Lenna LVIII
Sandor.
She didn't even know that she had stopped believing he would come back until she spied the hulking form across the muddy yard. Her heart stuttered to a standstill, breath freezing in her lungs until it was almost painful, and then erupting in such a violent puff that it stirred the curls on her girl's head into a dark cloud. She wasn't completely sure it was him at first, couldn't even begin to credit the possibility after so long, but there was no mistaking the scarred face, the enormous height, or, especially the gray eyes.
They were clear and pale, just as they'd always been, looking steadily back at her and sending her blood chasing through her veins like a runaway horse. The busy yard seemed to still around them, some strange pantomime or play, and Lenna was no longer even aware of the bustling of Winterfell's men or women, nor did she mark the return of Brienne of Tarth. She'd thought she'd glimpsed her friend when she chased into the courtyard after Addy, a flash of white-gold hair and steel plate, but thoughts of Brienne faded into the familiar, homespun tapestry of daily goings on as the full force of recognition lodged beneath her breast like a dagger.
He stood like a man struck with an arrow, as if pierced through and still in denial despite his body beginning to betray him. He looked haggard and wiry rather than strong, thinner than she'd even seen him, the lines of his face deeper and more severe, but it was him. She would never mistake the broad span of his shoulders, the gulf of his brown hands hanging at his sides as he rocked on his feet. The gray eyes didn't leave hers, filled with hunger and fear and uncertain hopefulness that made her own eyes smart and her own knees tremble.
Unable to bear the distance any longer, Lenna took a small, hesitant step toward him. His head swung to the side, ever so slightly like a hound scenting the fox, but he remained as if lashed in place. His breath hung before him in the chill air in irregular puffs, and then his legs suddenly went out from under him, a stag struck in the heart, leaving him kneeling in the mud with those great brown hands loosely fisted on his thighs even though he still hadn't looked away from her face. He looked at her the way a thrall might, lips parted and eyes uplifted, and his expression went from hope to vague fear, almost like a man awaiting the blade.
Addy had been struggling in Lenna's arms, she hated being held for too long these days, but the child stilled when she saw Sandor. Lenna took in a sharp breath as the child looked at him, her little brow knit together in the first moments of uncertain recognition. She looked up at her mother briefly in confusion, then back at the father she had never met, arms resolutely outstretched to him.
Lenna could not help but smile, nearly laughing out loud, and Addy strained against her arms, propelling her mother a few steps toward him just to maintain her hold. It made Lenna gain momentum, but found herself stopping short a few paces in front of him, unsure of what to do, how to explain. There were no words that could possibly tell him everything, not in this setting, not surrounded by all of these people, strangers and friends. She felt he would be angered, perhaps saddened or even resentful. None of those were acceptable to her. She could settle for nothing but joy, or, at the very least, reassurance.
"I knew," she heard herself say. "I always knew."
It had hung between them unasked, the question of whether or not she thought him dead. She wanted to run to him and throw her arms around his neck as she might have done if she was younger, to whisper in his ear all the times she had dreamed of his coming back. She wanted to tell him that she never believed her friends, her family, when they tried to make her believe that he was gone, dead or worse, and never coming back. How many piteous looks had she endured from Sansa Stark, or frustrated sighs from Brienne of Tarth? He own family had looked at her with the forbearance loved ones have for dotty old aunts or spinster sisters who insist on their fantasies. She had borne their approbation when she spoke of him readily and often to her girl, daily showing her the only likeness she had on paper, a rough pen-and-ink done by an adolescent Wynna, and filling in the missing pieces with rowdy stories and whispered tales from her past and his, the child only half-attending.
The girl was rapt now, looking boldly at him as young children are wont to do when confronted with new or different people. Lenna held her breath and the three of them remained motionless for what felt like half an age. Sandor's throat was working as he looked between Lenna and the child, his whole face contorted in an uncomfortable mixture of which the chief part was agony, and it rippled across his face like a banner when she spoke. Lenna felt a similar stirring in her chest, as if her veins and innards had all gotten tangled together in some great knot that was now attempting to unravel.
She hadn't imagine that seeing him again would cause such pain.
