Lenna XLII

"Who the fuck are you?" Sandor asked, his voice reverberating in her own chest like a storm. Just from the tone, she knew was disturbed and thrown off-kilter. In itself, that was enough to set her heart clanging against her ribs and her skin to prickle with fear. They'd both missed the signs that surely had indicated that they were not alone in this part of the wood. Now that they were obstructed from leaving, and she immediately noticed that there was no birdsong. One of the first things he'd taught her was to listen for the birds. If they went silent, something wasn't right. She had become accustomed to their din, and they were so loud most of the time that she didn't know how she had missed their absence. Now it was too late, and the silence was deafening.

The man that stood before them on the road was nonchalant, his stance confident and broad, his dark hair swept back from his face to make him appear taller. His black eyes were shining beneath a heavy brow, one side bisected by an old, pale scar. Lenna wasn't sure where she'd seen him before, but he was familiar. Not only did she think she recognized him, but he was fixated on her instead of her protector. The dark eyes were rooted to her face, ignoring Sandor at her back. She felt like his regard was almost a dare, but she could not place him.

"Do you not know me, cousin?" he asked, his arms still outstretched in grandiose fashion. She felt Sandor shift behind her, his hand going to his hilt, ready to draw if necessary. The man's voice was carefully modulated, casual in its inflection, but the flinty way he held her gaze kept her rigid with trepidation.

She looked back at him intently, knowing that she'd seen his face before, many years ago. It was not a kind face, craggy and set into what he must think was an affable expression. It was not an honest one. Setting one's face that way was a skill that she possessed herself, but she hoped she was more successful than this man. She couldn't tell exactly what he was thinking, his face an implacable mask, but she wagered it wasn't particularly good. Not for them, at least.

Cousin. Dark hair and eyes, pale skin, and then she noticed his men. Rather, she noticed their men. The guards that flanked him on either side were wearing the banners of House Bolton, the flayed men on their tabards making her shudder.

"Grag Locke," she breathed.

"I'm surprised, my lady, that you would recognize me. It has been a very long time."

It had been a long time indeed. The last time Lenna had seen Grag Locke had been at her grandmother's nameday celebration before she was sent to King's Landing. He'd been younger, of course, but she would not forget a face like that, especially not one attached to his reputation.

"Over ten years," she replied, her heart thundering in her chest like a flock of birds, trying to keep her voice light. She was thrown off by his appearance, by his knowledge of her, and she floundered. "Where are you going?"

"I could ask you the same thing, dear cousin," he replied, lowering his arms. The guards took a step back. Lenna sagged just a little in relief, just then realizing the thrum of fear at the raised swords and crossbows. "But I am so glad to have found you. Many people have been quite worried on your account."

"Have you been looking for me?" she asked, feeling a fool. She had expected Lannister men to have been after them, but not necessarily her own people. She wondered how and what the Northerners had been told.

"Come down from there," Locke said, "and we'll discuss this properly. Tell your man to watch his manners. He needn't draw that sword. He won't like the result."

Lenna looked up at Sandor over her shoulder. His face was tight, his eyes dark as he followed the movements of the man as he retreated into the clearing where he'd made camp.

"Is he really your cousin?" he asked lowly.

"Yes," she replied.

"Do you trust him?"

She wanted to shake her head, to tell him that she didn't. She remembered now why it was her mother had never liked Grag Locke. He was the younger son of a minor member of the family, a man-at-arms in Oldcastle. As a boy, he'd been sent to the Dreadfort to squire for the Boltons, but he'd never been made a knight. Instead, he'd become a hunter, much to the chagrin of her grandmother. Bred in the Arbor and raised at Highgarden, used to gentler southern ways, Melleah Redwyne had made no secret of her disdain for the Bolton clan. Her daughter Adalyn was no different, and Lenna wondered if distaste for this northern ally was a matriarchal trait. Torture was outlawed in the North, but everyone knew that Roose Bolton had a taste for it, subjecting his perceived enemies to the flaying so proudly displayed on their banners. Even her own father, a Northerner through and through, was no admirer. Their open secret was ignored by the other families, the Boltons having effectively repulsed them all from even thinking about it.

