Sandor I

Seeing Tywin Lannister in the queen's solar made him wary. When he'd come on duty, the Lord of Casterly Rock had been seated at his daughter's desk, his own work spread across its surface. He was so engrossed in his scribbling that it was if the customary crowd of courtiers wasn't even there. Cersei, however, appeared intently aware of her father, looking at him from where she sat decked in pink silk, a golden goblet dangling from her hand. It had been her focused gaze that alerted him to Tywin's presence. He was well practiced in observing a room as soon as he entered it, and today her quiet in the sea of everyday chaos was extraordinary. The appearance of the queen's father was anything but normal, and he felt himself tense in expectation of something as yet unknown.

Since he'd been a boy, Sandor Clegane had been vigilant whenever he encountered his liege-lord. The man always looked at him with a tight-lipped grimace which he intended to be cajoling. To others, perhaps, it would have looked like a smile. All Clegane ever noted was that it didn't reach his predatory eyes, the old lord looking at him as if wondering how best to put him to use, assessing him like a tool to be implemented.

He'd found plenty of ways to put the oversized Clegane lads to use. They were a matched set in their physical monstrosity and temperament. Both enormous and sporting vicious tempers, he and his brother had found a warm if mercenary welcome in the Lannister army. Sandor had made his first kill sporting Lannister armor. He'd been perhaps twelve or thirteen, but he could still remember the exhilaration of standing above the body of that young Targaryen soldier, his innards spilling like rubies in the grass, shining in the sun. That was the day he found his calling, his aptitude for carnage noticed by the great Lord of Casterly Rock himself.

"Hound." The familiar tone was flat and raspy. Tywin didn't even look up from his scribblings as Sandor crossed the long room. When he'd been younger, he'd thought the old man had eyes in the top of his head, always seeing, always noting. An unnerving skill, it was one which Clegane had studied in his years of Lannister service, perfecting it in himself. It was still disconcerting to have it turned on him, making him feel a bit like a boy again, caught just off guard.

"Your grace," Clegane said, bowing shallowly to the queen first. He turned to face Tywin, but the old man was still focused on his work. "My lord."

Cersei fluttered a hand at him and he took his usual position, back to the wall and eyes beginning their slow sweep of the room. In that stance he could watch the room at large with little difficulty, ostensibly to ferret out potential threats. He'd never had to draw his sword since he'd arrived in the Red Keep, a fact which daily frustrated him. At first, he'd been honored by the position, enjoying the fine set of armor made for him and the private bunk in the barracks. Now, he ached to have something, anything, to run a sword at except a dummy or some green city guardsman not worth his time.

Instead, he got to watch the royal children grow. It was tedious when all he wanted was a good fight. They were fine children, but not exactly difficult to guard. A waste of his talents, though he worked hard in the sparring yard when he was off-duty. Most of his days were spent watching Prince Joffrey play and the princess sleep. Not exactly what he'd imagined doing as a young soldier. Currently, Joff was playing with a set of blocks on the floor, the infant princess asleep in her cradle. Joff had been a pleasing child, but the older he grew the more spoiled he became. Clegane thought he'd grow into the kind of boy he'd hated in his own childhood: cruel, manipulative, and less clever than he gave himself credit for. The princess, however, might not turn out so badly. She hardly ever cried, and Sandor liked looking at her with her little rosebud mouth, chubby cheeks, and wide green eyes. He hoped she didn't turn out to be as cruel as her mother.

"How long does it take to ride from the harbor to the Keep?" Cersei had risen and walked over to her father. When Tywin was near, you'd think she was a girl of twelve and not a queen and mother twice over. Her tone was almost petulant.

"Cersei." Tywin's tone remained flat, his eyes still remaining glued to the parchment before him.

"She's already late enough as it is. Some nonsense about storms in the Fingers. All this trouble for a little no-account lady…"

"Wyman Manderly always does things in his own time and to his on specifications. I will be surprised if his daughter is any different." This time Tywin did glance up at his daughter.

"Why did you want me to send for the girl anyway? She's too old for a ward, and too inexperienced for a lady-in-waiting."

"Give the girl a chance," Tywin replied, grinning unpleasantly.

Cersei sighed heavily, taking another long sip of wine.

It isn't like she had anything better to do, he thought darkly. In his five or so years of duty to the royal family he had come to think Cersei Lannister was lazy. He supposed she was a queen, and before that she had been the highest born lady in Westeros that wasn't already royalty in her own right. Still, it seemed to him she did little more everyday than gossip and drink, which she did continuously from morning until nightfall. Even he, fond of wine and ale as he was, kept as many sober hours as he did drunken ones. She acted as if her life of luxury was some terrible bore, not even giving her children the attention they deserved.

Joffrey knocked down yet another attempt at a tower. Here he stood bawling and red-faced because he'd been building too quickly, furious that the world didn't reorder itself to his ever little wish. Where other children might have stooped to try again, Joff must have thought it was some great injustice if the screaming fit he subjected them to was any indication.

Tywin Lannister finally looked up, shooting the boy a withering look that would have shut him up if he'd seen it.

