to defend herself. If it hadn't been for her, Sandor Clegane would never have fled, he'd have gone on as he'd always done, fighting for the Lannisters. Even if he had run, he'd not have had to worry about keeping her in tow.

She slowed him down. She risked him, not the other way around, but she knew he'd not see it that way, not ever. A decision was made then. She'd not to fight him, not anymore. She wouldn't question him. She'd keep her opinions to herself. After all, they had gotten them into so much trouble already. He wanted to teach her with the knife? She'd learn how to use the knife. He wanted to skirt north of Harrenhal? They would skirt north of Harrenhal. He wanted to flee to Essos? She'd go, without a word or a complaint. Trust. It was the backbone of her feelings for him, and it always had been. She had just been too blind and too arrogant to embrace it. She'd fought him during the Battle of the Blackwater believing herself to know better. She didn't. He'd known it, and now she did. But hadn't she trusted him from the first moment she met him? It puzzled her, that their very foundation was built with trust, and she had pushed it down over and over again in favor of her own brand of logic.

"Sandor," she said, drawing his attention back to her. "I want to tell you something."

"Hm?" he replied absently, lost in his own thoughts.

"I want you to know that I trust you," she said simply. "I have always trusted you, and I always will. Tell me what I need to do, and I'll do it."

He seemed puzzled by her statement, his good brow pulling into the scar as he looked at her askance. She made herself smile, knowing it was a sad attempt, but tension in the lines on his forehead released slightly, and his arm came around her a little more tightly, and she could feel him inhale and then exhale slowly against her, his lips pressing against her head.

Sandor XLI

Trust. He knew what to do with trust as much as he knew what to do with love. She trusted him, but he did not trust himself. He had spent the last months, the last years, wrestling with that very problem. Now, hearing her say it meant more than any declaration of love from her. It was a surrender, one he wasn't sure he deserved. At least he could rest content knowing that he had never broken her trust, had never intentionally let her down, even though he felt like a tremendous failure as he pulled her against him, keenly aware of how much danger he had gotten her into even as he was trying to fucking rescue her.

He didn't fear for himself, but if anything happened to her, gods...

They camped that night in the brush, no fire, just a hunkering down in the grass. He was tempted to stay in his plate, but she'd be warmer if he didn't, more comfortable against him. He lay down next to her on his left side, pulling his cloak over them and tucking her against his front. She felt small, he'd already noticed that her collarbones were sharpening along with her cheeks. He didn't like it, knew there was nothing for it, all he could do was make her take her portion and eat it, then wrap around her in the night. She watched in silence as he laid his sword in the grass beside her. It was more than half her height.

He woke the next morning with her curled into him, an arm twisted around his neck. He lay there for a time, knowing he should get up, but he was transfixed as always by the sight of her asleep beside him. Despite the long road that lay ahead of them, the great threat that hunted them, Sandor was strangely content.

They got an early start, riding silently, and he stopped at midday. They ate quickly, the bread so stale he showed her how to dip it in water to soften it. The cheese was still good at least, and they munched as they sat on the ground, resting. He saw how stiffly she moved, knew that if he ached, she must be in even worse discomfort. There was nothing for it but to keep moving and to pause to stretch.

"Second lesson," he said, rising and offering his hand. To his surprise, she did not scowl, she did not curl her lip, just stood and waited patiently. He had her practice what they'd done the day before, withdrawing her blade from her boot with a flick of her skirts and wrist a dozen times, satisfied with how quickly she was able to do it for now. She thought too much, and it slowed her down.

He withdrew his own dagger, her eyes widening slightly, and he feinted for her to block him.

"Stop thinking so much," he said gently, chucking her under the chin. "You think and you hesitate. You can't hesitate."

"How can I stop thinking?" she asked. He shrugged. He had no idea, it wasn't a problem he had. She was, after all, known for her thinking. All those bloody books and languages. He didn't expect it would be easy for her to turn off. "What do you think about?"

It was a question he didn't know how to answer. It wasn't that he didn't think, he did, but it wasn't in words, it wasn't complicated. It was like seeing a pathway open up in a forest and pointing his feet in that direction.

"Move toward space," he said at last, chewing over the words. "Find a pathway and go there as quickly as you can. If it closes, find another."

She furrowed her brow and nodded, and he smirked when she blocked him a little more easily on the next attack.

"If you need to attack, what will you do?" he asked. It was the aspect of this that bothered him the most. He knew her too well to think she'd be eager to assault someone. She'd more likely hang back and simply try and defend herself, but sometimes the best defense was a well-timed offense. It might mean the difference between her living or dying, or his.

"I don't know," she said plainly. "I've never-"

"You might have to, Lenna. If we were ever in a situation where I needed help, what would you do?" It was his worst fear, that they should be ambushed and he overwhelmed. He knew his abilities, was confident to a point, and he sure as hells didn't fear for himself. If death reached out of him, he'd not flee, but when it came to her, that was different. He was no longer living for himself, and just like at the Blackwater, the possibility of leaving her defenseless made ice flood his entrails.