And Grag Locke had been bound up in them, taking to their methods and ways like a fish to water, never looking back. He'd had little to look forward to in life except perhaps becoming a free rider, his father but a minor member of her family, his mother a wealthy merchant's daughter but no highborn. His greatest asset had been his lordly name, and she couldn't begin to imagine how that might rankle. He'd never parlayed it into knighthood, or perhaps he hadn't wanted to after he'd found a niche in the Dreadfort. A hunter of men. Lenna remembered her grandmother's revulsion when he appeared at her nameday celebration, though she masked it with the same geniality she always did. Everyone skirted him at a distance born of twin distaste and tolerance, and even as a child, Lenna had found his hard eyes off-putting.

Despite this, Lenna didn't know what to do. He was her kinsman, and she could only pray that the bond of blood was enough for him to mean them no harm as he said he did.

Instead of answering, she looked up at Sandor in uncertainty. He dipped his head and pulsed his jaw.

"No, I think we'll be on our way," Sandor called at Locke's retreating back. "The lady is safe, as you can see, and I'll deliver her safely home."

Locke paused and turned. "My orders were to bring her to Riverrun if she was found."

"I am taking her to White Harbor," he replied. "Where she belongs."

"I don't think you quite understand," Locke said quietly, walking back toward them. "I am taking Lady Helenna to her family in Riverrun as I was bid. I don't care what you planned. And you have a choice. You either come with us as my guest," he drawled. "Or I can take you as a prisoner."

"Fuck off, you twat," Sandor replied flatly, a frisson of anger lacing the words. Lenna hadn't heard him speak like that before. He went rigid behind her, his arms tightening, seeming to grow. He reined Stranger around.

The six guards that Lenna had originally counted doubled unexpectedly, a dozen men stepping out into the road, the flayed men over their chests.

"Prisoner it is," Locke said with a wide grin, tucking his hands behind his back.

"Do you want to test me?" Sandor asked. "You won't like the result. Your best fighter against me. I win, we leave. You win, you get to have me as a prisoner."

Locke had the audacity to laugh, shaking his head and looking to the ground as if he was dealing with an unruly squire.

"This isn't a negotiation, dog. All I would need to do is tell one of my men to fire and I'd have you skewered with a crossbow bolt faster than you could charge." Lenna must have started in terror, her eyes flying wide, because Locke held up a pale hand as he raised his brow in reassurance. "But, I won't. There's a bounty on your head in Riverrun, Hound, but only if you are brought in alive. I think I'd like to have it. Now," he cocked his head and she heard a crossbow click into firing position, "dismount slowly and let the lady down."

He hesitated behind her, and Lenna knew he was trying to think. Even Sandor couldn't take a dozen men at once, not with crossbows, and she felt his hair brush her face as he leaned toward her.

"I'm going to set you down," he said into her ear. "Do not watch, and do not object to anything they do to me, do you understand?"

She nodded once, and Sandor dismounted, reaching up for her and lowering her to the ground. Despite his request, she watched in mute horror as three of Locke's men set surrounded him. Stranger nipped one of the guards hard, garnering a shout from the lad. She almost smiled with perverse satisfaction.

"You will not harm her," Sandor ground out, glaring at Locke. Her cousin was no match in size, and on the ground she realized he was shorter than she was. He stared Sandor down as if they were equals. The guards took Sandor's sword and dagger, bound his hands in front of him. "You will not touch her."

"Of course not," Locke replied, cocking his head as if this was a foregone conclusion. "Is that what you are worried about, dog? That she'll be molested?" He feigned offense, hand splayed on his chest. "She is a lady and my kinswoman. If you'd come quietly Clegane, I would have spoken for you to my Lord. Now, who's to know what he'll do with you." He extended a hand toward Lenna, a savage smile playing around his moustache. She looked between them, and when Sandor flicked his eyes, she went to Grag Locke and let him take her by the elbow.

