Sandor V

The doors closed behind them, and for a moment both stood silent and still. The Manderly girl turned to him.

"What just happened?" she asked quietly.

He didn't reply. He was asking himself the same thing. He didn't know how to explain to the girl how her world had just changed. He remembered when he'd been selected out of the ranks of the Lannister army to guard the new queen and her family. He'd never been one for friends, but his new status conferred a grudging respect and fear. His proximity to the family was a distinction. Some had even tried to use him to curry favor. He'd run them off with curses and growling, something this girl would be unable to do.

He looked at her hard. Her eyes were full of confusion, a touch of fear. She didn't know it yet, but she'd just become a Lannister woman. Whether she wanted to or not.

"You're theirs now," he said lowly, just loud enough for her to hear.

Her face paled, only detectable in her lips, which went from rose to white in the space of a breath.

"What does that mean?" she asked, her eyes searching his.

"Don't forget, even for a minute, where your loyalty lies now."

She took a deep breath in, letting it out slowly. "I should think."

His lips twitched and her face softened. "Best not think too hard, my lady. Keep your wits about you, though."

She nodded, her expression thoughtful. "I suppose I shall see you in the morning."

"My lady," he replied, spinning on his heel.

His brain was in a quagmire as he headed for the training yards. He hadn't known what to say to the girl, hadn't known what words to use to counsel her. He was in too much a state of disbelief himself. The girl didn't understand what had happened, and probably wouldn't for quite a while. She wouldn't realize that being brought closer to the family meant that she was their possession, their tool. She might never realize it, the situation may never present itself where she would be forced to make the hard choice. If she did, he hoped to the gods she recognized it and made the right decision. The Lannisters did not forget betrayals, and they understood a much more liberal definition of the word.

He arrived at the training yards in a huff of pent-up aggravation. He couldn't identify exactly why or what he was feeling. It wasn't his usual day to work with his longsword, but he felt the need to hack at something. Anything to calm his brain.

He went straight for the pell. No warm up, just drew his sword and set to work. It was good to feel the strain of his muscles, the way the sword shuddered when it made contact with the wooden dummy. The flex and strain of sinew gave him something real to focus on. He usually imagined that the damn thing was his brother, it made it easier to draw up his rage. He fought better when he was angry, and he was certainly in high emotion today, but not at his brother for once.

Slamming his weapon against the pell usually made him feel better. He used the exercise to take his mind off things that bothered him, caught up in the physicality of it, the pain and the tension and the clash of bone and muscle and steel. He often couldn't remember practicing or fighting, white rage turning his memory blissfully blank. He used to be able to rely on sleep for that kind of relief as well, but now that was haunted by green eyes. Now it seemed she had invaded his training, too.

Try as he might, he could not get her out of his mind.

By the time he was finished, the pell lay on the ground in splinters. He was shaking with exertion, sweat pouring down his face and stinging his eyes. He felt better, but still frustrated as he wiped the back of his hand across his nose. He was breathing hard, overcome with a wave of nameless fury.

An assignment was an assignment. He would do his duty, and he'd do it well, damn it. It didn't matter that he'd be with her more than he already was. It didn't matter that they'd be alone save for the child. It didn't matter than he'd meant it when he'd sworn to protect her.

When the words left his lips at the queen's bidding, he thought briefly of one of the illustrations in that damn book she kept in the solar. It was the one with the red binding that she'd brought on her first day, her childhood keepsake. There was a story she read to the children about a knight who, for love, pledged himself to a lady without her knowing, serving her even when he was far away, thinking and acting only for her. The lady never knew it until the knight lay dying, and then it was revealed that she had loved him, too.

The drawing showed the knight standing apart from his lady as she walked with her friends. The other maids were fair, but he looked only at her. Even in the illustration, he was motionless, his arms hanging limply by his sides as if he were struck helpless. She walked on with her nose pressed to a flower, unaware of his look of utter devotion.

He'd felt like that damned knight when he'd looked in her eyes and said those words, feeling them ensnare the very bedrock of his being. He felt helpless and woebegone, though he refused to call his affinity for the girl love. That was something he didn't know how to do, how to feel. This nameless devotion must be something else. He felt honor-bound to the girl now that the pledge was made, that was all.

Fucking stupid dog.

He resheathed his sword with a snarl, lunging toward the bath house. If he could smell himself, he knew he reeked. A hasty scrub and he changed into fresh clothes, replacing his armor and heading off toward Flea Bottom. He needed ale, and a lot of it.