"Sandor," she murmured, lips bloodless and stiff. He'd been gone for two bloody years, and clearly had been through the seven hells by the look of him. She had seen what war did to men, left them empty of themselves, and a terrible fear gripped her heart and turned it cold. The possibility that he would not be himself had never occurred to her. Sandor Clegane was stubborn, made of far more savage stuff than a man who could forget, yet here he stood looking like some lost and wandering hedge knight, forlorn and forsaken. "Sandor, do you not know me?"
"Aye," he whispered, a ragged word half growl, half speech. "I know you."
What on earth- she thought, feeling her hope and joy, such frail and gangly feelings, shrivel down to cinders, sere and sputtering.
Brienne of Tarth appeared solemnly at her side, arms outstretched to take the child from her. Lenna let her go with reluctance.
Was it the appearance of the child that made him so severe? She had dreamed of this moment, but never imagined that there wouldn't have been some way to explain to him who Addy was beforehand. Some preparation would have been in order with some warning of his arrival, some way of telling him what had happened, who had happened in his absence, without him being ambushed with it like a traveler set upon by bandits. But there had been no warning, and no time. With her hands free, Lenna sank down into the mud, his grip on her loosening only slightly.
They were face to face, but he would not look at her. His eyes were clenched shut, his teeth gritting as if against pain. She lifted her own in his direction, but he let out some animal sound, a gutteral, audible wince, and she hesitated.
She allowed herself to stroke his head just lightly, palm skimming. His hair was lank and long, the wave stripped out from negligence and lack of bathing, but he smelled the same, if a little more strongly than was palatable. Sweat and steel.
"Will you not speak?" she asked quietly, her own throat choked. His jaw worked, and Lenna then ran her fingers across his brow, pushing the hair back from his face. He'd always done that, tried to hide from her behind the fall of his hair. "Sandor. Please. Look at me?"
He grunted, but his eyes opened and he managed to meet her gaze.
"Not the homecoming I was expecting," she said in an attempt at levity. She had no idea what to say, what to do. No matter how many times she had imagined it, nothing prepared her for actually seeing him again, not after so long. There had certainly been no preparation for this reaction, whatever it was.
Time or experience had stretched that cord that she felt was strung between them, and that accord, that link had been what sustained her through the long years of his absence. It had been what assured her that he yet lived, confident that if he had ceased to breathe she would have felt it's severing as a blade through her own body. The slice had never come, but she felt completely adrift from the man in front of her, no longer able to suss out what it was he was thinking, certainly not what he was feeling. She despaired, wondering if the bond had grown so thin that it had simply unraveled, like a piece of old yarn stretched too tight, no violent separation but just the natural course of strain and time taking one thread and splitting it in two.
She stared at him open-mouthed and wordless, trying to concentrate on the breath in her lungs, her head swimming and feeling faint. Brienne spoke lowly to Addy, and Lenna was reminded that they were not alone.
"Here," she said, grasping at anything that would repair the cord, that would knot it back together. What better than both of them in one, the child who stood at Brienne's side? Lenna removed her hand, touching the skin of his bristled cheek in the movement, not missing the way her touch nearly made him hiss as if she had burned him, but gratified in a small, sad that he did not jerk entirely away. "There is someone who very much wants to meet you."
He was trembling, she could feel it in the chilly air between them as it quavered with his warmth, but she looked up at Brienne and nodded. The warrior lowered the child to the ground and Lenna turned her body toward her daughter. Addy, always precocious, took the three steps toward her mother and snuggled into the outstretched arm, fingers in her little mouth.
Lenna furrowed her brow as she looked between the two of them, wondering how to explain to him that this was his child, theirs, but Addy did it for her. Wondering if it would be enough to...she wasn't sure what he needed.
"Dis Da?" she asked curiously, turning her gray eyes up to her mother's face.
Lenna found a smile, only a little disappointed to feel it falter on her lips. It was always easier to have strength for the child. Even in her darker times, Lenna had found mettle and determination for her daughter, there being no other choice.
"Yes, Addy," she replied resolutely. "This is your Da. Come back to us, just like I promised." The last she delivered as she looked back into Sandor's face, shuttered except for the eyes which glistened with torment.
The little girl looked at him for a long moment, and Sandor met her gaze. His mouth was parted and something like wonder had softened the crags of his brow and cheeks.
