Lenna XXIX
He snuck out of her room well before dawn, reluctantly strapping on his armor again. She stood and watched, noting how endearingly self-conscious he was as his fingers fumbled with the straps, but too enchanted by the sight of him in her chambers to be of much help. He'd never crossed into her rooms before, and now that he was here she didn't want him to leave. She wished that he'd stayed despite knowing he was right to worry about what could happen if they were found out. She was feeling reckless, though, her patience for the courtly games strained in the face of looming war.
The storm.
She had barely had a chance to think about all that had happened the day before. She'd had no idea when she'd woken up the previous morning that the world would be lopsided before nightfall. She berated herself for her folly in believing that things couldn't get worse, now seeing the misery of the previous years as a privilege rather than a curse. She had been kept from her family, yes, and she and Sandor were in a difficult position, that was true, but a war- a war was so much worse.
When he'd burst into Sansa Stark's room the day before she'd been terrified, her legs liquefying as it took all of her determination not to sink into a swoon. It had taken her a full five seconds to realize that it was Sandor who had thrown open the door and barked at her to follow, and even when she recognized him, her brain was a muddy haze that could not comprehend why he could possibly be there. His helm had been up, the visor down, and she could barely make out his grey eyes in the depths of shadow. Those eyes had been wide with something like fear, and she had faltered, wasting precious time.
When he'd thrown his visor up, the look on his face made her tremble. He hadn't needed to tell her that things would go badly for her if she stayed with Sansa Stark. In a moment of weakness, she hadn't cared what would befall the girl, and could only do as he compelled her. When the girl had closed the door behind her and Sandor had taken her by the elbow, she followed him dumbly, stumbling over her own feet like a dullard. She felt like she was in a dream as she watched him draw his sword, some horrible nightmare, the blade scraping harshly against the scabbard. She watched in a daze as he struck the man careening toward them, a scarlet arc of his blood flying through the air. Lenna swore she could count the individual droplets, they seemed to slow as they travelled toward her, landing against her skirts like a graceful sweep of ink on parchment. She barely registered the gasps and gurgles of the dying man as he lay on the stone stairs of the castle, Sandor dragging her over the prone form, leaving the poor man to die alone as she gaped.
He kept her behind him, one gauntleted hand on her wrist as he fought through the courtyard. It didn't seem real, and when they emerged into the comparative quiet of the Holdfast, she could not wrap her brain around what had just happened. She felt blurry and disoriented, raising a hand to her head and finding it difficult to focus her eyes.
Sandor peered down into her face, his eyes as hard as the grip he kept on her upper arm, fingers digging into her flesh and providing a counterpoint to her hazy confusion. She concentrated on them, on their cool color, and felt her sense of self come rushing back like the thundering of a thousand wings.
"What is going on?" she asked, grasping his elbow to keep from stumbling. It felt like a gasping for air, like she'd just escaped an undertow and was desperate for a breath.
"Lord Stark has been arrested for treason," he replied flatly. He was still holding his sword. It was crimson with blood.
"Oh gods, the girls-" she choked, her eyes turning in horror back to the Tower of the Hand. She could hear the sounds of blades ringing against each other, clear as bells. I should have stayed, she thought frantically, hardly remembering her fright as she fled from Sansa, leaving the girl to face her fate alone.
"No," he said forcefully, reading her face and spinning her to him. "Don't try to go to them. They will be safe."
She searched his face, wondering how they could possibly be safe as their father's men were slaughtered around them like pigs or sheep, their blood running in rivulets between the cobblestones. Sansa would be terrified.
"But they must be so afraid," she said.
At first she thought it was fear that kept her trembling, but then she was startled to realize that she was not afraid. Instead, she was angry, and it was rising like a firestorm.
Sandor gentled his grip and they started moving deeper into the Holdfast.
"Where are we going?"
"The queen asked me to fetch you," he replied. She nodded, realizing that in whatever moment the decision had been made to raid Ned Stark's household, the queen had thought of her. Had saved her. No wonder he'd looked so ferocious when he'd thrown open that doorway, shepherding her out through the melee. If he hadn't, Lenna had no doubt that she'd be lying in a pool of her own blood, just like the Stark guard he'd killed in the stairway, spluttering and dying without understanding why.
His thoughts must have been travelling along a similar path. Sandor stopped abruptly and pulled her to him right there in the passageway, his mouth landing on hers with bruising force. It wasn't gentle, it was desperate, like he was assuring himself that he had, in fact, gotten her out of the Tower alive. His eyes were intense as he looked down at her, unblinking as the battle-rage still strained his face, but there was something else there as well. Fear.
"Do what she says, say what she wants to hear. Do you understand me?"
"Of course, Sandor," she replied. She always did. Lenna Manderly was quite adept at being what Cersei Lannister wanted her to be. He let out a harsh breath and nodded, his hand hesitating around her shoulder like he wanted to touch her face but thought the better of it.
