Lenna XLVIII

At first, she was simply aware of his warmth beside her in the bed. He had curled against her as he was wont to do, her head tucked under his chin and one of his arms across her ribs, pulling her close against his chest. He shifted and she felt him pressed against her, a smile curling on her lips as she pushed lightly back against him, the light from her window spilling through the glass and over the counterpane as he rumbled and ground his pelvis against her rear, whatever he was saying shapeless in his sleep, just a murmur of assorted sounds.

She could tell it was a beautiful morning, the sunbeams bursting between the fluttering drapes and coating the floor like a pool of butter. A bird sang, just a few sweet notes, a fraction of a melody, and she smiled.

Morning. It was morning, and he was still in her bed.

She gasped in panic, sitting straight up so quickly that she heard him grunt as he awakened to her elbow in his ribs, her terror that they would be caught slipping through her veins like a numbing poison. We have always been so careful, she chastised herself, he's always left before dawn. Now she was quite sure it was past breakfast, the sunrise long since past and having given way to day.

She looked down at him with wide eyes, her hand clutching at his bare shoulder as she wordlessly wondered why he was so quiet and not scrambling for his clothes. He wasn't fussed at all, actually. In fact, he was smirking at her, stretching rather lazily, the ridges of his ribs playing under his skin as he raised his arms over his head and yawned as if he had no concerns in the world.

"Morning, wife."

She gaped at him for a moment with her mouth hanging open in an unladylike and unattractive fashion, and then it hit her with the force of a gale, startling a shocked guffaw from her belly. He looked up at her with clear gray eyes, a full smile twisting his mouth, a flash of surprisingly even white teeth. To someone else, it may have been a gruesome sight, his ravaged face twisted as it was, but it stole her breath. He seldom smiled like that, a grin, really, and she could not contain her own mirth. She laid a hand over her still thumping heart, and he drew her down beside him, turning her laughter into shrieks as he single-mindedly ran his hands over her skin, muttering ridiculous threats if she didn't stop giggling.

She'd never seen him so playful, his fingers tickling along her ribs and he only succeeded in making her laugh harder than before, interspersing such innocent touching with indecent caresses that turned her giggles into sudden gasps and lit his face with something more fierce than playfulness.

It felt positively lascivious to do such things with sunlight pouring into the room, to be able to observe him so much more clearly in the morning light. He had rolled them so that she was at his mercy beneath him, holding himself above her and dipping his head to run his mouth along her neck, her collar bones and breasts, his touch light and eliciting shuddering, almost giggling gasps as his hot breath tickled her. When she dug her hands into his hair, he suddenly became more forceful, nipping at the spot beneath her ear that he knew she liked, his other hand parting her, dipping into her and drawing a needy mewl from her throat.

She savored watching his reactions, the strain in his neck, the open-mouthed panting, the way he gritted his teeth. He was watching her, too, and she did her best to give him something to remember, not holding back in her cries, arching her body beneath his as he dragged the rasp of his chest across her sensitive skin. She could tell he was trying to go slowly, to draw it out, but she was as impatient in the morning light as she had been in the glow of the hearth and candles the night before.

She darted out from beneath him and managed to straddle him when he turned in surprise, quickly sheathing him in herself, gratified by the sound that erupted from his throat and the way his face tightened. She moved the way he'd taught her, his hands gripping her hips so tightly she wouldn't be surprised if she found bruises there later, five circles on each flank where his fingers had dug into her flesh.

Reaching between them, she attended to herself, marking the savage look that had overtaken his earlier playfulness. He looked at her as if he was going to consume her. He already has, she thought hazily, refusing to close her eyes even as her peak came upon her, biting down on her lip when one of his hands roughly squeezed her breast, his fingers twisting the nipple as she reared back and shuddered around him, his own gaze never leaving hers.

The strain in his neck was great when he spent himself in tandem with her, and she felt it hot and thick and strangely sensuous, pulsing deep in her as he thrust upward. The feeling of it sent her unexpectedly into another wave of pleasure, this one leaving her bereft of energy as she collapsed against him, her head on his chest as he still twitched inside her.

