Lenna XI

The first supper was a rather tense affair for Lenna. It had been an impulse to ask him to join them for dinner, but one that she only half-regretted. She wanted him there, though she was unsure how her family might react to Sandor. She was even more unsure as to how he might react to them. The Manderlys were an irregular lot, but she felt that he belonged there, not in the mess hall with the guards. Not just as a representative of the Lannisters, her guard, but as her friend.

She knew he lived in the barracks with the other guards in King's Landing, but he was the son of a landed knight. His brother was a knight. He had been asked to take knightly vows more than once, though he had refused each time. While the Cleganes weren't wealthy or powerful, they were still gentry, and it shocked her now to realize that the Lannisters treated him like less than he was. She wondered why he tolerated it, but wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.

Sandor appeared just after she did, dressed plainly in a green tunic under his leather jerkin and breathing a little heavily. It made her smile to see him out of his armor again, and she hoped very much that it meant he would find some respite in White Harbor as well. He looked younger when he wasn't in his armor, more like the six-and-twenty she knew him to be than the hardened guard he presented to the world. He'd mentioned once that he was five years her elder, and it had surprised her that they were so close in age. She had assumed he was older, just based on his position and bearing. It was sobering to realize that so young a person might have seen enough to make them seem so much more experienced. It also hit her that she didn't even know when his nameday was, though he had taken the trouble to remember hers for the last two years. He'd even bought her a ribbon for each one, and they were the only ones she wore, the green one looped through her hair even now. Maybe being in White Harbor would relax him enough to tell her if she asked.

She wasn't sure why, but she desperately wanted him to like her home, to be as comfortable there as she was. She loved her family all the more for trying to make him feel welcome. Her brothers peppered him with questions as they waited for the first course, which he tolerated, answering politely and with more detail than she was used to hearing from him. He was a plain-spoken man, but it actually seemed to impress Wendel. She hadn't given her brother credit for so much good taste. Wylis, always the more skeptical of the two, didn't seem as swayed, but before the first course was served, the three of them were amiably reminiscing about their time fighting for Robert Baratheon's cause while downing an unbelievable amount of ale. She thought she even heard him laugh, a rare, rough sound that she wished she could hear more often.

Wylla and Wynna were seated on either side of her, both girls excitedly grabbing her hands under the table from time to time, their pleasure her own. Each squeeze brought her back to herself, else she would have thought she'd been transported back in time, or was living a different life. A life where she hadn't been called to King's Landing. It was the mere presence of him at her table that was the only firm evidence that she had, in fact, spent the last six years thousands of miles from home. Oddly, she didn't think she would have traded him.

Her favorite supper had been prepared, oysters and clams and large coldwater shrimp boiled with spices, potatoes, and shallots in a broth. It came out to the tables on great heaping platters with sturdy chunks of bread and pitchers and pitchers of ale. It made her smile to see such simple fare after six years of peacock's tongues, stuffed dates, and carafe upon carafe of Dornish sour. Not that she disliked Dornish sour, it was delicious, but the ale melted perfectly with the buttery broth and the delicate flavor of the seafood in a way a wine would have spoiled. She drank more than she ought, and after two or three pints she was tipsily giggling like the girl she had once been, her nieces dissolving in fits on either side of her as she told stories of the courtiers that made them shriek.

She knew her cheeks were pink with ale by the time the main course ended and they waited on dessert. No seven course meals in White Harbor, not unless it was a feast. Dessert came in the form of toffee pudding studded with raisins and smothered in rum sauce. Lenna felt her eyes prick when she smelled it, trying to surreptitiously wipe her nose on her sleeve before anyone noticed. It smelled like home. It made her throat clench that her family had remembered all of her favorites, even after all this time.

"My lady?" Sandor had turned his attention to her. He'd been avoiding her eye all night. She had been watching him, smirking and easy as he bantered with her brothers. It had been a pleasure to observe him, and for a time they had traded places as she watched him as he had so often watched her.

"I'm fine, Clegane," she said, sniffing, laughing when the tears broached her lids and ran down her cheeks in abundant streams despite her best efforts. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, trying to avoid smearing butter across her cheeks.

