Persist in Folly

by HappierThanIDeserve

Appointed tutor to Princess Myrcella Baratheon, Lenna Manderly finds herself unexpectedly thrust into the inner circle of the Lannister family. She quickly comes to rely on the queen's Hound, finding him, like his Lannister employers, to be much more complicated than he seems. As affairs in Westeros worsen, they both find themselves in the center of a storm they barely understand.

43. Chapter 43

A/N: Do over? Please forgive me. I should not have published the previous chapter 43. I reread it, and it was convoluted garbage in which absolutely nothing of substance happened. A waste of 7500 words that I posted because I had set a meaningless deadline for myself. No one was behaving the way they should, either. Really, a fireside chat with Brienne of Tarth? Not bloody likely.

So, I deleted it and rewrote it. I know it's not usual, and I hated doing it almost as much as I hated that chapter. I can only excuse myself to say that I was in a rush and hit submit too soon. I'm under a great deal of stress, and while writing is helping me work through it, I'm just not at my best. I didn't want to take a break entirely, though. Can I have a do-over please? Pretty please?

Here is what I hope is better. I'm probably going to be out for a week or two as I complete a 1000 mile move. Plenty of time to spend on the drive plotting, right?

Thank you all for your continued support. I'm going to do better, I promise. I want to get this thing finished, but I also want to do it well.

Lenna XLIII

There were no words for the mixture of terror, relief, and despair that was running through her limbs, pumping through her with the erratic beat of her heart. She couldn't breathe, she couldn't think, all she could do was look at her bloodied palms in horror as her mouth worked wordlessly. Then Sandor was next to her, pulling her away from the body that slumped on the ground, its limbs a jumble of distorted angles. She looked into his face, gray eyes holding hers wide with shock and relief. She flung herself at him, arms around his neck, blindly pressing her mouth to his, desperate for assurance that they were both alive, both themselves. She felt as if she had lost herself.

She didn't know how long she clung to him like that, her mind swirling and dark as she squeezed her eyes shut and burrowed her face into his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him. Gradually, bits and pieces of her surroundings threaded their way through the convoluted mess: the blood still warm on her hands, Sandor's arms locked tight around her, the quivering in her legs and arms and belly that would not calm, making her feel as if her body no longer belonged to her. The blood was sticky, beginning to dry in the spaces between her fingers, under her nails. Her legs shook and she sagged into his chest, the uncontrollable tremors making her teeth chatter as if she were in the midst of a blizzard. Still, she clung to him. Her throat was clogged, she was choking, and she was only vaguely aware that she was airlessly sobbing

"You did well," Sandor murmured, pulling away from her slowly. He drew back like she might collapse, one arm still holding her upright. It was a good thing he did. She immediately swayed against him, dazed and petrified. Then, his hand was on her cheek, gentle on her face as the other drew the knife out of her grip. She had no idea she was still clutching it, her fingers curled so tightly that her whitened knuckles shone through the gore like bone. She looked at it as if it were a snake, the blade winking red in the firelight. "You did well, Lenna."

The quiet was suddenly deafening, her ears echoing with the familiar, soothing sound of crickets, the crackling fire, and the breathing of the man who still held her face in his hands, a worried expression in his unwavering eyes. She swallowed and raised a hand to cover his where it rested against her cheek and he let out a gruff sound of relief, pressing his forehead to hers in the briefest gesture of comfort.

"Well," a voice said, and she remembered that they were not alone. Jaime Lannister stood a little ways off, openly staring at Lenna as she clung to Sandor, his face thunderstruck. His eyes were bright in his filthy face, narrowed with surprised recognition, both surprised and dismayed. "That wasn't exactly what I was expecting."

Though she no longer felt as if the ground was disintegrating beneath her feet, the calm fled again, and she crumbled into Sandor's arms as she burst into tears. She poured great hiccuping sobs into his chest until the upset was too great and she heaved the mostly liquid contents of her stomach onto the ground beside them, the beer and bile bitter and burning as she choked. It only made her cry harder, and she wiped her face with the back of her sleeve, humiliation crowning the despair and horror. Sandor pressed her face into his shoulder, his hand on the back of her head, mouth pressing against her hair.

"You're alright," he murmured, setting his mouth by her ear, fingers cradling her skull as if he was afraid she could break or fly apart. She was vaguely aware that he was rocking her, just as she had done him the night at Castle Darry, only then the blood was on his hands instead of hers. "You're alright now. It's over."