He was breathing hard, the pant of his breath cool against her sweaty forehead, and he wordlessly planted erratic kisses on her crown, one of his great arms looped loosely around her waist, his other hand splayed across the back of her head as he cradled her tightly. The taut muscle of his chest beneath her head flexed as he stroked her, hands wandering at leisure, his chin tucked over the top of her head. She hadn't felt so peaceful or calm since she'd been a girl. She could almost forget where they were, what was happening, so long as she was warm and wrapped up against him. She got the distinct impression that he was somehow embarrassed.

"Well," she said, when it was clear that he was in no mood to speak. She continued to trace her fingers up and down his arm, relishing the contrast of muscle and skin. She didn't have to see him to observe how relaxed he was. She didn't think she'd ever felt such quiet from him before. "Good morning, husband."

He tilted her face up to his, his expression soft and serious, and he kissed her almost chastely before disentangling himself from her, both of them softly groaning when he slipped from her, and he rose from the bed. She could see the reluctance in his body as he dragged himself away, a slight stumble in his walk, and it made her smile. She leaned back into the pillows and watched him as he prepared for his day, relishing the odd intimacy of it, though it was obvious to her that he was aware of her scrutiny.

"What are you so fascinated by?" he asked after a while, clearly a bit uncomfortable with the way she was watching him.

"You, husband," she replied simply, twirling one her short curls around her finger. He growled but there was no bite to it, and she thought she detected a trace of a smile when he turned from her to splash water from the ewer across his face.

Husband. She liked the way it felt in her mouth, though it was strange, foreign. It made her color and feel bashful to say it, and it was pulled from her like a spell. It certainly had a marked effect on him. It made him cast his eyes down, almost embarrassed, and she had the distinct impression that he was getting used to it, too.

For all her dreaming, Lenna had quite given up on ever being a wife. She was sure that Sandor had never thought he'd ever be a husband. He'd told her as much, and everything he'd ever said or done had confirmed that he didn't think that was part of his fate. Yet, here they both were, that seemingly impossible wish granted with a swiftness that still had her head spinning and her heart racing.

There was much to discuss, but now it was time for him to go to his men. She relished the ordinariness of his rising, his preparation, and for a moment she could imagine that this had been their routine for a long time indeed. He dressed quickly, his plate stored in the barracks where a squire would help him, and once his boots were tied he came to her where she still lay in her- their- bed.

"Time to get up," he said with a trace of humor in his voice. "You are to go to the queen, aren't you? I can't abide a lazy wife."

She nodded, dragging herself from the covers and not missing the way he watched her as she crossed the room naked to retrieve her dressing gown from the back of her chair. He was ready to go, and it gratified her that he was having trouble leaving, dragging his feet as it were in reluctance to leave her. Once she belted her robe, she shooed him towards the door.

"Go on," she said with a smile. "You have men waiting on you as well. Have a good day."

He finally left her with a lingering kiss at the door, finally peeling her off with a bark of laughter as he made his way to his duties. She leaned against her door frame and watched him go, so intensely pleased to be standing there in the open without having to attempt to secret him out. She felt a plume of embarrassment knowing that when he met with Robb and Brynden Tully and her brother that they would know exactly where he'd been. Embarrassment and a strange satisfaction.

It was the same feeling she had as she entered Talisa Stark's rooms that morning, but the young queen had smiled softly at her entrance and not said a word. She didn't even cut her eyes at her in some knowing way, and Lenna loved her for it. She couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for her kindness, and not least for her support, and Lenna felt that in the brief time they had known each other, they had become friends.

Perhaps it was their similar situations, both isolated and alone, their choices bringing grief to others even as they brought such pleasure and happiness to themselves, but Lenna had sense that Talisa Stark had not acted as her attendant the night before through any sense of obligation. She genuinely wanted to be there.

Lenna had been a bundle of nerves despite being overjoyed. Talisa had provided a quiet counterpoint to her agitation, her fingers carefully braiding her hair, eager to hear the story of the ribbon as she wove it into Lenna's crown. She had told Lenna of her own wedding, how she wished she'd had a friend to help her ready herself, and she detailed the ceremony at the weirwood.

She'd even tried to give Lenna advice- that sort of advice- but as soon as she began, Lenna laughed and colored, averting her eyes. Talisa looked vaguely surprised, her own cheeks darkening, but she had bitten her lip and said no more, content with helping her dress and walking together through the godswood.