"Ignore Lenna," Wendel said with a smirk and a roll of his eyes. "She always cried at everything."

"Indeed," she laughed. "You know the old saying: excess of joy weeps."

Wynna didn't reply, but she did grasp Lenna's hand and squeeze it firmly before pressing it affectionately to her cheek. It was enough to make new tears flow down her face in earnest.

"Such nonsense when there is pudding to be had," Wyman grumbled from his place at the head of the table, a playful smirk on his face. She laughed again through her tears. She didn't need another invitation to tuck in. It seemed like it only took three bites, but mysteriously the entire portion disappeared from her plate.

Afterwards, they retired to the chairs that had been set before the blazing fire. The hearth in the Merman's Court was large enough for her to stand upright in, one of those hallmark features of Northern halls. In the winter months, the chairs would have been brought into the fireplace itself, though now they were at a safe enough distance to keep them warm in the mild chill of the evening but keep them from getting to hot. Lenna sank down in one gratefully, looking for Sandor as she did. He hung back from the group at the edge of the shadow, and in the semi-darkness his eyes found hers. An expression hung across his features like none she'd ever seen before, and she couldn't fathom why he looked so tremendously forlorn.

Wylla and Wynna curled like cats on cushions at her feet, and for a long time no one spoke. It was surreal, being back among her family before their great hearth, the cracking of the logs the only sound that split the silence. It spread like a familiar blanket, snugly enfolding them all. When she looked around her it was like she could peer into each of them: Wylla and Wynna were resting against her, Wynna's cheek on her knee. Both looked peaceful as their father and uncle looked down on them fondly, their eyes flitting to her every once in a while, like they weren't sure she would really be there if they looked for her again. Wendel appeared pensive, staring into the fire, his thumb and forefinger twisting the moustache at the corner of his mouth until it curled up on its own like a scallywag's, deep in thought. Her father had steepled his hands over his enormous belly and was resting his eyes, the occasional report of a snore making her grin.

Then there was Sandor. He sat stiffly in the chair that was furthest from the fire, both of his massive hands spread open on his knees in an imitation of ease. She could see the tendons working beneath his skin, and she noticed for the first time that they were fine and beautiful, like the hands of statues of the Warrior and the Smith in the Sept of Bealor, smooth and strong with grace in their square fingers and long lines. They pressed into the flesh of his thighs with unspoken tension. He had tilted his head forward like he usually did when he didn't want to her to see his face, but she was sure that his eyes were open. They were always watchful.

"Isn't it funny?" Wynna said, finally breaking the silence when she raised her face to Lenna, her chin on her aunt's knee, a little sharp point of pressure that made her smile and think of their childhood. They'd spent so many evenings together like this in front of this hearth. "I'm sure we've all been thinking about what we want to say to each other for years, and now that we can, we aren't saying anything at all."

"Instead of speaking, how about a song, my dear? They often say what we wish to better than we could ourselves," Wyman suggested. He nodded toward a fiddle case propped against the wall. Wynna smiled, rising gracefully and retrieving it, and Lenna's felt a little pang of dismay to realize how much she had missed, how much the girl had grown up. Wynna carefully opened the case, an old, battered one lined in grey velvet, and withdrew the instrument. It, too, was old, with wear on the varnish on the fingerboard and where Wynna's chin would rest, but it was beautiful in the firelight as the girl rosined the bow, the light rippling across the

"I'll play if Lenna sings," she said with a puckish smile. It was something they had done together when they were children and Wynna had begun to learn to play. Lenna grinned as she remembered Wynna's earnest playing of dozens of sour notes, her own voice faltering as together they giggle and muddled through the old Northern songs their mother loved.

"Of course," Lenna replied, her eyes shining.

"One of the old ones, that we used to play," Wynna said. "You'll know it when I start."

The younger girl looked at her aunt with mischief in her eyes, tucking the instrument beneath her chin. She tuned it quickly, and it was evident to Lenna that the faltering girl had grown into an artist. She bounced the bow across the strings a few times, the mellow sounds filling the Merman's Court like candlelight, dropping slow and melodious.