It took her another quarter of an hour to come back to herself, and when she quieted again, she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and looked around at the campsite. It was eerily still, the four of them not moving, standing or kneeling like statues among the dead. The fire still roared merrily, but bodies were heaped around it haphazardly. Her stomach clenched in nausea and she sprang back on her haunches to realize she was still kneeling next to Grag Locke, his dark eyes open and staring at nothing, the blood at his throat beginning to congeal to a dark crimson.

"He was my kinsman," she whispered, her horror growing like a thunderhead. It wasn't done, murder of kin was a black mark, especially in the North. She gasped, her voice rising in panic. "I killed my kinsman."

Sandor shushed her, rising on his knees to look her in the face. "He was going to take you," Sandor growled, seizing her shoulders. "He was trying to kill me. You did the only thing you could. And fuck it all, but I'm proud. I'm so proud that you killed the cunt." She didn't doubt his honestly, a feral flash of his teeth as he gritted them together, eyes aglow. He might be proud, but she had never felt more lost.

She wondered how he could love it, killing. She felt as if the sun would never rise again, that there would be nothing beautiful or good or right until her last breath. She had taken someone else's life, had stolen the light out of his eyes, his blood spilling across her hands. He wasn't a good man, quite the opposite, but she wasn't one of the gods. It wasn't her place to decide if he kept breathing or not, and she had the odd notion that the blood would never wash off, that she would be tainted by it for the rest of her days.

In spite of this, another small voice said he was right. If she hadn't killed Grag Locke, it could be Sandor's body lying there with his lifeblood seeping into the dirt, his gray eyes lusterless and dim. But she had never hurt someone that way before, certainly not killed anyone, and it made her feel like something in her very makeup had changed, shifted. She felt her chin begin to tremble again, looking around uncertainly, trying to determine if this was just some horrible dream, and fervently praying that she would wake from it soon.

"It took courage, my lady," Brienne of Tarth said. Lenna's eyes met hers, immediately arrested by the kindness there. The entreaty for forgiveness. "You saved Clegane's life."

The gentleness in her intensely blue eyes was beautifully at odds with the rest of her. Brienne of Tarth was an unlovely person, but she shone there by the fire, her expression serene even as she held her bloodied sword at her side. She was somber and strong, and Lenna was grateful to her, not just for fighting for them, but for the tenderness with which she spoke. It made her wonder what the first time had been like for the lady-knight, her first kill, and her demeanor made Lenna suspect that she had a very different set of emotions around killing her opponents than Sandor did.

There is no joy in this.

She shook her head to chase the thoughts, too aware that three sets of very concerned eyes were resting on her. There was nothing for it now, and no use thinking on it more. She felt like a shadow, her head still a muddle but her heartbeat slowing. The bodies of the Bolton men lay in heaps on the ground, no more distinguishable than piles of rags in the shadows. They didn't even look like people anymore.

Sandor's hands flexed on her shoulders, and when she looked at him, she read the question in his eyes. She pursed her lips and took a deep breath.

"What do we do now?" she asked. He wrapped his arm around her waist, still holding her against his side as though afraid her knees might buckle again.

One of the guards stirred then, gravely wounded but not quite dead. Sandor closed his eyes tight, looking to Brienne when he opened them.

"Should I do it, or will you?" he asked quietly. Lenna shuddered, turning her face once more to his shoulder. She couldn't bear it.

"I will," Brienne said, her brow a map of concern. She swallowed and looked at Lenna. "But take her away, please. She doesn't want to see it."

Sandor drew Lenna to her feet and across the clearing toward Jaime. The Kingslayer was watching Brienne with a strange openness that Lenna didn't understand. She had her own back turned, only hearing the squelch of the boy's body as Brienne's blade drove home, cleaving his heart and putting the young man out of his misery.

Strangely, the sound did not make her want to vomit again as she thought it would. She didn't know that she liked how unmoved she was by it.