Lenna felt as if what had then happened was but a dream. As she sat and rolled bandages with Talisa, the light spilling through the window beginning to take on the cold glint of autumn, she could hardly believe that her memory of warm candlelight and rough-voiced vows could be real. The whole of the ceremony had passed before her like a haze, and she was surprised and a bit dismayed at how little of it she remembered.

She had always thought that she would vividly recall her wedding. She could vividly recall other people's weddings, after all, but her own was a series of impressions, of feelings, and, more than anything, full gray eyes looking back at her with a solemnity that would silence the gods. There was no threat of it being stolen or lost to her, even as indistinct as it was. It was a dreamy remembering, and in the lockbox of her memory it held the place of honor, just as his ribbons, his antler, his notes had in the little box she'd secreted in her desk, unable to part with them even as they ran from King's Landing.

He slipped into their room after the small council dismissed, taking care to take a different path than she had. She waited for him nearly half an hour, wondering where he was and what had delayed him. He knocked once, and she called for him to enter without rising from her vanity. Talisa had offered to teach her how to plait her hair as she had the night before, and she was struggling before the glass, arms akimbo and beginning to ache.

"What are you doing?" he rumbled, closing the door and bolting it behind him. He stood with his back to it, a small smile playing across his face.

"Trying to recreate what Talisa did last night," she said, pursing her lips. "Trying and failing."

He came toward her slowly, placing his hands on her shoulders.

"I like it down," he said, leaning down and pressing his mouth to the top of her head. She looked at him in the glass, smiling as she reached up and squeezed his hand.

"You always have," she replied.

"Aye," he replied. "That first day, you came into Cersei's solar with it windblown, standing out about you."

"You remember that?" she asked, turning to look up at him. "I had almost forgotten myself. I didn't even change. I had no idea I was going to be brought straight to her. I was so startled to find myself in that room."

He chuckled. "You looked scared shitless." She looked up at him tersely. "Then you gathered yourself and walked into that room like it was where you belonged."

"What choice did I have?"

He cleared his throat. "None." His fingers were playing with the short curls about her face. "You made the best of it."

"Thanks to you," she replied softly.

He shook his head and sighed so heavily that she looked at him with concern.

"I'm late because the king wanted to discuss our next move. Against my brother."

She swallowed thickly, looking down at the wood of the vanity, trying to focus her suddenly racing thoughts on the swirling grain of the planks.

"And?" she asked tightly. "What has been decided?"

"I will ride out at the end of the week," he replied quietly. "Runners have brought back reports of the Brotherhood, and I will go find them. And we will scout the garrison at Harrenhal."

"Why did we offer you?" she asked suddenly. "The Brotherhood are as wont to kill you as talk to you." It had greatly troubled her, this idea of baiting the Brotherhood with Sandor. It was one thing to bait the Lannisters with her, knowing that she would be safely at a distance, but this plan involved Sandor leaving the safety of Riverrun and going into unfriendly territory, whether it was in search of the Brotherhood or to confront his brother. Neither option particularly comforted her.

"You know why it has to be me, Lenna," he said quietly, running his hand through his hair.

She fought not to cry, on some level understanding what he was saying even while the rest of her rejected it out of hand.

"He wants to kill you."

"And I want to kill him," he replied solemnly. "You know what I am."

She did, even if it was completely at odds with everything else she knew of him. She'd known of his feud with his brother for years, known how much he ached to settle that wrong. Now, she was thrown into the mix as well, and she knew that there would be no stopping him. There would be no rest.

"I could order you not to go," she whispered lowly, not looking at him. It was a cruel threat, and she knew it. She was not proud of herself for the suggestion that she would force him to make such a choice, between his oaths to her and his own conscience, but she wasn't strong enough to remain completely silent. She heard him turn on his heel, knew he was glaring at her.

"You wouldn't do that to me," he ground out, and the tone stung more than the words, a scrape on her bruising heart. "You know what I would choose. Would you make me an oathbreaker, Lenna?"

"But your oath was to me-" she pressed on, still not able to look at him, her voice tinny and weak in her own ears, a child's voice.

"Which is why I must do it," he rumbled.

"And when he is dead, then who will you go after?" she demanded.

