Lenna LXVII

Waiting was interminable. Each minute felt like an hour, and no matter how many times she calculated how long it was likely to take a raven to reach White Harbor and bear a message back, she still remained in an agony of waiting.

The only thing left to do was to lay the groundwork of their scheme to draw out the Mountain. Writing a message to Tywin Lannister was harder than she thought it would be. She had sat in the small council room the majority of the morning with the king and his councillors, Sandor scowling far down the table with his arms crossed over his chest. Each time his eye involuntarily met hers, she felt the full force of his disapproval of what she had proposed.

She didn't blame him, not entirely. She wasn't sure herself how successful she would be, if Tywin Lannister would care enough to try and ransom her. He had always had an uncharacteristic soft spot for her, either through her own making or her potential usefulness, and though they had bandied the idea of writing to the queen back and forth, they ultimately decided to appeal to Tywin directly.

"The queen would certainly speak for me," Lenna argued, "but it is Tywin who will make the decision. They must believe that I was taken against my will, and that I have not found a welcome here. But perhaps instead of thinking of me as our greatest bargaining chip, perhaps I am but a tip in the balance."

"What do you mean by that?" Wendel asked. "You have always had your place with them. They esteemed you enough to keep you close when they could have simply isolated you to use at their will."

"Yes," she replied, cutting her eyes at Sandor. "But you have the Lannister boys here. What if I write to him on their behalf, but seek to trade myself as well? Maybe we can barter Wylis back in exchange for we three?"

"Wylis is valuable, but-" Robb began.

"The goal is not to gain Wylis," Wendel interjected. "It is to draw out the Mountain. If my brother is returned to us in the process, it can only be counted as a boon."

"But we lose the Lannister boys," Cat Stark objected.

"How can we lose what they do not want?" Lenna asked. It pained her, but it was clear that no one cared about the children in the dungeon. She had gone again with the queen, taking them books and sitting with them in their cell. "The Lannisters have made no mention of ransoming them. It is likely they will let them languish as long as necessary. Perhaps forever. But," she said, raising a finger, "if I am interjected into the mix, we may get those boys home and draw the Mountain toward us at the same time. We must carefully extend the best deal. Tywin loves a bargain."

Robb's forehead scrunched, his face serious and bleak.

"It makes sense. It should come from your hand, I think."

Lenna agreed, though she hadn't the faintest idea where to start. It had been over a year since she had seen Tywin Lannister, and she suspected that he would think she was being used. It gave her a kind of advantage, she decided. If the Lannisters thought she was being used, just as they used her, they were unlikely to think she had changed sides. In fact, as she sweated over her message, she realized how easy it would be for her to play the line, to refuse to take sides at all. Not that she had that option, but her confusing inbetween status made her more valuable still.

In the end, she sent as brief a message as possible, relying on Tywin to fill in the gaps.

My lord,

I was taken from King's Landing against my will and now find myself in Riverrun. I am a captive, confined to my rooms. I never wished to leave King's Landing, my lord, you know I would not desert the queen. I pray for you all daily.

Your brother's sons are here as well, kept in the dungeons, mere children. I do not know, my lord, if any attempt for their ransom has been made, but please, by your leave, may I try and negotiate our release? Perhaps some sort of exchange? I fear for our futures, otherwise.

Humbly,

Helenna Manderly

She refused to lie to him, knowing that he would see through such almost immediately. Nothing she said was untrue. She had been taken against her will, fighting Sandor all the way. She was confined to her rooms. She did pray for them, even though she wished she could stop. Writing to them brought out the myriad complicated feelings she held for the Lannisters, and she felt quite low after the parchment was taken from her, retreating into her books in a vain attempt to lighten her breast.

Then the two ravens from White Harbor arrived within the same hour. Wendel appeared at her door red-faced and out of breath, a little scroll absurdly delicate in his meaty hands.

"I have not opened it," he wheezed, "but I brought it as soon as it arrived."

Lenna took it with trembling fingers, pulling her brother into her room by the elbow and shutting the door. She held the parchment in her hand for a nervous moment, then chastised herself for her lack of courage and broke the merman seal.

Dearest Lenna,

We rejoice to have you safe among your own people. I want you home as soon as may be, and have written to King Robb demanding the same. As for Clegane- you are right, my girl. He has my blessing, but the consent is yours to give, as is the decision to make. I have written to the King and informed him of the matter and my wishes concerning it. Let it be as you decide. Seven preserve you both, and hasten home to us.

Your loving father,

Wyman Manderly

Lenna reread the message several times, each time growing closer to dispelling the gray, dreary cobwebs that had taken up residence in her chest since their arrival in Riverrun. The joy of being reunited was finally realized, and here she had her father's steadfast assurance of his blessing in her hands.

"He has consented," she said quietly, turning to her brother. "I must see Sandor. Please, Wendel."

Her brother nodded, and went still huffing out the door. While she waited, she paced the sort length of the room, reading the parchment again and again. It was almost a half an hour before she heard the heavy footsteps in the hall, her brother's lagging canter and Sandor's quick, steady gait. She opened the door before they even had the chance to knock, and Sandor did not hesitate before he crossed her threshold.

Wendel sagged against the doorframe, his face the color of beets, and Lenna silently extended the parchment to Sandor. He took it, eyes grave and face carefully neutral, holding the little scroll as if it were made of a moth's wings, tentative and careful as he unrolled it.