"Are you well?" Jaime asked, and Lenna looked at him hesitantly. Jaime glowered darkly at Sandor, eyes alight with an unnamed anger. Sandor looked back at him impassively, no hint of rancor or annoyance in his own face. He simply looked tired, maybe even disappointed, and proceeded to ignore Jaime entirely. He offered her a water skin, tipping it out so she could attempt to rinse the worst of the blood from her hands. It still caught in the borders of her nails, a dark outline that would remind her tomorrow that it had been real. She felt a streak of tightness across her cheek and rubbed the dried blood from there as well, wondering if she looked as bad as Jaime Lannister. He was filthy, his hair matted and filled with dirt, his handsome face almost black with grime, but the beryl-green eyes were the same, still intent on Sandor as he gently tended to her, wiping her hands off with one of the Bolton banners, the flayed man absorbing her cousin's blood.

Her head buzzed like it was full of bees, and she let Sandor help her sit next to the fire. He ghosted his hand over her head, calloused fingers catching the short curls around her face as she stared into the flame, mesmerized by their dance. Sandor left her without a word to join Brienne in dragging the bodies in the woods. Jaime sat next to her with a wry twist of his lips that didn't brighten his eyes.

"I'm not much help, I'm afraid," he said, looking down at his stump. He was haggard, and Lenna caught the stench of his arm. He needed a maester.

The last thing she wanted to do was to talk. She bit down on her tongue to quell the thorny reply, instead taking a deep breath.

"What happened?" she asked flatly.

"That man," he ground out. He cradled his arm protectively against his chest, his face dark and bitter.

She looked at her fallen kinsman. His black eyes were still open, dull and unseeing as they reflected the stars like the sea on a moonless night.

"Are you sure you're alright?" She nodded, fully aware of the genuine concern in his voice. She still could not look at him. "Never thought I'd witness a fierce Lenna Manderly. Your father and brothers were good fighters, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised."

"Please," she said harshly. "Please, I don't want to talk about it. Not now. Perhaps not ever."

"Forgive me," he replied, his tone flat and empty, hollow like a well, the apology dropping like stones. "I am glad you are safe."

"Same," she managed. "I am happy our paths crossed yours. I never thought-"

"Me either," he smiled. "Imagine the odds. Though, I never thought I'd be a captive either. Or gone for the better part of a year."

"We all thought you'd be back straight away," Lenna said softly, remembering Cersei's despair, the way that she had buried her face in Lenna's neck and cried, her cool, queenly composure destroyed by the news of Jaime's capture. "No one ever dreamed-"

He shook his head, looking older than he ever had before. His handsome features disguised his age, but Jaime Lannister was not a young man, well into his middle years. Sitting there with the dying fire playing over his stained face, he looked almost wizened, and so, so tired.

When his gaze flicked back hers, there was desperation in their expression, tender concern that made her want to weep. "How was she?"

"The past year has been very difficult for her. Since you were captured."

He nodded, swallowing hard, a look of intense guilt hovering on his features. "And the children?"

Unexpected pity erupted in her chest. While she found the notion of incest repugnant, against nature, she had never thought of how it must affect Jaime, affect his sister. To be saddled with such a curse. It must bring continuous agony, the likes of which she could not comprehend.

"Myrcella is safe in Dorne," she relayed quietly, kindly, noting the way his jaw tensed at that news. It helped her to think of her former charge, the girl's bright hair and dear face rising in her mind. She missed her with the fierceness that made her happy to know she was so far away, free of danger, free of them. "She's to marry Prince Tristayne. I must assume that both Joffrey and Tommen are well. I have not heard otherwise, though I had feared-" she trailed off, worried that she had said too much, not knowing if she should go down that path.

"What? What did you fear?" he demanded, his voice clipped and eyes aflame.

"The queen was rather erratic the night we left King's Landing," she supplied, wondering how to phrase what she'd witnessed, wondering if she should tell him about the nightshade, about the specter of Ilyn Payne. "I feared for them. All of us, really."

"But Joff won," he said forcefully, trying to convince himself of the truth. She wondered if it was guilt that made his eyes hard, feeling that it should have been him on the ramparts of King's Landing as Stannis Baratheon laid siege against the capital. Instead, he'd been languishing in some Northern cell, no help at all to his family.

"Tyrion won," Lenna corrected him, not just a little pleased at the flash of shock on his face. Joff had come inside the holdfast before the final victory. It had been Tyrion's triumph, and Tywin's, not the king's. "I do not know the details, ser, but your father and brother managed to fend of Stannis Baratheon until help arrived. The wildfire helped."

"Wildfire?" he asked, eyes narrowed. She nodded. He closed his eyes and looked away. "Where did he get it?"

