Sandor L
"I don't know what the fuck just happened, Dondarrion, but if you're alive you're going to fucking hear me out," he barked, wincing and growling at the pain in his arm. The Lightning Lord wasn't paying him any mind, his one eye focused solely on the Stark girl. Sandor continued anyway, reaching out and grabbing the other man's shoulder. The shoulder you just cleaved in half, he thought darkly. "I came on Robb Stark's orders, you saw what he wrote."
"This child," Dondarrion said flatly, at last turning his face back to Sandor as he pointed to the little Stark. "She's the one that's missing. Ned Stark's daughter."
"Aye," Sandor replied, ramming his frustration down into his gut. "Disappeared from the Tower of the Hand. When Lord Stark was captured."
"You were there," the child howled, again lunging at him from her place in the shadows, grey eyes luminous and feral, tears streaming down her face. "You took him. You took him and I never saw him again." Her voice broke, going squeaky as a mouse, and she hastily wiped a dirty sleeve across her nose, snot streaming from it.
"I was there," Sandor acknowledged, not bothering to lie. The child did not look away from him even though she continued to snivel. He liked her bravery. "Under orders, little wolf."
"And you stood by and watched as Joffrey had him killed," she wailed. He looked at her hard, wondering how she knew. Surely she wasn't there that day, she'd been missing for at least a week when Ned Stark was paraded out and killed. "You didn't even move. My sister, she was screaming, and you just stood there."
"What would you have had me do?" he asked. He'd asked himself the same question a hundred times. He had yet to come up with an alternative. Darkness seemed to have taken up residence in his lungs at the thought that this little high-born girl had seen such a thing, that she'd undoubtedly had to pick herself up afterwards on her own. He wasn't a kind man, but he wasn't entirely heartless, especially when he remembered the effect it had had on her elder sister, on Lenna herself, who was so strong.
"Why didn't you stop it," she wailed. "Stop him?"
"I couldn't, little wolf," he replied, and not without regret, taken back to that bright day as he stood helpless as Ilyn Payne did his duty. "None of us could."
"Sansa tried-" she spluttered, her voice cracking painfully.
"And she failed," he said stonily. We all did, he thought, and none could tell we'd come to this.
"Robb wouldn't trust you, he wouldn't," she growled, retreating from him until her back was flush against the cave wall, like he might strike out and harm her.
"He does, little wolf," Sandor replied, throwing her an annoyed glance. "He has to."
"Why?" Dondarrion asked, looking for all the world like he'd not just been cut nearly in half. He was sipping from a wine-skin almost distractedly. Sandor wondered what he was thinking.
"Forces and support are breaking," Sandor said. "Robb Stark broke his marriage contract with the Freys. It has been renegotiated, but now they demand Harrenhal in addition to an alliance. Up until the last few days, it was swarming with Lannister men, my brother's men. Now, the castle is suddenly vacant, which seems to me to be too convenient. Something isn't right. I was sent to scout it, and also to find you. Both have been difficult."
"For what purpose?" Dondarrion scoffed. "I'm not fighting for the Starks. I'm not fighting for the Lannisters."
"You can't stay fucking neutral," Sandor retorted, not at all trying to disguise his rancor.
"The way I see it-"
"The way I see it, Dondarrion, is you're either trying to stop this thing or prolong it. Are you raiders? Are you in it for profit?"
The knight leaned in offense, his fair face contorting in disgust.
"We help these people-" he started, getting to his feet, the wineskin gripped tightly in his fist.
"You help yourselves," Sandor bellowed. "Hiding in the woods, raiding when it pleases you. That's not why you're here. You were sent to kill my brother, so why is he not dead?"
Dondarrion paused for a long moment and looked at Sandor. He shifted under the other man's scrutiny, but he did not look away.
"Is that what this is about?" he asked quietly. "Revenge?"
"They aren't safe while he's alive," Sandor ground out.
"Who isn't?"
"Any of them. None of them are safe, can be safe, while he is raiding through this territory. He could be anywhere from Maidenpool to the Vale to the capital by now, and we don't know where he's gone. And Harrenhal sits empty there. Undoubtedly a trap."
"Aye," Dondarrion wagered. "I'd wager that's true. A trap of some ilk, but I don't understand it."
"Neither do I," Sandor replied, biting the inside of his cheek to gentle himself. "I don't understand it, and I don't like it."
"What would you ask of me, then, Hound?"
"Help me," he ground out, hating to sound like he was begging. "Help me find my brother and end his raiding here in the Riverlands. Help me kill him and send a message to the Lannisters."
"There's a price on your head, Clegane," Dondarrion said. "You'd do better to go back to Robb Stark, avoid these lands."
"I am under orders," he replied flatly.
"And you follow the orders that suit you." There was no derision in Dondarrion's tone, but Sandor grunted in reply anyway. "I can't say I'm not surprised to see you here. Why would the Hound turn on his masters, I wonder?"
Sandor rolled his eyes and bit back the retort that wanted to spill from his tongue. "Will you help or not? You said you were ordered by Ned Stark to execute him, that you stand up for the defenseless-" He said this with mocking he could not subdue, his anger and frustration bubbling over.
"Tell me where she is, and I might help you," Dondarrion said evenly, his one eye glinting in the dim light. Arya Stark looked at him sharply.