The queen was sitting at her ease in her solar, the room full of eerily silent courtiers. Sandor left her at the door, and she knew where he was heading: back into the fray. It didn't turn her stomach they way she would have expected it to. The idea of Sandor continuing his work, cutting down her fellow Northmen, did not bother her. The possibility that he might come to some harm did. She felt a piece of herself slip away like cinders in night air.
The queen beckoned her over and Lenna took a seat on a cushion at her feet without hesitation.
"Dear Lenna," the queen said, a radiant smile on her face. Lenna forced herself to return it, knowing that Cersei was watching her face for any reaction. "I am so glad you are with us now. Will you not sing?"
"Of course, your grace," she replied. She didn't even bother to ask what the queen wanted to hear. She began Castamere.
When she did finally make it back to her own rooms late that night, Lenna stood in the middle of the floor for a long moment feeling completely unmoored. She wanted to cry, but no tears rose in her throat and her eyes remained dry as stones. Instead, there was something else burning in her belly, like the embers of a long-burned out fire, still scorching and treacherous. Fury. She stood by the window and looked out over the water for a long while, that feeling gradually subsiding, but she knew that it was still lingering in her gut, waiting to be stoked back to flame.
The sharp rap and the scrape of boots at her door did not take her by surprise. It did shock her when he crossed the threshold into her room. He'd left her at the door so many times, refusing time and again to enter, but in two strides he was in and she barred the door.
"Sandor," she said lowly. "What is going on?"
The queen had refused to address the events of the day, pretending like it was just an ordinary day. Her entire court had a good idea of what was going on, but no one spoke, everyone too terrified of angering her. Of knowing the truth.
Sandor pressed his lips together in reticence.
"Are you well?" he deflected, putting his hands on her shoulders. He still had his gauntlets on, and she looked at him carefully, taking in the smears of blood on his armor, the streaks of grit under his eyes.
"Aye, as well as I can be," she replied. He nodded grimly, removing his helm. His hair was limp with sweat as he dragged a hand through it. "Sandor, please. Tell me what is happening."
He told her little at first. She had heard the whisperings in the solar, had guessed exactly what was going on. She understood the what completely, it was the why that left her at a loss.
"What charges could they bring against Lord Stark?" she asked. Sandor sighed.
"He claims that Joffrey isn't the rightful heir, that the throne should instead go to King Robert's brother."
"Renly?" she asked, incredulous.
"Stannis."
His response did nothing to assuage her confusion. If anything, it heightened it.
"But how could Joffrey not be the heir? He's Robert's son-"
Sandor's lack of response spoke more eloquently than a lengthy explication could. The very idea that Joffrey wasn't Robert's son was incomprehensible.
"How could Lord Stark possibly think that the queen would do such a thing?" she burst out, her gut rejecting the idea out of hand. Cersei was many things, but she wasn't an adulteress, was she? Lenna thought back through all of her interactions with the queen, how Sandor had insisted that she was the queen's friend. She was as close to her as any, if she was committing adultery, surely Lenna would know. The queen kept herself to herself, except for Lenna and her brother.
Oh gods, she thought suddenly, an inkling of a suspicion entering her mind before she swiftly shoved it away.
"He must have had his reasons," Sandor said quietly, his voice carefully neutral. His manner only confirmed what she had been thinking, but she wanted to hear it from him, for him to tell her that she wasn't just thinking lewd, vile, treasonous thoughts.
"What do you think?" she asked abruptly, desperate to hear his perspective, to put to ground the terrible idea of Cersei and her handsome brother.
"I think that it doesn't matter one way or the other," he replied, his gray eyes steady and full of good sense. It did not comfort her, if that was his intent. "Joffrey is the king, and nothing is going to change that. And since he is the king, I am his servant."
"Just as I am," she spat.
"Aye. I am glad you remember it." There was steel in his voice and his eyes. She knew there was much he wasn't saying, that damnable honor of his preventing him from passing on information he felt might compromise her.
She felt trapped, suddenly wishing she had taken Lord Stark's offer and fled North with or without his girls in tow.
"What do I do then?"
"What you have always done," he replied. He crossed to her and took her hand in his. She hated the way the gauntlet felt, hard and sharp, not at all comforting. His armor only served to remind her of what they were at any given moment in the Red Keep, partial versions of themselves. She couldn't look at him.
"Bear up and do your duty," he murmured, his eyes soft again.
Her mother's words in his mouth made her stand up straighter. She thought of her beautiful mother, wishing as she had thousands of times for just one more chance to talk of her. To know what she knew of the Lannisters, what she had learned and what she would do in Lenna's situation. She had often wondered what Adalyn Locke had done, had seen, in her time with Joanna Lannister, and how she would conduct herself now when the stakes had been exponentially raised.
Lenna was quite sure in that moment that she would never see her family again.
It was rash of her to think that she could get a letter out of King's Landing, but she sat down and began scribbling, hardly aware of Sandor as he sat awkwardly on the chest at the end of her bed. Words flowed, words of love, of caution, of advice to her nieces. Words of affection for her brothers. Words of gratitude for her father. Words that there would never be enough time to say.
