summervale

The look on Robert’s face was strange, though, and uncharacteristic of the Robert she knew and loved. The years had not been kind to him (as was made most evident by his growing waistline), and his face was stern, drawn into a scowl, his brow furrowed.

Is he not happy to see me? she thought even through her smiles and excitement. Gods, he looks as grim as Stannis, maybe twice as much. When she made to throw her arms about his neck, he took her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length instead.

“That’s your grace to you, woman. I am the King, or have you forgotten?”

The King’s sister opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, which was done dumbly and not unlike a fish.

The ruse was short-lived.

Robert Baratheon—King Robert Baratheon—broke into a roar of laughter like that of a bear made human. Still holding his dearest sister by the shoulders, he gave her a hearty shake. “Your face!” he boomed. “You should have seen it!”

Her smile returned, then her laughter. “You’re a fool if ever there was one, Robert!”  She threw her arms around his neck even as he shook her, and the big king lifted his little sister in his arms and hugged her so tightly, so fiercely, that the now-arriving party feared the king may crush their lady.

Robert didn’t crush Y/N, though. No, they were both used to it. “You’re crushing me, Robert,” she huffed at last, prompting the king to drop her back down onto the ground.

He clapped her on the shoulder. “Right then, let’s get inside. We have much and more to catch up on, and there’s a flagon of wine calling my name.”

“Every flagon of wine calls your name, your grace.”

The King was laughing again, then, and the King’s sister was smiling.

That, as far as the two Baratheons were concerned, was the way it always had been, and the way it always would be, until one buried the other.

Meeting the King’s party was a grand ordeal, though Y/N had already met most of the partygoers in attendance on at least one occasion. Of course she knew the Lannisters, her brother’s family by law, and she’d met Lord Eddard Stark once before. Lord Eddard’s daughters were new to her, however, and a few of the faces at court as well. Having been taught well, she recognized most of the family names and colors, smiling and shaking hands and doing all the formalities a lady should do.

The occupants of the Red Keep’s great hall that night came from houses big and small, known and unknown, and saw the attendance of lords and ladies, knights, hedge knights, bards, poets and singers, fools in their motley and mummers with their painted faces. There were cards being shuffled and dice being thrown. Serving girls brought plate after plate of selections from the kitchens: stuffed capons, wine-glazed lamb, honeyed figs, dark breads with thick crusts, sweet lemon cakes still-warm from the ovens. The courses seemed never-ending and the wine never stopped flowing.

“Never was there such a party before, brother,” declared Y/N. She lifted a gilded goblet with a flourish, and rich, purple wine splashed over the rim and down her hand. She was the picture of effortless joy.

And she knew it, too.

If she hadn’t known it, the guests would have reminded her; the way they flocked to her in throngs and yammered on and on whenever she should happen to lend an ear—which was often. Round and round she circled the crowd as the evening wore on and the wine continued to flow, searching the room for a familiar face—a face that would stand out even in the most crowded of rooms.

Her gaze passed the lords and ladies, passed the knights in their polished armor, until at last she found her mark.

Sandor Clegane, the Hound, stood near the far wall, obscured halfway in the shadows. His face was grim, as it usually was, pulled tightly into a scowl that had long since worn its lines permanently into his features. The burn scars that marred half his face were highlighted by the flickering torchlight, giving him an even more fearsome appearance.

She knew Sandor was not like the other knights, not like the men who fawned over ladies with flowery words and grand gestures. He was rough, blunt, and often downright rude.

He was the perfect change of pace.

Oft she sought him when at last she could take the rinse-and-repeat of perfumed nobility no longer. She wove through the crowd with ease, exchanging smiles and nods as she passed, until she finally stood before Sandor.

"Sandor," she greeted him plainly. “It’s been too long.”

He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. For an overly long moment, he said nothing. Then, with a grunt, he inclined his head slightly. "My lady," he replied, his voice as rough as the gravel on the King’s Road.

Y/N smiled up at him, unfazed by his gruffness. "Why do you stand here all alone?" she asked, her tone teasing. "Surely even hounds deserve a bit of merriment."

Sandor huffed, a sound that could have been a laugh if it had come from anyone else. "Merriment’s for fools," he muttered, though there was no real bite to his words.

“Forgive me, then, for it seems I’ve forgotten my motley.”

“So it seems.”

She knew he was not a man of many words, especially when it came to matters of the heart. But she also knew that, for reasons she could not fully explain, she had become someone he tolerated more than most.

Perhaps it was a royal decree by Robert unbeknownst to her. And what a royal decree that would be! The thought made her laugh aloud, which only earned her a raised eyebrow in response.

He indicated the floor from which she’d just come. "Motely or not, you should jingle along with the other fools,” he said, though his tone was less stern than usual.

"And you should be out there with your fellow dogs," said she, “but here we are."

Sandor's lips twitched as if they might have remembered how to smile for half a moment. “Surprised you’re not dancing again. It went well for you last time.”

With one sentence he had broken the façade she wore so well. Her look of smug mirth disappeared from her face in an instant and was replaced instead by one of flustered surprise.

It had been a celebration much like this one and she was deep in her cups by the time the sun had set and the dancing had begun. Y/N had been at the heart of it, twirling and dancing with little care, passing hand from one lord to another, from knight to knight, breathless and flushed and shoes long forgotten.

The next thing she knew, she was stumbling, and a moment later, toppling entirely. The ground rose up to meet her with an unpleasant wack!, and the pain in her cheek was overshadowed only by a pain in her ankle. She’d gotten too carried away and twisted something, it seemed, and hadn’t even felt it until she was picking herself back up off the ground.