The girl took a deep breath, then began playing with such sweetness that Lenna nearly missed her entrance. But when it came, the words sprang from her lips with barely a thought behind them, the old lyrics spilling from the recesses of her memory like she'd sung them the day before.

My heart is sair-I dare na tell,

My heart is sair for Somebody;

I could wake a winter night

For the sake o' Somebody.

O-hon! for Somebody!

O-hey! for Somebody!

I could range the world around,

For the sake o' Somebody.

Ye Powers that smile on virtuous love,

O, sweetly smile on Somebody!

Frae ilka danger keep him free,

And send me safe my Somebody!

O-hon! for Somebody!

O-hey! for Somebody!

I wad do-what wad I not?

For the sake o' Somebody.

Lenna's throat felt tight as she finished the last phrase, grateful that Wynna was filling the time with a lovely variation of her own devising. She hadn't thought about that song in years, the lyrics never meaning much to her anyway. Now, they resonated with something dark and deep, something that made her chest feel tight and sore. My heart is sair, she thought ruefully. She hoped her family thought her gleaming eyes were brought on by memories of singing that song with Wynna in their childhood, instead of their true source.

She could not, under any circumstances, look at Sandor Clegane. For all the time she'd been singing, gray eyes hung in her mind, and they made her feel like her chest was host to a hot coal, scorching her from the inside. She recalled Wynna's earlier questions, and how queasy they had made her feel.

She had never let herself dwell on the possibility that Sandor Clegane could care for her, or she for him, beyond the realm of their friendship. It was already a peculiar and delicate thing, a frail fledgling of a feeling, and she was wary of ascribing more weight to it lest it shatter. She couldn't bear the thought of losing him by some misstep or an ill-timed word. Especially as she did not know exactly what the feeling meant. She wished she did.

Silence had fallen again with the last graceful sounds from Wynna's bow. Lenna made herself look at the girl and smile, disconcerted to see her niece looking back at her with strange, almost sorrowing, knowledge in her eyes.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Sandor rise from his chair, the legs scraping against the stone floor with a screech.

"Thank you for your hospitality, my lord, but I would beg my leave," he said quietly, looking only at Wyman. He had drawn himself up to his full height, his hands rolled into fists, the knuckles and tendons stretched pale even in the firelight.

The old man looked back at him with a faint smile. "Of course, Clegane. You both must be exhausted. Wynna, Wylla, time for bed, my dears."

"I'll see them back. And Lady Helenna," Clegane offered.

"The girls, yes, and with my thanks. I would speak with Lenna before she goes."

"My orders-" Clegane began, still only addressing her father.

"She will be safe with me and her brothers, Clegane. Your sense of duty does you honor," Wyman responded with a smile. The two girls had risen to stand with him, Wylla looking rather put out, and he looked over at Lenna at last.

"Goodnight, Clegane," she said softly. Goodnight, Sandor.

""Night," he replied, swallowing heavily, following the Manderly sisters out of the hall.

Wyman settled back into his chair his hands laced across his belly again.

"I am not sure how you acquired such a guard dog, my dear, but I can't say that I disapprove entirely."

"Don't call him that, Papa," she admonished gently.

"It bothers you, to hear him called a dog?"

"It would bother me if it were you being called such, too," she replied.

"Remarkable fellow. Honest."

"To a fault, sometimes," she smiled.

"Lenna, do you know why you're here?" Wyman asked, getting straight to the point. Lenna smiled a little, basking in her father's old ways.

"I assumed it was because I was going to be mined for information on my return," she answered truthfully. "I think Clegane knows more than he wants to tell me. I tried to make him-"

"No, he would never. Not if he felt it would put you at risk. Do you know why he was sent with you? Strange choice of escort for a lady."

Lenna shook her head. She had her suspicions, but Sandor wouldn't confirm them either way.

"He was sent to gather very specific information," Wyman continued.

Lenna's brow furrowed. "What kind of information?"

"The extent of my power here, my ships and garrison. And my potential as a ship-builder."

"Why would Cersei-"

"Never mistake who it is who is making the decisions and giving the orders, my dear."