She handed the letters to Sandor when she was finished and watched him read them.
"Have I included anything objectionable?" she asked, surprised at her own lack of emotion. She felt peculiarly detached, as if the letters were just one of her long, tedious translations instead of the last letters she would ever write to her family.
"No," he replied softly. "But they will know."
"Aye," she said, a hot wave of love for them all splashing past the barrier she didn't remember building. "We Manderlys are an intuitive lot. They'll know as soon as they arrive that something is afoot."
"Always saw through me." His voice was no more than a whisper. She wondered what he meant. "I'm convinced that your niece knew that I-"
Lenna recalled Wynna's impertinent questions they night they arrived in White Harbor, demanding to know if the Hound was in love with her, or she with him, all of her unmaidenly words about climbing trees and the way he looked at her.
"She did," Lenna said, at first amused by the memory despite the circumstances, but then remembering something else the girl had said with sobering clarity. She looked at the papers in his hands as if they were snakes. "She told me the most alarming thing, that first night in White Harbor."
"What?"
"That you would die for me." She didn't want to say it, and it escaped as a whisper. She had known on some level that it was true, and that it had always been true. After all, Sandor was a guard, and it was his job to protect the royal family. Somehow she had gotten lumped into that charge, too. But it was more than just the mere doing of duty that her niece had meant. Sandor Clegane would rush headlong into a fire for her if she asked it, no questions asked.
"Aye." She knew he was looking at her, but she couldn't look at his face, not right then, realization and reckoning tearing through her.
"And what is more," she continued hesitantly, floundering. Wynna's exact turn of phrase hit her like an arrow in her chest. She'd found the idea almost romantic when her niece had said it, and it had made her catch her breath to think of that kind of devotion. Now it was sharp and cutting. "That you would hand the knife to me and hold still while I killed you myself."
He didn't reply, and his silence told her everything she needed to know. It wasn't about duty, about some vow he'd made years before. It might have started that way in the beginning, but it had grown into something more grim. Sandor Clegane wouldn't just die for her, he'd sacrifice himself for her. In the past, she hadn't seen a difference, but now, looking at that sheaf of papers in his hands, remembering how insistent she had been just an hour before that they reach her family regardless of the consequences, she saw that he wouldn't deny her wishes if he could, even if it meant his head on a spike for his trouble. For words. For you.
"Sandor. Tell me that isn't true. That you wouldn't lay down your life-"
"I can't," he murmured. "I can't do that."
Without another thought, she grabbed the letters and thrust them into the fire. She was furious. Furious at him, the queen, the war, and, most of all, herself.
"Why did you-"
"It would have been a knife, wouldn't it? I could have killed you with it. Stupid pieces of paper, a girl's fancy. And you'd have done it, damn you."
She had thrown herself against his chest, and in another time she might have cried, but Helenna Manderly had no tears left. Her fury did not abate as she ran her fingers into his hair, but recklessness rose in her blood. She pressed herself against him, heedless of his filthy plate. She felt his hands rest against her hair, cradling her head, and she felt terribly, horrendously ashamed.
Ashamed that she hadn't seen that devotion for what it was, ashamed that she hadn't realized that he would put aside his own good judgment to please her, to serve her. Ashamed that she had even asked him to do something so daft and rash and dangerous to begin with, not even thinking of the consequences beyond her own selfishness. It made her fierce to realize that Sandor Clegane would gladly bleed and die for her, truly her thrall, and when she backed away from him, she wasn't quite sure what she was doing.
She only knew that she was not going to let him put her off this time. Her Sandor didn't put much stock in words, she saw the disbelief in his face when she spoke her feelings to him, an expression of patience and tolerance rather than any true acknowledgement that he accepted what she was saying. He didn't believe himself deserving of those feelings, though he overwhelmed her with his own. Other men might have said the right words, have smiled and doted on her and wooed her, but not Sandor. No pretty speeches from him. The strength and warmth of his hands on her, his slavish devotion to her pleasure and her safety and her comfort, even when it meant risking his own, spoke volumes more than silvery words and affirmations.
She could have told him that she loved him again, and he would have half-smiled and half-replied. He had never been able to say the word aloud, the expression of a frightened rabbit in his eyes whenever he attempted it. She got the distinct impression that he was humoring her, that he didn't actually believe her when she said it, rather that he believed that she believed she loved him. But words would not suffice now, and if he wouldn't listen to her words, damn it, he was going to understand by some other means.
She wasn't ashamed of what she did then, in fact, she was terribly proud of doing that to him. He was taken aback when she started to remove his plate, dropping it piece by piece on her floor with an efficiency better suited to a training-yard than a bedroom. She felt oddly businesslike as she divested him of it, enjoying the idea of stripping away the Hound and exposing Sandor again. He hadn't been himself since he'd come into her room, some strange and unwieldy combination of his two personas.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
She smirked, though he couldn't see her.
"Forgetting," she replied, remembering the ways he'd made her forget in the past, thrilled when he shuddered a little at her use of his own words.