Lenna watched his face avidly as he read her father's perfunctory script. At first his brow furrowed, and then the lines of his face relaxed in such a way that almost made her frightened. When he got to the end of the letter, he stared at the paper for a long time before he finally lifted his eyes to hers. His gaze was warm and full of power, and she felt tears pricking at her eyes when she saw them rising in his own.

He wordlessly gathered her to his chest with a gruff clearing of his throat, still delicately holding the parchment as he roughly pressed his mouth to the top her head. He touched his forehead to hers, hair swinging forward to curtain them from Wendel's scrutiny, eyes glinting silver in the shadow.

"You're sure?" he asked, lips barely moving. She was accustomed to seeing the expression on his face that he wore now. He had braced himself for the worst, it was evident in the waxen quality of his features, so deliberately blank and still. But she'd always relied on his eyes. In them she read a hope she'd never before seen in him.

"Aye," she whispered, fingers briefly brushing against his scarred cheek. "Of course."

He caught the hand that rested on his face and pressed a brusque kiss to her fingertips before standing up straight. He looked at Wendel, still leaning against the doorframe with his hands on his knees, his face having gone from purple to merely pink.

"And we have no objection from you?" he asked, his voice flat as cold steel.

"No," Wendel wheezed. "You've been better to her than I ever was. I don't think that's likely to change."

Sandor nodded. "We should go to the king, then."

She nodded, looking up at him from under her lashes. She was finding it difficult to speak, to find any words for such a time. She finally gave up, snaking her hand into his elbow and together they went out the door, Wendel in their wake.

Neither spoke on the long walk from her quarters to the Great Hall. Sandor's whole demeanor spoke of disbelief, his expression not unlike a surprised stag or a stunned hare, glassy eyed and shimmering with anticipation.

Lenna took a deep breath and walked into the room, glad to have someone by her side. Robb Stark stood behind the great table that served as his desk, his mother at the mantle. Robb held a scroll in his hand, his expression faintly flabbergasted. Cat Stark's brow was dark, angry, and she pinched the bridge of her nose and turned away as they came in. Talisa Stark, however, was practically beaming, her smile an intimate thing that wasn't shown forth so much in her lips as in her eyes and the lift of her cheeks. Her eyes were large and liquid and shining, and Lenna felt her heart rise into her throat, happy that at least one person shared their joy.

"Your father has written a most extraordinary letter," Robb said, his words puncturing the weighty silence. "He writes to bid you be sent back to him. That we expected, and of course, as soon as we have plotted a course, we will send you back to him. Your presence here is necessary for now." She nodded. "But he also writes to inform me that he wishes-"

"It's preposterous," Cat Stark snarled from the mantle. She had her arms wrapped around her torso, hugging herself, and she jettisoned the words like darts. "I never believed he would ever actually propose such a thing. Your foolishness is one thing, Lady Helenna, but your father-I'm beginning to think, Lord Wendel, that your honorable father is growing senile. He can't be in his right mind to command such a thing."

"Your father writes, my lady," Robb began, his blue eyes dark as they rested on her gravely, "that so long as you consent 'without reservation or pause', on your father's behalf I am to offer your hand to Sandor Clegane."

"And you know that I do consent," she said with the slightest quaver in her voice. "Without pause. Or reservation. With my whole heart."

"I will not gainsay your father," Robb replied with a shake of his head. "I admit, my lady, that I did not think he would consent. It sounded- well, we all know how it sounded. But, if this is his will-"

"It is," she replied, holding up her own parchment. "But, more importantly, it is mine. So long as it is his." She looked at Sandor imploringly, wanting nothing more than for him to glance back at her. He was clearly struggling, his hands balled up into fists on his thighs.

"Then I will not stand in the way," Robb said, looking resigned as he glanced at his wife. Talisa's eyes were reproachful and he looked away from her, a blush pinking his cheeks beneath his beard.

"Madness," Cat Stark said, but Lenna paid her little mind. She was too busy looking at Sandor and feeling quite effervescent. She wanted to laugh, to take him by the cheeks and kiss him before them all. "Even if it wasn't ridiculous, it is dangerous. He's the Hound. What would become of Lady Helenna if something were to happen to him? She taints herself by association with him-"

"What if," Talisa said, her voice soft and even. "What if they were allowed to marry, but it was kept quiet?" She looked to Robb. "No one need know but those in this room, not until such a time it is safe. Let them wed, then send her to White Harbor when this business with Harrenhal is done. Let him prove himself. He is no dog, Lady Stark, and I do not doubt the truth of what Lady Helenna has told me. If you can't see his devotion to her, and her care for him, then you are willfully blind. They have waited long enough. We couldn't have waited as they did, my love," she said, turning those enormous eyes on Robb. "Ten years. Grant what little joy you can."

"It will be quiet, but Clegane must still consent," he said. "Will you agree to a marriage contract between yourself and Helenna Manderly, kept in confidence until such a time as it is safe to be made public?"

Lenna felt as if a bird had taken up residence in her chest, using her ribs as a perch. The wings fluttered violently against her heart, and when he finally looked at her, she felt as if she might die if he didn't speak soon.

"Aye," he said quietly, and she let out a strangled sound that was half sob, half laughter. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly. He was a little stiff with embarrassment, but when she released him, his lip was quirked at her in that familiar way and his eyes were shining. He looked much as he had the day of the Hand's Tourney, a combination of joy and disbelief. He surprised her by catching her hand in his, her little fingers engulfed in his much larger grip.