"Where who is?" Sandor asked, his throat dry. He didn't want to talk about her, not here.
"Helenna Manderly," Beric said quietly. The little Stark's head whipped around and her eyes narrowed at him. "News travels fast, even in these woods. The smallfolk are singing tragic ballads about the lady. You took her from King's Landing during the Blackwater, and we saw you here in these woods. Together. But now she's not with you. What did you do with her, Hound?"
"I told you. She's safe. Took her to Riverrun," he ground out, hands curling into fists. "To her brother."
"Is she there now?" Dondarrion replied with surprise.
"No," he replied woodenly, his chest cracking as the little thread stretched taut again, thinking of her trunks packed and loaded in the courtyard even as he rode away. "On her way north to her father in White Harbor. Should be past the Twins by now."
"I suppose you were paid handsomely," Beric said, his gaze flashing and his jaw set.
"Didn't ransom her," Sandor barked, looking at his hands. "Just took her back to her people."
"Why?" Dondarrion tilted his head like he was prompting a child.
"Fuck off, Dondarrion," Sandor growled, his fists clenching. "Are you going to help us or not?"
Beric backed away a step. "I don't do anything for free anymore. But there is something you can do for me, and I'll think on it. You want your brother dead, and so do I. But this piece of baggage must be taken care of first."
"What's that?" Sandor demanded, all to aware that he was no in a position to negotiate.
"Take this one back to her brother," Dondarrion said, grasping the little wolf by the shoulder. "If she's Arya Stark, she needs to go home to her family. Are you Arya Stark, child?"
The girl nodded glumly.
"He'll pay," Sandor ground out. "I can offer you coin, says so in the letter."
"And I'll take it," Dondarrion said, looking down at the child. He took a good look at Arya Stark. She was dressed in boy's clothes, a rough tunic and trousers, her hair cut short about her face. When she glanced at him, he felt like Ned Stark was looking back at him, the grey eyes, the dark hair the same. He was mildly surprised at the flash of guilt that flared in him at the memory of the girl's father, of his dignity as he knelt and faced his death. Sandor angrily wondered for the thousandth damn time why he hadn't fought back.
"I won't go," Arya cried, struggling against Dondarrion's grip, her voice shrill against the cavern walls. "Not with him."
"Yes, you will," Beric said. "Bound or unbound, it is your choice. You belong with your family, and they are nearby."
"But he killed Mycah," she said stubbornly. "He'll hurt me."
"I'll not hurt you, little wolf," Sandor said, knowing better than to try and make himself seem friendly. He settled for neutral. It usually worked. "I'll take you to your brother. Your mother is with him."
"How can you trust him?" the child demanded.
"The Lord of Light has plans for him yet," Dondarrion replied cryptically, but his eyes were on Sandor's. "Carry her home," Dondarrion said, "bring back the coin. Then we'll talk about your brother."
He looked at the darkening sky. He was half a day's ride from camp. "Aye," he replied, "but we'll have to stay here tonight. Too late to travel."
Beric nodded gravely. "Sit and eat, then."
Sandor lowered himself down warily on a boulder. The little Stark was shooting him deadly looks. Part of him wanted to apologize to her, just say that he was sorry. Not that there was much he could have done. The boy had been done for as soon as Joffrey set his sights on him, but he doubted this little wolf would understand.
"I'll take her with me tomorrow. Her brother will have already left for the Twins. I'll send her there with some of my guards, or Bolton's. If he's arrived. He's supposed to send a group of men."
"Bolton's?" the girl asked, the previous rancor in her voice replaced with surprise, then fear. She looked frantically at Dondarrion, leaping to her feet, nimble as a cat and just as prickly. "I told you he couldn't be trusted. I won't go with him."
She backed away from him with quick steps, her eyes flickering between him and Dondarrion, all while looking for a way out. The knight stood slowly, hand extended as if to gentle her. His eye was narrowed in confusion, and Sandor felt his own hackles rise, getting to his own feet as the girl looked around herself frantically, a caged animal desperate for escape.
"Roose Bolton is your brother's bannerman," Beric said lowly, pitching his voice in the same way Sandor did when he was trying to calm Stranger. "Why-"
"His army is encamped just thirty miles north," Sandor offered, not trying to match Dondarrion's tone.
"Of course he is," she ground out acidly, her little face pinched, her teeth bared in a snarl. "He's one of them."
"What do you 'mean one of them'?" Beric asked, shooting a look at Sandor that told him to shut the fuck up. Sandor took a step back and suppressed a grunt. The girl set her jaw and looked away. "What do you mean, child?"
She looked at him with an expression of startling precociousness. Sandor remembered her as a snot-nosed little tomboy, running around her father's Keep in a stolen helmet, sulking as the boys trained in the yard. This was not the same child, this urchin with the dogged look in her eyes. Gods, he thought bitterly, she looks like I did at that age. "Roose Bolton sent ravens to Tywin Lannister at Harrenhal. He came, once or twice."
Whatever pity had erupted in him fizzled as he took in what she'd just said.
"How would you know that?" he asked lowly, his voice barely more than a whisper. He took a step forward, and the girl took two back.
"I was Lord Tywin's cupbearer," she spat out. "He knew I was a girl, but he didn't know who I was."