When she'd removed the plate and he'd taken off his tunic, she pushed him to sit on the edge of her bed. She wanted to push him all the way back, to climb on top of him, but it was a selfish impulse. He spent so much of their time together focusing only on her. She'd do the same for him by making him shudder and groan, his hands burying in her hair as her own roamed as they always wanted to, unencumbered by his plate and tunic. His skin was warm, his chest heaving, his fingers digging into her mattress as she kissed him.
She was still a little embarrassed by the tenting in his trousers, but she was angry enough, bold enough, that she slid her hands down his thighs and grasped him there. It startled him and he gasped, grabbing at her hands.
"No," she said with determination. "I'm going to do for you what you do for me, Sandor Clegane. And you're not going to stop me this time."
"Lenna, you don't have to-" he protested, shaking his head.
"I want to," she replied, furrowing her brow. He was being deliberately obtuse. "Don't you understand, Sandor? All that you would do for me, I would do for you in return."
"I don't want your gratitude," he said, his eyes dull until they flashed away from hers.
She cursed the people who had made him this way, so disbelieving that he deserved to be loved, to be wanted. And she cursed herself for not attending to him for so long, for allowing him to go on believing it, for not showering him with as much attention as he gave her.
"I'm not quite sure what you think gratitude is," she whispered. "But this isn't it." She turned her hand over and seized his, placing it on her breast. She was fairly sure he could feel her heartbeat. "I must be extremely selfish if this is my way of showing gratitude."
She'd undone her gown and he'd succumbed, trying his damndest to turn his attention to her with hands and mouth, but she'd steadfastly deterred him, just as he had deterred her for months. When she called him love, he had frozen like a stunned stag, his eyes wide until she continued her ministrations, his hands and mouth becoming more and more demanding.
He'd made her take her hair down, and it might have been the most deliriously sensuous thing he'd ever done, watching her ravenously as she drew the pins out, running his hands through as he disentangled the braid, pressing the hard jut of his cock against her backside. It inflamed her, and she was impressed with her own audacity when she'd untied his trousers and pushed them to the floor. She looked at him a long time, never having seen a man like that before. He stood still as a sparring pell, hands fisted by his sides, but if she wasn't mistaken there was mischief in his eyes. He was proud of himself, of the part of him that bobbed in the air between them, stiff and hot.
Completely proportionate, she noted, stifling an internal giggle.
Truthfully, it scared her a little, but he gasped deliciously when she took him in hand, and she felt immensely powerful as she watched her reactions once he'd taught her what to do. Kneeling between his feet had given her the perfect vantage point from which to observe him, loving the way his face contorted, his lips and cheeks flushing, his eyes almost black as he watched her. He looked at her like he was starving, his eyes refusing to leave her face. It almost embarrassed her, but she found herself returning his gaze as much as possible, though she was distracted by her explorations. When that little bead appeared at his tip, she furrowed her brow and then bent without hesitation to see what it tasted like. He had, after all, no compunction about using his mouth on her.
The effect had been immediate and immensely satisfying as a loud expletive was released from his throat, his eyes going wide and nearly rolling up into his head. She relished watching his lack of control, his hands flexing in her hair, his hips bucking involuntarily when she drew him into her mouth again. He gasped some protestations, but she didn't listen to him, reading instead his pleasure in his guttural cries and creative use of her name and every curse word she'd ever heard.
He'd gone suddenly tense and still, and she felt it flood her mouth as he groaned. She smiled up at him, wiping her hand across her lips. The expression on his face wasn't what she expected. He looked utterly remorseful.
"I'm sorry," he said frantically, swallowing hard.
"For what? Did I do something wrong?" she asked, suddenly afraid.
He laughed. "No. No, you did nothing wrong, it's just-"
"What then?"
"I wouldn't expect a lady to-"
"Did you like it?" she asked pointedly, already knowing the answer.
"Fuck yes," he replied slackly, and her stomach flipped.
"And if I want to do it again?" She wanted very much to do it again, as often as he'd let her. It was a heady thing, making Sandor Clegane lose that steely self-control, come apart at the seams.
"You'll have no objections from me."
He cradled her against him as he leaned against her headboard. Apparently, what she'd done to him had loosened his tongue. He came as close to admitting his feelings for her in his own words as he had ever done. He'd talked about Wynna and her preternatural ability to see through people, a skill Lenna had for everyone except him. And then he'd told her something that eradicated the lingering anger in her belly altogether.
She could still remember watching her father pull him close in the courtyard of the New Castle, urgency on his whiskery face as he clasped the younger, much larger man by the elbow. Her father had said something to him that had made his eyes go wide, and she had wondered what it was. She had some sneaking suspicion that it was to do with her, but what that particular exchange could be, she had no idea. It didn't look like a threat, or an admonishment, and Sandor had colored at her father's words.
"He told me," Sandor said at last, "that if I could make sure you were safe through whatever it was that he would give me anything I asked for that he could give."
Lenna felt as if all the air had been stolen from her lungs. Seven bless you, Papa, she thought madly, knowing in a moment exactly what her father had meant. She marvelled that he had seen it years before, before she even admitted what she felt for the man behind her, marvelled that he'd approved.