"The whole world, if I have to," he replied, studying his hands. From another man, it might have been an overstatement, but she knew he was deadly serious. "Not until I know you are safe."

It will never end, she thought despondently.

"The end of the week, then?" she asked, swallowing thickly. He nodded. "Then we will have to make the best of what time we have," she said, making her voice cheerier than she felt.

"Aye," he said, glancing back at her with a crooked quirk of his lip. He moved slowly to her, hesitantly, fingers trailing from shoulder to wrist, drawing her to him.

After, he cradled her to him in his sleep. She was so wrapped in his arms that she dared not move, his breathing slow and even in her ears though she was wakeful and worried. She wondered at how quickly their joy had turned to pain, and she thought that perhaps she had made it worse by insisting on their marriage, that the bond between them would make their inevitable separation that much harder to bear. She turned her face so that she could see his, the lines on the unburned side of his face smoothed in sleep, his mouth parted and his breath coming in the heavy puffs of deep sleep. Despite herself, she smiled a little, wishing she had the talent of resting as he did, content in that moment and not thinking about the future.

He'd told her once that she thought too much, and she was quite sure that he was right. If she was able to do as he did, to focus only on the now, perhaps she wouldn't feel quite so overshadowed. She buried her nose in his shoulder, inhaling the scent of him, that constancy of sweat and soap and steel. It was enough to make her eyes smart, and she lay awake for a long time, unable to do anything but ponder upon the idea that perhaps their lives were to be long stretches of great pain, punctuated by periods of even greater joy.

Sandor XLVIII

He'd had no illusions that the afterglow of their marriage would last very long, even if he suspected Lenna had believed that it would suddenly make everything alright. Despite being so smart it made his head hurt, she still persisted in believing that things would get better. He didn't, nor did he expect them to. He only took what he was offered as it was presented, his greatest hope being to have one more day, one more hour, one more breath with her. If anything, he thought that their marriage would complicate things, make it even more difficult than before. Not that feeling that way had prevented him from taking the opportunity. If he was going to die, he wanted to do so knowing that she'd been his, even for a little while.

The raven from Tywin Lannister came the next afternoon. The maester brought it into the small council room where the King and his men were busy looking at their maps. Sandor thought they spent far too much time looking at them as it was, and he was leaning against the window frame with his arms folded across his chest, a scowl on his face. It was a waste of his time, making him stand and listen to them bicker. He'd rather be with his men in the yards, or, better yet, tossing his new wife around their bedchamber while he still had the chance.

He recognized the seal on the damn scroll at once, his arms relaxing by his sides as he went still as a sentry, back rigid and the old tension creeping into his tendons and muscle.

"From the Lannisters, your grace," the maester said. "For Lady Helenna."

The robed man held it out to the king, but Robb looked to Sandor instead.

"Fetch your wife, Clegane," he said lowly. "It is hers to open, after all."

Sandor grunted, immediately striding to the door and down the hallways. He didn't bother trying to sneak through them, but when he reached her room, he found it empty, the door ajar. She wasn't in the queen's rooms either, but the frightened maid he encountered in the passage managed to indicate, with a great deal of stuttering, that her mistress and Lenna were walking in the godswood.

He walked with single-minded purpose, his shoulders hunched and his fists balled at his sides. The mere sight of that sigil had made his muscles bunch, his head becoming so heavy he hunched his shoulders as if about to go on he offense against a foe. He cursed the damn lions as he went, bitterness like blood in his mouth.

Stalking through the godswood, he tried to ignore the sounds of the birds, the sigh of the wind through the trees. All the things that she loved, had always loved, about being outdoors. When he heard her laughing voice ahead of him, answered with the darker thrum of the queen's reply, he froze.

You're about to break her goddamn spell, he thought suddenly. It was a foolish notion, but it was the truth. She'd cast some magic about them, made him happy, made them both happy with a set of words in a Sept, cloaks and a feast, hands and lips and sighs in their chamber, and as soon as he delivered this message, it would be over. It would be broken.

He would be broken, even more than he already was.

He couldn't do it. He could not put one foot in front of the other, could not carry his message. He didn't know what was in Tywin Lannister's scroll, but he wasn't going to like it. It would spell a hardship. All tidings from them did.

"Sandor?"