"Whatever I had to," she stated without pause. He quirked his lip at her, something dark in him warming, the ice thawing just barely. He nodded.

"You're tall," he said. She was a hand taller than most women in King's Landing, just a few inches shy of six feet tall. Not only was she tall, but she was long-limbed, though he'd never thought of her graceful arms and legs in any other context than his lustful thoughts. They were an asset for an entirely different reason now. Add to this that she wasn't waifish, though she had lost more weight in the last week than he liked, and she may have been a good fighter at some point, if she'd been a man. If she'd been someone else entirely. "If you need to attack someone, try to come at them from behind so they won't see you. They won't expect a woman to make the first move, and you'll count on that fact. Hear me?"

She nodded again. He turned his back to her and glanced over his shoulder. "Jump on me."

"What?"

"Try and jump on me." She laid the knife down and took a running leap. "No," he said, easily pushing her back, not able to repress the chuckle. "Knife in hand."

"How?" she demanded. He could read fear in her face as she picked the blade back up and looked at him. She thought she was going to hurt him. He felt a warm surge of affection and forced himself not to laugh.

"Do your best," he replied with a cock of his eyebrow. She took it as a challenge, the lines of her face tensing as she regarded him. He'd heard her say that to Myrcella more times than he could count, and the little grace had always pursed her lips in annoyance. Lenna didn't like it any more than she had. She gritted her teeth and he turned his back on her again. She leaped, awkwardly finding her balance as her off-hand gripped across the expanse of his chest to his opposite shoulder and she hauled herself up. He shook her off like a dog might shake off a tick.

"Again."

He didn't want to tire her out, but he made her try again and again. He lost count of the attempts. He noted that it got easier once she figured out how to wrap her arms and legs around his torso. Though he hated that he was teaching her this at all, it did make him feel oddly jolly, like she was a child playing pony. Granted, she had a knife in her hand that he whetted himself. He knew how sharp it was.

"Good," he said at last, lowering her to her feet. "I'm taller than most anyone you'd have to face, so it's good you can manage on me. Most men you won't have to jump at all, you're taller than many. When you get them in that hold, though, you have to act fast."

"And do what?" she asked, out of breath.

He tilted her face up to his with a finger beneath her chin. "Slit their throats," he said plainly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She stilled and her eyes went hard, but she kept her face under control. There was no revulsion there, just acceptance. Trust. He moved behind her again, taking the knife from her this time. He got into position, holding her shoulder with his off hand and wrapping his arm around her neck just as she had done. She shivered against him when he laid the cool flat of the blade against her skin. "Start here, below the ear. You'll have to press hard. Humans are actually rather difficult to kill. There's a big vein here," he said, tapping against her pulse. It fluttered against his finger. "Open it and it'll do most of your work for you, especially if you can't sever the windpipe. You might not be strong enough, but it's best to try. Once the blade is in, shouldn't be too hard."

He came back around her and ignored the way her eyes had darkened and her mouth was parted. No time for that now.

"Try," he said, handing the knife back to her and giving her his back again. He heard her footsteps, gratified when she made it onto his back and laid the flat against his neck. When she slid the knife along his throat, the edge caught below his jaw. "Fuck," he laughed, shrugging her off. "Eager?"

He turned, looking down at the blood on his fingertips with pleasure. For the first time, he thought maybe she would be able to do it if she had to.

"Sandor, I'm so sorry," she cried. She dropped the knife like it had burned her, pulling a handkerchief out of her sleeve and blotting at the cut until the drops stopped welling to the surface. She looked like she might cry.

"Enough for now," he said, batting her away. "It's nothing, Lenna. Barely a scratch."

"I hurt you-"

"And I'm glad of it," he said, grabbing her hand that held the handkerchief. "But you can't let yourself be upset if you ever need to do it, understand? Afterward, maybe, but you have to just act. You can't think." He glanced down at her hand, looking at the handkerchief in recognition. She averted her eyes and blushed. "Where did you get that?"

"Shouldn't we go?" she asked, the flush creeping up from her sternum. She tucked the handkerchief back into her sleeve and made her way back to Stranger. She turned her face into his withers and waited. Sandor stalked up behind her slowly.

"Where did you get that, Lenna?" he asked, laying his hands on her shoulders. He thought about the box of trinkets in the saddlebags that she'd taken reverently out of her desk even as he was wildly trying to stuff her rucksack. She'd stood there with it in her hands like some enchanted maid, and he remembered the white blade of pleasure and satisfaction that had lanced his gut when he saw the contents.

"You gave it to me," she replied, taking a step back and bumping into his chest. He thought about the night of the raids, when her own handkerchief had fluttered to the floor from his hauberk, cementing his fate. He felt it now, pressed against the left side of his chest, his plate tight as he tried to remember when he might have given her that piece of linen, unable to call it to mind. She carried it, it must have been significant, yes?