"Sandor," she murmured. "You know that he meant-"
"Did he?" His voice was unsure, almost tremulous. It made her love him all the more.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, he did."
He turned her face to his, his hand along her jaw as his eyes met hers solemnly. There is so much to say, she thought, and I can't find the words.
"Then I'll have to keep you safe, won't I?"
He'd left her with a lingering kiss before he'd put on his helm and headed out into the night. She didn't sleep. There was far too much to think about, and Lenna was far from easy. If anything, Sandor's revelation had only driven their stakes even higher. She had allowed herself to think there could be a future when he'd shown her the parchment he carried on him at all times, thinking of a keep and lands as assets in whatever fight they might attempt. It had felt like a frail fantasy, and perhaps it was. But her own father's promise almost nullified its necessity. If Wyman Manderly had indeed spoken those words, it was as good as a contract. She knew he'd honor it.
They only had to survive long enough to see it happen. Something that would be easier talked about than done.
To survive meant to be exactly what the Lannisters wanted them each to be. For Lenna, that meant staying in Cersei's good graces, something that wasn't terribly challenging. The morning after the raid, Cersei had called Lenna to her first thing in the morning. They did not speak much, the queen asking an odd question that Lenna did her best to answer satisfactorily. Nothing particularly political or pressing, mostly about Myrcella's education. And what to do with Sansa Stark.
Arya had disappeared, and the queen didn't appear terribly concerned by it. It worried Lenna greatly, wondering what on earth had happened to the littlest Stark. She'd told Sandor, of course, but he had heard nothing, even after a few well-timed forays into Flea Bottom to listen in the ale houses. The girl had simply vanished.
After three days, Sansa Stark was brought before Cersei. The queen had assembled the small council in her solar, and Lenna found herself trapped with them during the proceedings. Cersei had called her that morning, and she had sat with the queen as she breakfasted, in better spirits than Lenna had ever seen her. When Pycelle and Baelish entered the room, she had risen to leave, but the queen bid her stay. It took all of her self-possession to take her seat again gracefully.
Sansa was a trembling wreck when she was led into the room, her blue eyes even more vivid in her tear-stained face as she stood before the queen. Lenna felt her for, trying to smile a little when the girl's gaze flicked to hers. She was surrounded by so many foes.
"Are you well, my dove?" the queen asked.
"Yes, your grace," the girl replied at once, a faint tremor in her voice. "Only-"
"Yes, my dove?" Lenna could detect the trace of annoyance in her tone.
"No one will tell me what is going on," Sansa said. Lenna had to give the girl credit for trying to keep her voice even.
"Oh, dear child," the queen said softly, her eyes glowing with a pleasure that Lenna found reprehensible. "Your father has been arrested."
"But your grace-"
"My dear Sansa," the queen interrupted. "Be assured that the king loves you, wishes the very best for you, but I am afraid, child, that your father is a traitor."
"He isn't, your grace," the child protested, her voice rising. "Father would never-"
"He is betrayed by his own hand," Cersei said. She rose from her seat and went to her desk, returning with a letter. "See, my dove? He wished to send this message to Stannis Baratheon. He was trying to take the throne from Joffrey."
"It can't be true," Sansa said weakly, taking the letter as her auburn brows knitted together. "He was the king's friend."
"Alas, my dear, read it for yourself."
When Sansa looked back up, she had tears in her eyes.
"But I am to marry-"
"The king loves you my dear, very much," Cersei said, reaching out and touching the girl's pale cheek. Lenna nearly shuddered to see the false show of care. "And we know what a loyal subject you are. After all, you came to us as soon as you heard of your father's idea to send you away, isn't that so?"
Lenna's ears perked at this. She had no idea that Sansa had gone to the queen to tell her of Ned Stark's plans. A trickle of ice ran through her veins at the thought that perhaps Sansa had known that Lord Eddard had offered to take her home as well.
"I told you because I love Joffrey. I want to marry him," Sansa insisted.
"The girl could still be a traitor," Pycelle said. Lenna had quite forgotten he was there.
"She will grow resentful, your grace, and more like her father," Varys posited, his hands hidden in the folds of his robe.
"No," Baelish cut in. "She is Cat Stark's daughter. She is very like her. I do not think she would turn traitor."
"There is little difference as far as I am concerned," the queen said with a twitch of her eyebrow. "Lady Helenna, what do you think?"
Lenna looked at the queen in astonishment.
"Me, your grace?"
"Yes."
Lenna looked at Sansa for a long moment.
"Lady Sansa is young your grace, innocent and naive to the ways of the world. I doubt very much she had any idea what her father was plotting. I'm sure it is as much as a surprise to her as it is to, well, to me. Am I a traitor, your grace?"
"Of course not, Lady Helenna," the queen said. "What a thing to ask."
"I only ask, your grace, because it seems to me that Lady Sansa's crime is only her birth. She has done nothing wrong. In fact, it seems she came to you of her own free will to help your grace, and the king, to tell you something she felt you needed to know."