"You were at Harrenhal," he said without expression. She nodded, eyes shifting. Still looking for an escape route. He forced himself to take half a step away from her, hands in loose fists by his sides as he tilted his head forward to look her in the face. The child looked up into his face with suspicion, but not with fear.
Good.
"What did these ravens say, what did he say?" Sandor asked quietly. Dondarrion walked toward him, but he waved the knight away with an impatient gesture.
"I don't know," she replied tersely, but she wasn't barking anymore. "He didn't read them to me."
Sandor pinched the bridge of his nose, wincing against the pain in his arm. He took a deep breath. Snarling at the girl would do them no good, even if all he wanted to do was curse. He knew something wasn't right, but this incomplete story did him no good.
"If you remember-" he began, trying to gentle his tone. His mind was whirling, but nothing was making sense.
"Numbers. He always talked about numbers," she whispered, breaking the uneasy silence that had fallen. She was looking at him with huge eyes, grey as her father's. Grey as his own.
"Big or small?" he grunted
"Thousands."
"Fuck." The curse felt good when it burst from his mouth, fricative and brittle as it rang through the cave. The girl did not flinch.
"And a wedding," she replied. "They kept talking about a wedding."
"Who is they?"
"Tywin. Your brother. Lord Roose."
"Whose wedding?" he demanded, taking a step forward. He could only think of one.
"I don't know," she replied testily, whatever tolerance she had for her interrogation dissolving, like a cat who strikes at the hand stroking its belly. "Leave me alone."
"Was it the king's or the other?" he bit out.
"Not Joffrey's," she whispered, her lips barely moving. "They talked about his, too, but this one was somewhere else. Someone else."
"And you heard no names?" he asked. "I don't know that I believe that."
"I didn't hear any names," she snarled, her voice bouncing off the walls like stones.
Sandor looked at Thoros of Myr and Beric Dondarrion. They each wore an expression that mirrored his own, one of agitation and confusion.
The girl looked between them, and as if it was being pulled from her with iron pincers, she finally opened her mouth.
"I heard no names, but Lord Bolton said he would go. Make sure that it was done."
"That what was done?" Dondarrion demanded. "Child, what are they planning to do?"
"I don't know," she cried. "They were careful what they said in front of the others, and I...I didn't hear anything else."
"If it isn't Joffrey, there's another wedding planned," Sandor said quietly. "The deal with the Freys, to give them Harrenhal, it was to be accomplished before Edmure Tully wed one of Walder Frey's daughters. Roose Bolton is expected to be in attendance. All of Robb Stark's bannermen are expected to be in attendance."
"When?" Dondarrion asked.
"A month, give or take. I've lost track of time," Sandor replied, raking a hand through his hair, covering the scar. He felt tired, his eyes dry and his throat thick. Agitation rolled in his belly like snakes, a rat-king of turmoil. "Wendel Manderly was sent to take Lady Helenna back to White Harbor, then he was to turn around and come back to the Twins, to try and make it in time for the wedding."
"Awful convenient timing," Thoros said darkly, speaking what was in Sandor's own mind. "Harrenhal is a hard castle to take, probably why the Freys asked for it. Almost sounds like they didn't want the marriage to take place. Strange that it should crop up empty so close to when it needs to be delivered after so much difficulty. And now, Roose Bolton is going between the two? That bodes ill."
"Open the castle up, go ahead with the marriage- and Roose Bolton's slimy hide slithering between Tywin and the Freys. I don't know what is going on-"
"I expect we'll find out soon enough," Sandor replied, cold agitation and trepidation in his gut. He thought of the encounter with Bolton forces in the wood, how it had felt wrong. The presence of the Kingslayer, of the Tarth woman. How they hadn't killed him. How Grag Locke had recognized Lenna after ten years apart. "Smells of Lannisters to me."
He'd been looking for her, he realized suddenly. Not for the Starks. For them.
"There's a bounty on my head," Sandor said, looking at Dondarrion. "The Lannisters have been looking for me. What of the Starks?"
Thoros of Myr cocked his head. "Why would the Starks have been looking for you? Ran off from your post, but there was no price on your head from them. Not that we know of."
Breath rushed out of his lungs.
Stupid cunt, should have seen it before.
"Clegane?"
He clenched his jaw shut. "Ran into Grag Locke," he said quietly. "On the road."
Dondarrion licked his lips and then spat on the ground. "Shifty man, that one."
"He lied." Sandor felt it roll of his tongue like a hammer strike.
"Always did," Thoros said. "Not a good sort."
"No," Sandor replied, a deranged pleasure in his chest, spreading like blood in water. "But he'll not trouble us any more." Dondarrion looked at him sharply, then nodded. "He was riding under Bolton's banners. Said he was looking for us, that there was a bounty on my head. He was right, it just wasn't in Riverrun. He tried to take Lady Helenna."
"Back to them," Beric said lowly, his expression grim. "He was going to take her back to Harrenhal."
He nodded, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. "Said to Riverrun, and we were heading that direction, but fuck, I should have known. At the very least he was going to report back to them."
"Roose Bolton is Robb Stark's bannerman. Of course you would take him at his word," Thoros said quietly.
"He made a mistake," Sandor said. "I should have realized when he made the fucking mistake."
"Which was?"