"When?" he breathed

"That night in the crypts."

"White Harbor?" he asked, laying his hand on her waist. She nodded, and he leaned his head against her shoulder. "Why did you keep it?"

"Why do you think?" she replied, turning her head so she could look at him from beneath her lashes. He felt hollow as he stared at her, unable or unwilling to believe that he'd wasted so much fucking time.

He crouched and launched her into the saddle before lifting himself up behind her, his arms coming around her waist in the way to which he'd grown accustomed. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he wondered if she could feel it through the plate. White Harbor. It had been on the way back from that place that he'd allowed himself to admit what it was he felt for Helenna Manderly went past the bound of duty or friendship, that he had fallen into the same trap as the damn knight in her storybook. He had spent that trip in agony, having her to himself on the ship, being included in her family's revelry, their lives, and knowing they would part as soon as he put his plate back on and entered the capital again.

And here was his handkerchief, passed to her in the crypt as he selfishly held her against him under the guise of comforting her, wanting to turn her face to him, to do something, and he'd convinced himself that all she felt for him was friendship, that all she could ever feel for him was that. But she'd kept it, tucking it into her sleeve, against her skin, and he wondered at it at the same time that he hated himself for refusing to see it, for pushing every little indication away with both hands.

It was clear now, clear as the blue sky above them. If she'd kept his handkerchief close to her, then he had heard something in her voice when she sang, she'd been singing for him. He had seen it in her eyes when she looked at him, when she said his name. The myriad times he had forced himself not to kiss her, not to touch her, convinced she wanted mere companionship even as she nestled herself against him in the library, they had all been needlessly frustrating. Then, he hadn't believed her, not really, all those months since she had risen on her toes and slid her lips against his. She had told him she loved him in the Sept of all places, and he had only half taken it to heart, convinced that she thought she loved him, but believing that she really didn't know what it was she felt for him. Pity, affection, even lust, but surely not that.

His arm around her waist tightened and he dropped his mouth to the top of her head, and a dark, fierce feeling spread through his chest. It wasn't hope, but determination. She was his, and no one else was going to have her.

They rode in silence until well after nightfall. There was no shelter that night, no campfire, and when they bedded down in the grass, Sandor lay on his side and looked at her. When she whispered that she loved him he responded in kind, the words inexplicably hard and fiery but slipping out without trouble. He didn't feel tender saying them, it felt like the beginning of a battle-rage, the red and white churning in his belly, frothing in his lungs. Hers was a soft love. It resembled her so closely, lovely and gentle and constant. His looked like him now, no longer timid, but savage and brutal, wrapped around a core of vulnerable gentleness that he would protect at all costs. He reached for her in need, and groaned to feel her softness rise up against his hard angles, her arms wrapping around him as he moved over her in the grass.

The pattern was established over the next several days. He woke her before dawn, often shivering in the dewfall, tossing her onto Stranger's back with a lump of stale bread in her hand. They would ride until midday, stop, and practice with her knife before he would throw her back on the horse and ride until after sunset. It was a grueling pace, but when he reached for her in the starlight, she always welcomed him, and Sandor found respite in her sighs and gasps as he surrounded himself with her.

It was near nightfall nearly a week later when they came upon the others. Sandor had spent much of the day relieved, knowing they had passed close to Harrenhal and were now ranging north, hopefully beyond the easy reach of the Lannisters. Soon they would be in past the Trident, approaching the territories held by the Starks and their bannerman, and he was sure that while he might have a harsh welcome, they would flock to her aid. He would think on what to do about that later, how to get Manderly on his side before they took his head or sent him ransomed south.

He was thinking on it, allowing himself to smile into the crook of her neck, when he spotted the campfire. The clearing was a little ways off, protected by a rocky outcropping, and he barely had time to assess the scene before he heard the crack of branches and three guards stepped into their path, weapons raised.

A man in a cloak stood behind them, lowering the hood as he approached. Sandor reined Stranger back as the man looked up at him. The man had a long, narrow face and eyes like dragonglass, framed by thick dark hair and a bushy, almost unkempt black beard. His eyes flicked to Lenna, then to Sandor, and he fucking grinned.

"Oh," he breathed, his voice a snarl of pleasure and cunning, "the gods have been very good to me."

A/N: This chapter fought me like no other. NO OTHER. But it is done. Our friends are still growing. As always, I appreciate the feedback that you all leave! I love any and all of it, especially those who make comments about Sandor's characterization. He's a weirdo, and I am trying my best to keep him in character even as he develops. It's hard. He's a mess. Hope you all enjoy, even though this feels like such a filler chapter! But those can be fun, too, right?

Looking at about a week for the next installment. Thanks for well wishes about last week- it was a difficult one but through to the other side and looking forward to the next challenge.

Please read and review. Reviews are love, and I have an unhealthy obsession with them.