"Arrangements must be made," Talisa said from her place by Robb. "As it is a quiet affair and we have everyone's consent, there is no reason for delay."

Lenna felt the overwhelming urge to embrace her for her kindness. "Aye," she replied. "Without delay."

"Cloaks," Sandor croaked. "We don't have any."

"They can be made up," Talisa said. "Perhaps three days?" She looked at her husband, and Robb nodded curtly. "It is doubtful that we will hear from Tywin Lannister in that time, and it should be enough to make up cloaks for you."

"And a feast," Wendel said from his place by the window. "It won't be oysters and clams, Lenna, but you must have a feast of some kind."

"And a dress for Lenna and new clothes for Clegane," Talisa added. "I will take care of those arrangements. Lenna, if you would meet me in my room in the morning, we can make the cloaks together. I'm not terribly good at embroidery, but I can sew a straight seam," she said, and for the first time, Lenna saw a broad smile on the young queen's face. "And I'm sure Lady Stark will help as well. Seeing as there are no objections."

Cat Stark looked murderous when she glanced at her daughter-in-law, but she said nothing else, merely closed her eyes and clenched her jaw.

The next morning, Cat Stark appeared in Talisa's chambers without a word. She was clear-eyed and pleasant, not a single bitter word passing her lips. Lenna wondered at first if she had had a change of heart, but her dedication to the Manderly cloak alone gave her doubts. Cat Stark sat for those three mornings with the aqua wool spread across her lap, the color as close as they could come amongst the drapers of Riverrun. She placidly sewed in the cream lining, carefully cutting and sewing on the merman and trident, her stitches smooth as satin.

While she kept her focus on the maiden's cloak, Lenna and Talisa worked arduously over Sandor's. The texture of the wool was fine, tightly woven and well-made. It was soft rather than stiff, and she ran her fingers over it affectionately, thinking of its purpose as she did so. She supposed she should be a little upset that these would not be their real cloaks, but she couldn't help but think it was perhaps a good thing that they were making at least Sandor's new. The one that undoubtedly lay in some chest in Clegane's Keep had too much unhappy history pressed between its folds.

"I doubt I shall ever see his family's cloak," Lenna said, her lap full of yellow wool. She was carefully sewing on the snarling dogs, their teeth bared and eyes fierce. It was a brazen sigil, the black hounds on their yellow field, but she did not dislike it. She thought it very appropriate for him, much as she thought the Tully fish so appropriate for cold Lady Stark. "I would wager this one will be finer than it is anyway. Sandor has always insinuated that they didn't care much for such things."

"A House cloak is a precious thing," Cat Stark said from her place. "The Stark cloak is centuries old, as I'm sure the Manderly one is. They should be sewn to last."

There was a hint of disapprobation in her tone that Lenna chose to ignore. She cared little for the maiden's cloak she would wear. Her family's cloak was in White Harbor, safely stored away and while she would have liked to have felt it on her own shoulders, she was much more interested in the one that would be cast around her. A maiden's cloak was worn for only a few minutes, removed by the bride's attendants and then replaced with the groom's cloak. That one she would wear through the rest of the ritual and during the feast thereafter.

Talisa's eyes flickered to hers in a flash of annoyance, her stitching fine and even, but Lenna kept her focus on her work, adding the flash of white teeth to the last dog, pretending not to understand Lady Stark's insinuations.

"I intend for this one to do just that," Lenna replied. "If we never see the Clegane cloak, this one will take its place. Our children will use it after us. I like that thought," she said said, pausing with a dreamy smile. "I like thinking of them, girls with it thrown about their shoulders, young men using it to cloak wives. It's better that it's new."

"Tradition-"

"I would never have Sandor wear something that his brother did," Lenna said gravely. "Nor would I wish to feel that mantle settle over my shoulders that had cloaked two doomed women. That other cloak was meant for me, remember, and the man who put it there was to be the Mountain."

Cat Stark actually looked at a loss for words, wide eyes again on her task, but Lenna didn't miss it when she pricked herself on accident, her fingers darting to her mouth to catch the welling of blood.

"I agree with you," Talisa said, her eyes flicking to her mother-in-law. "This cloak is a new start, just as all weddings are. I think the tradition quite romantic, though I admit I still find these customs strange."

"I forget that you were raised differently," Lenna said. "I was raised in the Faith of the Seven, like Lady Stark was here in the Riverlands. We Manderlys are alone among our Northern neighbors in our adherence to the Faith. They venerate the Old Gods. Did your family practice?"

"In name only," Talisa replied. "We were followers of the Lord of Light. R'hllor. I never cared much for him, though."

"Why?" Lenna asked. She knew a little about the religion, remembered Thoros of Myr in his red robes with his top-knot and flaming sword. She always thought he was an odd candidate for a priest, fond as he was of drink and women.

"You believe in Seven Heavens and Seven Hells," Talisa said quietly. "We believe, supposedly, that this world we live in is hell, and it is by faith we are freed from it."

"Not very cheerful," Cat said sardonically.

"Not at all," Talisa agreed. "I do not like to think any greater being would damn us before we had a chance to prove ourselves."

Lenna pursed her lips and nodded. She had finished basting the cloak together, the yellow wool over the black silk lining.