Her heart staccatoed against her ribs and she felt sick. Locke had a firm grip on her arm as he led her into the clearing where they had made camp. She saw now that it was outfitted for at least a dozen, dismayed by the Bolton banners that hung from the rudimentary tents, from the horses and the banner-poles. The sight of the bloody men made her flesh crawl.

Her companion must have seen the disquiet on her face. His grip on her elbow gentled and the smile faded. "I can't imagine how you must feel, my lady," Locke said, gesturing to a stump that was serving as a seat. "All alone in the wood with a man like that for weeks on end. Has he harmed you? In anyway?" Lenna shook her head forcefully. His remained hard even as he let his face register relief. "You're used to a fine Keep and a soft bed, not this kind of living. You must be terrified, overwhelmed. You've had quite an ordeal, I imagine."

"Aye," she replied breathily. She would never tell him that the most fearful she had felt was sitting now with him in this camp surrounded by banners emblazoned with bleeding bodies.

Locke settled down across from her. His tone was altogether too solicitous for the situation, like they were taking tea instead of surrounded by wilderness, her protector just bound before her and now out of sight. She was effectively a prisoner, too, and they both knew it. He's trying too hard, she thought, wondering why he bothered.

"How lucky it was that our paths crossed, cousin. Almost as if ordained by the gods." One of the guards brought him a tin plate with some sort of mash on it and a cup. "Are you hungry?"

She shook her head.

"Come, cousin," he said, silently instructing the guard to bring her a plate of food. "I cannot take you back to your brothers all skin and bones."

"My brothers?" she asked, her head shooting up.

"Aye," he replied, his brow furrowing. "At Riverrun. Have you no idea what is going on, my lady?"

Again, she shook her head miserably. Locke spooned up the mash greedily, some sort of concoction of beans and pork from the smell of it, and took a swig from his cup.

"The last I heard was that Robb Stark had called his banners," she said truthfully. They'd been so fixated on Stannis Baratheon that she hadn't payed much attention to what was going on in the North.

"And the fighting has been thick ever since," he smiled, as if this fact cheered him, should cheer her. "Lannister defeat after Lannister defeat. We captured the Kingslayer, you know."

She nodded, a pang of sadness tightening in her chest. "I had heard that as well."

"But he escaped." Her eyes must have widened at this because Locke chuckled. "Never fear, my lady. He's headed back where he belongs."

"King's Landing?"

He looked at her in amused disbelief. "No, my lady, to Riverrun. See?" He gestured behind her with a tip of his cup, and Lenna followed his gaze only to be arrested by a pair of beryl-bright eyes in a filthy face.

"Ser Jaime," she breathed, her brow knotting. He looked steadily back at her, his face nearly black with grime. She could see the tensing of his mouth and temples, the struggle he fought to look back at her. The green eyes were hollow, not so much forlorn as empty, only the color making them shine. He was bound at the ankles, and his arms were arranged in the strangest position. It was then that Lenna realized they were crossed that way because his wrists could not be properly bound. Where his sword-hand had been there was nothing but a dingy knob of old bandages. And around his neck...Lenna could not think about what it was she saw hanging about his neck. She reeled back to Locke with a snarl. "What have you done to him?"

"Unfortunate, that," Locke replied with a wicked glint.

She regarded him flatly. "He needs a maester."

"He needs to learn to shut the fuck up," Locke snarled. "Wouldn't need a maester if he knew when to shut his arrogant yap."

Lenna took a deep breath, trying to suss out who Locke wanted her to be. "I'm sure King Robb will be happy to have delivered back. He is a valuable hostage, I'm sure."

"You know what that's like," Locke replied. "Being used that way."