Or, well, trying to pick herself back up off the ground. The usual cloud of courtiers buzzed around her in an attempt to see her upright again, but the pain in her ankle swelled red hot and angry.

A shadow passed, then, and she had looked up, her vision slightly blurred from the wine, to see Sandor Clegane’s gruff face above her. There had been no mocking grin or cold stare, just a look that might have been concern on a more expressive man. “You’re alright.”

Without another word, he had scooped her up in his arms, lifting her as if she weighed nothing at all.

Y/N had gasped, her hands instinctively clutching at his shoulders. "I can walk!" she had protested, though she hadn’t made any real effort to leave his arms.

 "Not on that ankle you can’t.”

And so she had let him carry her, through the bustling hall and up the winding stairs of the Red Keep, all the way to her chambers. It had been awkward, but it had also been…

More.

“You’re quite strong,” she said to him, which earned only a grunt of acknowledgement.

Something—something—fluttered inside of her when she saw him so close; the burned skin unevenly healed, the scruff that dusted his face, the muscle of his neck that disappeared beneath his armor where her prying eyes could not follow—but her imagination could. 

When they reached her chambers, he had set her down gently on the edge of her bed. She had looked up at him, her heart pounding in a way that had little to do with the wine. As he made to release her, she caught the back of his neck with her hand and held him there, inches from her face.

She’d expected him to break free, to pull away, to do anything else. But he stayed.

He stayed there like that, his lips inches from hers.

He had hesitated, his expression torn between wanting to leave and the pull of something deeper that they both felt there between them. They both smelled of wine and honeyed mead, lips sweet.

She didn’t know who kissed who, but in half a heartbeat they were entangled.

Sandor’s breath came ragged against her mouth. Her fingers tangled in his hair. She bit his lip and he growled. It was fast, animal, raw want.

And a longtime coming.

When he pulled away, she pulled him back in again, and he didn’t fight her. Breathless, she’d pulled herself up by his shoulders and onto her knees, the pain in her ankle unfelt and forgotten. Her hands cupped his face and she pulled him in, in, in, until her chest was flush with his and she could feel every rise and fall of his on hers.

At last he’d taken her by the elbows and pushed her away, and it ended as suddenly as it had started.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” he told her.

“But I haven’t had enough of you.”

“You’ve had your fill of that, too,” he said, turning cloak and leaving.

“I’m quite certain I haven’t had my fill of you.”

He paused mid-step and looked at her over his shoulder. “You don’t want that,” he assured her. There was something dangerous in his eyes, something sharp as steel and burning hot.

Y/N leaned back on the bed. “I know what I want,” she said, wishing she could stand and go to him, to pull him by his cloak and his armor and whatever else she could get her hands on—something lower than his beltline. “I’ve known for years and years.”

Slowly, deliberately, Sandor crossed the room again, silhouetted against the warm torchlight that poured in through the still-open door. “Trust me,” he said, towering over her, leaning in close. “You might want to get your fill of me, but you don’t want me to get my fill of you.”

Her breath left her body in a shuddering shiver.

The sudden act of kindness caught her off guard so badly that all she could think to say was, “What are you doing?” He held her, navigating the muck of the stables with the small woman in his arms. Without thinking, she draped one arm over his shoulder and held fast to his chest with her other hand, holding onto him as if for dear life.

“No point in both of us getting fuckin’ muddy,” he grumbled. It was, it seemed, to be the most begrudging act of kindness ever. But still, it was an act of kindness nonetheless, and the vulture found herself oddly fond of the Hound in that moment.

Said moment was cut short when the Hound unceremoniously all but dropped her back onto drier ground. The well-packed earth beneath the overhang of the inn rose up to meet her boots, and when she was no longer entwined in his arms (his big, strong, protective arms…) the young woman snapped back to reality.

“Thank you,” she said, still dazed. All she received in response was a grunt of acknowledgement—not that she’d expected anything more.

The inside of the inn was significantly better than the outside of the inn. Hells—it was better than the whole town. Or maybe it had just been that long since they’d lived like civilized people, sleeping in barns that had been put to the torch with only their cloaks for comfort, hiding out beneath crevasses in hillsides. The inn smelled of rabbit stew and hot spiced wine, and within moments of standing in the doorway it was undoubtedly the warmest the pair had been in weeks.

The woman behind the bar eyed them suspiciously. “What do you want?” she asked.

Before the Hound could answer, it was the vulture who stepped forward. “Two rooms, please. And two meals, and some wine.” She thought for a moment. “And two baths as well.” They had the coin to spare, after all, having sold their third horse to the farmer and selling the bits of armor the vulture was so good at scavenging from the many dead soldiers they encountered. Stark, Lannister, Frey…it was funny how the houses they died for didn’t matter anymore when they laid dead in the dirt with a woman ripping the armor from their bodies for whatever coin it might bring. A futile fight with a fitting end. Often it sold for a few coppers at best, but the stew and ale it would buy was worth a hundred gold dragons to the pair.

The innkeep eyed the Hound. “It’ll be double the cost of the bath for him,” she said. “I’ll have to heat and haul twice as much water.”

“Done,” the vulture answered for the Hound. She could feel the scowl he was boring into her head behind her.

“I’ll get you your food, have a seat. But there’s one problem,” said the woman, who was already shuffling off to the kitchens.

“Seven hells. What’s the problem?” The Hound finally found his voice, it seemed, and joined the conversation.