He looked up, only then realizing that he had been studiously glaring at a boulder, his hands so tight they hurt, the short nails biting into his palms. When he looked up, she was standing there in the path before him, her arms full of wildflowers, her hair about her face. The queen stood at her elbow, the younger woman's smooth brow set in resignation, a knowing in her eyes that he would put into Lenna's.

He took a deep breath before he replied, taking in the way she looked. The dappled eyes were at home in this strange godswood, more meadow and forest than garden. Her mouth was still laughing, dimples in rosy cheeks, and the light- gods, he couldn't stand the light.

"You've received a raven," he said bitterly. "From Tywin."

The light receded more slowly than he would have expected, and it was like seeing her being drained. The color faded from her cheek, the dimple disappeared, and Sandor felt his throat clench, the old familiar obstruction settling in his gorge, new pain gurgling up in his belly.

"Then we should go to the king," she replied quietly, but she did not step toward him. Instead, she stood rooted to the ground, the knuckles that clutched her flowers a livid white, the wind whipping her skirts around her legs, making her hair stream back from her face, almost as if pushing her away from him, away from whatever it was lay before them.

He wished he could steal her again, carry her away with the wind, as far from these people and this place as he could. But he knew that he couldn't. Then he felt the force of the wind against his own back, pushing him towards her. Do it. He took a step forward, limply extending a hand. He closed his eyes briefly when her cold, still fingers came to rest in his paw, and the look he didn't know exactly what the look that he exchanged with the queen meant, but he couldn't ponder it, not and keep his equanimity.

It was a kindness that the queen shielded their joined hands as they made their way back through the Keep. Lenna was clutching his fingers so tightly that it hurt, and he wondered a little at the strength of her. She never failed to surprise him, and glancing down he saw the woman who had stood before him in the throne room King's Landing, her shoulders drawn back, her chin up, waiting for a blade, a condemnation.

When they entered the small council room, Robb Stark was sitting in his chair looking down at the scroll with a scowl. Brynden Tully and Wendel were both waiting by the window, arms crossed over their chests and dark expressions on their faces. They both glanced at her hand in his, and Wendel's eyes were full of pain when they met Sandor's. Pain, and a measure of sympathy that he needed and rejected at the same time.

Beside him, Lenna withdrew her hand and folded both of her in front of her, straightening her spine in that way he never could help but admire. She put on her ladyship, her calm, and her strength, and he felt small standing next to her, knowing that for all he was a survivor, her grace was something he lacked. But when she stood beside him thus, she was no longer Lenna, and he didn't care for it one bit.

"There has been a raven, your grace?" she asked quietly.

Without a word, Robb handed the scroll to her. Lenna held it carefully, and he was reminded forcefully of the morning the black-banded scroll had been brought to her in Cersei's solar. She brushed her fingers over the seal, the waxen lion's claws sharp, and he was sure she was thinking of the same. Still, she did not break it.

"It was sent to you. You should be the first to read it," the king replied quietly. Lenna looked back at the young man blankly, but with a dash of determination, she ran her finger under the seal and broke it, bending her attention to the scrawled missive.

"Well?" Wendel asked, turning to face her.

If possible, more color had drained from her cheeks. She looked even more as if she'd been chiseled from marble, stony and chilled. Her eyes, when she raised them, were like stone, too. She looked so much like the statue at her mother's crypt that he shuddered.

"Lord Tywin writes that he will not negotiate for the boys," she said quietly, a faint tremor in her fingers. "We may execute them for all he cares. As for me," she paused, taking in a deep breath, "he bids me go to White Harbor and wait for further instructions."

Sandor groaned, but he wasn't sure if it was from relief or disappointment. This daft scheme of using her to bait them wasn't to be, and for that he was obscenely grateful. In White Harbor, she would be as far away as she could possibly be from all this madness, even though he wasn't sure if being separated from her wasn't going to kill him.

"He thinks to turn you spy," Robb spat, his face contorting in anger and disbelief. "We were to use you as bait-"

"He has other plans," Lenna replied woodenly. "We had no assurances that it would work, your grace. But he wishes me to go to White Harbor. I'm to send word of my arrival before your uncle's wedding."