"What are you talking about?" she replied, furrowing her brow.

"Can't remember how many times Lord Tywin wrote to the King, and to your father, trying to barter for your release. Yours and the Stark girls."

"The girls?" she asked suspiciously.

Locke looked at her as if she was daft. "Lady Sansa and that little one. Can't remember her name."

"Arya," Lenna supplied.

"Aye, that's it," he replied. "Of course, the last raven, that was a surprise."

"Forgive me, cousin," she said, trying not to imbue the word with as much annoyance and distaste as she felt, "but I am quite at a loss."

"They all thought you dead, my lady."

"Dead."

"Aye," he replied. "Your brothers told of it, a sack arriving from King's Landing with nothing but your hair, not even a message."

"There was no message?" she said, furrowing her brow. "None?"

Locke shook his head. "Not that I know of. Your father, he was furious. He'd stayed fairly neutral until that point, sending as little of his garrison as possible. After, he called in his own banners and sent both of your brothers to Riverrun."

Lenna blanched. He'd tried to stay out of it for her, and now he'd sent an army in retaliation over her.

"Then the raven came just after the Blackwater," Locke said, pleased that he had riveted her attention. "Your brothers cried, my lady, to hear that you had been kidnapped during the battle, but for joy, not sorrow."

She felt like crying herself. To think that they all believed her dead, even for an instant, was devastating.

"Granted, we were all stunned to hear that it was the queen's Hound had taken you. Set many tongues to wagging, I'll tell you that. But we'll take you with us now," he replied, a smile like a snake slithering across his face. "Set this whole unpleasant episode behind you. Your father will be so pleased that we have found you."

Episode. As if that one word could sum up a decade of heartache, remedied like a headache with a good night's sleep. Her mind was a morass of questions, none of which she dared give voice to the man sitting before her.

"And Clegane," she said, averting her eyes from Locke's. "What of him?"

Locke shrugged. "Wanted for questioning, that's why King Robb wants him alive. We'd all like to know why the Lannister dog fled North with a Manderly maid, but really, we want to find out what else he knows."

Lenna's chest loosened a little in relief. "I can answer the first," she said. "Not as salacious as you seem to think. He is keeping a vow. If such things matter to you." She regretted the last as soon as it passed her lips, wincing a bit when the hard eyes flashed hot.

"Your mother never liked me either," he said conspiratorially, leaning in so close she could feel his breath. "No skin off my nose if you don't." He leaned away again, tossing back a mouthful of wine. "What the fuck do I care what a stuck-up old maid thinks of me. I'm half convinced you're one of them anyway. No true Northern woman would have stayed in the capital after Ned Stark was killed. But, it matters very little to me. I'll have the price for your return, and his, and that will be plenty for me. Yes, the gods have been very kind to me indeed."

Locke got up then, wandering away from the fire and toward a group of his men, leaving Lenna to sit and contemplate what he'd told her alone. She sat rigid, trying to make herself smaller, too aware of the way the guards were glancing at her, and not liking it, not one bit.

She heard movement behind her and she turned to see what had caused it, worried that it was some wild animal. Instead, she found herself not very far from a third bound figure. The person was enormous, though not as big as Sandor. At first she took her for a man, but the strange delicacy of her cheekbones, the beautiful blue eyes rimmed in pale lashes, those features told a different story.

"My lady," the woman said, her voice lower than Lenna expected. The face that looked back at hers was unlovely but strong, and the eyes were sorrowful and serious. She was dirty and bruised, a large purple scrape up one cheek, obscuring the lines of her face with swelling, but the features were placid. It was an honest face. "I am relieved to see you safe."

"Have we met before?" Lenna asked, thinking that surely she would remember such a person.

The woman shook her head, the pale locks of her hair fluttering against her high forehead. "No," she replied, "but I have heard plenty of talk of you. From your brothers, and Lady Stark. And Lord Renly, once."