"Then why would Tywin want to know that? We are at peace, and have been-"

"Not long enough. You were born before the Rebellion, child, we were at war through your earliest years. Tywin Lannister is nothing if not a planner."

"What does he want with us?"

"I can't tell, but everything these past six years points to some plot or other. And sending you here- I don't know what to make of it. Neither does your Clegane."

"How do you know all of this?"

Wyman looked at her with a half-smile. "Clegane told me."

Lenna looked at her father in open confusion.

"I asked him an honest question. He gave me an honest answer."

"What did you tell him?" she asked breathlessly.

"That he'd have the information he needed before you travel back to King's Landing."

Lenna drew in a deep breath.

"Papa, I've been thinking-"

"You're going back, Lenna," her father said with finality. Her brothers, who had been standing a little apart as they listened to their conversation, both turned sharply.

"If she wants to stay, let her. What are they going to do?" Wendel asked. He was always the brasher of the two.

"I don't want to imagine what they would do," Wyman replied with steel in his voice. He turned his gaze back to Lenna. "I don't want to lose you again, child. These last six years have been so long without you. But there is no other way to keep us all on the right side of them. Don't you see that?"

Lenna couldn't muster a response of any kind.

"Let us enjoy our time together, shall we? It was such a treat to hear your voice tonight. You and Wynna always were such a pair."

Lenna smiled as best she could. She was suddenly so tired she could barely hold her head up.

"To bed, child. We'll have more talk and songs on the morrow. Of a pleasanter persuasion, I hope," her father said, making to rise. She waved her hand and went to him, kissing him on the forehead, feeling her heart expand painfully as she did so. She proceeded to kiss her brother's whiskery cheeks and press their hands before she left the hall.

Instead of making her way to her room, her feet took her to the ramparts. She had forgotten how dark it could be in White Harbor, how clear and bright the stars were, how many of them she could see scattered across the black vastness of the cold sky.

"You aren't supposed to be here."

She smiled into the night, not bothering to turn when she heard his raspy voice. "This is my home. It is exactly where I am supposed to be."

He came to stand beside her, just a hand's-breadth away. They stood for quite some time, Lenna enjoying the chill evening breeze in her face and the warmth of the man standing beside her.

"You made quite an impression on my father," she said. "He told me everything."

He stiffened beside her, drawing a little away. When she looked up at him, she could see shame on his features, even in the dim light.

"I did not want-" he ground out, but she turned toward him and laid a hand on his elbow to stop him.

"I know. But you told him the truth. He likes you for it," Lenna smiled. "I'm glad. I'd have them all like you."

"Why?"

"Because I like you," she said quietly. It was harder to say than she anticipated, and she almost tripped over it. "Because you are my friend."

He smiled his irregular smile, and his gray eyes recovered some of their brightness.

"You looked troubled earlier," she said, looking back over the water.

"Because you are happy."

"You were sad because I was happy? That doesn't make any sense," she laughed, throwing him a sideways smirk.

"It will be hard for you to leave again."

"Aye," she replied, feeling it press on her like a weight. "It will be hard. But I will have you."

He came a little closer, his hands resting on the wall so close to hers that it would have taken the merest movement of her fingers or hers and they would have been touching. She smiled to see her pale little hand next to his rough brown one, and she wished she had the courage to reach over and take it in hers. Instead, they stood together under the stars with the wind in their faces, side by side but as far away from each other as if the Narrow Sea lay between them.

Sandor XI

He'd had to force himself to see her back to her room that first night. He would have gladly stayed there on that rampart until dawn if it meant he'd been standing with her, the warmth of her body next to his warming his side and making chills run down his spine.

But he had torn himself away, and walked with her to her chamber door. She'd turned her face up to his and taken his hand, squeezing it and looking like she wanted to say something before bidding him goodnight and leaving him alone in the passageway. He wondered what it was. When he'd found his bed at last, drawing those thick curtains around him, he'd dreamt of standing on the wall with her, this time her slender hand in his.

It was tame as far as dreams of her went, and that was what had disturbed him most. He rose early the next morning and decided to get his mind off it with a spell in the training yard. It was the best way to keep him from thinking ridiculous thoughts about things that could never be.

