Sandor LIX

It took weeks before he could wake up in the morning without feeling like he was being dragged through an undertow, his heart pounding in his chest like a siege-engine at a castle door as he fought for breath and reason. When he turned over that first morning, deep in the luxuriant furs of Lenna's bed, her body pressed soft and warm against his side, he was convinced that he was having one of the nightmares that had dogged him through the Riverlands again. But she was really there with him, her face relaxed in sleep, her arm thrown across his chest, and he lay against the pillows nearly panting in fear as he waited for it to fade away, for her to disappear. To wake up and find himself alone and miserable again, or worse, for her to open her eyes and contort her face with anger as she pushed him away.

He tried not to think about those dreams even though there had scarce been a night he was without them for over a decade, good and bad alike. There were green eyes, always green eyes, for as long as he could remember, since he'd first encountered her, but in the years of his ranging they'd changed. In the beginning, the dreams had been sweet, moving him through the days and the danger, but then they'd begun to turn dark the longer he was away, until his sleep on the Quiet Isle had been haunted by dreams of her anger, her rejection. Hate.

So that first morning he lay there waiting for he didn't know how long, his heart beating a war-song in his breast, waiting for her to turn on him. He watched in tense, apprehensive silence as the room filled with pale light. He could see his breath in the air, curling like smoke in the freezing air, and then she had stirred.

And instead of pushing him away, she had snuggled against him, her face against his shoulder, her fingers twining up into his hair and he had turned to find her looking up at him, a glint in those green eyes that was neither anger nor rejection. Quite the opposite.

He didn't know how much time they'd have, and he'd not waste it. Never having believed in the seven heavens, he thought that Winterfell, of all places, might be his, at least for a time. It was fucking freezing, the snow in great, grubby drifts about the yard, the warmth of the fires barely penetrating beyond the great mouths of hearths, but she was there. They were there.

His family. He felt foolish and unworthy and dull just thinking it, but he felt the simple truth of it in his marrow.

And now all three of them were headed straight back into the storm. It was a stolen month they'd had together in the snows, and he bargained with whoever was listening, even if it was just air, for more time. He didn't care if spring never came again, as long as they didn't have to leave the safety of Winterfell, the snug sanctuary of the dirty yard and the dim passageways.

It was no use. There was no hiding from what was coming, and there was no doubt in Sandor's mind that the storm he'd felt brewing for years was finally upon them, only it wasn't one tempest but two, and they were going to meet. One from the North beyond the wall, like a violent blizzard, and one from the south, full of fire and smoke. They were going to collide, and those caught between them would be in the midst of cyclone beyond their kin.

Which of course, meant that Lenna was going straight into the center, and Sandor could do nothing except follow.

The uproar over Lenna's insistence that Addy go with them to Dragonstone was almost entertaining. He was himself not entirely convinced of the idea, but when he saw the set of Lenna's shoulders and jaw, he knew it would not be an argument he would win. If Lenna had decided their daughter was boarding that ship southward, there was nothing that was going to prevent her. The only thing he could do was what he had always done, to be prepared to step between them and inevitable danger as quickly and effectively as he could. That there were two now meant nothing to him.

Not two, he corrected himself, but three.

The time in White Harbor had been pleasant if not too short. It was with some measure of trepidation that he rode into its walls again. After all, the last time he'd been in White, he had been an agent of Tywin Lannister, sent to spy on his Northern host under the pretense of a family visit. Lenna had told him everything in the dozen weeks since he'd come to her, quietly and with a composure that made him angry and ache. The woman he found was still his Lenna, but the light he had always jealously coveted was grown dim, a bit more muted than it had been even as he rode from Riverrun's gates. It grieved him to think of Wyman Manderly bedridden and useless, the old man's gruff personality the closest he could come to when he thought of fatherly concern, but he felt like someone had taken a butchering knife to his innards to hear the flat, rote way in which Lenna told him the story.