“There’s only one room. Big bed, though, even for the likes of you,” the woman never looked over her shoulder. “I’m sure you can share.”

Beside the vulture, the Hound huffed. “I’m sure we can share,” said the small woman, half-mocking the innkeep, half-teasing Sandor.

Her traveling companion, ever silent, said nothing. He strode off for the dining area, no doubt in anticipation of the promised wine. The vulture scowled. They’d shared a bed once at the farmhouse. Something inside of her fluttered at the memory. It hadn’t gone anywhere, though, and she’d be a fool to expect he’d feel any differently about her at an inn than he would in a farmhouse or a cave or a barn or anywhere else they had been or ever would be.  It was cliché, to be sure, having arrived at an inn with only one bed vacant in the whole damn place. But it made no difference. The vulture could strip herself of her clothes and present herself before him bare; she could climb on top of him, she could do and say whatever she wanted. The Hound would not have her.

The small talk they made over their dinner was as bland as the stew. The Hound wasn’t one for conversation, much less when other prying eyes and open ears were nearby. The stew was thin and watery and the cook had skimped on the rabbit. But the radishes and potatoes were cooked well, at least, and though the wine was more brown than red, it washed the stew down all the same and warmed them to their core. They mopped at their trenchers with bread that was not quite stale but would be soon. Yet, they cleared their plates. By the time they’d finished, a serving girl appeared at their table’s side.

“A bath for the lady?” asked the girl. She seemed nervous, her eyes darting back and forth from the Hound to the vulture to the floor, then back again. “It’s ready. The bath. For the lady.”

“A bath for the lady.” The vulture nodded in agreement. She drank down what was left of her wine in one swallow and replaced the cup to its original spot on the table. “Hear that? I’m a lady,” she said to Sandor.

He grunted. “Could have fooled me.”

She didn’t dignify him with a response. Instead she stood and followed the girl, who led the way up the flight of stairs and to a store room where a copper tub had been half-way filled. The water was tepid, as mediocre as the meal they’d been served and the wine they had drank, but just like the meal and the wine it served its purpose, and for that the vulture was grateful. The girl helped the traveler out of her clothes and into the tub. The vulture allowed herself to relax the slightest bit; the serving girl dutifully and silently washed her hair (a pity, as the vulture would have appreciated a good conversation) while the vulture set to scrubbing her body.

When all was said and done, the serving girl provided the vulture with a shift made from plain, undyed wool and promised that her clothes would be washed and dried before the night’s end—a service the woman had gladly allowed herself to be upsold on for two extra coppers. Warm and clean for the first time in an undetermined amount of time (even the vulture had since lost track of how long they’d been traveling) she retired to the room they were given. The last room at the end of the hall was where they’d been situated. It was a small room with a large bed that took up the majority of the space. The bed was large and sturdy enough to sleep four, there was a small square table with a single chair, and an iron brazier in which the innkeep had so kindly started a small fire. The innkeep had been right: they could share without problem.

After a moment’s time warming her hands at the brazier, the vulture settled into the bed, choosing the side closest to the wall. It was heaven. The Seven themselves surely had a hand in crafting this wonderful, glorious room in this wonderful, glorious inn. Never before had the vulture been so relieved and comfortable as she was here.

That was an exaggeration. It was a dank inn in a shithole of a town. The vulture knew this. But she knew that she was warm and comfortable, too, and she knew that she’d spent months sleeping in caves and barns and open fields even, and that this was better than anything. She closed her eyes. She was safe and warm. She was comfortable. And soon Sandor would be at her side.

Sandor…

Beneath the covers, her body was warm. Her mind was fuzzy. Sleep was taking her. He’ll have a bath, and then he’ll join me. Soon, so soon. She, in the moments before sleep when the mind is both the most absurd and the most honest, anticipated the feeling of the mattress sinking beneath his weight as he climbed into bed beside her. She wanted the heat of his body beside hers. She wanted him to settle in and pull the blankets around them, to feel his chest rise and fall against her back with every breath he took. She wanted him. She wanted him. She wanted him...

The door closed quietly, but loud enough to wake her nonetheless. The world was dark. Outside the small window the whole sky was black and starless, so the only light came from the single brazier on the opposite side of the small room. It was raining. The rainfall made a quiet patter on the roof, in the same peaceful way the wind whipped against the wooden siding of the inn in the night.

Sandor stood near the door he’d shut. “Were you sleeping?”

“Yes,” she said, though for how long she’d been sleeping she could not say. Long enough for the sun to go down, at least. She was comfortable, and though she couldn’t remember it now, she’d been having some sort of wonderful dream.

The Hound said nothing. He was just standing there almost awkwardly. The vulture sat up, her eyes adjusting to the darkness, and in the dim light of the room she could see he was squinting back at her. She realized at once that it must have been a foreign sight to him to see her look so…not feral. On the best of days she could easily be taken for a wildling, like some creature who’d come raiding from north of the wall or an escapee from a hill tribe. He’d never known her as the maid who loved to sing and dance, who baked bread and had once wreathed her hair with summer daisies. He knew her as what she had become. He knew her as the vulture. In their time together she’d huddled beneath a mourning cloak of black with her hood drawn, changing between the two skirts she had (both of which were also black and worse for the wear) with her hair unkempt and her skin hidden from the cold beneath her many layers.

The woman staring back at him must have been a stranger. Her hair was soft and clean and dry, as was her skin, and she smelled of soap instead of horses. Her black cloak was replaced with a thin wool shift. And for the first time, her guard was down.