"He told Lenna that both her brothers were at Riverrun. Wendel was. Wylis is still their captive. He made out that they were looking for her."
Beric snorted. "I believe they had other matters to attend than a stolen maiden," he said drily. "Even if she's apparently the most sought after woman in the Seven Kingdoms."
"I see that now," Sandor replied, wiping his hand over his face, quelling the anger at Dondarrion's flippancy. He felt a fool, believing that her people had been looking for her. They hadn't. The Starks hadn't raised a finger to try and find her, though he was sure that they knew she was gone. Of course they knew she was gone. It made him angry to think he'd believed it, that she'd believed it. Of course they didn't look for her, he thought, thinking about the vague suspicion that had greeted her when they arrived at Riverrun. The questioning by the young king about her loyalties. It made his chest clench to think she'd been so forgotten by her own people while the Lannisters sent his bloody brother after her, looking to snare her back.
"Why does Tywin want her back so badly?" Dondarrion asked. "Lady Helenna, to my recollection, was a quiet girl. Pretty, intelligent, but never seemed to be that invested in court."
"Cersei kept her close," Sandor muttered. "Tywin thinks she's useful." He hesitated, weighing how much to tell the knight. "The Starks and her, they tried to ransom her back to Tywin, at least propose such, to draw him out. To draw out my brother."
"And?"
"He didn't take the bait," Sandor said. Now it perplexed him. "Bid her return to White Harbor and wait for further instructions."
"From Tywin? Does he really think she has that much sway over her father, that she'll be allowed to ferry information to him?"
Sandor bit down on his tongue. Of course he bloody doesn't.
"Lady Helenna believes that Tywin is waiting to use her as a proxy, if and when her brothers-" his breath went cold in his lungs. "Fucking hells."
"She was to be delivered ahead of this wedding," Dondarrion said. "Safe to White Harbor. And her brother was the travel back. One brother in the Twins, one in captivity, and the lady waiting in the North."
"Fuck it all," Sandor said. "One brother at the Twins with the Boltons and Freys, they other in their custody. If he wants to use her as a proxy, what's to stop him from getting them out of the way?"
"If the child is right, Clegane," Dondarrion said quietly, "and the Lannisters are pulling these strings, the Boltons and the Freys involved, something is going to happen at that wedding, and it isn't going to be good for any of us."
Sandor couldn't bring himself to talk any more. He ate what he was offered, a bowl of brown and a piece of rough bread, finished the wine he was given and bedded down on the hard cavern floor. Sandor spent an uncomfortable night staring into the darkness of the cave, his mind in a quagmire, not at all bothered by the cold or damp, or the snivelling of the child in the darkness.
The next morning, Thoros of Myr helped him load a sleepy and recalcitrant Arya Stark onto his saddle. As he went to swing up behind the child, Beric Dondarrion approached him.
"I'd send a man with you," he said, gesturing behind him. The archer from the road stood behind him looking sullen. The lad looked at him with flat, dark eyes.
"We'll be faster alone," Sandor said. "I'll double back to my camp and see if I can send word ahead, then run to the Twins directly. They'll have already left Riverrun. It's at least two weeks of hard riding, especially with this one here with me."
The archer looked visibly relieved, though no less poisonous. Beric nodded, biting down on his tongue as he thought.
"Take her anyway. And send me word," he said, "of whatever you find. You'll be able to reach me through the innkeeper at the Inn at the Crossroads. Direct it to Anguy," he said, jabbing a thumb at the young man behind him. "It will come to me."
"I will," Sandor ground out, "as soon as may be."
Beric looked up at the girl where she sat on Sandor's saddle.
"He'll not harm you, girl," he said, peering up into her odd little face.
"How do you know?" she asked in a harsh whisper.
"He was judged rightly," he answered. "No harm will come to you while you're with him. Don't do anything foolish- your brother's life might depend on it. Many lives might depend on it."
The child didn't respond, two deep notches between her eyes as she scowled, but neither did she struggle.
Sandor let out a breath that could have been relief, and nodded sharply to Dondarrion. The knight held his gaze with fire in his eyes, and Sandor felt strangely affected by it, just as he had the night before when he'd heard the rush of wind and realized it was flame. He couldn't quite decide what he thought of it. It didn't really matter. Not right now.
He didn't look back as he turned Stranger in the direction of his camp, riding hard as the child clung to his pommel. She didn't speak, a little shadow, and Sandor didn't mind. He didn't know the first thing to say to the child.
Half an hour later, he found the body of his scout in the road. The boy had been run through from sternum to groin, his eyes staring lifelessly at the sky. Sandor did not react to the boy in order not to frighten the child, though seeing him dead made his blood turn to lead. In favor of keeping the girl calm, he kept going, stepping Stranger around the lad's body as he carefully made his way down the road. After discovering two more of his men, similarly mutilated and left in the roadway, he'd had enough.
His brother was ranging, and he was nearby.
"Hold tight, little wolf," he muttered, turning Stranger's nose away from the road and barrelling into the wood in the rough direction of the Twins.
Lenna L
It took them three weeks to reach the Twins, the weather having gone from fair to stormy in the few days leading up to their arrival. Lenna refused to ride in the small wheelhouse that Wendel had insisted upon bringing, despite her brother's protestations. It carried nothing but their trunks. The weather was turning, summer to autumn, and as they went North the wind became more and more bitter. She relished the feel of it blowing in her face, ruffling the hair that fell below her chin. The cold gave her something to hold on to.