"Renly Baratheon," she whispered. "You are Lady Brienne Tarth."

The woman's eyes widened slightly. "Yes, I am. How did you-"

"You have an intriguing reputation," she replied kindly. Others had mocked the news that Renly Baratheon had a woman amongst his Kingsguard. Lenna had found it fascinating. "I was sorry to hear that he was killed."

"Not as sorry as me," Brienne replied, then slammed her jaw shut.

"How are you here, my lady?"

Brienne looked at her with faint derision at the title. "I put myself in service to Catelyn Stark."

"But Ser Jaime," Lenna said, "you have travelled with him, no?"

"Sent to deliver him safe to the capital," she supplied. "To exchange for Lady Starks daughters."

"Then why were you hunted down?"

Brienne closed her eyes. "King Robb did not know his mother had Ser Jaime released. It was done in secret."

Lenna's stomach went cold. "Of course. And they obviously don't believe you."

"They don't care one way or another as long as they get their money." She opened her mouth to speak again, but she clamped her lips back together. "He's coming back, my lady, best we aren't caught talking."

Brienne Tarth turned her head away from her, deep lines etched into her brow. At first, Lenna thought she was feigning sleep, but she followed her gaze and found it resting on Jaime, concern carving a deep depression between her nearly transparent brows. Jaime was looking at the space between his knees, filthy hair swinging limply over his face. The picture of him made her lungs constrict.

Locke came to stand in the circle of the firelight again, his lip twisting in a sinister snarl. "We have cleared a tent for you, my lady. You'll have your own guard. None will molest you, I assure you."

Lenna closed her eyes, never even having considered that as a possibility. "Thank you, cousin, for your kindness."

The smirk grew into a grin. "It isn't a kindness," he replied, "it's merely insurance. I want my finder's fee."

She followed him grimly, keeping her eyes on his back and not on the men who watched her pass, only pausing briefly to look around the campsite one more time, her eyes searching for Sandor and not finding him.

Sandor XLII

They bound his ankles and shoved him down on the other side of Jaime fucking Lannister. He felt like he'd swallowed an ember when he spotted the Kingslayer slumped against the tree, anger puffing up in him hot and vicious. It had taken him a full half a minute to recognize him. He was covered in mud and gods knew what else, hair matted and dull, and he smelled even from a distance. Sandor got a good look at him, and even he felt a slithering of revulsion at the severed hand that hung around his neck, the source of the putrid smell.

"How the fuck am I supposed to sleep with that stench?" Sandor demanded of his guard. He was tired of being pliable, finding it harder than he imagined to let himself be manhandled by weaker men. Even he, however, did not think he could take an entire camp of Bolton men, not by himself.

As soon as he'd seen the banners, he'd known they were in real trouble. It was a stroke of luck, really, that the man in the road had recognized her, was her kinsman. It could have been much worse. He didn't like being hogtied like that, but he was at least confident that she was safe. He'd heard Locke reaming his men and threatening them with torture and death if they so much as looked at her the wrong way. These Northerners took their blood ties seriously, even if it was clear that he and Lenna did not exactly see eye to eye.

"What did you do to her, dog?"

Sandor turned his head and looked dispassionately at Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer's face was dark, threatening even, and if he'd had a sword hand, Sandor might have feared eventual retaliation. He swallowed his old jealousy where the Lannister was concerned, deciding that it wasn't worth the argument. They were all fucked together, might as well make nice.

"I stole her," he replied simply. "Taking her home."

"Expect me to believe that?" Jaime replied, his familiar disdainful arrogance lacing his voice in a way that made Sandor's fingers itch to deck him. He pulled unsuccessfully on the ropes.

"Believe what you want," he replied, looking him in the eye. "Never been a liar."

"And why would you be taking her home, hm? She was safe in King's Landing, dog. You've dragged her into the wilderness, and now she's at the mercy of this cocksucker."

"You have been gone a long time, Kingslayer," Sandor replied evenly. "You don't know what you're talking about. Not anymore."