"Caches under the city," she replied. "He found some old map."

"No doubt leftover from Aerys' madness," he replied, more to himself than to her. He looked at Lenna again seriously. "I am glad you are safe, Lenna. You have had quite an ordeal."

She smiled tightly, the familiar sting of tears against the back of her eyelids. He wasn't just speaking of the battle, her flight North. Jaime Lannister had always offered her some strange sympathy, even though Lenna didn't believe he was entirely capable of more than weak pity. So it surprised her when Jaime reached out with his remaining hand and laid his fingers against her wrist, barely touching her but still trying to offer comfort. She grasped his hand fully in her own, pressing it, hating how easily she forgave them.

"I am so glad to see you, too," she said, hot tears leaking out of her eyes. "I have prayed you were safe, that you'd return."

Jaime cocked her head at her. "I'm sure I never deserved your prayers, Lenna," he murmured, his voice almost as rough as Sandor's with some nameless feeling.

She smiled sadly. Guilt rose up to grasp at her tongue. "You have been good to me-"

"Stop," he said forcefully, his voice low but urgent. "No. We have not been good to you, Lenna. We told ourselves we were, I heard Cersei say it, Father say it, more times than I can count. You would sit with us in the evenings, do you remember?" She nodded. "And we consider you family, but that's a curse where we're concerned, isn't it? If we had really cared about you, you wouldn't be sitting in this damn wild having fended off an armed attacker. You wouldn't be running from the Mountain, you'd be married to a lord of your choosing and have a family of your own. If we had been good to you, we would have let you go long ago. Do not bother to placate me." He pressed his lips together tightly. "We are selfish and arrogant and, by the gods, we are starting to pay for it."

Lenna didn't reply, but she sat up straight, willing her face into the mask of stone she had mastered because of them.

A muscle in his jaw twitched and he looked pained. "Lenna," he said carefully. "You and the Hound- he is not a good man, Lenna," he said at last. "Perhaps you've developed some misplaced sense of obligation to him, for trying to take you home, but you should not feel it necessary to...to…"

"I do not feel obligated to him. I love him."

"Lenna-"

"No," she said woodenly. "Don't try and tell me I don't know my own mind. I am not ashamed of what it is I feel. I have hidden it far too long to care what you think of it now."

"This started...before?" His beautiful features were openly shocked.

"Aye," she replied. "Years ago."

"Years," he said dumbly, pulling back slightly to look at her.

"Aye," she repeated. "Almost from the time I arrived in King's Landing, certainly once I became Myrcella's tutor," she said, wondering why she was bothering to explain herself. "And I disagree with you entirely, Ser Jaime. I do not know a better man than Sandor Clegane."

"But, Lenna, he's the Hound." His eyes were bright, incredulity turning his face rocky.

"You spoke just now about all the ways your family has wronged me," she started quietly, wanting him to understand how they had misjudged Sandor, discounted him. "You more or less said you were sorry for it. I will not gainsay you or deny what you've all done. I was in King's Landing for ten years, ten long, miserable years, and the only person who tried to care for me, to help me, with no expectations for himself, was Sandor Clegane."

"How?" Jaime breathed, as if afraid of the answer.

Lenna pressed her lips together and shook her head. "I don't think you'd understand even if I told you everything. All you need to know is this: he's my sworn shield, Ser Jaime. Of his own volition, knowing full well what that would mean if we were caught." If they were caught by Lannister forces, it meant his head. If caught by Starks, it could mean anything.

Jaime swallowed thickly. "And he...cares for you." Bitter amusement almost choked a bark of laughter from her. He could not bring himself to say the word 'love'.

"Aye," she replied. "He would die for me."

"So would I," Jaime protested hotly. "So would Tyrion." Lenna cocked her head at him.

"You believe that you would," she replied gravely. "And I am grateful for the intent, truly I am. But he has risked himself for me, more frequently than I'd like."

Jaime lifted his hand from hers and touched one of the curls that surrounded her face. "Joffrey is mad."

"Aye," she answered simply. "Mad or simply cruel, who is to say? It doesn't matter, the outcome is the same."

"He betrothed you to the Mountain," Jaime said in disbelief, his face scrunching up. Lenna looked at him in question. "Clegane told me."

She colored and looked at the fire. "So, you've already interrogated him?"

Jaime nodded. "What would you do, Lenna, if you were me?"