Sandor was still Sandor, though, just a little cleaner than usual. This is probably what he looked like when he was one of the white cloaks, she thought, studying him.

After a long moment of silence, he said, “Throw me a pillow.”

That struck her as odd. “What for?” she asked, and though she gathered one in her arms, she hesitated on passing it to him. 

Even in the darkness he was looking at her like it was the most obvious thing in the world, which he punctuated with an impatient huff. “If I’m going to give you the fucking bed, you’re going to give me a fucking pillow.”

“Give me the bed?”

“Though I have my doubts about it, you’re a woman. I’m not making a woman sleep on the floor.”

She stared at him. He stared back. “Why would I sleep on the floor?” she asked. “Why would you sleep on the floor?” The question only resulted in more staring.

“So you can have the fuckin’ bed,” Sandor told her at last though it clarified nothing and was circular reasoning at best. “Now give me the pillow.”

“You’re being ridiculous. We’ve shared a bed before.” She clutched the pillow more tightly to her chest. “There’s no need for you to sleep on the floor when this is the first time either of us have had a good bed in—”

“Seven hells, give me the pillow.”

Her eyes narrowed. “No.”

With a signature annoyed grunt, Sandor stomped the few short strides to the bed. “You’re a lady, you get your own fuckin’ bed. Give me that.”

“No!” She pulled back as he reached for it. “No, you beast!” He grabbed for the pillow, but she was faster, lurching backwards onto her haunches. Her win was momentary, though, as for the first time in their time together, he outsmarted her. He reached past her and around her, grabbing the pillow she’d previously been sleeping on.

He pulled away successful in his endeavor and tossed the pillow onto the floor. Sandor knelt, pushing the pillow against the wall and going to his knees to get comfortable.

“You’re being ridiculous,” she reiterated. “We’re paying good coin for this bed. There’s no reason for you to lay down there and catch a chill from the draft.”

He propped himself up on his elbow to look at her. “Do I have to tell you to go the fuck to sleep every time we go the fuck to sleep?”

If he wants to be ridiculous, we will be ridiculous. The vulture swung her legs from the bed so suddenly that even Sandor looked surprised. No sooner did her feet hit the floor than she pulled the other pillow from the bed. She dropped it on the floor with a muffled thump.

“What in the gods’ name are you doing?”

“If we’re wasting money on the bed, we’re wasting money on the bed.” She let herself fall back against the pillow. It really is cold down here, she realized, suddenly unsure whether she had the constitution to win this game or not. She didn’t want to be cold. She wanted to be warm in bed, but she wanted to be warm in bed with Sandor.

And seven hells did she hate admitting that.

“Get up there.” Each word the Hound said came out punctuated with evident frustration.

“No.”

“And you think I’m ridiculous?”

“Yes.” She was looking over at him, at his hulking form in the dark. The room was small save for the bed, so they were left with only two or three feet between them. Even with those two or three feet she could feel him thinking, scathing, fuming. If she was good at nothing else in this life, she was good at frustrating Sandor Clegane.

Truthfully, she wasn’t sure if he’d care enough to join her in the bed. He might just let her lay there and be cold. Even on the floor with no blankets, this was the warmest they’d been in a long time. They were in no danger of freezing, and if she wanted to make herself miserable, no doubt Sandor would let her.

That’s why it came as such a surprise when Sandor first pushed himself back onto his knees, then stood.

She watched him wordlessly. He closed the gap between them until he was standing over her. And then he descended on her.

“What are you—oh!” The vulture’s objections were cut short when the great beast of a man stooped and lifted her for the second time that day. Though helping her from the horse had been almost graceful, this was unceremonious but equally effortless.

The bed rose up to meet her when he dropped her. “Get in the fucking bed and go to sleep.” 

“You get in the fucking bed,” she told him. And quick as that, she was out of the bed again.

A game was afoot. He grabbed her, catching her in the ribs with his forearm. Her feet left the floor as she found herself tossed like a doll back onto the bed. In the brief pause that ensued, the faintest, most brief smirk played at Sandor’s lips. The vulture silently admired it. But the game was not so easily won, not for him at least, and in a blink she was up again. This time she anticipated his movement and ducked beneath his arm, dancing away from him. He whirled and grabbed for her, catching her by the elbows before she could take her spot on the floor again.

It was ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous, she’d called it right from the start. The vulture didn’t even attempt to suppress the laugh that escaped her lips when he caught her. Though at first it seemed he was going to yell at her, her laugh changed everything. They stood there, Sandor holding her by her shoulders inches from him as she laughed and laughed in the darkness. How long had it been since she’d laughed like this? Had he ever seen her laugh? Had he ever seen her have fun?

Frustrated though he may be, he said nothing, instead lifting her again. He turned, and once more made to drop her onto the bed. This time she didn’t let go. She tightened her arms around his shoulders, a move he was not expecting, and he halfway toppled down with her when he dropped her weight. His knee buckled into the side of the bed and he caught himself with his arms, pinning one on either side of the small woman whose arms were still tangled around his neck.

She was laughing again.

“Fuck you, woman.”

And in the dark, with her face inches from his, with her arms around his neck and her chest pressed to his, she could hear her own voice ask, “Is that what you want? To fuck me?”

Why did I say that? A thousand thoughts rushed to her mind in an instant’s time. Why did she say that? Was it the wine? She could easily blame the wine. But the blame didn’t matter. He was him and she was her, and her attempts to sway him in the past had failed, and now she’d fucked up and he was going to pull away, and she’d ruined a perfectly nice moment, and—

And…?