"As you did."
"Yes, your grace."
"But her sister turned her wolf on the king, remember?"
"Aye, your grace, but Lady Sansa-"
"I am nothing like Arya," Sansa said forcefully. "I would never hurt the king. I only want to marry him and have his babies."
"Perhaps," Cersei said, looking at Lenna, "if the rest of her family proves loyal it would allay the council's fears."
"What do you suggest, your grace?" Lenna asked, keeping the tremble out of voice that started rumbling coldly in her belly.
"Lady Helenna will help you write a few letters, Sansa. She has three of her own to write, you see," Cersei said, flicking her eyes to Lenna. She could do nothing but nod in return even as her insides turned to ice. "You must write to your lady mother, and to your brother, and tell them that your father betrayed the king."
"I do not know what to say," Sansa said.
"We will help you, won't we, Lady Helenna?"
"Of course, your grace," Lenna answered, swallowing bile at the thought.
"It is most important that we maintain peace, Sansa. You must tell them that you are being well taken care of, and that they must come to King's Landing to swear fealty to the king."
Sansa looked between the queen and Lenna, but she couldn't muster a smile for the girl.
"Can I see my father?" the girl asked quietly. Lenna shut her eyes as a wave of pain for her overtook her senses. Pain and jealousy, feeling certain that she would never see her own father again in that lifetime.
"A loyal subject would not ask such a thing," Cersei admonished quietly. Lenna's stomach turned.
"Come," Lenna said, rising with a falsely bright smile. She beckoned the girl to come with her to Myrcella's little desk that sat beside the queen's. "I'll write mine first. You'll have to but copy it."
She forced herself to write a brief message to her father following Cersei's exact instructions. She copied it twice more, addressed to each of her brothers. She did it with as little reaction as possible, each stroke of the pen a prayer that they would guess it was written under coercion.
"Here," she said, sliding the paper toward Sansa. "All you need do is change the names and sign your own."
The girl sat down hesitantly, but did as she was told.
"We women are the weavers of peace," Cersei said, a cold smile on her lips as she looked at Sansa, then turned her eyes to Lenna again. She smiled tightly at the queen. "We have so little power that we must yield what we can well."
Lenna felt that this statement was more for her own benefit than for Sansa's, but she said nothing in response.
The girl wrote her letters, and the queen smiled at them both, warmly this time. The parchments were wrapped and sent with Pycelle for immediate delivery by raven.
The queen asked that Lenna and Sansa begin to join her in the mornings. Sansa was thrilled with Cersei's attention, chirping blandly to Lenna as she worked on her embroidery in the solar with the other maids. Lenna didn't even bother to try and sew, instead sitting with a book in her hand or standing at the window, looking out over the sea before Myrcella's lesson began.
The solar was always busy, but everyone seemed haggard, resigned. Joffrey's court was much different than Robert's had been. Where there had been gay laughter there was now sullen silence, the very demeanor of the courtiers changed as they danced around their new king like they would a viper. Their voices were hushed and furtive, everyone's eyes more suspicious than ever before, and she felt many of them fall on her, heard their whispers. But, Lenna did not fear for herself. It was strange, but she was confident that the Lannisters would let no harm befall her while she was in King's Landing. It would do them no good. She had proven herself, time and again, not a Northern lady, but a Lannister servant. A loyal servant.
Safe in the eye. For now.
Sandor XXIX
He saw her toward the back of the crowd standing with Sansa Stark. He didn't like the amount of time she was being asked to spend with the Stark girl, felt keenly that it would not be to her advantage. But, it was what the queen commanded, and she did as she was told.
He'd spent the last week with the low grumble of worry in his gut. Ever since Ned Stark had been taken prisoner and led into the Black Cells, Sandor could feel the storm winds whirling faster and faster. Old Manderly's hurricane was about to make landfall, and keeping her in the eye was going to take a considerable amount of work on her part. So far, she'd managed it with little outward trouble, though he knew it taxed her peace of mind.
He was standing in his usual place at Joffrey's left, his helm in place. There was a large gathering of courtiers, eager to see how the new king would conduct his first day of arbitration, though there were to be no petitioners that day.
Instead, Joffrey had started his rule with a show of force, having Pycelle read a long list of people who he wished to present themselves in King's Landing to swear fealty to him. He noted Lenna's father and brothers among those named, her eyes meeting his across the heads of the crowd. The Starks were read last, and Pycelle read out every last one of them's name, down to little Rickon, no more than five or six.
"In the place of the traitor, Eddard Stark, it is the wish of his grace that Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, be appointed Hand of the King. Lastly in these times of treason and turmoil it is the view of council that the life and safety of King joffrey be of paramount importance."
"Ser Barristan Selmy," Cersei called, standing.
The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard approached the dais slowly. He was still a powerful-looking man despite his years. His shoulders were thrown, his eyes level with the queen's as he stood with his hand on his pommel in the attitude of a life-long soldier.
"Your grace, I am yours to command," the old knight replied, and he knelt with his head bowed reverently.