Sandor had doubted that it would work to begin with. He saw the value in Tywin's wishes now. With her in White Harbor, she was poised between the two factions in a way that would allow him to capitalize on her in a way he couldn't while she was in Riverrun. He still thought her loyal, and Sandor was sure that Wyman Manderly, no fool in his own right, would find a way to hedge his bets and mitigate his risks.

It might even prove useful to the Northerners, if they played it correctly.

"Why would he possibly want-" Robb snarled.

"He thinks Lenna can bend our father's ear," Wendel replied, saving Sandor the effort. She looked at Sandor, the mottled green and amber clinging to his, begging him for something he couldn't give her.

"Tywin knows that my father has a soft spot for Lenna," Wendel continued. "He was able to control us for many years by using her as a pawn. If Lenna goes to White Harbor, she will be in a position to send information to Tywin and also to serve as his instrument."

"But she isn't his instrument-" the king interjected.

"Will you go?" Talisa Stark asked, ignoring her husband as a little divot between her sleek brows.

"I do not see what choice I have," Lenna replied unhappily, and Sandor briefly touched her waist. "If I do not, I will lose what little influence I have with them. So yes, I will go to White Harbor."

"And then what?" Robb asked incredulously. "Report information to him?"

"Wyman Manderly knows the benefit of feeding Tywin what he wants to hear," Sandor said quietly. All the eyes in the room turned to look at him. "I was sent with Lenna years ago as a guard. And to gather information for him. Lord Manderly gave me what I wanted without question. I would be happier knowing that she was there instead of here, anyway. She'll be safe, at least."

She will be safe. And so far away.

"Will you take me?" she asked quietly, and he felt like the ground had opened up beneath his feet.

"No," he replied. "I have my own business here. I'll join you when the king gives me leave to do so."

"Then who?" she asked so quietly it was nothing more than a whisper, her lips white.

"I'll go with her," Wendel said. "I'll take her home."

"And when she gets there," Robb said, raking a hand through his hair. "How are we supposed to play this? It can't possibly be to our advantage."

"But it will be, your grace," Lenna said, a little of the strength returning to her cheeks. "The Lannisters do not doubt me, at least I do not think they do. You do not doubt me. Perhaps I can broker-"

"I will not negotiate with him," Robb said gravely. "I am done negotiating."

"As far as I can tell, you haven't done any negotiating," Sandor bit out. "You've sat in this castle and looked at your maps-"

"Careful, Clegane," Robb said, blue eyes aflame.

Sandor clamped his jaw tight.

"All is not hopeless," Lenna said quietly, drawing their eyes back to her. She was looking out the window now, the scroll still loosely caged in her fingers, like it was a bird. "He says something else, though he does not write it. Something that I had worried over."

"What is that?" the king asked, his boyish face darkened.

"Sandor told me once that I was theirs," she replied, her lips barely moving, a quirk of her lip that felt like a dagger in his breast. "Tywin believes it to be so. My raven was sent in secret, your grace. This one comes to your maester. He is not seeking to hide that he is writing, and more importantly, that he is writing to me."

"He is using you," Sandor growled.

"Aye," she replied. "He always has, has he not? And he wants you all to know. He's still holding me captive, you see. From afar. It is a good thing."

"How can such a thing be good-" Robb spat out.

"Because it keeps me between you," she replied, looking back at Robb. "I am not a Lannister. Nor am I Stark, or a Manderly. I am nothing."

"You are a Clegane," Sandor whispered, and her eyes warmed when she cut them at him.

"So, I will do as we have always done," she replied. "I'll watch. And I'll wait. And when the time comes-" she trailed off, looking again out the window. "When the time comes, I beg you all to trust me."

"Your allegiance is not in doubt, my lady," Robb said quietly. "You have been poorly used."

Lenna and the queen exchanged a look then, and Sandor wondered at it.

"Thank you, your grace. My allegiance is to us all," she said evenly. "I can only hope to be of use, even if this poor scheme of mine has not worked as I had wished."

Sandor was fiercely glad that it hadn't, even if it meant that he'd have to watch her leave him.

"You'll be on the road at the end of the week," Robb said quietly. "My uncle's wedding will take place next month. If you make good time, Wendel, you can join us at the Twins once you have delivered your sister home."

"Aye, my lord," Wendel replied. "I will do as I may."