When he spotted the Lord of White Harbor standing uncertainly in the courtyard of the New Castle, his heart had given a painful leap. He glanced sideways to see the beautiful old flame ignite in his wife's eyes, tears welling like jeweled dewdrops as her cheeks flushed and her lips parted. Still my Lenna, he thought as he watched her run to her father like the heedless maid she had once been, too relieved and ecstatic about her father's very presence to remember that she was supposed to be calm or collected. He was barely able to catch Addy and put her on his shoulders. He'd almost smiled to see Manderly wrap Lenna up in a feebled hug, fat tracks of tears on his own whiskery face. He had grown thinner in his illness, something that Sandor noted rather wryly, but the stormy, rheumy eyes were the same when they met his over Lenna's shoulder.

There was a gravity and a gratitude in them that made Sandor shift on his feet, dreadfully uncomfortable, the child still balanced on his back with her hands in his hair for stability. Wyman came to him immediately, ignoring the others in the courtyard, his face palsied but almost as eager to see Sandor as he was his own daughter. Sandor felt an upsetting rush of nostalgia when the old lord had clasped his hand and pulled him forward, his mouth by Sandor's ear. When he spoke, the man's white whiskers tickled his ear and his speech was thick with his illness and his feeling, but Sandor could not tear himself away.

"Many years ago, I told you that I would give you anything you asked for if you brought her safe through this," Manderly whispered urgently. "You have kept your word tenfold. I welcome you here as a son. This is your home."

Sandor did not move or respond when the old man grabbed him by the shoulders, and then the head as Wyman pulled him down into his reach, brushing his parchment lips against Sandor's forehead as he breathed a benediction in the name of the Seven.

Sandor stood silent and humbled, sure that his color was heightened and his throat uncomfortably thick. He would not weep, but he was certain he didn't deserve the old man's blessing, not after leaving her alone for so long as he did. He felt undeserving to his bones, but when he managed to raise his glance to see his wife, her eyes sparkling with joy, he met the gaze of her youngest niece. Wylla Manderly's hair was yellow, a long thick braid over her shoulder, and her round face was blotchy and red. She was looking at Lenna, too, something like shock and relief in her features. When her pale blue eyes met Sandors, she met his gaze without discomfort for the first time with radiant thanks.

It was the first of several miracles wrought within White Harbor's gates in a brief spell of time. The second had been hearing Lenna laugh and then hearing her sing again. The sounds of both were strangers to his ear, and not just as the result of his long absence. He had only heard Lenna sing lullabies to Addy in the evening and he gobbled them up, those simple cradle songs, but there had been none of the fine songs she had given them in years past. When she sang to the bairn, it made him think of the stolen songs he'd had of her in years past, hiding in the shadows of the Red Keep's Sept, not understanding what change they were working in him with each sweet sound that fell from her lips. Now he was changing again, almost as painfully, but instead of feeling like he was being reordered from the inside out, this felt like a burgeoning, like his skin was too tight to contain him. He felt like barley in the fields, ripening, and instead of splitting, he gave way to it. When his child turned her eyes on him and lifted her arms in his direction, he didn't try to keep the smile of his lips or his cheek smooth. He caught Lenna looking at him many times with her dappled eyes shining.

"What?" he asked haltingly, the child settling against him with her fingers in her mouth.

Lenna had put an arm on his elbow and kissed his scarred cheek, the sensation of her mouth on his just a sweeping of a feather.

"Nothing," she had murmured in his ear, then enthusiastically cupped Addy's little face in her hands and planted a noisy kiss on her cheek that made the child laugh. Sandor fought the desire to weep, instead settling for brusquely pressing his lips to the top of her head, the curl of her hair swelling against his mouth.

He indeed had wept when she had confirmed that she was carrying his pup again. A babe. He'd suspected already, was almost sure. He'd set himself about making one with single-minded fervor, after all. They hadn't spoken of it, and it was terrible timing, but Lenna had not objected to his near constant attentions, but rather had been an enthusiastic participant in his efforts. He was no green lad unfamiliar with where babies came from. He knew exactly what he was doing, and as the weeks passed he became more and more ferociously glad. There had been no regular break in their activities, her courses had not come, and when he did the calculation in his head, thoroughly convinced he'd grinned wolfishly to himself, but her stuttering admission on the ramparts had made him happier than he could ever remember being.

Happier and twice as fierce.