"Enlighten me," he retorted with a narrowing of his eyes. He looked at Sandor expectantly, convinced he'd be unimpressed. Sandor grunted.

"The King," he replied, "has betrothed her to my brother." Under other circumstances, Sandor might have enjoyed watching his conceited, handsome face go slack-jawed.

"Cersei wouldn't let that happen, she loves Lenna," Jaime said, clearly fighting a war within himself. "Such a marriage would be a death sentence."

"Not much your sister could do," Sandor replied. "The King is out of control. Not even the queen, or your brother, was successful at controlling him. Not fully."

"What do you mean?"

"He had Sansa Stark beaten in public, and he made me," Sandor choked here, "he made me take Lady Helenna's hair. In front of them all. He threatened to take her head."

"Over what?"

"Nothing," Sandor growled through his teeth, as if there could be an justification for humiliating a lady like that to begin with. "She did nothing, neither of them, except be born Northern. Said he was punishing them for in their brothers' stead."

Jaime closed his eyes, shaking his head. "But why would you steal her, why care?"

Sandor looked back at him flatly, gritting his teeth together so hard he could hear them squeak.

"Good gods," Jaime responded, the green eyes glinting. "Does she know?"

Again, Sandor said nothing, looking down at his hands instead. "We have to figure a way out of this."

"Why?" Jaime asked. "He's taking you to Riverrun. She'll be safe there."

Sandor shook his head violently. "No," he replied. "It isn't far away enough. My brother is at Harrenhal. They advance, she needs to be as far away as possible. She's going to White Harbor."

Jaime looked at him. "How would you get out, then?"

Sandor huffed. "She has a knife. In her boot. They won't think to look there. She can cut us free."

"Us? There are still a dozen of them," Jaime replied. "And I will be of no help in a fight. If you didn't notice." Sandor grunted. "But," he said carefully, "there is another warrior here, bound same as us."

"Who?"

"Brienne of Tarth," he replied. "Lady Stark sent her as my guard. She's a good fighter," Jaime said, and Sandor was fucked if the man didn't look wistful when he said it, a strange smile playing on his lips. "They make us ride together. Let me talk to her tomorrow on the road. We'll figure something out, I promise."

The next morning, Sandor was relieved to see Lenna looked none the worse for her night in a Bolton tent. Locke himself launched her up into Stranger's saddle, and it was strange to see her sitting there. She looked almost little in comparison to the beast, but so much of her smallness came from the desolate stoop of her shoulders, the dark circles under her eyes. They were dry.

They untied his ankles and heaved him to his feet, tying the rope that bound his hands to his horse's saddle. Jaime Lannister and the giantess he assumed was Brienne of Tarth were bound back to back on another mount. The woman was only an inch or so shorter than he was, and almost as broad. He wouldn't have taken her for a woman with the short head and the scowl if he didn't already know. A quick assessment, and he was convinced of what Jaime said. She'd be good in a fight. As they walked, he could hear them talking quietly, but he couldn't overhear what they were saying.

It wasn't the walking he minded, it was being so close to Lenna and unable to even look up at her without garnering suspicion. Instead, he contented himself with periodically brushing his shoulder to her ankle, reassuring himself that she was there.

That night, he and Jaime Lannister were bound together again. He had to listen as Lenna chatted and conversed with the men at the campfire, and he was relieved that she seemingly had determined to warm to them. He couldn't hear what she was saying, but he tilted his head back and listened to the familiar rise and fall of her voice.

"Tomorrow," Jaime said, "you need to find a way to talk to Lenna."

Sandor turned his head to look at Jaime. "I want her to stay out of this as much as possible."

"If she doesn't help, it won't happen," Jaime replied. "Brienne, she thinks she and you could take them out, if Lenna does what we need her to do."

Sandor grumbled. "What is that?"