It wasn't a question she wanted to answer. She knew that Jaime would never turn on Cersei, would crawl back to her even if they took his legs, too. He was bound for King's Landing, she only hoped he'd be able to free Sansa in the process.

"It doesn't matter what I would do. You're going to go back to the capital and helm your nephew's armies. Then, we shall be on opposite sides of the battlefield. And that pains me, Ser Jaime, more than I can say. I believe you have goodness in you. All of you do, though you try to kill it, like kindness is some kind of weakness. Even your father has a measure of it."

"Father," he said flatly. "He wanted you as Lady of Casterly Rock. Asked me to renounce my vows. I refused," he choked, not looking at her. "Gods, I should have done it. You would be safe there, far away from here, from all of it. I would have done it had I known."

"Again, you believe you would. But you didn't." Pain was written in every line of his whole body, his chest rising with a sharp breath that caught in his throat, reflected in the way he clenched his eyes tightly. Lenna touched his shoulder and he winced. "I do not blame you. I am not worth such trouble to begin with." He made a noise of protest, but she silenced him with a glance. "I know you care for me in your way, but you didn't want me for a wife."

Jaime looked at the ground, his expression stormy. His nostrils flared with strain, and on another occasion, Lenna might wonder what was troubling him. She found that right now, she simply didn't care.

"So you will go with him. Go back to your father."

"Aye, if that is what he thinks we should do," she replied. "Wherever he goes, I will follow."

Jaime's head came up and she wondered if the flames in his eyes were reflections of the fire or conjured by his rage.

"What is he to gain from all of this? He's a dog," he said abruptly, "he's a bodyguard, a sellsword, call him whatever you want. He's only ever been good at killing, and he's not a knight. He's not rich and not poor, he's not low-born, but he's not very high-born either. His brother is a monster, but he looks like one." He paused, conflict evident in his face. "What does he want?"

"Me," she said simply. "My safety. Selfish and selfless. More than I deserve." Lenna took his hand in hers again, pressing the filthy knuckles to her lips. "Will you tell her when you return? About him and me?"

Lenna had carried the fear around her in the time since they'd fled. She had no idea how Cersei might react to hearing that he had returned her to her family without any demands, without any motive beyond preserving her skin. Cersei was blind, but she wasn't stupid. She'd figure them out eventually.

Jaime shook his head, and squinted. "You know, I don't think that I will. I don't think that I will tell her that I saw you at all. It is the least I could do to begin to repay-"

"Ser Jaime," she said softly, forcing herself to put her other hand atop his. "I forgive you. I do." Little did he know that such a gesture was for herself alone. If she didn't, she had a lifetime of bitterness to look forward to, and a decade of loneliness and anxiety compelled her to repudiate it, to relinquish their hold over her.

"A Lannister always pays his debts," Jaime answered without a trace of humor. "And I suspect I will. In some fashion or another."

There was no possible way for him, any of them, to make right what they had done to her, to countless others, Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane included. It was something of a miracle that he acknowledged any wrongdoing on their part at all. She wondered what all had transpired to turn Jaime Lannister into a thinker, to give him a small gift of self-awareness. He was still so much himself, and she wondered if it was but a brief, temporary shift, one that would vanish when he returned into their nest again.

Strange, with these Lannisters, the best you could hope for was a pure intent. The desolation in his eyes and the tremor in his remaining hand assured Lenna of his sincerity. Jaime Lannister believed that he was going to make amends, that he was going to discharge the debt he thought he owed her. If all he ever did was keep his silence, Lenna would be more than satisfied. That, and to never be harried by them again. They would part in friendship, she decided, and hope that their paths, should they cross again, would never warrant more than courtesy. She squeezed his hand where it lay between hers and they fell back into silence, hearts troubled and darkened.

Sandor and Brienne of Tarth joined them once the last body had been dragged off and concealed. Lenna saw how Sandor's gaze immediately noted how Jaime Lannister was clutching her hand in his. She drew her own away, moving over to make room for Sandor on the log. He sat down haggardly, resting his elbows on his knees.

"What will you do now?" Brienne asked, crouching low by the dying fire. She was addressing Sandor with a look on her face that Lenna could only describe as respect. She'd heard their voices as they went about their work, but did not know what they had said to each other.

"Continue to White Harbor," Sandor replied. "I'm still taking her home."