It was dusk, and when he entered the alehouse there were several guards already sitting at the long tables. He cursed to himself when he recognized the white cloaks of Preston Greenfield and Meryn Trant.

"Oy! Dog!" Greenfield shouted, raising his tankard in his direction. Clegane growled under his breath. He couldn't leave now.

He stalked toward the table, feeling the slow burn of his overworked muscles and feeling glad of the pain, glad to have something else to think about. He lowered himself heavily onto the bench and a serving wench immediately placed a tankard in front of him. He drained it in one go, his adam's apple working unremittingly, wiping his mouth and scowling as he handed it back to her. With wide eyes she went to refill it again.

"If that scowl could kill, we'd be out of a job," Greenfield said, looking at Clegane over the rim of his own mug.

Clegane grunted.

"What, not going to tell us?" Trant goaded him. Clegane looked between the two of them. He deeply regretted his choice of alehouse.

"New assignment," he muttered.

"It has to be better than watching the brats," Greenfield replied, draining his cup. He raised it to signal the barmaid for more. Preston Greenfield was a short, stocky fellow that Clegane found tolerable. He was certainly better company than Trant. He hated the very sight of Trant.

"As if being a Kingsguard these days is much better. At least we get the added entertainment of watching the king fuck and drink. Not much threat in a flagon of ale or one of Baelish's girls." Trant eyed Clegane slyly. "Can't imagine being a nursemaid, though."

"Don't see that there's much difference," Clegane muttered.

"Well, what's it to be then?"

"The princess is to start lessons. With a tutor."

"A tutor. Some desert-cunted old Septa. I feel for you," Greenfield said, grinning as a new beer arrived.

Clegane shook his head. An old bat he would have suffered willingly. "No. A lady."

Trant's brow furrowed. His dark eyes were clever, and Clegane knew he shouldn't have said anything. "Not that dark-headed one, the girl who plays with them?"

"Why'd they pick a big fucker like you to look after one little princess? And a maid?" Greenfield shook his head as he continued to swill. He burped loudly.

He'd asked himself the same thing all afternoon. Each time he had slammed his pommel, hilt, or blade into the pell. Why? Why me? Why her?

"Not for me to ask questions," he replied. To say he wasn't happy about the reassignment was an understatement. Despite Trant's ribbing, he knew his post was an honor. It was a privilege to guard the royal family, one he never could have looked for or expected. Especially since he had steadfastly refused to take vows like his brother.

He'd been asked, more than once, to take vows of knighthood. After all, who wouldn't want someone like him sworn to serve them? He knew he was ugly, but he also knew he was strong. Stronger than everyone he'd ever met with one key, glaring exception.

Gregor Clegane had six inches and ten stone on him, earning him the nickname the Mountain that Rides. It was Gregor that put him off knighthood, taking vows of sacred duty and flagrantly flouting every last one of them. There was no one more dishonorable than his brother, and Clegane would have hated him for that even if he hadn't disfigured him for life. His brother was a violent, brutish, raping monster, and Sandor Clegane wanted nothing to do with any group of men that would include his brother as a member.

He'd spent the rest of his youth making up for what he lacked in size. He was arguably the more skilled of the two. Gregor relied on brute force rather than skill, but Sandor was agile for all his hulking size. He was equally skilled with every weapon in the armory, he could ride well, and he had trained himself to see things other people missed and find weaknesses. The one skill he'd never mastered was archery, simply because he found it boring. He didn't want to stand at a distance to take out his target, he wanted to see what he'd done, watch as they bled and gasped and died.

He imagined that every last man he'd ever hurt or killed was Gregor, and he looked forward to the day when he would visit his own kind of justice on his head.

Of course, Gregor was his only real competition. He could have bested Meryn Trant one handed with his sword-arm tied behind his back. It was a tempting thought.

"She's a right nice piece, tell the truth," Trant said, his mouth pulling down in an appraising frown.

"Shut it." He hadn't meant to say anything, but just hearing Trant talk about her made his hackles rise. His sword hand started to itch.

It was the wrong thing to say. He didn't like Meryn Trant. Though a knight and a Kingsguard, Trant fell into the same category as his cunt brother. He'd heard rumors of the man's cruelty, and he didn't doubt their truth. Greenfield didn't keep his vows either, but the most egregious thing he did was keep company with a draper's wife in the city when her husband was away on business. Trant had a reputation for liking young girls, and he didn't like the way the other man's eyes lit up at the thought of Helenna Manderly.

"I don't think I'd be complain about being cooped up with that maid, from what I remember. A little odd, sure, but pretty."