He wasn’t pulling away. He wasn’t moving at all, actually. He was still there, still so close to her. He stayed that way, too, studying her in the dark. Without thinking, she silently and gently—so gently—brought one hand to the unburnt side of his face. With her thumb she brushed his hair from his eyes. His hair was surprisingly soft, if not a little damp still from the bath, and so close together he smelled of soap and spiced wine. He didn’t stir, and she didn’t breathe. For a moment she thought he might kiss her.

“I’ll get in the fucking bed if you go to sleep,” he told her. He didn’t back away, though, and she watched his lips when he spoke.

You didn’t answer my question.

“Okay.” She’d been subdued. Don’t let me go, please don’t let me go, she thought as he let her go. He gathered their pillows from the floor and tossed them to her one at a time. She settled back into her spot nearest the wall, watching him move through the dark as he made his way back to the bed. Outside, the rain was falling harder as if to hush them.

Sandor’s movements were awkward but still somehow brusque as he found his way beneath the covers. The vulture remained still as he settled in, pulling the blankets this way and that to accommodate his size. When at last her companion was still too, she allowed her head to rest against her pillow. There were few ways to bother him now; the game was over and she had won. At this realization, she let her eyes close for a moment.

He didn’t pull away, she thought. He didn’t answer my question.

She kept her eyes closed, replaying their fight, however brief it may have been, in her head again and again and again. The way she’d laughed and spun as if dancing, the way he’d smiled, too. If her winning had meant the game was over, she’d rather have never won at all. When at last her fantasies were over and she could replay the scene no more, she opened her eyes again. Minutes had passed, but not too great of a time.

Even in the fading light of the brazier, she could tell he was watching her. Sandor was laid on his side facing her, which in itself was rare as he usually chose to sleep with his back to her when they huddled together beneath a cloak at night. She couldn’t see his eyes, as he was just a shapeless black silhouette in the night, but she knew nonetheless. She could feel it. She stared back.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“What question?”

She was silent for a long time. You didn’t pull away. Try as she might, she did not have the courage to ask again.

It was Sandor who spoke. “If I want to fuck you?”

Her heart skipped a beat—or two or three or four—and she realized she was holding her breath, scarcely breathing at all. Had she not been laying down, the world may have gone sideways. “Yes.” Her face was hot, suddenly. Her whole body was hot.

“You think I look at you like some common whore?” That was not an answer to her question, though. He was avoiding it. Was that a yes? A no? What did that even mean? The answer frustrated her. She was not a whore, no, but she was no maid, either, and he knew that. She’d been married, however brief it may have been, so what did it matter now if it was a farmer or a hound whose bed she shared? She was no maid, no high lady, and no whore. She was nothing. She was a vulture, and he was a hound. And she wanted him, try as she might to suppress it.

This was not the time for anger; this was the time to get what she wanted. What she wanted, and what she knew he wanted, too. It was time to stop denying themselves.

“I wish you would,” she said. “Then you might give us what we both want.”

“Is that what you want? To be treated like a whore?” Through his aggression, the vulture couldn’t help but wonder if Sandor truly thought it was that unbelievable for a woman to actually want him.

“You’re making this awfully hard on yourself for someone with a woman trying to sleep with him.”

There was a pause. It was his turn to be at a loss for words, and she let him. After a moment, he asked, “Is that what you want?”

The question had been turned on her. “To fuck you?”

“Yes.”

Unlike him, she could answer. “Yes.”

He was still for a long time. Silent, too, saying nothing. He was silent so long, in fact, that the vulture thought he may have made the decision to ignore her. But still the tension festered, growing stronger and stronger as that one single word, “yes,” hung between the two of them. 

Sandor’s movement was so quick and hard that it was over by the time she’d processed what was happening. He brought one arm up and around her, pulling her body to his with fierce strength. Her chest to his, her head craned up to look at him. Instinctively, she parted her thighs and draped one leg over his as their bodies were pressed so tightly together, their legs entwining, one of his hands in her hair. She shuddered when his lips grazed hers, and again when she felt his thigh press hard and deliberately between her legs. 

His hand tightened in her hair when he finally kissed her–really kissed her, hard and rough, passionate; he kissed her with the fervency of a man who had been meaning to kiss her for quite some time now, who had been looking at her and thinking of kissing her, with all the passion of a man who laid awake at night at her side and wondered what it might be like to hold her this exact way and kiss her this exact way in the darkness. She kissed him back, too, and with her arms pinned to his chest, she grabbed helplessly at his tunic, as if she could somehow pull him closer than he already was, or never let him go at all.

When he finally pulled away, she tried to force herself closer, never wanting the moment to end. Sandor was unpredictable, and the possibility that he’d never kiss her again was real. But she wanted him, she wanted him so badly. At least he wanted her too, if nothing else. 

With his lips brushing hers, he murmured, “Yes.” 

“Yes,” she repeated dreamily. She would have said or done whatever he wanted in that moment; her Hound, her knight. 

“I want to fuck you.” 

She did not hesitate. “Then do so.” 

Maybe it was because she was the only girl who ever could have swayed him from Cersei if he’d just given her the chance. Where Cersei was cruel and calculated and callous—something Jaime was aware of even from a young age—Lord Hoster’s daughter had been warm, kind, compassionate. She was a good-natured little thing through and through in spite of the indomitable spirit she wore so well. Y/N was far from the fairest maiden, this much was true, but she was kind, and she was good, and in her Jaime saw the things that Cersei was not.