When he arrived at the training yards, a young squire had helped him tighten the straps of his armor. In that time, the captain of the city guard had arrived. He was a strapping man with a shock of red hair. Approaching Sandor like it had been his intention in coming, he stuck out a hand to shake before offering his services. Sandor sized him up and decided to accept. He did want to get his hands on a trident, after all.

It took Sandor all of an hour to figure the trident out. It was the net he was having difficulty with. He and the captain had been at it for a while, and they were both sweaty, but Sandor was bound and determined that he was going to win. It ignited a devilish competition in his blood, the thought of besting the man at his own weapon.

It was quite a fight. The other man was smaller than him, a bit nimbler, and much better at anticipating where the net would land. It seemed strange to Clegane, using a net as an off-hand weapon, but it only took being felled once to see the appeal. He was sweating profusely, even in the cold sun. He'd thrown his helm off earlier, and now his hair was plastered to his face as he parried and thrust and blocked the other man's attempts. At last, he was able to throw the net in just such a way to use the weights attached to the edges to serve as counterweights, wrapping around his opponent's ankles. The captain tripped over his feet and Sandor wedged the tines of the trident around his short sword, twisting it until the other man was forced to drop it, then coming to stand over him with the blunted trident pressed against his chest.

"Well done, Clegane!" the man exclaimed from his prone position, breathing heavily with exertion as a wide smile split his face. "Damn, but that reputation is well-deserved."

He was about to make a retort when heard the sound a single person clapping from behind him. He turned to see her standing at the gallery rail, a wide smile on her face and an eyebrow raised.

"Have you ever seen anything like it, my lady?" the captain called, getting to his feet and bowing slightly.

"No, I can't say that I have," she replied.

"After an hour of training, beaten with my own weapon. If my lady will excuse us, I believe I owe Clegane here a pint of our best ale."

"Of course," she laughed. "Have fun."

He wanted to growl when she smirked at him again.

The captain kept up a steady stream of conversation, barraging him with questions about his life in King's Landing, the structure of the guard, the training they received. He related what he felt he could, knowing in his gut that this man was merely curious. He seemed to hold Sandor in rather high regard, asking his advice on how to best train new recruits, how to delegate duties among the men who weren't, perhaps, as adept at trident-fighting as he was.

They returned to the ale-house where he'd spent the previous afternoon. He noted quickly that the barkeep met his eye and nodded, recognizing him from the day before. He wondered if he was the one who had tipped Wyman Manderly off, or perhaps it was the onion seller, whom he passed in the square again. He supposed it made little difference, but he was curious. It impressed him that he, of all people, hadn't noticed them watching.

The captain eventually decided to go upstairs with one of the bawds, Clegane declining to do the same. He paid the tab at the bar, knowing it would fluster the other man, and pulled his hood up as he left, nodding to the barkeep as he left.

He wandered down to the quay, along the wharf and then toward the garrison. Wyman Manderly had more or less encouraged him to at least look like he was gathering information, just so word would reach the Lannisters through their informants. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised that Manderly was well aware that the Lannisters already had eyes in city. He was quite impressed with how perceptive the lot of them seemed to be.

He could have sworn that the elder of the girls, Wynna, had chosen that song for her aunt to sing on purpose. Since their first encounter, when the girl had looked at him with the same clear-sighted regard as Lenna once had, he believed that she saw more than he wanted her to. Last night had been proof, when she had taken up her bow and pulled that song out of her beloved aunt.

He didn't feel like he belonged in the tight family circle, though he supposed in some ways he was grateful. Cersei Lannister certainly never invited him to sit with them. These Manderlys treated him as if he were some guest rather than a guard. He didn't quite know what to make of it as he sat in that chair by their hearth, as far from the roaring fire as he could manage.

When the first line had poured from her throat, the hands on his thighs clenched, his fingers biting into his own flesh. How the fuck does she manage to do that? he'd thought, watching through the convenient fall of his hair. My heart is sair...I could range the world around…I wad do-what wad I not? For the sake o' Somebody.