"Though, you have to admit it sometimes seems like we're living in hell," she said absently. There had been many times in the past years where she had lain away and wondered if she was dead and being punished. She knew it couldn't be the case, simply because she had done nothing to warrant such a consequence. Then again, she had also learned that the world was unjust, and those who suffered usually did so through no fault of their own.

"Do you feel that today, my lady?" Talisa asked. Lenna smiled.

"Of course not," she replied. And it was true. It would be easy to believe that this world was hell. She knew that as well as many, though not as well as some. She had woken in cold sweat each night since their arrival in Riverrun, scratching at her hands to wipe off Locke's blood even though there was none. She sometimes had abrupt visions of Ned Stark's severed head, of poor Septa Mordane. Then there was the sight of her braid in Sandor's hand, Sansa's pretty mouth bloodied as she clutched his cloak around her shaking form.

Hell was learning of her mother's death so far from home, and the lack of contact with her family. Hell was Joffrey's rage, Ser Ilyn Payne's stalking shadow, and the moment she had been betrothed to the Mountain.

Yes, it would be simple to dwell on all that was bad in her own world. But to believe that this would was hell would render tainted the joys she had found.

"No," she said, looking at Talisa with a soft smile. "This world is not hell. Nor is it heaven, either. It is just the world. Sometimes I think we are all living through such great sorrow, but the sorrow is punctuated with such joy. That is why we bother to continue on, to strive. To reach the next moment of joy."

"You are an idealist," Cat Stark said from her place, her brow raised as she kept her eyes down, but her tone was not unkind. "I am surprised."

"Why?" Lenna replied. She was not feeling combative, but she was intrigued, wondering if this was a moment to insinuate herself into Cat Stark's good graces.

"It is evident to me that you have suffered," Lady Stark said. "No one denies it. We all have, in our ways, some more deeply than others. But it has not turned you bitter, not as it has me."

Lenna dropped her needle, stunned. Cat Stark would still not look at her, eyes still on her work, but Lenna saw the strain of pain in her face.

"What good would my bitterness be?" she asked quietly. "If I'd become bitter, they could have turned me on you all. If I was bitter, you could turn me on them. I have no desire for vengeance, my lady. No desire for war or further bloodshed."

"I wonder," Cat said, "how you managed to keep such equilibrium."

"I haven't always," she replied truthfully. "I remember once seriously considering whether or not I could jump from my window. Death seemed better than living."

"Good gods," Cat hissed, her eyes unexpectedly flying to Lenna's. The cold detachment that she had maintained since Lenna's arrival melted, and Lenna saw the same empathy there that she'd often seen in Sansa's, in Robb's. "You would never-"

"I had just been told I was to be sold to the Mountain," she said. "Wouldn't it have crossed your mind in the same situation? I was going to die either way. Better of my own volition, was it not? But, no," she said at last. "I could not do it. And then he came."

"Who?"

"Sandor," she said. "Sansa tried to come to me, the queen, my maid, Lord Tyrion- they all tried to come to me, but I would only see him. After he left, I didn't think of it again."

"What could he have possibly said?"

"It wasn't what he said," she replied. "But he reminded me that things are not over until they are over. So long as we keep trying, they can get better. It might not be this instant, tomorrow, next month, or even next year, but we only lose if we give up."

"You are a Northerner," Cat said with a wry smile.

"I don't know how much it has to do with that," she replied. "Perhaps I am just foolish. Nevertheless," she continued, "we have to look forward to the future. There is nothing to be gained to always be looking back."

Cat Stark looked at her levelly, and with a nod that felt almost like a blessing, she turned her attention back to the cloak in her lap, silence again falling over the women as they stitched and sewed.

Sandor XLVII

It happened so quickly he didn't know which way was up. He'd spent the previous week doing his best to keep his head down and do what he could to prove to these hostile Northerners that he wasn't going to stab them in the back. He'd sat in endless strategy meetings, poring over maps to the point his vision started to blur. It became apparent to him all too quickly that these Northerners didn't know how to deal with a man like Tywin Lannister or his own brother. Their every conversation hinged on straightforward and honest warfare, something that was not at all a part of the Lannister playbook. He struggled to listen more than he talked, but he was growing frustrated by the endless back and forth.

He took out his irritation in the training yards. He'd been given a group of twenty men, all showing some promise. They were mostly young, green lads who had never known war before this, and the thought made him grunt. Of course they hadn't known war. Westeros had been at peace since the victory of the Robert Baratheon and the fall of the Targaryens. Even the little rumpus that was the Greyjoy Rebellion had been quickly put down. These boys had grown up in summer and peacetime, and now their whole world was coming apart at the seams.

He took satisfaction in seeing them improve, whether it was with a sword, a mace, or a warhammer. He oversaw them sparring with each other, demonstrating when necessary, and was able to finally spend more of his own time refining his own skills. He was growing rusty again, not exactly soft, but slower than he liked. It helped to have sparring partners worth the trouble, and his blood sang to cross swords with some of Robb Stark's more competent fighters.

He was wiping the sweat from his forehead when Wendel Manderly arrived in the yards, huffing and puffing and the color of plums. It took him several attempts, blowing air as he grasped his knees, but eventually communicating that Lenna needed to see him.

He dropped his sword and yelled for a squire. He'd been sweaty and breathing hard, but then he'd gone cold and breathless, tearing at the plate and making himself presentable as quickly as he could, though it would never have been quickly enough.