Now he watched as she held Addy in her arms on the deck of the ship, pointing out landmarks to the child just as she had done with him when they'd travelled to White Harbor together all those years ago. Her hair was unbound down her back, the wind catching it and sending it spiraling like currents do kelp, and both her cheeks and the child's were rosy red from the chill. She lifted her eyes and spotted him, extending her free arm in invitation, and Sandor Clegane, grizzled and hardened and ferocious, went into the little circle with a lighter heart than he'd ever had.

It was a pleasant week spent in each other's company, but it was too brief. Their arrival at Dragonstone hung over them like a shadow, he and Lenna both called to sit with Snow and Tarth more than Sandor liked.

"There's no point in strategy," he barked when Snow appeared at their door to pull them away once more. "You don't know what you're walking into."

Snow blinked back at him dolefully, the dark eyes full. Sandor almost scoffed. The boy reminded him of a chastened puppy, looking so mournful all the time that he could scarce believe the accounts of his prowess on the battlefield, of his courage at the Wall.

Still, he talked and talked, prompting Lenna to continuously advise him until she was almost hoarse, and then Sandor couldn't wait for the journey to be over. Wyman Manderly's fine ship sped over the waves like a blade, but it wasn't fast enough.

Until they arrived, and he felt in his core that it was far too soon, and he wished for Jon Snow's endless councils again.

Dragonstone.

There was no escape for them, from these people or this place. The castle itself rose high above and protected by the natural defense of terrifyingly tall cliffs, as if the island itself had been thrust up violently, puncturing itself through the sea like a spearhead, only a thin, sandy beach allowing access to the fortress, so small that there wasn't even a wharf to receive them.

A longboat took them to shore, Lenna and Addy settled against him as he balanced precariously on the too-narrow bench. The island loomed beyond them, the spires of black stone rising impossibly high, sharp and forbidding. He didn't like it, not one bit, and he liked even less the feeling of utter isolation, of helplessness. If things went poorly, there was no way out. The narrow strip of shore was a sliver, a crescent moon against the stone, and on it stood a lone figure.

From the distance, Sandor watched Tyrion Lannister as he stood watching and waiting for the boat the arrive. As they drew closer, Sandor could easily see that the years had been less than gracious to the Imp, just as they had been less than kind to himself. It moved no pity in him to see the lordling looking gaunt, his hair falling in a tangle of burnished curls, his eye dark and a scar crisscrossing his puggish face. The mismatched eyes were set in an uncomfortably tense stare, and Sandor was too aware that Tyrion wasn't looking at him, or Jon Snow, or Brienne of Tarth. He was looking at Lenna, who sat with Addy in her lap and completely unaware of her old friend's regard.

He stared down at the Imp when the boat that carried them from one of Lenna's fine ships came aground. Tyrion Lannister looked baffled, his curly hair long and unruly as it was buffeted by the icy wind, his strange face covered in a wooly beard. He took three steps forward, his mouth opened breathlessly, and Sandor had to grunt as he lifted Lenna over the side of the boat and set her on her feet in the sand, Addy tucked onto his arm as he waded through the surge of surf.

"Lenna," Tyrion said, his short legs moving as fast as could be as he sped across the little distance. The Imps gaze was resting on Lenna as if he'd been a man starved, and Sandor wondered, not for the first time, if Tyrion Lannister had been the best actor of them all in the whole damned farce.

"Tyrion," Lenna replied softly, her eyes lighting in a way that made Sandor's stomach involuntarily clench. He had always hated this closeness of theirs, this strange kindred nature they shared. Tyrion reached for her with both hands outstretched, not even glancing at Snow or the rest of the entourage. Lenna, to Sandor's consternation, went down on her knees in the damp sand and wrapped her arms around Tyrion Lannister's solid little figure.

Tyrion collected himself, pulling back and holding both of Lenna's hands solemnly between his own. "I had never thought to see you again. You never answered-"

"It is good to see you well, my lord," Lenna replied quietly. Tyrion cocked his head almost as if in pain.

"None of that formality," he said, his voice choked. "Surely-" Lenna stopped him with a squeeze of her hand.

Tyrion looked around himself for the first time, taking in the company. He looked up at Sandor with his strange mismatched eyes, and a smirk played good-naturedly at the edge of his lips.