"Sandor," she said gently, his eyes darting to hers like an animal's might, an uncertain dog or a frightened horse. She spoke slowly and carefully, as if to Addy herself. "This is your daughter-our daughter- Adalyn Clegane. She has been wanting to meet you very much." Lenna paused when he didn't speak. She didn't blame him, wondering what she would say or do under similar circumstances and coming up entirely empty. Crippling sadness overtook her and she wanted to retreat, to give herself time to accept that perhaps it wasn't welcome news as she had always believed it would be. She could not read his face. "Addy, give your Da a kiss and then go with Auntie Brienne. Find Auntie Sansa for me."
Addy did as she was told without questions or fear, which frankly surprised Lenna. Addy had a mind of her own, though she was a pleasing child, and she always wanted to know why. Now, though, she did not pause. She reached up and laid her little lips on his cheek, right on the scar, and then went back to Brienne, her tiny hand disappearing into the warrior's enormous palm, allowing herself to be led away without a backward glance.
Sandor had gone slack, his gaze still following the little form in the scarlet dress and dark cloak, Brienne bent nearly double as she spoke to the child in her deep voice. His breath moved lazily in the air, and he barely stirred.
Lenna made to take his hand but changed her mind, withdrawing her own slowly and with more pain than she thought possible. He looked back at her dumbly. Gods, she wished he would speak.
"There was no way to tell you," she whispered, agony and anxiety growing, her voice and breathing coming too quickly. "I didn't know about her until I reached home, and by then, no one knew where you were. She was born when winter came, and I took her with me to King's Landing, and then brought her here. She's a good girl, so bright and kind and curious. She has asked-"
"How does she know me?" he rumbled at last, his voice tight as a bowstring. "How could she possibly know who I am?"
"Wynna drew you," Lenna replied breathlessly, her own eyes wide as his voice fell on her ears like a welcome song. It was low and rough and harsh as gravel, but she had missed it. "That time in White Harbor. I didn't know she was doing it at the time, but she found it in a sketchbook and gave it to me just before Addy was born. I've shown it to her every day. I wanted her to know you. To know her father."
"Addy," he choked.
"Adalyn," Lenna repeated. They had talked about what they would name the children when they came, but she'd had to make the decision on her own. It had hurt her to do it, to choose without him, and now she was afraid that she'd made the wrong choice. She gulped and looked down at her hands, white and cold in her lap. "Adalyn Clegane. I hope you don't mind."
He shook his head, still staring after the child.
Lenna wanted to weep. None of this was what she would have wanted for their first meeting. Not the mud, nor the shock and unexpected coldness, and especially not the half dozen pairs of eyes that were on them. Lenna had forgotten that they were both kneeling in the mud, the cold and wet creeping through the layers of her thick woolen skirts to smart her knees. She wanted to run.
"She's not afraid of me," he said suddenly, just as she thought to find her feet. The quality of his speech had changed, becoming almost reedy and so uncertain, so full of unnamed shame or fear that her very bones trembled for him. She couldn't imagine what that must feel like, to dread one's own children being afraid of you. It brought back so many old hurts, the indignation she had always felt when he was treated differently because of his damn face.
"Of course not," Lenna said quietly and with more passion than she anticipated, and it gave her a brash courage to reach out and grasp his hand.
Sandor's head went down suddenly, his strong fingers tightening over hers as his other hand ran over his face, digging the heel into his eyes as he rocked forward. He turned from her, the straggly hair hiding his expression, but he swiped at his cheeks before clearing his throat.
"Sandor," she said, her voice cracking as hot tears escaped between her lashes and carved two hot tracks down her frigid cheeks. "I don't care. Whatever it was that has happened, wherever you've been-"
"I failed," he said harshly. "I failed you, Lenna."
"No, you haven't," she insisted, pressing her forehead to his. "You came back. You came back to me."
He looked up at her sharply, expression rocky, but he leaned into her hand on his cheek. Her heart fluttered with relief. It was something. She leaned toward him, resting her forehead against his again. He was sweaty, his breath hot on her eyelids, but she didn't care. He was looking at her with that same rapt expression he'd worn beneath a damn willow tree after Ned Stark's tourney, all wary and tormented and still brightened with a faint, white hope.
"Hound."
He pulled away abruptly and Lenna felt bereft and cheated except for the look in his eyes.