She had taken to wearing her boots again. She'd hidden them in her room at Riverrun with the dagger still in place. She didn't know why, but she felt safer knowing it was there against her ankle, a little reminder of him. She was fairly sure that she wouldn't have to use it, would have no cause to pull it out. They were travelling through friendly territory now, on the main road, stopping at inns where they could and camping beside the road when they couldn't.
The first time they had made camp, Lenna automatically went to build the fire, much to her brother's bewildered amusement. He had said nothing until she went to retrieve the fire-flint, only to realize that she didn't have one. Her palfrey had no saddlebags, and it took her an awkwardly long moment to realize that she hadn't forgotten them, and that this wasn't Stranger.
"One day I should dearly love to hear about your time on the road," Wendel said, taking the fire-flint from on of their guards and offering it to her. "I would love to know how my prim little sister learned to build a fire."
And gut a rabbit, she thought, and kill a man.
She smiled wanly and settled down beside him, spitting an apple to roast over the fire as she had done with Sandor. It brought her little comfort, just dredged up her memories like kelp on an anchor, ripped from the deep place she'd stored them and stinging at his absence.
Without thinking, she whipped out the little knife to cut the apple in half, proffering the other piece to her brother. The teasing had gone out of his face.
"Where did you get that?" he asked. She looked back at him blankly. "Do you know how to use it?"
She nodded, and then the words started to flow out of her. She told him everything, his face crumpling up to hear her talk about running from Maidenpool, about their capture. She didn't tell him about Jaime Lannister or Brienne Tarth, she didn't tell him whose men it was that captured them, but she told him enough that he saw and understood her distress, and he drew her into his arms and she rested against him as she had as a little girl, her big brother keeping the bad thoughts away.
"I did not want to leave him," she whispered raggedly, the last dregs of her strength failing. "I wish there had been some other way."
"I know," he replied. "And I am glad you told me all of this, so I can understand him more fully. So I can understand you. You have changed, Lenna. You are not the woman who left us years ago."
She shook her head and brought his hands to her lips. "I wouldn't go back, even if I could," she choked.
"Of course you wouldn't," he replied, kissing her on the forehead as if she was a child.
The journey was exhausting even if it was smooth. She lost her appetite quickly, her stomach roiling from waking to sleeping, sometimes barely able to choke down her bread. The cheese was repugnant to her, and Wendel looked at her strangely when she refused it.
"It must have molded," she said, offering her portion to him. He ate it, but when he chewed it was with great deliberation.
The appearance of the Great House did little to alleviate her somber mood. Wendel exclaimed when they rode within sight of it, standing astride the Greek Fork as it did. Lenna had pulled even with him, gazing at it with cold appraisal, her cloak drawn up about her face as a cold rain dripped upon them.
Through the mists, she could plainly make out the two unlovely halves of Walder Frey's seat, rising up like stout sentries from their positions on opposite banks of the river. She was reminded of a story she had read Joffrey when he was a child, about two giants who faced off with one another across the Narrow Sea, each refusing to let the other out of their sight until they both starved to death. The moral of that story had been about the folly of holding grudges, and Lenna smiled wryly to think that Joffrey had obviously not learned his lesson very well.
A long bridge ran between the two Keeps, gray and dull in the faint afternoon light. They were significantly farther north than they had been at Riverrun, and here at the cusp of the North, the chill of autumn was definitely in the air. It seemed to Lenna that the place was entirely devoid of color, the only tints being shades of grey that made her feel cold, inside and out. She shivered, her fingers trembling as they held her reins, and she didn't feel as if she'd ever be truly warm again.
They arrived in the southern Keep at nightfall. Torches were lit, casting ruddy light over the ashen walls, and a small group came out to meet them. Lenna recognized one of the Frey knights that she had danced with at Joffrey's tourney years before. Perwyn, she believed, a man about her age, perhaps a year or two older, with a long face and grim demeanor, much like his father. He was tall, though not so tall as Sandor, with lank black hair that brushed his shoulders. His eyes were hooded, dark like his hair, but they were not unkind. She knew as soon as his gaze met hers that he recognized her, in fact, she was fairly certain that she detected a glimmer of pleasure in seeing her. It perplexed her, but she wasn't unhappy at the prospect of having a friend in this place.
Walder Frey she recognized, of course. The Lord of the Crossing was standing beside his son when they rode into the small courtyard, his hands behind his back and his eyes avid on Lenna as Perwyn came to help her dismount. She accepted the knight's help, feeling almost faint as she dropped to the ground, grateful for a strong arm about her waist. Though he was wiry, Perwyn Frey was powerful, his grip on her steely as he kept her upright. Her legs failed her briefly, and she stumbled into the Frey knight.
"My apologies," she said, trying to smile up at him, and his eyes flashed intently back at her. "It has been a rather long ride."
Perwyn Frey looked at her solemnly, but she noticed him swallow and avert his eye as he released her, his arm springing away from her as if she had been hot to the touch.
"My lady," he said quietly, not looking at her again as he left her standing beside her brother. Lenna managed to right herself, following Wendel to greet Walder and the young woman who stood beside him. She managed a curtsey to the old lord, his eyes on her feeling rather like an eel had slithered along her arm, his voice raspy as he welcomed her, his tongue dropping consonants until the words were nearly indistinguishable.