"Clegane," he said gravely. Sandor could not muster a nod or a word, and the little lord nodded his head, casting his eyes to the ground and narrowing his brows together. He chewed on his tongue a moment, his jaw working, before he squinted up at Sandor with one eye closed and a thoughtful purse to his lips. "Our last meeting was...I can't even describe it. But I will say that I am glad to see you. And grateful."

Sandor clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. No fucking thanks to you, he thought savagely.

Tyrion knew better than to make some pretty speech to him, and instead turned his attention to the child that rested in Sandor's arms. Addy, in her usual fashion, was taking in her surroundings hungrily, gray eyes darting to and fro even as she continued to suck her fingers. It was a habit that frustrated Lenna to no end, especially now as her teeth were all in, but Sandor didn't see the real harm in it. It reminded him of Lenna and her nails, how she would rub them against each other when she was thinking, just a touchpoint to keep her grounded in the same realm as him, her mind too busy and too far away half the time. Especially these days.

Addy was looking at Tyrion in fascination, and Sandor wondered what she saw. Part of him wanted to be uncharitable, but he knew better. If the child could accept him without so much as a tremor, then Tyrion Lannister was not too shocking.

For perhaps the first time, Sandor understood that he and the Imp were more similar than he had imagined. They both suffered for their appearances, and they had both built defenses, their insides twisting to match the outsides. Sandor had hidden behind his strength and brutality, able to do so because of his rougher birth, his enormous size and his usefulness in battle. He wanted men to fear him even as it pushed him further into a prison of his own making, his black reputation a millstone and a liability. It had made no real difference to him, not when he was younger. Most people were shits he didn't didn't give a fuck about anyway. But Tyrion Lannister, on the other hand, had not had the advantage of a modest birth or an obvious vocation. Instead, he'd had to contend with the stares and gasps in the most public way, his meager armor his wicked wit and his undeniable charm.

It left Sandor in mind of Lenna's cloak of courtesy, and he pitied the little Lannister for the first, and quite possibly the last time.

"And who is this little person?" Tyrion asked with a brash clearing of his throat, nodding to Addy. The child was a warm bundle against Sandor's chest, her fingers buried in her mouth as she regarded the Imp seriously, sizing him up. Sandor wished she talked more, or at least talked more sense. She was precocious, true, but she was not quite at the point where she could speak full sentences. He wondered what she saw.

"Adalyn Clegane," Lenna said, breaking into his thoughts. There was pride in her voice and color in her cheek, affection for her daughter and the Imp in her eyes. For all Sandor despised the Imp, he knew Lenna loved him. It irked him to think of the years he'd spent envying the little Lannister, the nights that Tyrion had kept her company in the great library while Sandor railed through the alehouses in jealousy. He didn't like how her face softened when she saw him, or the way she had gone down on her knees on the shore and held him tight, a tear making its way down her pale cheek.

Tyrion smiled and Addy buried her head against Sandor's neck, but she did it with a smile on her bonny little face.

Placated, Tyrion turned his attention back the Lenna. Impulsively, it seemed, he lifted a strangely strong hand to Lenna's cheek, turning her head to look him in the face.

"I'd never thought to see you again, my dear," he said quietly, thickly, but not so lowly Sandor couldn't hear him. "You are a gift. Truly."

Lenna smiled, a watery thing that made Sandor want to growl. Instead, he shifted and hoisted Addy to his shoulders. She wrapped her little legs around his neck and fisted tiny hands in his hair.

"Are we going to stand on this fucking beach all day?" he rasped, and Tyrion smirked again, shaking his shoulders as he straightened to his full height.

"You all must be tired," he said carefully. Sandor noticed the brooch on his black jerkin, a hand gripping a circle, the very copy of the one that Ned Stark used to wear, that Tywin Lannister had worn. "Please," he said, giving a courtly gesture of invitation, "follow me. You are all very welcome."

Jon Snow had watched Lenna and Tyrion broodingly, and now he cut his eyes over to Sandor. He shrugged. It only made Snow's face darken the more, but then again, Sandor thought, all he did was brood. But who was Sandor Clegane to criticize a man for sulking.

Tyrion extended an arm in invitation, but Lenna slipped her fingers in Sandor's, much to his grim satisfaction, and followed him up the steep approach to the castle.