"That Manderly girl?" Greenfield asked. "Aye, I'd not be complaining, dog." Greenfield winked at him and Clegane fought down a growl.

"A bit too old for you, isn't she, Trant?" he muttered, his hands tightening around his tankard.

Trant cocked an eyebrow at him.

"I don't pass up an opportunity when it presents itself, do you, Greenfield?" Preston was an idiot who didn't understand that something was growing between his two companions. Clegane and Trant started at each other, Trant's eyes glittering with mischief. He had caught on, too clever for his own good, and he was going to do anything in his power to prod Clegane.

"No, indeed," Greenfield replied with a sick chuckle.

"She's a pretty thing, and not exactly popular. Girls like that you can do anything you like, even the highborns. She won't run telling."

"Shut your fucking mouth, Trant."

Trant sat back, resting his tankard on the table, his face hardening like a coin. A slow smirk spread.

"Touched a nerve, did I? Already thought about it, haven't you, dog? Really think a maid like that would let you touch her?"

"She might," Greenfield added, still oblivious to the veritable lightning Clegane was flashing across the table. "She's quiet and high-born, too, so you know she's a virgin."

"Have you thought about it, dog?" Trant said, leaning forward, "sinking into that tight-"

"I told you to shut the fuck up."

Clegane rose to his feet, looming over the two Kingsguard, his blood at a boil. He hated them. He hated them with every muscle and tendon in his body. Not just because they were vulgar and disrespectful of a lady, but because they were right. He had thought about it. He had thought about it every night since she'd first fucking smiled at him. He hated himself for it, and to hear them talk about it, about her, so lewdly made a dark eddy of fury well up in his chest.

"Or what, dog? You'll attack two members of the Kingsguard? How do you think that will end for you?" Trant looked up at him with that damned smirk, refusing to be fussed.

"Who would stop me? Your white cloaks mean shit, no man here would fight with you. Not against me."

Trant stood up slowly. He only came to Sandor's chin. Greenfield rose beside him. He only reached his shoulder.

"Alright, I dare you, cur. Take a swing at me." Trant's face had grown severe and he raised his chin with arrogant defiance.

"Now, Meryn, no need for a fight," Greenfield said, trying to placate his companion.

Clegane didn't wait to see if he would back down at his friend's suggestion. He slammed his fist right into Trant's smug face. The crunch of of his knuckles felt good when his fist connected with his nose. Blood gushed from Trant's nostrils and he went over, sprawled on the alehouse floor.

Greenfield raised both hands in surrender, backing away slowly.

"I've no quarrel with you, Clegane."

Coward.

"Truth be told, he had it coming," Greenfield continued, looking down at Trant. "He shouldn't have talked about a lady like that, and neither should I. Tell you what, here." Greenfield withdrew a pouch of coin and tossed it on the table. "It's all on me. In apology."

Trant was coming around on the floor and Greenfield stooped to help him up. Once Trant was on his feet, Greenfield slung an arm around him and led him staggering out of the alehouse.

Clegane sat down again. His mug had been refilled. He took a deep swig and flexed his fingers, grimacing at the sting.

His hand was swollen the next morning, and he bound it as tightly as he could with his off-hand. It was a clumsy job, but it would have to do. The pounding in his head, however, he could do nothing about. He'd stayed at the alehouse until he was the last man sitting on the benches, stumbling back to his bunk before succumbing to the sweet blackness of a drunken sleep.

He appeared in the children's breakfast room and she was already there. She was dressed in a dark blue, the color settling against her skin like a friend. She stood up when he entered, flashing him a brilliant smile.

His throat went dry.

"Good morning, Clegane," she said.

He couldn't speak, so he settled for a grunt, crossing as far away from her as possible. He stood and looked out the window, keeping his front to the door.

The little princess was just finishing her breakfast. Her nurse came in and quickly whisked her out to change, leaving Clegane and the girl alone in the room.

"What happened to your hand?"

He was startled and turned to find her standing just an arm's-length away. Her eyes were narrowed with concern as she pointed to his fist.

"Clumsy in training," he muttered. She looked at him skeptically. Something in him swelled.

"Did you bind it yourself? It doesn't look very tight. May I?"

Before he knew what he was doing, he'd offered his paw to her. He watched in fascination as her little pale fingers undid his clumsy knot and unwound the bandage. When his knuckles were exposed to the air, he almost hissed at the sting.