She had moved to the window again. It was open, the breeze stirring the curls that had slipped free about her face. Her lips were slightly parted, and the late afternoon sunlight was kind to her, tinting her face gold and rose, but it did nothing to alleviate the pinched worry around her eyes, that drew her dark brows together. He knew he probably looked like a fool, standing there and staring at her like he was, his chest tight and thick, his gaze greedy.

He didn't want to remember her like this, but he knew that this was the image of Lenna that he'd have to carry with him. It had kept him moving for so long, the ache in his breast and his belly when he thought of that look of constant strain and worry, the way it settled over her lovely features like some sort of veil. Her eyes were looking ahead, and he knew her mind was busy with thoughts of the future, and that alone was his comfort. Lenna did not look back, she only faced forward.

Tenacity, he thought bitterly and affectionately, the sound of her voice in his ears from so long ago. Sitting on the deck of that ship, her red book in his hands as he butchered the words in his mouth, unaccustomed to reading out loud, of reading at all, and her little chin pressed unexpectedly into his shoulder, her hand slipping into the crook of his arm. She had corrected him, and he had not recoiled from it, a warmth in his belly as he savored her warmth beside him, her voice instructive and almost conspiratorial as she explained that word and what it mean.

"Persistent," she had said. "If you have tenacity, you are determined."

And so he was, and so she was. Together they left the small council chamber and made their way back to their room. Her hand was wrapped up in his, their fingers intertwined, a coal burning beneath his breastbone as he opened the door and led her to their bed, not bothering to speak.

One week. A handful of days. Sandor Clegane had never thought about what he wanted. He'd spent the majority of his years refusing his own desires, thinking that wanting something, anything, beyond one more morning, one more day, was for someone other than him. But as his hands traced her skin, her lips under his, he clenched his eyes tightly closed and he froze.

He had caught her other hand in his, or rather he'd tried to, but her fingers were tightly closed around something. He lifted her hand, noting that she would not look at him, turning it over and unfolding her fingers from whatever it was she grasped.

The crumpled parchment lay in her palm.

"I did not lie," she said unevenly, relinquishing the scroll and leaning back from him. "I have never lied."

He felt like a snake had taken up residence in his breast, coiling and twisting about his innards and squeezing. He couldn't even take a good breath before he unrolled it, Tywin Lannister's scratchy script like scars on the parchment, violent and slashing.

Dear unhappy lady,

We are all relieved to hear that you are quite safe, though I will not speculate nor speak of what you have endured. I can also not pretend to regret what has befallen. It is most fortunate in its way, is it not? You have escaped your betrothal to the Mountain quite handily, and will be of more use than I could have hoped for being where you are.

Unfortunately, dear girl, I will not ransom you back, no matter how much my daughter has entreated me to do so. The same is the case with the boys. They are useless to us- the Starks may do with them as they please. As for you, I would think you'll be sent home. Go back to White Harbor directly, and wait for instructions there. Your father is a man of sense, even if he allows himself to be often ruled by foolishness. Accept no delays, do not tarry on your way. I will expect to hear from you before Edmure Tully's marriage in the Twins.

Remember the Reynes, dear girl. We do not forget those who have wronged us and ours.

Tywin Lannister

"No, you didn't lie," he said lowly, his brow drawn together. "Does he mean that last bit to make you feel better?"

She shook her head. "I do not know. Sandor," she whispered. "Turn it over."

His brow furrowed in confusion, and he felt a dull headache start behind his eyes. When he turned the parchment over, he was greeted by the sight of Cersei Lannister's flowing script, ornate and delicate, beautiful and biting.

Dearest Lenna,

We rejoice to hear you are safe, and despair that you have been separated from us. You have ever been our faithful friend, and while we have been assured that there is no way to return you to us at this time, know that you are in our prayers. We will not forget this trespass. His head will be mounted on the capital gates before this war is over.

She didn't sign it, she didn't need to. When he looked back up at Lenna, her eyes were shining, full to the brimming.

"She's put an order out-"

"There was always an order out," he replied, crumpling the damn scroll in his fingers. He took two strides toward the fire and threw it into the flames, bracing a hand on the mantle as he watched it burn. "From the moment we left the city gates, we've known there was a price on my head. This is nothing new."