Sandor didn't like the place. It was all jagged blades of black rock, cold and uninviting. He wasn't exactly known for caring about his surroundings, but there was something sinister and dripping about the place that made his bones buzz. He felt pushed off-center, almost like he'd stumbled, his stomach seizing in the second before he lost his footing. He wrapped a hand around Addy's chubby leg and leaned into the solid warmth of her and the whisper of Lenna's fingers in his own.

The climb up the stairs that led to the Keep itself was long, but Sandor didn't mind. It could go on forever for all he cared. The longer they climbed the longer it would take before she had to step forward and put herself into the mire again.

He only vaguely regretted the choice words he had muttered to her on the way. He wasn't proud of himself for it, knew there was nothing either of them could do, not really. Expecting her to throw up her hands and bow out of this mess, to retreat to White Harbor with her eyes closed and her ears plugged was not an option, even if she had wanted to do it. And that was really what prompted his murmured ill-humor, the knowledge that she wouldn't even if she could.

For someone who professed to have no honor, he certainly admired hers. Even when it drove them all straight back in the the gaping maw of the unknown.

He looked around them as they passed into Dragonstone's Great Hall. It was a bleak and unwelcoming place, and it wasn't just the lack of decoration on the walls, the smell of abandonment and decay. Nothing could have made the place feel warm, could have warded off the damp chill that crept up his spine. All black and somber gray, except for the sheen of white, the hair of the young woman standing on the dais.

Daenerys Stormborn was a small creature, lovelier than he expected, but cold and haughty. There was no mistaking who she was from the almost chiseled order of her long, pearlescent hair to the prim folding of her hands before her or the proud tilt of her jaw. She watched the company with veiled eyes so blue they were almost the color of columbines, her skin as pale as her hair, her delicate mouth only a shade warmer than the rest of her.

She was dressed in leather and fur, a short dress over leggings and sturdy black boots, a large silver brooch styled after her family's sigil at her shoulder. She was so still that Sandor could almost imagine she was carved out of the rocks themselves, a funerary statue instead of a person.

"Your grace," Tyrion said, breaking the silence that had crept like the surface of a frozen lake before them, "may I present my friend, Helenna Manderly of White Harbor, and Jon Snow, commander of the Night's Watch. They have come to talk with you per our request."

The Targaryen girl flicked her eyes from one to the other. Lenna made her courtier's curtsey, and Jon Snow bobbed awkwardly from the waist, his cheek pinked. Sandor nearly grunted in disgust.

"Welcome to Dragonstone," she said softly, her voice mild and darker than he'd expected, more like a brown ale than a honeyed wine. Her tone was soft, her lips barely moving, but her cheeks lifted. She smiled, but it didn't quite warm her eyes.

Sandor felt his hackles rise.

"Lord Tyrion has spoken of you highly and quite often," Daenerys said with a sharp twitch of her nearly translucent brow.

"Tyrion always gave me more credit than I deserved," Lenna said, and Sandor forced himself not to correct her. His wife had lowered her head, looking at the young woman from beneath modestly lowered lashes.

"You almost single-handedly brokered peace in the Seven Kingdoms," Daenerys said with the mildest tone of incredulity. "You stopped a war."

"I did my duty," Lenna replied quietly.

"To the North," Daenerys said with a lift of her brow, more than a suggestion.

"To the realm," Lenna said, her voice gentle but firm.

Daenerys nodded once, then took a few steps in their direction. Her gaze flitted over the rest of the group, barely resting on Sandor. She lingered on Jon Snow, but the boy kept his furrowed gaze on the tips of her boots.

"Indeed," Daenerys said. "I hope your stay will be comfortable."

"We are indebted to your grace's hospitality," Lenna said with sincerity. Daenerys looked at her from the corner of her eye, but nodded, just a hint of a smile playing around her lips. When she turned, Sandor thought how strange it would that her sigil be a dragon. Dragons were full of flame, hot, consuming flame, but this girl was as cold as the snows that blanketed the North and as wintry as Jon Snow's damned wall and just as opaque.

A/N: Another half chapter, but it's what I could put together given the circumstances. Thank you all for continuing to read and review! This isn't the most exciting chapter, but we're rolling along. I hope to have another installment up this time next week. No promises, though!