"You need a salve," she tsked. To his wonderment, she went to the table and picked up a bag from the floor that he hadn't noticed. She fished around in it and produced a little tin, like a cosmetic container. She must have seen his bewildered expression. She smiled a little sheepishly. "I thought it might come in handy with the princess. I tried to take your advice, but I probably overdid it. I kept coming up with things I might need, and well, let's just say I'll be glad if that bag doesn't rip apart at the seams."

She returned to his side, twisting the lid off. It smelled like lavender and honey. She dipped her fingers into the tin, scooping up a quantity of yellowish paste. Setting the tin aside, she surprised him further by matter of factly seizing his hand with hers and spreading the salve over his angry busted knuckles with her fingertips.

She dabbed it on and smoothed it out before carefully rewrapping the bandage and tying it with a neat little knot.

"That's better," she said quietly, smiling up at him gently.

He nodded. He knew he should thank her, but he couldn't find the words. A nod would have to do.

She smiled at him a little more confidently than before, moving to replace the salve.

The little princess rejoined them almost instantly, and then they were off to the library, the three of them like some odd, cobbled family. He continuously flexed and clenched his injured hand. It burned, not from the salve or his battered knuckles, but from the memory of her hand in his.

This is going to be hell, he thought. An absolute fucking nightmare.

Lenna V

Lenna shielded the flame of her taper with her palm as she walked through the darkened Keep. She was wrapped in her darkest cloak, the hood up to conceal her face. She doubted she would meet anyone at her destination or along the way, but it made her nervous each and every time she stepped outside her door after dark.

The walk seemed to take longer at night, each sound reverberating sharper and more loudly than usual, striking her alerted nerves. The cloisters, beautiful in the sunlight, were somber and almost threatening at night, the moon casting strange shadows through their intricately carved arches. It made her think of the ghost stories her mother had told her as a child, and a delicious chill ran along her spine.

Once inside, she went immediately to her destination. She had been worried that her spot in the stacks would be supplanted by the princess's lessons, but she needn't have feared. The queen had arranged a little schoolroom of sorts close to the entrance. It was well-lit during the day and organized neatly for their studies: a tiny desk and a tiny chair, a blackboard, baskets of colorful blocks and puzzles. Lenna had her own desk near the princess's, and she did sit there from time to time to plan out what she would do for Myrcella's next lesson, but most of the time when she came to the library on her own she went straight to her back corner.

She had commandeered a long table in full view of the only large window in the building. It was almost a story tall, surrounded by books with naked spines on all sides. An initial investigation had shown them to be rather dry household ledgers. Nothing exciting. The window also had a heavy drape, and the day she pulled it aside she had discovered that it hid a wide ledge perfect for sitting concealed. Someone, who knows when, had covered the thing with cushions, now dusty. A few good thwacks and she had found them serviceable enough, finding great pleasure in reading there in the sunshine. Anyone who passed through the library would never know she was there, and she was too high up, overlooking the water, for anyone from the outside to see.

She set her taper against the wick of the lamp on her table, replacing the dome and turning the knob, watching the golden light spill across the books. She immediately felt her shoulders relax.

She'd taken to coming to the library at night shortly after her mother died and she stopped sleeping peacefully. It had been nightmares to start, then an endless wakefulness that tormented her. She'd tried warm milk, despite her maid, Starla's, protests. The girl didn't like being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night. So, she'd tried counting sheep. She'd even taken to pacing, trying to tire herself out, but nothing worked. After several months of pacing back and forth between one wall and the other, she could bear it no longer, and she'd fled one night in a flurry of frustration in just her nightgown and robe.

It had proven to be profitable in many ways. She found she did her best thinking in those wee hours of the morning, bent over a scroll in the golden lamplight. She picked her way through book after book, scrawling her notes at her leisure, amazed at how much information there was and how few people seemed to know anything about it. She puzzled at the Maesters hoarding it all for themselves. Surely there was some practical application for it. If it was worth writing down, it was worth reading, and if it was worth reading, it must serve some greater purpose. She just didn't know what.

She settled into her chair, a widebacked thing more suited to an evening by the fireside than for study, and found her bookmark, opening the volume on the history of House Targaryen. She had seen at least one book on her own family and resolved to read it, but found herself unable to bring herself to pull it from the shelf. How could grief still be so fresh?

Hours passed as she sat there, and she was so engrossed in her reading that she didn't even hear the doors open or the approach of footsteps.

"What an unexpectedly lovely surprise."

She was so startled she broke the nib of her pen.

A small figure stood just in the circle of her lamplight. He was holding a full decanter of wine in one hand, and a goblet dangled from the other. His expression was smug, his mismatched eyes glinting in unconcealed delight. He was not a lovely person, his forehead too high, his nose too narrow and turned up sharply, giving him an aspect not unlike a lapdog, but intelligence and humor sparkled in his eyes, one black, one green. The Imp was a rather fitting moniker.