"Little wolf," he rumbled, not looking away from Lenna, his face pale beneath the tanned skin, mouth downturned. She wondered vaguely if he felt as she did, that if she but blinked he would disappear again.
Arya Stark was but a handful of steps away, hands clasped behind her back. Lenna, dazed, thought how bemused and proud Ned Stark would be to see her, cocky in her hauberk and boots, hair drawn back from her face just as his had been, but now when Lenna looked at the younger Stark sister, she saw someone else reflected back at her, and from the look on his face, so did he.
"You need a bath, Hound," Arya said at last. "I can smell you from here."
Lenna was shocked at the low bark of startled laughter that cracked from his chest like the breaking of thick river ice in the spring.
"Aye," he replied, getting to his feet and pulling Lenna with him. His hand had tightened around hers, the fine bones of her hand almost to the point of protesting. He reared his head back, peering down at the child from his great height along the length of his crooked nose. Arya's stoic expression faltered and changed into a bright, watery smile. A rare thing, a butterfly in winter. To Lenna's thorough shock, Arya threw her arms around his middle and gave him a squeeze so short and businesslike that Lenna wasn't even sure that it had happened.
"Welcome to Winterfell," the girl said shortly, then spun on her heel and disappeared into the Keep. "I trust you'll seem him settled, Lenna?"
It wasn't the reunion Lenna had long imagined, but his hand in hers was warm and real, as was the simple joy that had smoothed his brow and lowered his shoulders. He stood looking after Arya Stark's retreating form, then turned his head and looked at her askance, as if unsure if she was really there.
"Come," Lenna said quietly, suddenly unsure of what Arya meant. Was she supposed to take him to the barracks? To her own chambers? What did one do with a husband one hasn't seen or heard from in two years? Her cheeks burned with embarrassment though she didn't understand the source of her shame.
This is Sandor, she thought harshly, chiding herself.
"We'll order you a bath. And I'll get you a change of clothes." He looked at her warily with his doleful eyes. She nearly sighed, her mouth tightening in disappointment. "You must be tired."
He didn't speak or even nod, but when she pulled him, he followed.
Sandor LVIII
It was her. Here in the North, far from White Harbor and safety. His chest wanted to simmer with anger, to roar and rage at her, insist that she go home immediately, but he couldn't. The anger was supplanted with joy and wonder, but it froze in him like a wild Northern cataract and rendered him speechless, motionless. Useless.
He hadn't expected anything like seeing her when he rode into Winterfell. Brienne of Tarth was as fucking tight-lipped as they came. Conversation wasn't something either of them were good at, and they'd kept their interactions to day-to-day necessities for most of the long journey. Both preferred it that way, and he wasn't ungrateful for such a taciturn companion on his road North, especially as he was unsure of what lay on the other end of it.
She'd briefed him, of course, told him of the lay of things. He'd listened, disbelieving and scoffing, but he'd listened. She mentioned Lenna's name often enough in the dealings for him to be convinced that there was some truth to them, and he'd agreed when Tarth had suggested that they wend their way to Winterfell, where he might offer his services to Jon Snow.
It was far preferable to the option that haunted him, that he might go to her in White Harbor. He couldn't fathom how that would unfold, what he could possibly say or do to make up for his absence, and, ultimately, his faithlessness. His heart was a dark place, he had always known that, burned and blackened much more thoroughly than his face could be. When he had woken on the Quiet Isle, he had felt himself foolish for even entertaining the idea that he could be anything but a blackguard, a traitor, or a beast. She'd fooled him, she'd convinced him that there was something better in his makeup, but as soon as he'd been told she'd played him false, married to some Frey according to his brother's malicious goading, he had believed it.
It was one thing to love killing as he did, to feel the thrill of carnage and violence. There were many men who felt as he did, who loved it despite their better selves. It was another thing entirely to lose faith at the first suggestion of transgression, especially when he should have known better. She would never- there was no forgiving himself for that, even if she would or could.
Jon Snow was a welcome alternative, though he half-hoped the Northman would take him into some courtyard and lop his head off. It would serve him right. He wouldn't fight it, but he knew it was not to be. He was still too useful to them, his strength still growing and his mind uninjured. Fighting was in his heart's blood, whatever had happened to him. His injuries had been grievous, but they had not been insurmountable. The only lasting discomfort he was left with was the strange ache in his legs where his bones had snapped, and they only pained him with cold. That's all the fuckign time these days.