The thirteen year old Lannister put these things from his mind.

There was only one exception that he would never be able to put from his mind. It had been late, and Riverrun as a keep was endlessly fascinating. Unable to sleep, Jaime had wandered the castle halls, meandering this way and that the same way the rivers flowed through Riverrun itself. It was by chance he’d stumbled on the keep’s library, which was really of no great interest to him, but it was as good a place as any to wander through in the dark of the night.

There, by all means, should have been no one in the library at such a late hour. At most there may have been a maester, but it was not a maester he found in the library. Indeed, it was of course Y/N Tully. She was sat by a lantern wrapped in a quilt of Tully red and blue, a small smattering of books around her. When she heard Jaime approach, she’d all but jumped out of her skin.

“What are you doing?” a young Jaime had asked her.

“Reading,” she’d said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world—and it was, as it had been a redundant question on Jaime’s behalf.

“Why? You should be asleep.”

“So should you.”

Jaime cocked his head and looked down at the book she’d been working her way through. Jaime was bad with letters and numbers. The maesters had no luck in teaching him, as the words all blurred together and became a jumble in his head. His father, Lord Tywin himself, had sat down and fiercely, relentlessly taught Jaime, working for hours a day until Jaime was all but in tears. That, no matter the state of delirium, was not a good memory. It was something Cersei had mocked him for, too, reminding him often that he was as stupid as he was handsome, that he was a lackwit as much as he was a knight.

“Short stories,” she said when she saw him studying the pages, squinting down at her. “Do you know of Jonquil and Florian?”

“Everyone knows of Jonquil and Florian.” You’d have to be twice a fool as Florian himself to not know the story of the famed fool and his lovely lady.

The girl had just smiled. “What about the Battle of the Redgrass Field?”

That had piqued Jaime’s interest. “What do you know of battles?” She’s a girl, he’d thought then, she knows nothing of battles.

But she had known. She’d lifted one of the books from her side and placed it in her lap. “It’s all here.” When Jaime knelt and looked over her shoulder, she said, “This one is accounts of the ten greatest battles in the history of Westeros.”

“And you read that?” Jaime, as much as he hated to admit it, was impressed.

“I read lots of things.” She’d traced her fingers along the pages then. “Do you read often?”

Jaime frowned. “No,” he admitted, “I prefer to listen.”

And listen he did. She read to him, without question, from the book of battles that night. First he knelt beside her, then he sat, then he laid down and propped his head up on one hand. He wasn’t sure how long he laid like that, but he laid that way until she began to yawn and both of their eyelids grew heavy with a need to sleep in spite of their fun. Together they made the decision that they’d had enough for the night.

They parted ways at the library door. “I have a terrible time sleeping. Nightmares and whatnot,” she’d told him. “I’m here most nights.”

Jaime had taken the hint. He returned the following night. Then the next night. He returned all six nights that had been left of his stay at Riverrun. Together they finished the big book of battles. Afterwards she read him a book about dragons, which was her second favorite book in all the library, and then a book about Asshai by the Shadow and the Shadowlands, her first favorite book in the library. She let him ask questions and even encouraged him, and on the rare occasion there was an illustration she turned the book to him to see. She gave him acts of compassion he had not seen in many years and may never see again, he knew.

On the last night, Jaime arrived at the library before Y/N. He wanted to pick the book. It took him the better half of an hour (too many titles to look through, it was dizzying), but he found it.

When she crept through the doors of the library for the evening with her quilt draped across one arm, Jaime was sitting on the floor by the hearth waiting for her. He placed the book in her hands, and from it she read him the story of Florian and Jonquil.

When the end of the two weeks came, Jaime Lannister was not betrothed to Lysa Tully. He was betrothed to none of the Tully sisters, who stood beside their father and watched him leave along with the rest of Lord Sumner’s host. He didn’t look back at them.

There were times over the next year or so that Jaime thought maybe he should have married one of the Tully girls. He would remind himself that he belonged to Cersei, his twin, his blood, his mirror image. He learned in time to put those thoughts from his mind, and soon the girls were nearly forgotten altogether. Those memories of Riverrun stayed forgotten for years until the fever so kindly reminded him.

He saw Lysa Tully enough with her being the wife of the Hand of the King, and did not regret not marrying her. She was Jon Arryn’s problem. By then Jaime was a changed man entirely, besides. No one but Cersei would do for him.

Y/N Tully had been meant to arrive at King’s Landing not long after Eddard Stark’s host was to arrive; she’d be there to meet with her brother by law and his daughters, her nieces, and to join in the ensuing tourneys and celebrations on behalf of Lord Hoster Tully, who was too sick to travel. Her own party had been delayed, though, and she’d never made it. Jaime was gone by the time she arrived, if she ever arrived at all. For that he was grateful; he had no interest in seeing her. If he saw her, he might remember the library. He might ask questions. Last he’d heard she was to marry some lord or another whose name he hadn’t remembered, but that lord had died before their marriage and no attempt to marry her off had been made again. It was not Jaime’s place to know; it never would be.  

The fever tormented him this way the whole journey to Harrenhal. He was saved only by Roose Bolton’s desire to please Lord Tywin, Hand of the King and current key player in the game of thrones. Everything was a blur after their arrival to the monstrosity that was Harrenhal. The big wench, Brienne, was toted away. Locke scurried off too, under the hateful eye of Lord Bolton. Jaime was to be given clean clothes and a bath and a meal and a warm bed. Of this, Jaime was at least mildly grateful.