"A welcome to the Twins, my lady," he said. "You have met my boy, I believe. Perwyn. At that tourney some years ago."
"Aye, my lord," she answered feebly, the faintness and dizziness not abating. She clasped her hands before her stomach tightly, clinging to the sensation of her bones pressing together. "I had the honor of dancing with him at the feast, I believe."
She hazarded a glance at Perwyn and found that he was looking back at her openly, a bit of warmth in his dark eyes. She tried to return it, stunned when a splash of color lit his sallow cheek.
"And this is my daughter," Walder said, cold eyes watching his son's reaction as he gestured to the girl beside him. "Roslin."
"The one to be married to Lord Edmure?" Wendel asked, looking at the girl. She blushed delicately, her eyes cast down. She was a pretty thing, petite with long nut-brown hair, long eyelashes, and roses in her cheeks.
"The very same," Walder said. "Pity you should miss the celebrations, my lady. You'd be an ornament to such a gathering. Your father should attend to your own marriage."
Lenna flushed, opening her mouth but finding she had nothing to say.
"Let us go inside, my lord," Perwyn said quickly, looking at Lenna. She was quite sure she was pale and drawn. She felt nearly transparent. "I'm sure your guests are tired and wanting their supper and their beds."
"Right, right," Walder said. "Come on, then."
Lenna watched as Wendel offered his arm to the young Frey girl, and Roslin smiled hesitantly up at him through lowered lashes. Not a coquette, Lenna thought, but merely shy. Frey's daughters were not renowned for their charms, not any more than their lord father was for his affability, but this girl seemed sweet, innocent even. Lenna felt a bit of relief for Lord Edmure, and perhaps a bit of consternation. Robb Stark should not have been displeased with such a wife.
She chastised herself for even thinking such a thing, startled out of her thoughts by Perwyn Frey appearing again at her side. His cheek hollowed as he flexed his jaw, his eyes sliding to hers askance. He extended an elbow, and Lenna was thankful to slide her hand into its crook, leaning on him rather heavily.
"It has been nearly three years since that tourney," Perwyn said quietly, breaking the silence in which they party walked. His tone was rather intimate, like he didn't want to be overheard. "I'm surprised that you remember, my lady."
"Of course I do," she answered honestly, louder than he. She had no reason to hide her response. "I never had many chances for dancing. I believe I danced with your brother as well."
"Yes," he replied. "Danwell. He was married last year."
"Congratulations to him, then," she said as they walked into the hall. It was a dark room with rudimentary benches set up beneath a crude dais. It was not a lovely place, rather bleak and dreary if she was being honest. Perwyn looked ready to speak again, but he clamped his mouth closed again like a perch. She dropped her hand from Perwyn's arm and took her place beside her brother at the high table. She was still feeling a little queasy and befuddled, no doubt as a result of the constant motion of the horse.
A dinner was put in front of them, but Lenna had little appetite for the gray boiled mutton and oily potatoes. She did her best, knowing she needed to put something in her stomach, but she picked at it more than anything, only managing to finish the coarse bread that had been brought to accompany the meat.
"Not to your liking, my lady?" Lord Walder asked, raising a horn cup to his lips and watching her from over the rim. Northerners took their laws of hospitality seriously, and the last thing she wanted was to cause offense.
"Excuse me, my lord," she said, feeling her cheeks heat. "My stomach has been poorly. Being on the road for so long has made me peckish, I'm afraid."
"And you'll be on the road a while longer, I'd expect," he said. "A long way to White Harbor."
"Aye, my lord," she responded. "Another two or three weeks at least."
"A pity you can't stay for my girl's wedding," he said again. "You'd enjoy it, I do believe. We have a special entertainment planned. Unlike anything in Seven Kingdoms, I would imagine."
He drank deeply from his cup, and Lenna found herself staring openly at him. The old lord looked back at her and the glint in his eye was conspiratorial. She didn't know what to make of that look, but it felt significant. There was something about the wild delight in his face that she did not like, not any more than she liked the sensation of him trying to draw her in.
"Lenna will be loathe to miss it, I'm sure," Wendel said, looking to Roslin Frey. The girl had eaten even less than Lenna had. "You'll make a lovely bride."
"Thank you," the girl muttered, her fingers twisting the napkin in her lap. Lenna looked at her strangely, then back at Lord Walder.
"You must be relieved to be back amongst your own people," the old lord said. "You've been gone so long."
"Yes," she replied carefully. No lies. "And no. I did not wish to leave King's Landing."
"Even with your father and brothers fighting here in the north?" He wasn't blinking as he regarded her, chewing noisily. He reminded her, despite his crudeness, of Tywin and his reptilian gaze.
"Lenna-" Wendel bit out, but she looked at him askance with a look that told him to be quiet.
"I am not fond of warfare, my lord," she said. "I do not see a reason for it. I'd have us make peace."
Perwyn's gaze slid to hers, dark eyes brooding and mouth slightly parted, as if he was trying to think of something to interject. He looked at her brother and pursed his lips, thinking the better of it.