Tarth early noted how he winced at the mention of Lenna's name, and he wasn't ignorant of how it made the woman seeth. She had tried to broach the topic a few times, but her face turned puce at Sandor's curses and none-too-kind reminders to fucking mind her own business. He'd come with her, hadn't he? That was enough.
Nothing is ever fucking enough.
If he'd let the woman speak then maybe he wouldn't have felt like he'd just been pushed off a cliff again when he recognized her dark, slender figure in Winterfell's courtyard. It was his own fault that he rode in blind. He never asked any questions, growled each time his own wife's name was uttered even though he fell asleep each night with her eyes dogging his. Her damn eyes. Whenever he thought of her, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and his throat thickened, and it made him even more saturnine and ill-tempered than usual, if that was possible. It was fear, pure and simple, and he wasn't sure but he thought that Tarth could read it in his face. It offended her, and he could not bring himself to bloody care.
Brienne took to speaking of her almost with defiance, as if reminding him that he had a duty to fulfill. As if he could forget. Each mention of her name was like an arrowhead in his ribs, and Sandor would turn his face away, or throw his hair across his eyes. He didn't want to hear of her, it hurt too deeply. He had spent too much time away, and then too much time thinking her faithless or persuaded into marriage with a fucking Frey. Better he go to Winterfell and die in Jon Snow's service fighting these damn wights than ever see her again.
That was his great shame, that he had believed her capable of such. If anyone was the likely traitor, it was him. He'd already proven himself one time and again, but she had never wavered. He had never doubted her until he did, and by the fucking gods the thought of facing her was far worse than facing Gregor had been. He'd even take one these fucking dragons that Tarth was on about.
He was damned. He was damned from the moment of his birth, there was no explanation. He'd never believed in the seven heavens or the seven hells, fully convinced for many years that he was already dwelling in hell, and seeing her appear before him like some damn apparition left him in no doubt of the conviction. One quick glance at Tarth showed him that it was exactly as she had planned. Her homely face was disconcertingly neutral, bright eyes on him. He didn't know how to describe it, but he could feel her smirking at him, even though her thin lips were still drawn in tight line. He was sure that she had known that Lenna would be there, though perhaps not so immediately, and she had done nothing to warn him. Sandor wanted to yell. Fucking trapped. The big woman saw him for the coward he really was.
Seeing Lenna was a blow from a warhammer, her pale cheeks awash with color as she dashed breathless and laughing across the yard. That in itself might have felled him, but then she caught up a little figure in scarlet, a child in a red woolen dress and a dark cloak. The bairn buried her head in Lenna's breast, and he fucking knew, even before the little girl looked him in the face. Something animal, something visceral and raw and bleeding recognized her even before Lenna went still and the child turned her curly head in his direction.
Ours.
Dark curling hair, almost black, a pink rosebud for a mouth, and his own eyes looking back at him.
A groan rose up from gut like the cracking sound of a falling oak. His vision swam, his heart thundering, having risen in his ears to beat against his brain like hammer against an anvil. Then came a gust of chill winter wind, and his mended bones betrayed him.
He was on his knees, his mind on fire as his wife closed the distance with a smile that could dim the sun on her ripe lips. Wife. He'd stopped thinking of her as such, remembering how awkward and deceitful it had felt when he had told Arya Stark of it all those long months ago. Perhaps it had been a year. The longer he was away from her, the more it felt like farce. He had no wife, or at least she was some other man's now, and he couldn't possibly have a child. He was a murderer, a pretender, a dog. At the very least, it had been a mistake, one he wanted to undo with every mote of his being, even as he wanted to go to her, selfishly balm himself in her scent, the feel of her hair, the touch of her skin. To reclaim her as he had all those years ago, marked her as his.
It wasn't really happening. This was a waking dream, more aptly a nightmare, as Lenna greeted him in joy, introduced him to the child. She was no babe-in-arms, but a robust toddler on long, chubby legs that went where she wished. Serious and somber, she wasn't exactly as he would have expected, but perhaps this was what Lenna had been like as a child. There was still a mad merriment even in the solemn cast of her eyes, betrayed by the dimple in her chubby cheek.