He was disgusting. A bath would be the first thing on his list, even if he was starving beyond all doubt and in desperate need of a good night’s sleep. The walls of Harrenhal seemed to swallow him whole as he shambled through them. The fever was still there, haunting him, and it felt like there really were ghosts in Harrenhal. Twice he thought he glimpsed someone just out of the corner of his eye, gone before he could turn, and he had a creeping suspicion that he was being watched that he was unable to shake.

The bathhouse, Jaime found, was a low-ceilinged room filled with great stone tubs large enough to hold six or seven, fashioned after those of the free cities of Essos. Brienne was on her way out as Jaime was on his way in, and she made begrudging eye contact with him as she pushed past. After all this time, she still hates me, Jaime thought. She thinks of me only as the Kingslayer and always will. Maybe that’s all anyone would ever think of him.

The water was hot and steam hung heavy in the room. Jaime sunk into the water and felt his aching muscles relax. His head was spinning. The water was almost too hot and did little to help his fever, but it was a welcome feeling after long, disgusting weeks on the road.

The door opened, but Jaime paid it little mind. The near-defeated lion was too busy trying to keep his head above water to concern himself with a serving girl. He was vaguely aware she took a few steps closer, but hovered mostly near the doorway, peeking at him over an armful of towels and linens. Another one that’s afraid of me. Another one come to gawk at the Kingslayer.

Jaime closed his eyes and rested his head back against the stone tub for a few long moments, or maybe for a lifetime, it all felt the same to Jaime. In his exhaustion, he may sleep comfortably this way, or maybe he’d slip beneath the water never to rise again. It mattered little either way.

This didn’t happen, though, because Jaime opened his eyes when he heard the maid’s footsteps coming closer and closer until they were at the edge of his tub. The maid was in a sordid dress of blue that upon closer inspection may have been quite a nice gown at one time before becoming stained and ripped and worn; this was not a girl of common birth. Her hair was loose and unstyled, and when she lowered the towels away and Jaime got a better look at her, he realized…

A ghost. Her familiar face from years ago was gaunt, the color gone from her cheeks. She was a woman grown now, far from the child he’d known, and she would have looked as defeated as he was had it not been for the shine that she still somehow carried in her eyes.

“You,” he said. He meant to continue, but no words came to him. This was no place for her.

“Me,” said Y/N Tully. She knelt at the edge of the tub, her skirts gathering around her knees as she placed the towels on the floor beside her. Looking into her eyes, they were the same eyes Jaime had looked into all those nights in the library. “And you.”

“And me,” murmured Jaime. “Are you a ghost?” He was still half-delirious, and this was not helping.

“I don’t think so.” She smoothed her skirts. “Sometimes I feel it, though.”

He stared at her for a long time. She was smiling a sad smile at him, and Jaime could not find it in himself to smile back. “What are you doing here?” He asked.

“A series of mistakes.”

“Must have been some grave mistakes.”

“The mistakes were not my own, nor my men’s. We were delayed to King’s Landing. Too much rain. We were nearly there when we received word of what was happening. We turned right back around.”

Jaime was not understanding. “So you came here? To Harrnehal?” He was puzzling over who had even held the seat of Harrenhal before Roose Bolton.

At this, she gave a cold half-laugh. “No choice of my own. Had we known what would have awaited us on the road, I would have had my host brave King’s Landing.”

It clicked. “The Mountain’s men.”

Y/N nodded. “They fell on us in the night. I have been here ever since.”

A hostage. They’d made a hostage of Hoster Tully’s daughter. He should have had no love for her; it was her sister who took him captive, then who freed him and sent him out into the world with that great beast Brienne of Tarth. She should have no love for me, either, he thought. It’s me who started all of this. “Have you come to drown the Kingslayer then?”

“I have come to bring you towels,” she said, her sad smile never fading. “And to see if it was really you.”

“It’s really me, I think. Though I’m missing the best part of me.” He held up the stump of his arm where his hand should have been.

“You’re still you,” she said, as if she knew his greatest fear.

I am nothing now, he wanted to say. He wanted to yell it. I am nothing if I cannot fight. I am nothing if not a knight, the Kingsguard, the Kingslayer. But he couldn’t yell. He couldn’t find it in himself to do anything. Suddenly the world was spinning, and Jaime felt as if he was falling.

A voice was crying, “Ser Jaime!” but he did not know where the voice was coming from; the world was warm and black and fading so, so quickly. There was a splash, then suddenly there were hands on him, on his sides, on his chest, on his face. A hand on his back. Someone was holding him. Cersei…

“Ser Jaime, wake up. Wake up! You’re okay, wake up.”

No, not Cersei. The world came into focus with the same sudden haziness that it had gone out of focus. Jaime blinked, half-conscious. “Your skirts will get wet,” he mumbled.

The Tully woman sighed in relief. He could see her now, smiling. “It’s a little late for that.”

Jaime was alert again (or at least as alert as he would be for a while) and realized what had happened. In a moment of panic, Y/N had leapt into the water to keep him, the Kingslayer, from slipping under. There hadn’t been a moment’s hesitation. Her skirt drifted about her thighs in the hot water.

“Are you okay? Do I need to get a maester?” She had one arm behind his back, holding him upright and against her. The other hand was cradling his face to hold his head up.

He had known passion with Cersei, but he had never known whatever this was.

“I’ll be okay.” Against all better judgment, he rested his head against her shoulder. “I just need a minute.”