"By which road?" Brienne asked. "There is heavy fighting around the Trident. Your brother's forces are in that area."

"Is there an alternative?" Lenna asked. Again, she was reminded of how little she knew. She might be able to conjure the map in her mind, but she knew nothing about the dangers and obstacles Sandor and Brienne understood, the symbols and lines meaning much more to them than they did to her.

"Go to Riverrun, turn North there toward the Twins," Brienne said. Her brow was troubled, and Lenna could guess what she was thinking. To head back toward the Trident was to walk into danger, but there was no guarantee of a welcome at Riverrun, not for both of them.

Sandor squinted into the trees, leaning forward with his arms on his knees. "Perhaps," he allowed. "I'll decide before the morning."

Sandor hustled her into one of the tents to sleep, though she didn't want to, not by herself. She hated to admit it, but she was scared, just as a child might be afraid to sleep by herself in the dark. It took many reassurances on his part that he and Brienne would keep watch to convince her to go, and Jaime bedded down beside the fire. He looked wretched, his face gaunt from fatigue, wincing when he accidentally moved his handless arm.

In the morning, they took what they wanted from the Bolton camp. Lenna had a bedroll for the first time, but she chose not to take her own mount, claiming she didn't want the horse to be identified in Stark territory. It was a paltry reason. Really, she didn't want to feel on her own. Sandor didn't object, and his eyes spoke his pleasure even as Jaime tried to convince her. He was halfway through his argument when Sandor slapped the horses all on their hindquarters, scattering them into the trees.

Riding away from the camp was the oddest experience. They left it as it was, not even bothering to scatter the ashes. Brienne and Sandor located their weapons, and they left the way they had come, heading back toward the Kingsroad and the Trident.

"How far to home?" Lenna asked, tilting her head back to look at Sandor.

"Four or five weeks, give or take," he supplied. "Longer than I like."

"You're at least in Stark territory now," Brienne pointed out.

"Might be Stark territory, Tarth, but I am the Lannister dog," he ground out, voicing the concern that had been bubbling in her breast since Brienne had made the suggestion the night before.

"Not anymore," Lenna said quietly, her hands curling into fists where they rested against her thighs. "You are nobody's dog anymore."

He pressed his mouth against the top of her head without a care that Brienne was riding beside them. When she glanced at the lady-knight, there was a strange kind of longing on her face, quickly hidden by the sad half-smile that Lenna already recognized as a hallmark of her expression.

"Where will you go, then?" Brienne asked. They were all ready to go. Whether they rode together or parted ways depended on Sandor's next answer.

"Riverrun," he ground out. "I don't want to run into my brother. We'll take our chances on the Starks."

Sandor XLIII

He hadn't thought of it that way, not until Lenna had said it. He was nobody's dog anymore. Jaime Lannister had looked at him seriously when she'd said it, his eyes exhausted, but Sandor thought he detected the slightest trace of envy.

He didn't really think he'd ever be truly free of the Lannisters, not entirely. His association with them was too long, too complicated and bitter and violent. He'd spend more than half of his life killing at their command, and the thought of making his own choices frankly scared him. With the choice came responsibility for the outcome, no one to blame but himself. It was a road he'd started down the night of the Blackwater, refusing orders for the first time in his life and fleeing without a thought.

And that had worked out so well.

And now, he didn't really have a plan. He'd been so focused on getting her home that he hadn't thought through all the risks, all the possible pitfalls. He hadn't even thought about what he would do after he got her to White Harbor, if they ever got there.

Riverrun. He never thought they'd be bound west instead of north, headed toward the people behind this whole mess. He had been desperate to keep them to themselves, to do it just the two of them, and now he was willingly walking into their midst. He wasn't keen on thinking about how that would go for him

It wasn't about him, though. It didn't matter what they did to him, even if they killed him. She would at least be among her father's allies. Her brothers would be there, overjoyed to see her. If they made him their prisoner, tortured him, whatever, it would have been worth it to make sure she was as safe as she could be.

Perhaps they would even let them continue North. He had been concocting a plan, weak as it was, the night before. He would offer himself to their cause. It was the only thing of value he had, besides her. He was an asset in any campaign, and he'd come into his manhood with this little lord or that vying to have him as their free rider. He'd never wavered in sticking with his liege lords, though, and as a result he knew more about Lannister warfare than almost anyone else. He knew their ways, their tactics, a pittance of a reward for all the had done for him. If he could convince the Northerners to have him, he'd find a way to finally make them all fucking pay.