But now his chest was full of flame, his innards turned to bubbling pitch. He was breathing heavily as he watched the fire, recoiling from it's heat as it licked across the scars and reminded him of who and what he was.

He'd allowed himself to believe, if only for a handful of days, that he would be something other than what he was. Folly, he cursed to himself. It was folly to believe he could ever be more than the Hound.

He hated them, and he'd kill them all if he had the chance. He knew that she believed that they could be reasoned with, that she could negotiate with them. The only negotiation they understood was made with the point of a sword. Clever scheming aside, the Lannisters hadn't won their place through circumspect talk, through diplomacy. They'd won it by manipulation and force.

"You won't get them to listen to you," he said roughly, standing and dragging a hand through his hair. "Go home. Do as he bids, but don't keep thinking that you can fix this. You can't."

"I could try-"

"You did try," he thundered, turning back to her. "You did try, Lenna, and it didn't work. It won't work. They don't care about peace, or making amends. They only want more, and if you are in the way, they will not hesitate to hurt you. You know this. Fuck it all, Lenna, you know this." His shoulders had crept up to his ears, and he was trembling to keep himself from shouting, though he was aware that his voice was choked. She was an arm's-length away, looking up at him with her face open and so full of despair. Something cracked in him sharply, and he laid his hand on her cheek, finding the gentleness he only had for her and pressing his fingertips into the smooth skin of her face.

That joy had been so brief, and he wanted to rage against it being taken away. It was one thing for him to suffer, he deserved it, but that she should continuously be brought so low, made so unhappy, it was almost more than he could bear. His eyes were burning with the effort to keep them open, but he refused to blink, memorizing the look of concern and worry on her face.

He'd thought earlier that he didn't want to remember her like this, her face full of despair, even as he knew that it would fuel him. He had wanted to remember her joyful, her hair around her shoulders and laughter in her mouth. He had wanted to remember the sound of her voice when she sang, the feeling of her soft hand in his, her sighs in his lungs when he kissed her. Those memories would stay with him, he'd carry them, but this- this- was what he needed to remember. The crease of worry between her brows, the mottled storm in her eyes. He needed to hold that image closest, to remind him of what he must do.

"Sandor?" she asked, her voice a pale, small thing, her lips hardly moving. "Sandor, don't look like that."

Her voice was trembling, as were her fingers as they ghosted over his face, fluttering like moths against his skin. He was still looking at her unblinkingly, numb to the ache that radiated from his breastbone and through his veins. An ache that would make him strong.

"Sandor-" she said, her eyes welling with tears, and they spilled without her blinking, caught in her lashes like dew, mottled eyes looking into his with such pain that left him breathless.

"Not here," he replied, wishing again for words. She wasn't going to cry. They were not going to waste their time with weeping. He felt keenly that the hourglass had been turned, the sand trickling out, steady and unstoppable. He would not let it be marred like this. "Not yet."

"Your face-"

"I thought you'd gotten used to it," he growled, his lip crooking into a smirk that was more of a snarl.

"Whatever you're thinking, Sandor-"

"I only ever think of you," he replied.

It was perhaps the truest thing he'd ever said, though he might have barked in derision at it in his past. She froze, the tears in her eyes fading, a blush creeping over her cheeks, her mouth again plump and rosy as cherries, her lips parted as her breathing came faster.

He didn't let her speak again, bringing her to him with crushing force and with one goal in his mind. He was going to make her forget. She was going to forget everything except for him, everything ugly and dangerous and sad. He'd convince her it was all a bad dream with lips and hands and what soft words he could muster. And then, when they were parted, he was going to remember the way she looked just then, all despair and pain, and he was going to make sure nothing could ever hurt her again, even if he had to bring the whole bloody world down around their ears.

A/N: I'm back! Thanks for your patience. I have missed working on this these last few weeks, but the trip was well worth it, and I'm feeling ever so refreshed and rather inspired. I'm so glad everyone enjoyed the previous chapter! I also hope you didn't think everything was going to be sunshine and roses going forward...but never fear. I'm still wholeheartedly committed to a happy ending. It's just going to be another dozen chapters or two.

Read and Review! I love hearing from you! I have a couple of different avenues I am contemplating, so if you have an idea you'd like to contribute, be sure to let me know! Should have another installment up within the next week.