"Get them all drunk," Jaime replied. "Goad them. They have plenty of ale. She was always a passing fair singer, tell her to get them rowdy. All she has to do is get them all drunk. When they start to drop out, if she can find an excuse to get near you and Brienne, and cut you free, then between the two of you, I'm sure you'll find a way to do what needs to be done."

Sandor grunted. It wasn't a bad plan, and he was a little touchy that he'd not been able to come up with something similar himself. It was better than his plan, which was nothing.

The setup was the same the next morning, and he found himself once again standing at her ankle. He waited until mid-morning to try and talk to her, running his fingers over her ankle, gratified to feel her stiffen with recognition.

"Don't look at me, just listen," he said quietly, keeping his eyes ahead. "Tonight you will get your host and his men drunk. I don't care how you do it, just make sure they keep drinking. Get yourself drunk if you have to, but not too drunk you can't walk straight. You'll need to have some of your wits about you."

"Alright," she said. He let out a sigh of relief that she wasn't going to argue. "Pretend you have to...make water," he felt oddly flustered, unable to find a polite way to say it. "Get to me or the Tarth woman and use your dagger to cut our hands free. Shoulders would be ideal, too, but we'll manage if you can't. You'll need to space it out, over time, maybe even hours. Just wait, we'll make our move when we're ready. But you have to get to both of us."

"Understood," she said.

"No questions?" he asked, eyes darting around nervously to gauge their captors. "No arguments?"

"No," she replied quietly. "I trust you. All of you."

He permitted himself to squeeze her ankle just briefly, hiding the gesture in the turn of his body, wanting so badly to lean his forehead against her calf muscle.

She did a fine job of doing her part. Even he was impressed. That night, she persuaded her hosts to let the beer flow. From his position, Sandor couldn't see a thing. They insisted on keeping him facing out into the woods each night, probably so he couldn't keep and eye on Lenna. But he could hear her, her voice rising in laughter as she goaded her host on. She started it gradually, asking for another drink, her voice growing louder and louder until her laughter pealed through the trees, gay and unfettered.

"She should have been an actress," Jaime said with a faint leer. "Even I believe her. You should see her."

"She's always been an actress," Sandor grumbled back. "Better than you could ever know."

An hour passed, then two, and he heard her loudly proclaim that she needed to relieve herself. He smirked, genuinely amused at her lack of ladylike manners, remembering the once she got so inebriated she let her guard slip in Winterfell. It was the one time he remembered seeing her truly drunk, and he wondered and worried if she actually was that far gone tonight.

She slipped past him, weaving and stumbling on her way to the bushes, and he was thankful that they'd turned him away from the light of camp. It made it much easier for her to sneak up to him and slide her knife between the ropes on his wrist and free him. Jaime leaned into the shadow and she did the same for him.

"Good job," Sandor murmured. She nodded, slipping the dagger back into her boot and returning to the fireside. The men around the campfire cheered when she reemerged, and he heard her call for another drink with a cascade of a giggle.

Then she started to sing. None of the sweet, poetic songs he was used to hearing from her lips, but loud, bawdy songs that he was frankly surprised she knew. The men were making quite a racket, their rough voices joining hers. He lost count of the songs she belted, but he noticed that the longer she sang, the quieter the din became, until it sounded like it was just she and one or two of the other men.

"If you'll excuse me," he heard her say with a hiccup. "I must excuse myself. I'm afraid I don't feel so well."

There was a faint chuckling at that, and she ran into the woods. Sandor waited, listening.

"Hey," one of the guards slurred after a few minutes. "What are you doing there? You've no business-"

He didn't intend for that to be his cue, but it he took it. The lone guard that was still standing was staggering toward her. She was kneeling by the Tarth woman, just pulling up on her bonds when the man seized her around the shoulders. He was so drunk that he fell over, dragging her down with him.

Sandor didn't hesitate, dragging the guard off of her and twisting his neck with a satisfying snap. Lenna looked up at him in a daze.