He didn't care that he was nearly running through the Keep, poor Manderly struggling to keep up behind him. He forced himself to shorten his gait, feet treading blindly as he made his way directly to her chamber door, rapping once on the wood and holding his breath while he waited. His belly trembled in anticipation.

She opened the door to him, a raven-sent parchment in her hand, her eyes meeting his immediately. Joy, he had thought vaguely, wondering at its sudden appearance in her face after such a prolonged absence. She looked like she'd been lit from within.

The subsequent half hour still felt like something out of a dream. A good dream. Three days later, and he had still not fully worked through his feelings. In fact, he was quite overwhelmed by them, even now as he walked through the darkened godswood with Wendel Manderly at his side. They were headed toward the Sept. It wasn't large like the Sept of the Snows, but a modest, seven cornered building made of the same sandstone as the castle. The tall windows were ablaze with candlelight, just as they always were. To anyone passing by, it was just another night, but not for him.

He was walking to his wedding. His wedding to her.

He felt keenly the unfairness of such a rushed affair. He knew that she wanted to be with her family, to have her nieces wait on her, her father walk her into the Sept of the Snows. The vision of her in her maiden's cloak had been one that haunted him for years. He had heard that she and Talisa Stark had been hard at work sewing cloaks as quickly as possible, one in aqua and white for her, yellow and black for him. They would be new, hasty versions of the family cloak that centuries of her family's women had worn, though his was significantly less used.

But nothing was what it should have been. She was a highborn lady, a lovely one, and she was supposed to be married in her family's Sept with all the attached ceremony. He knew he would never have been comfortable with that, though he could have forced himself to do it. The idea that theirs would be a small affair relieved him, but he felt selfish for feeling so. She wasn't supposed to be slinking off in the night to tie her life to his. She was supposed to have the right cloaks, the proper attendants, the crowds, the feasts, and it both pleased and infuriated him that it would be rushed, that she was so amenable to the slapped together arrangements.

He shook his head. It wasn't the way things were supposed to be done, but in a right world, she would never be marrying the likes of him to begin with. She should be tied to some handsome, highborn lord with a fine keep and deep coffers, not a sellsword and a traitor. But here he was, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other to fight against the queasy rumbling in his belly, a profound mix of disbelief, fear, and elation. She wanted him. Why, he would never understand, but he was tired of fighting it. He never wanted to fight it to begin with, part of him had stretched toward her on the very first day he saw her, and he had been greedily grasping after anything she would give him since. If she wanted to give him everything, by the gods, he was going to take it.

"Feeling nervous?" Wendel asked, watching as Sandor ran a long finger around his collar. It was warm out, and Sandor chafed a little against the high collar of his jerkin. It, too, had been hastily made, but it was made of fine cloth, better than he ever remembered wearing, but stiff in its newness.

"Were you?" he asked, looking askance at his soon-to-be brother. He shook out his shoulders in an effort to clear his head, silently admitting to himself that yes, he was fucking petrified.

"I vomited," Wendel said with a nostalgic smile. "Before and after."

Sandor hummed in his throat, but he couldn't find words to say anything else, worried that if he opened his mouth he might do the same.

The group of witnesses was small, of course. Just Wendel, Robb Stark and his mother, Brynden Tully and the septon. He was a wizened old man, his white robes glowing benignly in the candle light. He gestured for Sandor to come and stand by him, face kind but unsmiling. The air in the room thrummed with tension, a mixture of nervousness and reticence. If he'd had his way, there would be no one there save the septon, the others only included because it was her wish that it should never be openly contested. No one in the room would be able to claim that she had been coerced, that she had said her words under duress.

Cat Stark held out a cloak to him, yellow and heavy. She kept her eyes down, and he reached for the garment with a pang of annoyance. It disappeared when he shook the thing out and took in the fine material of the fabric, a tightly woven wool, and the three snarling dogs that chased across the back, their teeth glinting white with embroidery. They were more detailed than he'd expected, almost identical to the real one in his family's Keep in the Westerlands, but he would wager this one was of finer quality. It was lined in black silk, a sturdy clasp at the throat, and he wondered how late she must have stayed up to have made such in two days, even with the young queen's help.

"She wouldn't sleep last night until it was finished," Cat said, perhaps reading the question in his furrowed brow. "She drew the dogs herself, found your arms in a book of lineage. She and Talisa wanted it to be as fine as possible. For you. For your children."

He felt like someone was squeezing his windpipe, preventing him from swallowing. When he managed to look at Cat Stark, knowing she could read the struggle in his expression, he saw her face visibly relax. He could do nothing but nod. In gratitude.

The door opened again, pulling his attention. Talisa Stark appeared, leading Lenna beside her. The queen's eyes met his solemnly, and he was grateful to her. She'd played the role of the friend, helping Lenna dress, arrange her hair, whatever it was women did in preparation for such an event. Talisa left her there on her own to come stand next to her husband, slipping her hand into his elbow.

He couldn't see Lenna clearly, the back of the sept shadowy and beyond the reach of the candles lit beneath the seven pointed star. Wendel bustled away from him, standing in for his father to escort her.