"Rise, Ser Barristan," the queen said graciously. "You may remove your helm. You have served the realm long and faithfully. Every man and woman in the Seven Kingdoms owes you thanks, but it is time to set aside your sword. It is time to rest and look back with pride on your many years of service."
"Your grace the Kingsguard is a sworn brotherhood, our vows are for life. Only death relieves us of our sacred trust," the old man said solemnly.
"Whose death, Ser Barristan? Yours or your king's?" Cersei replied, her tone placating.
"You let my father die. you're too old to protect anybody," Joffrey hissed.
"Your grace-" the Kingsguard protested.
"The council has determined that Ser Jaime Lannister will take your place as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."
Of fucking course they have, Sandor thought darkly. Tywin as the Hand, Jaime as the Lord Commander, Cersei the queen regent. There was no doubt that the Baratheon's no longer controlled the throne. The only power now was Lannister power.
"The man who profaned his blade with the blood of the king he was sworn to protect," Selmy protested, his fury apparent to all who saw him.
"Be careful, Ser," Cersei warned, ice creeping into to her voice.
"We have nothing but gratitude for your long service, good Ser," said Pycelle, his voice dripping like honey. Sandor could never tell what the eunuch actually thought. "You shall be given a stout keep beside the sea with servants to look after your every need."
"A hall to die in and men to bury me," Selmy spat. "I am a knight. I shall die a knight."
He proceeded to unfasten his white cloak, throwing it on the floor, closely followed by his helm and his gauntlets.
"A naked knight, apparently," Baelish quipped. Lenne curled her lip in disdain.
Selmy unexpectedly drew his sword, and Lenna saw Sandor's hand go to his pommel. But it was apparent to everyone, even her, that Selmy meant no threat. With a snort of derision he cast the sword on the floor, where it landed with a loud clang.
"Even now i could cut through the five of you like carving a cake," he snarled. He turned his disdain on the king. "Here, boy, melt it down and add it to the others."
He seemed ten feet tall as he turned heel and left the throne room, not bothering to bow toward the king. If there was ever a knight like those fucking stories, it was him, Sandor thought darkly, feeling he had just watched something die.
"If any man in this hall has other matters to set before his grace, let him speak now or go forth and hold his silence," the herald said, trying for all the world to look like nothing had happened.
"Your grace."
The voice was thin and reedy, and he recognized it at once. He looked at Lenna, and her face told him that she'd no idea the girl planned to speak.
"Come forward, my lady," Joffrey said, and Sandor's lip curled at the sickly sweetness in his voice.
"My Lady Sansa of House Stark," the herald announced.
"Do you have some business for the king and the council, Sansa?" the queen asked.
"I do," the girl replied. "As it please your grace, I ask mercy for my father, Lord Eddard Stark, who is Hand of the King."
The fuck is the girl doing?
"Treason is a noxious weed. It should be torn out by the root," Pycelle spluttered.
"Let her speak, I want to hear what she says," Joffrey said, raising a hand to the Grand Maester.
"Thank you, your grace," Sansa replied.
"Do you deny your father's crime?"
"No, my lord, I know he must be punished. All I ask is mercy. I know my lord father must regret what he did. He was King Robert's friend, and he loved him. You all know he loved him. He never wanted to be Hand until the king asked him. They must have lied to him, Lord Renly or Lord Stannis or somebody. They must have lied," the girl babbled, her cheeks reddening and her voice growing shrill.
"He said I wasn't king. Why would he say that?" Joffrey demanded
"He was badly hurt. Maester Pycelle was giving him Milk of the Poppy. He wasn't himself otherwise he never would have said it."
"A child's faith is such sweet innocence, and yet they say wisdom oft comes from the mouth of babes," Varys opined.
He talks but he doesn't say shit.
"Treason is treason," Pycelle reiterated.
"Anything else?" Joffrey asked gently.
"If you still have any affection in your heart for me, please do me this kindness, your grace," Sansa asked. Sandor almost rolled his eyes. He'd given Lenna hell for years about her love of courtly manners, but Sansa Stark was worse than ever she had been.
"Your sweet words have moved me," Joffrey said, placing his hand on his chest. "But your father has to confess. He has to confess and say that I'm the king or there will be no mercy for him."
"He will," Sansa replied, her voice ringing with certainty. She made a low curtsey to the king before taking her place beside Lenna again. Sandor's eyes met hers across the room and he didn't like what he saw there.
"Your grace," Pycelle said, grabbing the king's attention. "There is the matter of your kingsguard. You are a knight short."
"In the place of Ser Barristan, I name Sandor Clegane to the Kingsguard," Joffrey declared.
Sandor felt his blood go cold in shock and dismay.
"Your grace?" he rumbled, turning to the boy in confusion.
"He is not an anointed knight," Ser Boros protested.
"No," Joffrey replied. "He is not. What say you Clegane?"
"I'll not renounce my lands," he said quickly. "Nor take any vows."