"Hide," he said quietly, and she nodded, scrambling away.

The sword that he took of the dead Bolton man was cheap, feeling more like a wooden sparring piece in his hand than the real thing. The guards were starting to wake, roused by the noise. One clumsily hurled toward the big woman and she picked him off easily with a broad swipe of another pilfered blade. It was almost too easy, working their way through the sluggish and drunken men that already littered the clearing like rubbish. They fought, but there was no sport in it. Truthfully, he was glad of the light effort, putting the men down as easily as he might put down a dog. The faster they got it over with, the better. He had to give Lannister credit. Getting them drunk had done the trick.

Then he saw her. Locke had her with one arm around her waist, a knife at her throat, dragging her toward his horse. She screamed his name, and it was like the world stopped turning. Even from the distance, he saw the thin trickle of red where Locke's knife caught her below the jaw, the blood spilling down the pale column of her neck.

Sandor kicked the gasping boy off the end of his blade and barrelled across the campsite, tackling Locke as Lenna fell to the ground, staring when her fingertips came away from her throat crimson. He was distracted, and Locke went for him in his breath of hesitation, in the fraction of a minute he took to reassure himself that she was no gravely injured. He managed to wrap his arm around Sandor's back, climbing up him just as he'd taught Lenna to do. The man was stronger than Sandor anticipated, much stronger than a man his size had the right to be, and Sandor was forced to drop his weapon, finding himself fending of the man and his knife. He was straining to shake him off, the man refusing to loosen his hold. He inexplicably became nearly twice as heavy, and Sandor wondered what in the hells was going on when all of a sudden his burden slumped to the ground, nearly knocking him down as his body hit the back of his knees. He turned to find Locke slumped and flailing, wide-eyed as he clawed at his gaping throat.

Then Sandor caught sight of Lenna on her knees on the ground, her knife winking crimson as she fought for breath in great shuddering gasps. He sat up and gathered her to him, expecting her to come undone. Instead, she plunged bloody hands into his hair and crushed herself against him, shaking violently against him even as her mouth found his. She tasted of nothing but desperation and survival.

He pushed her away gently, bracing her wrists with his hands, looking into her pallid face. Her eyes were still wild, her nostrils flaring as she tried to bring herself under control.

"Well done," he said softly, cradling her cheek in one hand and taking the knife from her with the other. She was in shock, her eyes dark and her face devoid of color. "You did well, Lenna."

She nodded once more before collapsing against him, hiding her head in his shoulder as she gasped through rough sobs. He brought his arms up around her, ran a hand over her hair, glancing up to see Jaime Lannister looking back at him with an eyebrow cocked and an expression of complete disbelief on his face as Brienne of Tarth studiously looked anywhere but at the two of them.

"Gods," Jaime breathed, not a trace of humor on his face. "That wasn't exactly what I was expecting."

A/N: Is there such a thing as writer's remorse? I've heard of buyer's remorse, and I felt something very similar reading over the last chapter. Ouf, not my best (am not fishing for compliments). I hope this one read a bit better. Y'all are my testing ground. I'd never written a steamy scene before this fic, and I am still learning how to write fights as well. Having never been in one, it's kind of hard!

Things are starting to deviate, and everything has its purpose (to me). The timeline between now and certain events is fluid, just FYI. There are pieces that I don't want to give up, but which will go a bit differently. Minor changes. I'm not talented enough to change things completely. It is all in service of giving these kids a happy ending. And no, not going to skip to season 8. That's not how plots work. There's plenty of interesting stuff (for me, hopefully for you) in between.

Have I mentioned that I really like reviews? I really like reviews. Thank you, as always, to everyone who leaves them. I truly, truly appreciate them. Consider leaving one, even though I know we all lead super busy lives. Have an idea? Leave a review. Something bother you? Review! Want to see more of something, less of something else? Review.

Another week or so. I turn them out as fast as I am able. Love to you all.