Then she stepped into the light, and he stopped breathing. His heart slowed to an irregular thump as he stared back at her, an incredible sense that this had already happened playing through his mind. He'd lain awake like a squire and dreamed of this, hadn't he, of her shining face as she came toward him? How many times had he let himself envision it, only to kick himself for foolishness in his waking hours, feeling the gross impossibility that it would ever come to pass?

This can't be happening, not really.

But there she was. They'd found a white gown for her, or perhaps it had been made quickly for her, like his clothes had been. It was simply constructed with little by way of decoration. She was never one for ornamentation, always garbed in her somber northern colors, only his ribbons threaded through her hair. One of them was there now. Someone had cleverly figured out a way to braid the shortened curls into a crown, the first ribbon he'd ever brought her woven through the dark plait, the strands of gold thread winking in the dim light. Over her shoulders was cast the aqua cloak, lined with white silk.

He expelled a breath he wasn't aware he was holding, but she was standing before him now, waiting. He didn't remember how she had traveled to him, he'd been too intent on her face, that soft smile that she reserved for him. It was solemn but bright, and he didn't quite know what to do with the tightness centered in his chest, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth when her lips quirked ever so slightly. Despite himself, he felt his own lip return it, and her smile widened, lighting her eyes, casting one dimple into sharp relief in her pale cheek as she looked up at him. Sandor looked at her upturned face feeling like he had been walloped with a siege engine. Her lips painted coral, her eyes lined with kohl. It made them greener. Despite the solemnity of her features, she looked like she'd been cast in porcelain, and her eyes were full of light.

His lungs filled abruptly with air. He felt his face flush, even the scar warming, turning his eyes from her and blinking back to make sure she was really there.

"You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection," the septon said, and Sandor abruptly remembered what they were there to do.

Talisa and Cat Stark stepped forward and removed Lenna's cloak from her shoulders, Cat folding it carefully over her arm. Her eyes met his over Lenna's shoulder with an expression that was half challenge, half entreaty. Sandor stood there dumbly until Wendel jabbed him in the side with an elbow. That jolted him out of his stupor. He fumbled at the clasp of his own cloak, but managed to move around her to drape it over her shoulders. He'd always wanted to see her wrapped in his colors, the dogs on her back, and to have it really before his eyes made his stomach tremble.

It seemed like he was wading through water as he took his place beside her again, every hair on the back of his arms aware that she was standing beside him and about to be his wife. Wife. It had begun. The cloaks might be too new, the Sept might be wrong, as well as the witnesses and the hour, but the act itself was still right. She was truly his to protect now, and the thought stole his breath and made him fierce.

It almost felt as if he was someone else, extending his left hand to accept her right, the little fingers settling familiarly between his. He looked at them in mild fascination, with an odd detachment, and the Septon wrapped them in the white ribbon.

"In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity."

Forever, he thought numbly. Forever is just a ribbon.

He couldn't help but remember the crone in the market in King's Landing, her milky eyes seeing him despite her blindness. When he'd bought it, the ribbon that was now wound through her hair, he had never expected that he'd be standing beside her with a white ribbon wrapped around their wrists, but perhaps he'd sealed himself to her that day without knowing it

"Look upon one another and say the words," the Septons voice was grave, solemn.

His head snapped up. This was the part he had dreaded most, having to speak in front of them, in front of her. But when he turned toward her, all he saw was Lenna, her face somber and serene as her eyes came to his again.

He took a deep breath and waited for her. "Father, Smith, Warrior," he said, their voices twining together, rough and soft. "Mother, Maiden, Crone. Stranger. I am hers, and she is mine, from this day, until the end of my days."

It was easier than he thought it would be, the words spilling like water. Like a cataract, a rush of a vow that rose up deafening and consuming in his ears. He only wished they didn't have to say it together, wished he could have properly heard her pledge herself. To him.

Mine.

"Let it be known that Helenna of House Manderly and Sandor of House Clegane are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."

"With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband," she said, her gaze limpid in the dim moonlight that flowed through the seven-pointed window behind the Septon.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife," he replied, proud of himself that his voice didn't falter. A curious stone had taken up residence in his throat, and he was sure it was going to choke him.

She smiled at him, and despite the others around them, Sandor lifted his hand and traced his fingers along her cheek before using his forefinger to tip her face up and lower his head to hers.

He didn't mean for it to catch fire, he didn't mean for that to happen at all, but it did. His fingers moved of their own accord, cradling her skull to him as hers twined into the hair at the base of his neck and twisted. He groaned, unable to stop it before it erupted. Her mouth opened beneath his and he leaned into her, eyes squeezed shut and chest clenching painfully.

"Well," he heard Wendel smirk. "I think that took."

Lenna giggled into his mouth and pulled away from him. He felt another flush spread over his cheek and he rubbed a hand along the back of his neck in discomfort.

"Congratulations on such a fine wife, Clegane," Wendel Manderly said jovially, clapping Sandor across the shoulders. "You'd never find better."

"No," he replied woodenly.

Wife.

"Now, wasn't there something about a feast?" Wendel asked, smiling broadly and slapping his prominent belly.

He couldn't exactly find words to describe what it felt like to sit next to her at their wedding feast, to be able to look at her, to touch her and speak with her in the full sight of others without trying to keep it hidden. It was a small affair, just the witnesses and taking place in Robb Stark's private rooms, but the food was plentiful and the wine was flowing, and it was one of the most enjoyable evenings he could ever remember. He didn't think he'd ever felt so welcome at a feast, not only sitting in the place of honor, but with Wendel Manderly clapping him on the back like a brother. It startled him to realize that in marrying her, Sandor had acquired two brothers, both of whom actually seemed to like him. It was a curious thing.