"But surely you see the necessity, my dear," Walder said, throwing his head back and squinting at her down the length of his beaky nose. Some might think him hawkish, but he resembled nothing to her so much as a vulture, all sagging, sallow skin and hooked nose.
"I don't see anything necessary in killing," she replied quietly, pretending to cut at her meat.
"There was nothing necessary in Ned Stark's death," Walder said shortly.
"No, my lord," she replied evenly, bracing her wrists on the table, her cutlery clenched in her hands. "You are quite right. I was there, you see. I saw what happened, how it went from a pardon to an execution. And I agree with you wholeheartedly." Walder stared at her hard and Lenna fought the desire to look away. Finally, she settled for a smile and a flutter of lashes, a return to the food she had no intention of eating. "But I'm just a lady. What do I know of such things."
This seemed to appease Walder Frey for the time being, the old lord slumping back into his chair, hiding his face in his cup.
"You have been through much, my lady," Perwyn said from his father's side. He did not look at her, but seemed rather intent on murdering the mutton on his plate, his brow contracted and cheek hollow.
Lenna hesitated to respond. "I have seen my share," she said at last, settling as best she could on the sentiment.
"You would not want to be in the middle of such again, I think," he said, still not looking at her. "A quiet living would be more to your taste."
Lenna smiled, thinking of Sandor's Keep in the Westerlands. He always derided it as a pile of rocks with barely enough income to make a living. To her, it had sounded like the seven heavens. She wished for nothing more than to simply be away from these people and their malevolent games.
"Aye, ser," she replied. "I have no desire for excitement. And I am suspicious of those who do."
She was thinking, of course, of Sandor, and his reticence in setting off against his brother, in search of the Brotherhood. It caused her pain to think of him, to wonder where he was, to hope he was well. To hope he was alive.
When she looked up, her lips twisted up at the thought of him, she was met with Perwyn Frey's gaze, and for a moment he looked back at her frozen, a softness about his eyes. Lenna didn't know why the expression on his face should make her recoil, but it did. He looked away quickly, again turning his attention to the quick dispatch of his potatoes.
Very little was said during the course of the rest of the dinner, Lenna rising and retiring early, before she was given leave.
"You'll have to excuse me, my lord," she said, looking at Walder with her best courtier's smile and a quickly bobbed curtsey. "I am overtired from the journey. I would beg your leave."
"Aye," the old man said. "Perwyn will see you to your chambers. Your brother is not yet ready."
Lenna cut her eyes at her brother and Wendel nodded briefly. She rose to her feet, a little unsteady, and Perwyn caught her elbow. When she had gained her balance, he let his hand fall too slowly, and Lenna felt something cold settle in the pit of her stomach.
She followed him through the halls of the Keep, taking care to observe him as they went. Something was not right in the Twins, and she despaired of figuring out what exactly it was that was transpiring. There was nothing about his tall form that gave anything away. Perwyn Frey was perhaps half a foot shorter than Sandor, two or three inches taller than herself, but he was not nearly as powerfully built as Sandor. Who was? she thought wildly. Perwyn was lanky, almost wiry, through there was strength in the broad shoulders, grace in his arms. He had been a fair fighter, though Lenna could not remember who it was that had unseated him. A hedge-knight of some ilk, she thought. But it was his eyes that gave everything away.
Perwyn Frey was troubled that night, whatever his worry was creeping into his dark gaze. His eyes weren't black, but they might as well have been, hooded and long-lashed. Not without their beauty, she thought absently, and when they settled on her, she did not like their expression.
His gaze was tender and altogether too intimate for someone she had danced with once and shared a single meal with. When he looked at her, Lenna felt quite off-balance, and quite sorry for him. Whatever was the source of that regard, it could not and would not be returned.
"You have been through much, my lady," he said, parroting his earlier words when he stopped awkwardly before a heavy wooden door. She wanted very much for him to step aside and let her go in.
"I am on my way home," she replied simply, not bothering to elaborate on it. He'd decided what he wanted to hear, of that she was sure.
"Whatever happened," he said, his eyes on the floor, "whatever transpired on the road, after the battle, you need not be ashamed."
Lenna colored deeply at the insinuation, indignation making her heart thud.
"Ser-"
"No," he said simply, laying his hand on her arm. She looked at the long, knobby fingers and short nails dumbly. "I mean no offense. Or pain. Only that my...admiration is not dimmed by it." He paused for a long moment and Lenna was too angry to respond, her breath rising hot and harsh and high in her chest. "I wish you were going to be here for my sister's wedding. I'd like to dance with you again."
Lenna clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms as she slammed her courtesy back in place like a portcullis against an invading army. Anger is not your instrument, she reminded herself swiftly, finding her courtier's voice again.
"You were a fair dancer, as I recall," she responded, thankful he was looking at the ground and not at her. He smirked and let out what could have been a laugh, still not looking at her.
"You were, most certainly," he replied. "Queen of Love and Beauty." He still stood between her and the door. Lenna did not push past him even though she wanted to. "You were beautiful. You are beautiful."
Lenna swallowed hard and fought against the tremors in her gut. She would not look at him, hoping he would take her lowered gaze as maidenly modesty, and not what it was. Rage.
"Thank you," she replied, managing to glance up at him, her cheeks scarlet.