Fearless, too, he thought, wondering at the little girl's lack of trepidation, pressing her mouth to his cheek with as little consideration as plucking the head off a dandelion or skipping across the yard.
That in itself would have been a marvel to him, but she knew him.
Da. Never in his long, torturous life had he actually thought he'd hear some childish lisp call him that, and a feeling like a hook yanked his sternum into his chest and felt as if he couldn't breath, stars dangling before his eyes as he tried not to gasp for air. The roaring in his ears as deafening, like a swarm of bees or wasps, stinging and loud. He shook his head, but it wouldn't desist, growing louder and louder.
"Sandor?"
Her voice was honey-sweet, slicing through the cacophony that turned his vision white and weakened his knees. She pressed his hand, warmth flowing through her palm and up his arm, heading straight for his heart and cutting the tight vines of terror and dread that overtaken his lungs.
They were deep inside the castle, though he could not recall walking through the passageways. The little wolf had come, that he remembered, and sent them inside with mischief in her fey eyes. Lenna had stopped them in front of a heavy wooden door and stood looking up at him with those eyes that had haunted him since he had met her. He drew in a tight breath. So close. Eyes like moss, or dappled midsummer forest leaves, or a troubled sea. They were turbulent now, dark brows furrowed as she searched his face.
"Sandor," she said again, her voice faltering on the syllables, and he wondered what she read in his face. She who had always known him, what he was thinking, and he cursed the idea that she could read his reticence, his hesitation and fear, and despaired that she would not understand it for what it was.
Cowardice.
She looked down, eyelashes splayed across her pale cheeks like winter branches on snow. She was gathering herself, he knew it by the way she was cataloging her body, had seen her do it more times than he cared to remember: the night of Blackwater with Joffrey; the day he'd severed her hair; the morning Cersei had bid her return to King's Landing from her home; and, of course, the first time he saw her. Her shoulders dropped and she seemed to grow three inches when she lifted her chin again to his, but her face-
It was closed to him. She had put on her old courtier's mask, and whatever else he was feeling, that hurt him the most. He felt as if she had taken hold of his very lungs and heart and ripped them out through his throat.
He dropped her hand as if she was made of hot steel and pushed open the door with dull, aching fury. It was starting in his belly, bubbling like hot tar, and he wanted to howl.
You've fucked it up, he thought in a rage. You've fucked everything up that you've ever done.
He'd seen it, hadn't he? The way her face had been illuminated when she saw him, like she was lit from within by some damn holy candle, the eagerness in her step as she walked to him. And he had stood there like a dumb cunt in the dirty slush, not a word or a gesture for her as she tried- gods, she fucking tried- to speak with him, to welcome him.
She was still at the door, murmuring to someone without. A servant, he figured. And while she did so, he looked around the room in disjointed desolation.
He wondered where there were, whose rooms these were. With a cruel jolt, he realized it was the same room she'd occupied on her last trip to Winterfell, and he knew. The bed with its pile of furs was the same one he'd laid her in that night she'd asked him to stay. What a strange torture, to be brought to that chamber in particular. She had brought him to her rooms. Hers. Did she mean them to be theirs, then? That didn't make any sense, but there was no other explanation that he could settle on. He was barely past the threshold, but he felt as if a wall had been erected that he could not pass. His feet felt bolted to the flagstones.
"A bath has been ordered for you," Lenna said, her tone expeditious and even. "And something to eat is on its way. I'm sure you are quite tired. Your journey has been less than comfortable."
He watched mutely as she bustled about the room. He knew the strange energy that permeated her motions, had seen it far too often in the Red Keep. She was distracting herself with practical tasks, going to her knees before a trunk pushed against one wall. Her fingers moved with surety, familiarity, and he was skewered with the realization that these were her chambers that she'd led him to, not some unoccupied room in the Keep.
"Quarters can be prepared for you in the barracks, if you wish." He nearly groaned at the desolate calm in her words.
"This will do," he managed, still cursing his own churlishness. He wanted to open his arms to her, to feel her soft warmth against him. Why could he not do it?
She smiled wryly. "You'll have to share these I'm afraid." His heart felt cold. "Here."
He took the outstretched pile of garments from her, his eye catching on the embroidery on the collar of the tunic. White hounds against the white linen.