He did not like the Kingslayer's presence, and he liked the way he looked and touched Lenna even less. He knew Jaime Lannister had no designs on her, he was single-minded in that regard, but the proprietary way in which he talked to her made Sandor's blood run hot. He spoke to her like she was his cunt sister, dear to them. If he was no longer their dog, then she no longer belonged to them, either, and he intended to keep it that way.

A small voice told him that if she belonged to anyone, it was him. She said he was no one's dog now, but that wasn't exactly true either. Part of him had been hers for a decade, her share gradually increasing until there was none of him left that didn't belong to her. It had irked him, chafed him at the beginning, her hold over him a nuisance, something he abhorred. He'd splintered pells and broken faces in protest of her tightening grip, then let the anger go entirely. He couldn't pinpoint the moment when it had become his purpose and drive.

Jaime Lannister and his ilk couldn't possibly understand something like that, though perhaps the Lannisters lived it out in a perverse way, bound up in each other as they were. He wondered what the reaction would be when the Kingslayer made it back to the capital, maimed as he now was. He was not fit to be a Kingsguard anymore, not without the ability to hold a sword. Sandor wondered if he'd get the reception he thought he would. Tyrion, at least, would not cast him aside, of that he was sure. Despite this, Sandor couldn't quite muster up the rancor to wish the Kingslayer ill. He had joined the legion of broken things, and Sandor chose instead to wish for nothing at all. He couldn't make Jaime Lannister a different man, but he would change. How he rebuilt himself was up to him.

Jaime had cast the macabre hand that hung around his neck away. His eyes were dull, his face filthy, and Sandor felt an unexpected splash of pity. World has gone fucking insane when you pity Jaime Lannister, he thought. He shook his head, glancing at the lady-knight who was nearby, observing that she, too, was looking at the Kingslayer. If Sandor wasn't mistaken, he saw the same expression of hopeless devotion on her face that he'd kept hidden for a decade. It wasn't pity that rose up in him when he saw it, but sympathy. He knew too well how that felt. He growled to himself.

What a fucking mess.

He respected her. He hadn't expected to, but the way she'd fought and helped him dispose of the bodies the night before proved that she was what she wanted people to believe she was. There was nothing about her that wasn't honest. Odd as it sounded to himself, he saw something of himself in her. They were more alike than he would have expected, and not just because they were both ugly as sin. There was no beauty in her, save her eyes, at least not physical beauty, but she took what she did seriously, it was a vocation. He could tell that she was continuously called upon to prove herself, just as he had been, forced to demonstrate that despite the wreck that was his face, he had value, he had ability. He suspected that she was derided as much as he had been, too.

"I wish you a safe journey, Clegane," Tarth said. They were all standing stupidly in the road. The sun was rising, and he wanted to be off as soon as could be. "I know I don't have to tell you to take care of her."

"Always have," he replied, and her pale lips quirked.

"And you, Lady Helenna," the lady-knight said as she kept her mouthy horse in check. "I hope we meet again."

"As do I," Lenna replied. "Thank you for your aid."

Tarth dipped her head, and Sandor thought he could actually like her for reining her horse around and beginning to make her way up the road. No sense in dragging out a farewell.

Jaime Lannister lingered, his mouth slightly parted as he looked at Lenna. Sandor wished he would just get it fucking over with. These highborns and their overwrought performances had always worn him out.

"I never thought-"

"We none of us did," Lenna replied. "I would ask a favor of you, Jaime."

Sandor wasn't sure if it was the request or the use of his name, but it certainly got the Kingslayer's attention.

"Name it." Sandor thought he saw a glimmer of who the Kingslayer could be right then, honor or justice or something else heightening his color and giving clear focus to his eyes.

"You have promised not to tell your sister that we ran into each other," she started haltingly. Sandor grunted in relief to hear it. "But I would ask you to please tell Tyrion. Assure him that I am well. That I am safe."

Jaime Lannister looked distressed, but he nodded, the muscle of his jaw jumping. Sandor guessed there were many things fighting to be said, and the Kingslayer was quelling them. For her sake or his own, Sandor didn't know.

He nodded, his eyes narrowed. "You have my word." Sandor snorted, and Lenna stiffened against him. He shot Sandor a look of annoyance. "Farewell, dear Lenna."