He looked at her then, and he smiled. It was lopsided and didn't reach his eyes, but not for lack of sincerity. Something was troubling Perwyn Frey, and Lenna wanted to know what it was almost as much as she wanted to escape his clumsy and uncomfortable flattery, his liberty.
"Good night, my lady," he said, little more than a breath as he stepped aside and pushed the door open. Lenna murmured a goodnight to him as she stepped past him, quickly shutting the door and barring it.
She climbed into the bed, a four-poster so dusty that a cloud rose from it when she sat on the edge to kick off her slippers. She didn't even bother to undress, folding herself under the coverlet that was more a wall-hanging than a blanket, and stared at the canopy until she finally drifted off.
Her dreams were troubled, but indistinct. When she woke in the morning, a maid had already been in and stirred the fire in the grate, and a tray of breakfast was sitting on the little table with a pot of tea. She rose and went to the table, but the smell of the sausages on the plate caused an overwhelming wave of nausea to overcome her, and Lenna staggered to the chamber pot, releasing the meager contents of her stomach. It was mostly yellow bile, and she coughed and spluttered, wiping her hand across her mouth.
She cringed to smell the sausage again, but did manage to pour a cup of tea and grab the scone that was on the tray, moving back to her bed to eat it. She barely choked down a mouthful before she was retching again, and afterward, she kept herself only to the tea.
A maid arrived and helped her dress and change. The girl told her she was wanted downstairs, and Lenna followed her in confusion, wondering why she might be called when she and Wendel were to be off as soon as may be.
When she entered the hall, she was surprised to find it empty save for Walder Frey. He was sitting at the high table, alone, a plate before him and a tankard of beer by his plate.
"The lady is not a late sleeper," he said quietly, taking a drink. It sloshed down his chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand absently.
"We are to leave early, my lord," she replied. "It would not do to delay."
"Indeed," he replied, stabbing a potato and eating it noisily. "You do not wish to stay."
"I'm supposed to be home as soon as may be," she replied. "My father ordered it."
Walder Frey resembled nothing if not an eel, his narrow face and lantern-jaw giving him the sinister appearance of a bottom-dweller. Lenna did not like having his yellowed eyes on her, but he looked her up and down.
"My boy would have you," he barked without preamble. "Likes you. Has since that tourney. Then you were too fine for the like of him, whatever son of mine he is. But now-"
"My lord," Lenna protested, her cheeks flushing.
"Too good for him, still?" Frey barked.
"That's not what I said," Lenna replied. "Only that I am just lately returned to my own people. I have not even been home yet. To entertain such-"
"Too delicate you are," Walder said. "You were coddled and cosseted by Wyman. By your mother. Fine lady Adalyn Locke was, but her refined southern ways-"
Lenna was sure that she shook her head.
"My mother was a Northerner."
"Born there, yes," Frey said waspishly, waving his hand in the air to dismiss the idea. "But not bred. Her mother was a Redwyne. She was herself a lady-in-waiting to a Targaryen queen. You don't belong here, do you girl? Your years in King's Landing have quite spoiled you. You're one of them now."
Lenna bit back a retort, unsure what exactly Frey was trying to say, but she was sure he was trying to tell her something.
"I intend to write your father," he said, wiping his face. "After this business with Roslin is done. A wedding that isn't the be missed, I assure you. But you'll be glad, girl, to be far away from it."
Lenna was gaping at him like a fish. "As it please, my lord," she said at last, unable to think of anything else to say.
"'As it please, my lord,'" he parotted back at her. "Sound like Cersei."
She bobbed a curtsey to the old lord. "If you'll excuse me, my lord," she muttered, barely moving her lips.
"You'll go with or without my leave," he said with a smirk. "I'll have to instruct Perwyn on what to do with spirit." She set her jaw and lifted her chin at those words. "Of course, there is the complication of your previous betrothal, but I believe that can be overcome."
"I am in the North," she replied. "That betrothal will not stand."
"Will it not?" he said, cocking his brow, his voice snakelike and sibilant. "Who will break it, I wonder? Not you."
She hesitated. "It was made under duress. It will not stand."
"No," he replied lowly, his voice too gravelly to be silky, but it was like the rasp of a cat's tongue. "It will not if I have any say in it."
Lenna looked at him hard. "My lord-"
"Starting to figure it out, my lady?" he replied. "Good. Said you were intelligent. That you'd be useful." He rose and shuffled towards her. "My son, Perwyn. He's a good boy. He'll be a good lord, too."
"He's a lesser son," she repeated.
"Not when you come into White Harbor," he replied. "Then he'll be one step shy of a Lord Paramount, and you the Lady of White Harbor."
"I am not the heir," she said lowly. "My brothers, my nieces-"
"Yet," he said, with a curl of his lip that made her stomach lurch and threaten to make her spill her tea on the floor. "You are not the heir yet."
A/N: Taking advantage of the opportunity to write while I have it! I'll be on a tighter schedule in another week or so. Hoping to have the next installment up around Wednesday of next week.
Thank you, as always, for your kind words. Shout out to guest Mandy J- thank you for your reviews! I try to PM people personally, but since you're a guest, you get a note here instead. Reviews help me persist in this- it has become an interesting animal, and I am but the wrangler. As to "skipping" parts of the plot to move forward- not going to happen. All things have a purpose, even if it's interwoven bits of canon. I've said my piece.
Review, please!