"I wouldn't ask it of you," Joffrey continued with a little laugh, casting a smirk at Blount. "You can keep your pile of rocks."
"Members of the Kingsguard must renounce all titles, lands, and possessions," Blount continued.
"Are you questioning me, Ser Boros?" Joffrey demanded. "I'm sure my newest Kingsguard would not mind teaching you a lesson in respect."
"Of course not, your grace," Blount replied.
"What do you say, Clegane?"
"I accept, your grace," he rumbled, inclining his head deeply. When he looked up, his eyes immediately found hers across the room. She'd gone as pale as she had the day of the tourney. This time, he didn't begrudge her. He was feeling rather off-kilter himself.
The armor was ordered that afternoon, though he did not want it. He thought he'd been pressing his luck by refusing to take vows and renounce his lands, though. Frankly, he was a little surprised that Joffrey had acquiesced to such a thing, later realizing he had enjoyed upsetting the ranks of the Kingsguard by allowing Sandor to join them without the sacrifices which they had all made. It certainly wouldn't make Sandor popular, but he never expected to be.
At dinner, she sat and chatted with Sansa with a smile on her face, but he noted that it never reached her eyes. She didn't look often at him, and he wondered why, desperate to talk with her. When Cersei had risen to retire, Lenna had followed, and she looked at him so pointedly as she went that he was left with no doubt that she wanted to speak with him, too.
He had not hesitated to go to her room the night of the raid. It was an extenuating circumstance, and he was left with no choice. It felt reckless that night, though he waited until after midnight and followed the same procedure, knocking once on her door and walking straight in while she shut the door behind him.
She turned, resting her back against the door as he came in the room. He turned and for a long moment they looked at each other. She looked exhausted.
"I shouldn't have come," he said at last.
"No," she replied, a little smile about her mouth. "Probably not. Especially now."
"Lenna-"
She closed her eyes, looking down at the ground.
"Lenna, I'll take no vows," he rasped, walking back to her. He reached for her hands, so cold when they rested in his.
She shook her head. "I know," she said quietly. "But does it matter? You keep your lands, you repudiate nothing, but it still keeps you here."
"Aye," he replied, having no argument against it. "While he is king."
She looked at him strangely. "Sandor-"
"You're right," he said quickly. "It isn't worth talking about. Not now."
She brought the hands that held hers to her lips, and he leaned his forehead to hers.
"We can't become distracted," he said lowly.
"What do you mean?"
"I made one vow, to keep you safe, and that's what I'll do," he replied. "If I have to wear that damned gold armor, then I will. Whatever keeps you on the right side of things."
She nodded. "And I'll stay by her side as long as necessary."
"She's none the wiser."
"Of course she isn't," Lenna replied. "Gods, Sandor, what a fucking mess."
He chortled against his will, the sound of that crude word on her tongue amusing him despite the circumstances.
"What do we do?" she asked quietly, her eyes liquid and unsure in the firelight.
"What we always do-"
"Watch and wait," she replied for him. He nodded. She absently brought his hand to her cheek again, and he turned it so his palm was cupping her cheek.
"Alright?" he asked.
She smiled weakly but nodded, raising up on her toes and kissing him softly. He leaned into her, but pulled away from her.
"Things will have to change again," she said lowly.
"Aye." His tongue was thick, his throat tight. "We'll figure it out."
"I know. I know we will," she replied, leaning up to kiss him again.
He felt her fingers on the straps of his armor, and he didn't move to stop her. She ran her hands over his shoulders as he unfastened the ties of her dressing gown, leaving her in just her chemise. He followed her to her bed, kneeling above her as he did all the things he knew she liked with tongue and lips and fingers, letting her explore him again with hands and mouth until they were both sweaty and spent, twisted up in her bedclothes. It was the best night he'd ever spent, even if he hadn't truly had her, stopping them before it got to that point, diverting her with other pleasures.
The best night, and the most bittersweet. He rose in the darkness before dawn, pulling on his armor as quietly as he could as she slept. There were circles under her eyes, and he didn't wish to wake her, noting how troubled her sleep already was as she whimpered in her slumber, the furrow between her brows.
He almost smiled when he bent to kiss it, thinking of all the times he'd wanted to do just that. What robbed him of his pleasure, though, was the persistent feeling that there would be far too many opportunities to smooth that indentation of worry and pain in their future.
A/N: Alrighty then, there we go. Do y'all enjoy it when I rewrite the same scene from the alternate perspective? I try not to do it too too much, but sometimes I think it adds a little something to know what the other was thinking. Like it? Hate it? Too repetitive? Open to your feedback, of course. Lenna's bit was super long this go round. I'm trying to give Sandor more love next time. I know including the show material makes it longer, but it y'all are cool with it, I'll keep doing it. It helps keep me on track. I'm not looking to completely deviate...yet.
Thinking about posting this on AO3 as well. Thoughts?
Getting this out was my little birthday present to myself. Hope it suits, though I don't feel it's my strongest chapter. Should have the next bit up in another week or so. That seems doable.
Thank you again to all who read and review! Please continue to do so!