"Farewell," she replied. Sandor found it in himself to nod at him, and he watched and waited as the Kingslayer drew his horse around and trotted after his companion.

He didn't want to linger, bringing Stranger about and setting off at a brisk trot, peculiarly happy to put them behind him, to be alone with Lenna on the road again. There was some relief in knowing they were beyond the Lannister raiding parties, at least, even if he was riding toward his own uncertain future. The only thing that mattered was getting her safely to her own people. He'd figure out the rest later.

They made camp just before twilight, the sun dipping low. Pleasure suffused him when it was Lenna that suggested a good site, and Lenna that built their fire. Pleasure and pride, though she was not yet herself. She had barely spoken all day, and being taciturn himself, he'd given up rather easily on trying to draw her out. He was content to feel her against him, warm under the hand that sat against her waist. She was pale, her face becoming grimy, her eyes dull, and Sandor knew she was struggling with what she had done. He did not know how to help her. He'd never had fucking words.

He left her for a time, walking in the woods in search of their dinner. Stunning two rabbits, he cracked their necks and brought them back to her, showing her how to skin them cleanly. She wrestled with the second one, having watched him do the first, but she did it, gutting them with the knife from her boot and mimicking him as she spitted them on a branch and set them to roast. He busied himself with finding an apple or two, a hunk of cheese with a bit of blue mold. He scraped it off and turned to find her tenderly stroking one fingertip over the soft fur of the rabbit's discarded pelt, her brow dark and tears trailing silently down her face.

He watched her to make sure that she ate, not surprised when she only managed to eat half of her meat, offering the rest to him with a face as pale and drawn as the day her mother had died. He wished he had a skin of wine left, but he settled instead for roasting the apple and holding her against him.

When they settled down for rest, she laid the bedrolls out one on top of the other, tucking herself against him as he circled her with his arms. Her hands soon began to wander in the dark, her mouth on his, and while it was bitter, it was sweet, too, and he didn't stop her. He gave her what she wanted, slowly and with so much restraint that he was trembling, but when she folded herself into him with her head on his shoulder, she slept. He stared up through the lacy silhouettes of the trees, stars winking and inconstant with each breeze, and he counted her breaths.

They reached Riverrun in three days, the bleached stone walls rising above the marshy fens. It was late afternoon, the light playing golden over the ramparts like some damn illumination in one of her old books. Sandor swallowed heavily as they approached, guards moving to block their path onto the bridge that led to the main gates.

"Who goes?"

He cleared his throat to answer, but Lenna spoke first.

"Lady Helenna Manderly of White Harbor, and my sworn-shield, Sandor Clegane."

The lad's face was a picture of astonishment and confusion. Stranger, tired from the journey, pawed impatiently and Sandor strained to keep him in check.

"I need to speak with my captain," the boy said, and he took off at a run across the bridge.

They waited, Lenna fidgeting and drumming her fingers against the pommel, Sandor digging his fingers into the tops of his thighs. He willed his breathing to remain steady. He hated waiting.

It was a half an hour before the boy returned with a troop of guards and a portly man with windblown curls. As soon as they appeared, Lenna sat forward in the saddle, leaning to get a better look. When it became clear that the rotund man was her brother, he could not stop her as she slid down Stranger's flank and took off at a stumbling run.

The guards surrounded them on all sides. He stayed mounted with his fists clenched as Lenna was wrapped up in her brother's embrace. Wendel Manderly's face crumpled, giving him the aspect of a well-fed bulldog, his cheeks wet and his nose red as he clutched his sister to him.

"Sandor Clegane," he called over her shoulder. "You have brought my sister safe to me. No harm shall come to you within these walls if you come peacefully. King Robb would speak with you. Immediately."

Lenna turned and looked at him, and if it wasn't for the dull gnawing of worry in his gut, he might have smiled. The light had returned to her face, roses in her cheeks, and to his surprise, she returned to him and lifted her arms. Sandor glanced at Wendel Manderly. The lord smiled weakly and nodded, and Sandor reached down and hauled her up, noticing with chagrin that she was lighter than she had been. He settled her against him as he guided a placidly walking stranger across the bridge and through the gates of Riverrun, trying hard to ignore the guards that flanked them with spears at the ready.

A/N: Was that better? Review, please. I need the encouragement. Needy writer, I know.