"My lord," Lenna said, remembering herself and managing rise and curtsey, feeling ridiculous for doing so in her dressing gown. What else was one supposed to do when greeting the brother of the queen, no matter the hour or circumstance?

"Aren't you one of my sister's ladies? Lady Helenna, isn't it?

Lenna was surprised that he knew her. "Yes, my lord." She had encountered him once or twice at banquets, refilling his cup and astonished at how much he could drink. He put both the queen and the king to shame without so much as a stumble, a feat for someone of his stature.

"Does my sister know that you are here?" Every syllable was pronounced with aristocratic precision. He moved toward her table and set his goblet down, pouring himself a glass of the wine while looking up at her from beneath his mop of tawny curls.

Lenna debated briefly how best to answer the question, but opted for the truth. "No, my lord."

He looked at her for a long moment, eyes flashing serious. Then his mouth curled up in an impudent smirk. He raised his glass to her. "Good. Let's keep it that way."

He tossed back the rest of the contents of his glass and filled it again.

"May I sit?"

She must have hesitated.

"I won't bite," he said slyly. Then, with a cocked eyebrow, "Unless you ask, of course."

Lenna felt a blush creep from her neck to her hair. He noticed it immediately, his smile dimming and the flirtatious glint in his eyes vanishing.

"Forgive me," he said. "I should have known such humor would not be to your taste. I forget myself sometimes." He looked genuinely contrite, and Lenna decided that she liked him. "Please, sit with me. I'd offer you wine, but I'm afraid I only have the one glass. I wasn't anticipating company."

"I can go, my lord."

"Don't," he said quickly. "If anyone should go, it should be me. You have the prior claim. However, I'm disinclined to go. I'm actually quite charmed by your company, and would rather stay. And please, let's dispense with the formalities. The hour is not suited to 'my lords' and 'my ladies.' Call me Tyrion."

Lenna nodded.

"May I call you Helenna?"

"No," she replied quickly, and he looked abashed. She smiled faintly, wanting to quickly amend the affront. "Lenna. Please."

"Lenna," he repeated, rolling it over on his tongue. "Rather pretty. Like you."

She blushed again but didn't respond, not sure what she should say or do. If he noticed, he didn't remark on it. Instead, he reached across the table and pulled a sheaf of her papers towards him.

"Tell me, Lenna, are you the scholar responsible for all of this?" He was skimming her notes, the mismatched eyes moving quickly. "Your right hand tells me that it is likely."

Lenna's eyes widened and she looked at the hand in question, noting the dark smudge between her thumb and forefinger.

"Yes, my- Tyrion."

"Well then, we will have plenty to talk about won't we?"

And they did. It became readily apparent that Tyrion Lannister was an equal, if not superior, scholar. He went through her notes in astonishingly little time, picking apart certain arguments, answering questions, and augmenting point after point. He grilled her on the particulars of a translation she had set aside a month before, and she was able to rectify the lines that caused her to give up on it in the first place with his help. She lost track of the time as they talked late into the night. Tyrion only shooed her away when the sky outside the window began to lighten.

"Best not be caught out of your room at this hour. You know how tongues would wag."

Lenna smiled brightly, and the Imp returned it.

"If you are inclined to go nightwalking again, Lenna, do make sure to find your way back here."

She had spent the next day in happy fatigue. She must have been smiling at breakfast as Cersei noted it.

"Lady Helenna, you are looking well this morning. It does my heart good to see you in better spirits."

"Thank you, your grace," she replied, filling the queen's goblet again. She fought the wider smile that threatened to creep across her face, wondering what the queen would do if she knew it was her least favorite brother that had brought back a measure of her joy.

Instead of going to the Sept, Lenna went back to her room for a nap that day. She wanted to be prepared for the evening if she was going to go back to the library. She had been mulling over questions to ask him all day, sitting distractedly with the little princess in the solar after her embroidery was put away. She couldn't wait until after dinner and the rest of the Keep was abed.

She crept out of her room again, this time in her usual clothes instead of her nightgown. When she arrived at the library, lamplight was already glowing in the back of the room. She felt a bit like a princess in one of the stories she'd loved as a child, stumbling into a hidden kingdom protected by an Imp. She quietly made her way to the back, running her hand along the stacks absently.

Tyrion was there, tiny spectacles on his nose, and there were two glasses on the table with the decanter instead of just one.