"Where-"
They were ones he'd left in Riverrun two years ago, part of that new wardrobe that had been conjured up for their wedding.
"I told you, Sandor," she said quietly, her eyes watching the door. Suddenly, they met his again and he was once again pinned to his place. "I knew you'd come back."
He was halfway to touching her, his hand raised toward her cheek- he could almost feel it, like the skin of a peach- and a trio of servants bustled in. Lenna stepped back, her smile tight and courteous as she directed them to place the large tub before the hearth. He stood dumbly with the clothes gathered against his side as they filed in like ants, filling the bath with steaming water until the air was steaming and he could see fine ringlets of her hair plastered to her forehead and neck.
"I'll return," she said quietly, her hands folded in front of her like quiet birds on her lap. He wanted to scream to see her like that, all careful courtesy with him. With him.
"No," he said sharply, and it was like a bark. "Stay."
She took a deep breath and went to the door, seeming to hesitate as she stood before it, like she was deciding whether or not to obey him, to humor him.
She pushed it closed and barred it, taking an uneasy step back into the room with her shoulders thrown back.
"Do as you will," she said lowly, and he thought he heard disdain in her voice. She moved to the small desk beneath the window. The shutters were open and a draft was slinking into the room from around the wavy glass panes. Lenna sat on the low-slung seat before the writing surface and paid him no more mind, dipping her quill into her inkpot. The room was soon filled with the sound of her nib scratching across parchment, and Sandor thought it was like to drive him mad.
He stripped, settling in the tub as best he could. Large as it was, it was still smaller than could comfortably accommodate a man of his size, but he did the best he could. He dunked his head into the steaming water, relishing the way the cold skittered across his damp, exposed back, water sluicing down his long hair and into his eyes. He groped blindly for the soap.
"Here."
He froze. Her voice came from very near his side and with a quick swipe, he'd pushed his wet hair aside. She was kneeling beside him, the soap in her outstretched hand. Her eyes were averted.
"Take it," she said, her voice shaky, almost pleading. He still didn't move.
In a fit of frustration, she seized his hand from where it rested on the rim of the tub and pushed the bar of fine-milled soap into his hand, then pushed her skirt aside to stand.
He didn't know what possessed him, only that he could not longer bear this mess of his own making. He seized her by the forearm and did not let her go. She shrank from him but she didn't pull away, and though the room was chill, he stood abruptly from the water and pulled her closer.
"Lenna," he said lowly. "I didn't-"
"Sandor, don't-" she said, tears in her voice.
"What do you want me to say?" he asked.
"What do you want?" she asked harshly. "Why did you even come here?"
What did he want? He looked down on her, noting the pink tinge in her cheeks, her brightened eyes.
I want what is mine.
One hand buried itself roughly into her hair, loosening the long braid that spilled over her shoulder. Gods, he wanted to see it unbound, long and flowing as it had been before Robert's death and things went to hell. It was just as warm and silky against his fingers as he remembered, sticking to his damp skin and seeming to pulling him in. Her own hand was gripping his wrist, and she peered up into his face. He saw the hurt and confusion and he bitterly regretted being the cause.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, then his voice gained strength. "I'm sorry."
She shook her head once, arrested by the look on his own face. He knew what he looked like, knew the hunger and the despair and the disappointment were written clear as ink across his face to her.
"I forgive you," she replied just as quietly, and something in him splintered.
He did not care that he flooded the floor of that room, only that she wasn't against him. After two years of wanting her and not having her, to have her at arm's length was unbearable. There was no resistance when he lowered his head to hers suddenly, nothing but answering fervor when his mouth took hers. She whimpered beneath his mouth, a short, sweet puff of air passing his lips from her lungs, and it made him ravenous.
One hand went to the laces at the back of her gown, tugging them loose until he could push the garment out of the way, his eyes still tightly closed. She was gasping beneath him, his name spilling from her lips in broken pieces that made his stomach clench. Her skin beneath his fingers was smooth, soft, and plush, better than he even remembered, so white she seemed to glow. The gown worked itself over her pale shoulders, down over the swell of her breasts until it fell about her hips in a pool of good, study woolen, nothing like the silk she'd worn in the Red Keep.