A minute turned into five, and five turned into ten. He laid like that, drifting in and out of consciousness, while the Tully woman held him. When at last he’d found his strength again, he sat upright and apologized for the spectacle. As expected, she didn’t mind. Instead she just asked him again if he was alright. She looked at him with the same kindness and compassion and good faith she had in the library all those years ago. Whatever she had been through—which was no doubt quite a lot at the hands of the Mountain’s men—it had not changed who she was at the heart of it all. Or maybe it was just her shy fondness for him that had not changed, which Jaime considered.

“Your dress is ruined,” Jaime pointed out dumbly, not sure what else was appropriate to say.

“My dress was already ruined,” she said. “It’s seen worse.”

Jaime nodded. Grime dripped from his beard, falling onto his chest in a small muddy rivulet. The small woman splashed a bit of water at him, washing it away. The gesture, however small and innocent and meaningless it may have been, only served to bring more heat to Jaime’s face. Something in his body stirred and he found himself having to shift his thighs.

“Are you sure you’re alright? Do you need any help with your hair?”

Jaime should have told her no, but instead he nodded his head ever so slightly. “My hair.”

She nodded back. When she pulled her arms from around him, Jaime almost wanted to lean back into her, to remain in her arms a moment longer, or maybe for her to never let him go at all. He didn’t, though, and sat upright as she shifted around behind him. She took a bar of soap from the raised ledge of the stone bathtub and began working at his hair. She ran her fingers through his hair twice, then three times, then a fourth, her nails scratching pleasantly at his scalp. She worked a handful of water into his hair before letting her hand rest on his bare shoulder for a moment. A shiver that Jaime was helpless to suppress wracked his body. He felt her chest rise and fall against his back as she obviously fought a laugh.

Unfortunately for him, he lost the battle against his body. He was helpless to fight against the stirring within him, and the more she touched him the stiffer his cock grew. Jaime tried to rationalize it away; surely he would have had the same reaction if it had been any pretty woman bathing him, not just her. Part of him wondered if this was true at all.

He stayed this way, silent as the grave as she took absolute care in washing his hair for him, and when she was done she mopped at the back of his neck and his shoulders with a rag as well even though he didn’t have to ask for it. Her fingers brushed softly against the sensitive skin of his neck, raising gooseprickles on his body. When she ran her hand along his throat, Jaime shuddered and held his breath. 

It was sudden, almost instinctive, the way he wanted to turn to her. He imagined grabbing her and pulling her body to his, close as could be. He would look her in the eyes and see exactly what he wanted to see, and then he would kiss her. His hands would find her waist beneath the water’s surface; it would be nothing at all to pull the woman to his lap without ever breaking the kiss. To hold her the way someone should have been holding her all these years, and she would hold him the way he should have been held all along. She would kiss him back, he knew. His past wouldn’t matter. The Kingslayer would melt away in her arms. If there was anyone that could see past the Kingslayer, it was her. All that would matter to her would be him, and all that would matter to him would be her. It would be as it should have been from the start, he should finish what they’d started that night in the library when she looked him–a knight to be–in the eyes and asked if he knew the story of Florian and Jonquil. For a moment his head turned, and he made only the slightest of movements towards her. 

 If she didn’t get out soon, he would not leave this room the same man he had entered.

She did get out, though, and Jaime was not sure whether he was glad of this or not. “Is there anything else you need?” she’d asked from behind him, her lips inches from his ear. No doubt she had seen the way she’d made him shudder more than once.

“I’m okay now,” he told her, then before he knew what he was saying, he added the softest, “Thank you.” It was so wildly out of character for him that Jaime himself blinked in confusion.

She squeezed him lightly on the shoulder. “Of course.” She rose from the water behind him and Jaime was free to lean back against the tub once again, legs crossed awkwardly. She stood there at the edge, laughing as she wrung out her skirt.

Jaime looked her up and down, wondering what the stay at Harrenhal had done to her. “Do they make you a servant?”

She shook her head as she let go of her skirt, which fell sodden and heavy back around her ankles. “No, I’ve been mostly lucky. I think Riverrun’s might is too important for them to really hurt me. Things have gotten considerably better since Lord Bolton’s arrival, though.”

“Mostly?”

“They have not all been kind, especially when the lord is not looking.” She did not make eye contact with him when she said it. “I make myself scarce.”

Jaime looked at her. She was tired, so tired. She was a ghost of the girl in the library. It’s a blessing I did not marry Lysa, he thought, and it’s a curse I did not marry her sister.

This thought haunted him when he laid in the quarters Lord Bolton had provided him. When he had arrived at Harrenhal hours before, he had only one thought: he was so close to getting home to his sweet sister. Now there was a second thought, and it was what his life would have been like without that same not-so-sweet sister—what his life would have been like with a bride of Tully red and blue instead. He would not have joined the Kingsguard. He would not have gone to Winterfell, where he would not have pushed the Stark boy from a window. He would not be here now.

No, he wouldn’t be here now. He’d be home at the rock where he belonged, his lady wife beside him. He’d have children that would know him as their father, who he could call his sons and daughters of his own. They would have hair of Lannister gold or of Tully red. They would be fierce like their father and smart like their mother—good and kind like her, too.

Their mother. Their mother who would climb into bed beside him every night, happy to have him, wrapping her arms around him. Their mother who would never call him stupid and would instead sit by the hearth and read to him and the children. His wife who would hold his arm when they walked together and give him all the niceties of the world. His wife who, over dinner, would talk of dragons and Asshai by the Shadow, of fairy tales, who would be so proud of him. His wife.