It ended sooner than he anticipated, though it was well after midnight when they were ushered toward Lenna's chambers with good-natured ribbing and ribald jokes from the lips of the king and Wendel. The atmosphere of the castle had palpably changed, some of the icy distrust he'd felt directed at him, the wariness, slipping away into a strange and fragile camaraderie. If he didn't know better, he'd think that Robb Stark and Brynden Tully actually respected him. Even Cat Stark's icy facade had melted, laughing a little here and there, trying to smile. Lenna's happiness was infectious, she had been beaming at them all for hours, giggling with Talisa Stark like girls, his cloak still spread across her shoulders.

It filled him with an almost obscene pride to see her in his yellow and black. He'd never felt much affection for his House before, more defiant about his origins than anything else, but the fierce pleasure he derived from seeing her swathed in his colors made the bottom of his stomach fall. It was a sight he never thought he'd actually see, but now she was walking before her him, her little hand in his leading him onward through the silent passageways of the Keep, his dogs snarling at him. He smiled.

She opened the door to what must be her room, and she was chattering away as she crossed it. He'd only been half-attending to what she was saying during the entire trip, far too distracted by his own thoughts. He found himself stopping dead at the threshold, halted in his tracks as he realized what he was about to do. She turned back to look at him, question in her eyes.

"If I come in, we won't be able to undo it," he said gravely, his heart having risen to his throat. For all they had been through, a small, vociferous part of himself could not accept that she meant it. After all, Sandor Clegane knew what he was. He was ugly, he was mean, churlish and savage, he had a sharp bark, a bad disposition, and he took joy in killing. He had no money, no real position, no fine Keep to offer her, just his body and his sword. He was nothing in comparison to what she was, to what she should have, and if he made one more step into her chamber, their binding would be irrevocable.

"Sandor," she said softly, "don't be silly." She came to him then, reaching her hand out and pulling him forward, his foot landing solidly on the other side as she closed the door behind them. When she turned back to him, he was on her in an instant.

He felt like his senses had sharpened, he was aware of the gush of blood in his ears, in his arms and fingers, want pulsing through him like rapids. She was pressed against him, his arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her as tightly to him as he possibly could while his other hand curved behind her skull and held her still as he crushed his mouth to hers.

Mine.

He could think of nothing else as he began his onslaught, slanting lips and tongue and teeth across her neck, her shoulders, every bit of bare skin he could reach. She was already making those soft sounds of pleasure that made his blood rise, her fingers digging into his shoulders to keep herself upright.

He took a brief step away from her, looking down on what he had done, her swollen and reddened lips parted and her eyes dark and glassy. He felt his lip twist, and her hand came up to rest on his chest as she braced herself against his unrelenting grip.

"Husband," she murmured, and he let out a breath in a hot gust, dipping his head in sudden shyness.

"Wife," he replied, laying his own hand on top of hers. Every fiber of him thrummed with want, but he found himself temporarily unmoored and stilled. He stood looking at her dumbly, not knowing what he should do, wondering why hesitation should now stretch so tightly between them. Then she raised up on her tiptoes, just as she had that day at the tourney, and her lips found his.

He grunted in response, then his hands went to her shoulders, to her jaw, and she wrapped her arms around his torso, but not with the frenzied need of just moments before. He could feel her hands running up and down the tight planes of his back, kneading into the muscle as she clasped him to her. Their movements were unhurried now, languorous and slow, utterly without desperation. He could not remember a time when there had not been fear, when he was not half-terrified that someone would discover them, even on the road.

Here they would not be disturbed, no one allowed in that part of the Keep, and it made him even bolder than before. His fingers found the clasp of her cloak- his cloak- and he unfasted it, tossing it onto her bed. He looked a little skeptically at the four-poster, wondering if it could stand up to what he planned to do. It looked a little delicate, and he smirked wickedly.

"What are you scheming?" Lenna asked with laughter in her voice. Gods, but he didn't think he'd seen her look like that since her girlhood, the fine lines of worry that usually crossed her forehead smoothed, the furrow between her brows vanished. Even her eyes laughed, and all the regret and guilt and anxiety he felt about wedding her here, wedding her at all, dissipated in the knowledge that he had not just protected her, but he had made her happy.

He'd never thought he'd make someone happy, especially not a woman, and though he knew that Lenna Manderly thought she loved him, found pleasure with him, the unmitigated joy that radiated from her was almost staggering. Especially because he was quite sure he looked just as soppily enraptured as she did.

She loves you. She married you. She's not going anywhere.

With deliberate movements, he tugged at the silken ties of the white dress, fingers pulling on the complicated weaving of ribbon that held it closed at the back. He was surprised when he pulled the ribbon away entirely to discover that it was the crimson one he had given her so many years ago.

"I always thought there was a significance to that color," she said quietly, flirting with him with her eyes.

"Aye," he said with an impish smirk. "You were right."

"Won't you tell me what it was?" It always delighted him when she flirted with him like that, her plump mouth twisted into a coquette's smile, mischief in her eyes.

Mine.

He stepped back a bit, the dress slack at her shoulders as she arched a brow at him.