The gossamer-thin chemise had been replaced by one of linen, but the tie at the neck was the same. He pulled it almost absently, letting the cloth slip from about her shoulders like ice melting.
She stood before him with her head lowered, breathing harsh, a flush overspreading her skin from sternum to jaw. Years it had been since he'd seen her like this, but it was no less appealing to him. Her breasts were fuller, heavier than they had been, and there were opalescent tracks across her hips and belly, like spiderwebs. He ran a finger along them, feeling how the skin there seemed softer, looser, knowing these to be the marks of the child, and he was set adrift by a powerful sense of loss.
How he would have loved to see her round and ripening with the child, to watch as she grew and changed and welcomed their bairn. He wished he'd been there when she was born, to have been able to hold her when she arrived, to see the gray gaze first.
Lenna must have seen where his eyes had gone, have noted the sadness in his eyes.
"I do not mean to disappoint-"
"You don't," he said sharply. "Is that what you think? That I find you wanting?"
She met his gaze boldly, not seeking to cover herself. "What other explanation-"
"I missed it," he said fervently. "I dreamed of it. You carrying my pup. I missed it all."
Her lips were parted, cheeks red with excitement and embarrassment.
"There could be-"
"What?" he demanded.
"There could be others," she finished in a whisper.
He growled.
It went too quickly. The chemise was on the ground and then she was gathered up in his arms. He laid her down in the furs just as he had on that long-ago night in Winterfell, so jealous and angry and hopeless that he'd gotten shit-faced afterward, but this time, when her arms went around his neck, he spread himself alongside her and let his hands speak for him.
He traced her breasts and waist and thighs with a heavy hand, the firm plushness of her body reminding him that this was real, that she was against him again. He'd untied the end of her braid, and her hair was unraveling as he moved over her, his mouth on her throat, brushing against the place where her pulse fluttered. Her mouth was gasping and bruised from his attentions, and he thought his cock would burst when he clumsily dipped his fingers between her legs and felt exactly how much she had missed him.
He wasted no time, his blood thrumming white when she parted her legs for him, circled his shaft with her hand and led him into her. It was not gentle, but she responded to him just as he remembered, wanton and grasping beneath him, her hands running over his shoulders and twining through the hair at the base of his scalp. Her hips lifted to meet his, and the voluptuous warmth of her overpowered him until he spent himself in a shudder or two, head reared back to look at her, to watch her ecstatically furrowed brow and her lips rounded in pleasure as he filled her.
He rested against her heavily, his lips again at the hollow of her throat, his heart pounding against the flutter of her own. They were both sweaty, and he felt as if every bone in him had melted. He couldn't have lifted himself if he'd tried, nor did he want to. He was too busy enjoying the feeling of her running her hands through his hair, too embarrassed by what he knew he'd crooned into her neck, her ear, as he labored over her.
I'm sorry. I love you.
It was true. It had always been true, and it humbled him to admit to it after so long. He was sorry. Sorry that he hadn't seen it coming, that he'd allowed his damned pride and perverse honor to separate them. Sorry that he had left her to bear his child and his name alone, to fend for herself against the Seven Kingdoms. Sorry that he hadn't shared it with her.
But he also loved her. Loved that she had kept faith in him, loved that she had borne and raised such a beautiful child. So much more beautiful than he ever thought he could get, and she was somewhere in this keep. He loved that she had been the one who had brokered this strange alliance between Tommen and the North, that she had been instrumental in building the defense against these strange creatures from the North, this queen from the East. He was proud, and not unaware that he would have stopped her if he could.
Her hands stopped roving over his back and a strange shaking overtook her. He pulled back, terrified that she was crying, but when he met her eye, she wasn't crying but laughing.
"What?" he asked dumbly, feeling bared to her.
"Nothing," she replied. "Only, the water must be frigid by now."
"How is that funny?" he asked, not even a little annoyed.
"Because," she said, raising up on her elbows and kissing him soundly. "They needn't even guess where we are, my love. Or what we've been doing."
She laughed again and he growled, burying his head in her neck and damning them all to the seven hells.
She was his, damnit, and he wasn't letting them have her. Not yet. Not ever.
A/N: Ok. So we're at a place. I can feasibly end it here with a nice epilogue, OR I can keep it going. Y'all's call. Let me know what you think.