His eyes had been riveted on Lenna's face. She looked so intent, such a bittersweet expression on her face, almost like she believed what she was saying. It made his stomach fall, wondering who she was thinking about. Wishing it was him.

When he looked at the girl with the fiddle, she'd been looking back at him rather than attending to her bow. She didn't need to, and a small smile had appeared on her face as she watched him, catching him as his gaze slid from Lenna to hers. It was a self-satisfied smile that made his gut seize.

"Help you, ser?"

A skinny guard was smiling at him. It brought him immediately back to the present, all thoughts of songs and heartache out of his head. The man - boy- was young, no more than eighteen, his face still a bit pimply. Sandor went on alert, the slightest hint of a smile curling on the scarred side of his face.

It didn't take long to make him squeak. He barely twisted the lad's arm behind his back before all he wanted was laid at his feet. If he'd had to gather this information himself, he would have found it easily. It almost disappointed him.

It also disturbed him. It shouldn't have been so easy, and he wondered if the boy were faithless, feckless, or already in Lannister employ. He wondered if the information was even accurate.

There was only one way to find out.

He wended his way back up the Castle Stair, past all the damned mermaid's and their sphinx-like smiles, and walked past the guards into the family quarters in the New Castle. He wondered who had given the order not to stop him, at least ask him his business, thinking it an ill-advised show of trust. Lenna may trust him, but her father and brothers had no reason to.

No, they simply trust her.

He strode up the Wyman Manderly's study and knocked sharply, turning the handle when the old man gruffly bade him enter.

He didn't get far through the door. She was seated on the wide ledge of her father's window casement, her knees drawn up and her feet bare. Her slippers were on the floor, laying helter-skelter like she'd just kicked them off. A book was propped up on her thighs, but she wasn't reading, one arm wrapped about her torso as she looked out the window. The harbor breeze was playing in the curls that had escaped from her braid, fluttering about her face, caressing her neck like he wished to do. The braid was interwoven with his gray ribbon, and he looked greedily at the picture she made, lovely and pale and serene with the sea behind her in one vast stretch of vacillating grays and blues.

He could have stood there indefinitely, not feasting his eyes so much as resting, but Wyman Manderly must have noticed where his gaze tended.

"Yes, Clegane?"

He turned to look at Manderly, a jab of shame striking him when he saw the serious and knowing expression in the old lord's eyes.

"My lord, I have come from the harbor."

"Yes?"

"You have a rat, my lord. And I made him squeak."

Manderly's mouth quirked. "Come to determine if he told the truth?"

"Aye, and if he did, to tell you so."

"Have you turned him into a Manderly spy, Papa?" she said with a playful smile. Her lips, plump and pink, were parted in a merry grin, like it was some good joke.

"Of a kind," Manderly replied. "Tell us, then, Clegane."

So he did. He told Manderly about the guard, the easy way in which he'd been able to compel the boy to tell him there were two thousand garrisoned soldiers, as well as another fifteen bannermen with their own armies within a days ride of the city. He told him how the lad had told him the contents of the armory, and even offered to draw him a map.

Wyman stroked his white goatee thoughtfully.

"All true," he said at last. "I wonder that Tywin bothered to send you at all."

"As do I, my lord," he said lowly, looking to Lenna.

"Of course, I gave up trying to understand Tywin many years ago. Perhaps," he paused, looking at his daughter, "perhaps it's time to let someone else try."

"Papa?"

"You told me, lass, that Tywin told you that I was fostered at Casterly Rock, that we grew up together."

"Yes, he did."

"It is strange that you haven't asked me about it, child," he said softly. "You were always too curious for your own good."

"I can go, my lord," Sandor said, uncomfortable with how the conversation had shifted, the intimacy between father and daughter.

"No, Clegane, stay," the old lord said. "Sit."

Sandor didn't want to sit, but he did as he was told, folding himself up into the stiff-backed chair in front of Manderly's desk.

Manderly rose and poured them each a mug of ale.

"Best be comfortable. This may take a while," he said, wryly raising his mug in a toast and downing the lot in one swallow.

A/N: Thank you for all of the kind words! I love to hear from you all!