"When you wore that dress," he said quietly, thumbs playing in circles on the exposed tops of her shoulders, "I was always afraid I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off you. That I'd pull you into some dark corner, into my room even, and peel it off you until it puddled at your feet."

"I only wore it thrice that I recall," she said, amused. "A very long time ago."

"At that banquet when they made you sing," he said. "And for Lord Tyrion's nameday. Both times it was lucky that they didn't order me to take you back to your rooms."

"I wish they had," she replied cheekily. "I would have let you ravish me."

"I know that now," he chuckled. "But it felt impossible then. And after Joffrey's tourney-"

"You were so angry with me," she said, a sad smile on her lips. "Why did we spend so much time hurting each other?"

He took her hand and kissed the palm. "Doesn't matter. Not now."

She smiled a little more brightly, and tugged the gown from her shoulders, the garment pooling on the floor at her feet. Her fingers went to the fastenings on his jerkin, and he was content to let her work them loose, admiring the way the fire in the hearth revealed her to him through the thin fabric of her chemise.

It was so unlike all of their previous nights together, so different that he had difficulty wrapping his head around being so at peace, so at leisure. Lenna Manderly was his, no one would interrupt them. He would not have to slip from her chambers before daybreak like some thief. He smiled to realize that he would awaken next to her and not have to worry about rushing away. He'd be able to stay with her, to roll her in his arms, and he was looking forward to that almost as much as he was looking forward to what he was about to do.

She'd divested him of his jerkin, his tunic, and his trousers, and he slowly untied the ribbon of her chemise, letting the gossamer thing fall about her and join her gown on the floor. His fingers itched as he pulled on the green ribbon woven through her hair, making quick work of the braided crown, her growing curls falling down, brushing her chin. They twined against his fingers as they always did, and he stroked them for a long moment, fully aware of her gaze on him.

When he looked back at her face, he was dismayed to see tracks of tears spilling down her cheeks, his chest tightening as if a boulder had been placed on his breastbone.

"What's wrong?" he asked lowly, an unpleasant trembling in his belly.

"Nothing," she replied, her arms going around his neck. He let out a harsh breath when she pressed herself against him. "Nothing could possibly be wrong right now."

He tasted the salt on her lips as he brought his face down to hers again, relishing the soft touch of her fingers on his cheeks, over the scar. Her fingers dug into the base of his skull just like he liked, twisting into his hair there and tugging him ever closer.

It wasn't their first time, of course, but it felt different. It felt new. For the first time that he could remember, Sandor thought only of her, his consciousness dedicated solely to the feeling of her against him, the sounds she was making slipping into his ears, the taste of her in his mouth. The constant buzz of stress and anxiety that had always been present, even from their earliest encounters, was gone.

He gave himself over to it fully, hands and lips tracing the familiar lines of her, edging her back toward her bed. The backs of her knees hit the edge and he pushed her back, crawling over her as she sank into the pile of pillows, his body pressing hers into the thick quilts. Her chest was heaving, and he traced his finger tips over her breasts, circling them with roughened hands in the way that made her shudder, her back arching toward him. It was satisfying to him to see her reaching, straining toward him, her eyes never leaving his.

She reached between them and grasped him firmly, pulling a deep grunt from his groin. He rested his forehead in the crook of her neck, biting down on the soft muscle there when her hand began to move. He trailed his own hand down the length of her until he encountered her slickness, using his fingers to drive her higher, the pitch of her breaths and the soft, wispy cries rising with each touch. Gods, but she was ready.

He'd meant to draw it out, but when she parted her legs and drew him closer, nesting the tip of him inside her, he lost all desire for something slow. Instead, he slid into her powerfully, forehead pressed to hers. He grabbed her hands, bringing them above her head even as her legs wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs.

He measured his thrusts by the sounds she was making, drinking in the sight of her reddening cheeks and chest even as he was overcome by the sensation of her tight around him. It was right, it was so right, and when his hand found the spot that made her wanton again, she didn't last very long, straining against his grip that held her wrists, her head thrown back and her hair wild as she convulsed around him, his name spilling from her lips.

He felt his own peak upon him, but when he tried to pull away from her, he found he couldn't, her legs wrapped too tightly around him. He spent himself with three long thrusts, his eyes arrested by the fierce and determined expression on her face, lips still crimson and parted in pleasure.

He collapsed over her, rolling to the side to avoid crushing her. He felt stunned, like a rabbit struck with sling, reclining in her bed with his eyes on the ceiling, not quite able to wrap his head around what he'd done. What they'd done.

Her hand came to rest on his cheek, the slender fingers stroking his beard before turning his face to hers. He looked back at her solemn face, her eyes wide and lustrous as moons, knowing that he looked similarly dazed.

"Husband," she said again, her lip quirking at him.

"Aye, wife," he said, and the word felt strange on his tongue, forbidden, but then she smiled and nestled against his shoulder.

When he closed his eyes, he found sleep easily, resting content for perhaps the first time since his childhood, and when he dreamed, he dreamed of her and laughing children and meadows that ran down to the sea.

A/N: So, the kids finally got hitched. I couldn't leave you all in the lurch while I go on my adventure. It will probably be the end of July before I can get the next installment up (but you know me, I say I'm taking a break and then...don't. We'll see.)

Natalie- I hope this satisfies for a bit!

As always, thanks for all of your continued to support. If you have a minute, please leave a review. The more I get, the more I write. I respond well to positive reinforcement.