The door opened, catching Clegane's attention in spite of the din. Two of the queen's ladies appeared. He didn't know their names but recognized them both by their expressions. He wondered if they would be amused to know that despite their fair faces they both look like they had shit smeared under their noses. They bustled into the room with haughty grace. They made it almost to the dais before they realized they'd forgotten something, a third girl he'd never seen before who still stood wide-eyed at the door. With a roll of her eyes and a hitch of her skirts, one went out again, seizing the girl by the elbow in a way that was barely polite.

She was fifteen or so, no more than five years younger than himself, almost a full-grown woman. She was older than the wards who came at seven or eight, but she was younger than most of the queen's ladies. Though tall, a hand's breadth taller than the woman who dragged her before the queen, she seemed to shrink in her reticence. She had a fair enough face with the palest skin he'd ever seen, her dark brown hair a startling contrast. It was not quite black, hanging thickly to her waist in locks and waves that curved and undulated like seaweed.

He observed her closely, but was startled when his eyes reached her face again, not because of her comely features, but she was looking straight back at him. He froze for a moment, a hot blast of shame racing through his chest, seeing himself as he knew she must: a hulking brute of a man with a catastrophe for a face, looking her up and down like she was some Flea Bottom strumpet. Where another lady might had glared at him, she looked back openly, clear-sighted and perhaps a tad curious. Most people didn't look at him for more than a few seconds before the scars put them off. He knew what they looked like. On top of being physically enormous, he was also enormously ugly, half his face covered in angry red and black scarring, like his features had been made of wax and someone had held a flame to them too closely.

He held her eye, waiting for her to look away. She didn't. There wasn't a trace of revulsion in her face, and it occurred to him that she might do better at court than the queen seemed to believe. That ability to control her face would get her far if she had the wit to back it up.

Then she smiled. A bolt of something sharp and warm went through his chest. It wasn't a grin, or even a fully-formed smile, but it was there. Her lips quirked up and the corners of her eyes scrunched, a dimple appearing in one cheek. He couldn't remember the last time someone had actually smiled at him rather than just around him. It was probably one of the children, and certainly not some pretty highborn girl come to be presented to the queen. He was so taken aback that his own lip quirked up against his will.

Lady Shitnose tugged impatiently at her elbow and the moment was lost. The girl remembered herself. He could see her catalogue her posture, her back straightening, her shoulders relaxing back, her chin lifting until she was standing regally enough to rival their imperious queen. Oddly, her hands were clasped in front of her. She was holding something, he realized, a book bound in red leather. He wondered what on earth had possessed her to bring something with her, though by the look of her she had come straight from docking. He quickly noted that her hair, lovely as it was, was windblown, and her dress was not at all suited for a first meeting with a queen, a rough everyday material instead of a finer silk. He hated standing on ceremony more than most, but even he had made himself presentable the first time he'd walked through those doors.

Cersei Lannister was looking down on the girl along the tip of her nose, a little smirk marring her otherwise exquisite features, her hair a cloak of liquid gold around her shoulders. She was beautiful, he knew, but he'd long ago stopped seeing it. Some people's insides matched their outsides. Some people's insides were the opposite of their wrappings. Cersei Lannister was the latter, her disdain universal with very few exceptions. He was sure she was relishing the girl's disheveled appearance. He'd heard enough to know she wasn't excited about this young lady's arrival, though he didn't know why. She seemed almost gleeful as the girl approached.

The girl kept her eyes down, then at a proper distance she sank into a low curtsey, waiting on the queen to bid her to stand. During this time, Tywin Lannister had risen from where he sat at the desk and moved to stand beside his daughter.

"Lady Helenna, we had begun to despair that you would ever reach us." Cersei flicked her fingers and the girl rose, hands still clasped over the book but raising her eyes. "I trust you had a pleasant journey."

"Save the storm in the Fingers, your grace, it was. I am sorry for the delay, but it couldn't be helped," she replied evenly. Her voice was quiet, richer than he'd expected. He thought he could detect a faint tremor in her fingers against the leather, but nothing came through in her voice. Her face had been arranged into the picture of amiability, that dimple winking at him again.

"How do you find King's Landing, my lady?" Tywin asked. He hadn't taken his eyes off the girl since she'd arrived, his shrewd gaze taking in every shabby detail, searching for something, though Clegane hadn't the slightest clue as to what.

"I don't think, my lord, that I've seen enough of it to have formed an opinion, but I enjoyed the ride from the quay. The Fishmonger's Square is delightful. So many people to see."

"But smelly," the queen said.

"Yes, your grace." She laughed a little, and it was a charming sound. He wondered where the wide-eyed girl standing at the door had gone, how she had managed to put her aside in the twenty paces it took to cross from the door to the dais. When he'd seen her first, he'd thought for sure she'd be some stuttering mess. This girl was poise personified, acting as though she were arrayed as finely as any other woman there.

"What have you there?" the queen demanded, pointing to the book.

The girl seemed genuinely startled, and he'd wager she forgot she carried it at all. She looked down with her dark brows knitted together.

"I- it is a book, your grace."

He almost smirked at that. After the first fumble, she said it decisively, like she had planned on it, not lamely as if she'd been caught unawares.

"I can see that," Cersei said with a hint of irritation.

The girl continued to look thoughtfully at the book as if it would give her the right answer to the question. Her fingers pressed against it a little more sharply and she looked up to see the queen regarding her with an imperiously arched brow.

"It is my favorite, your grace. I've had it since I was little. I thought, perhaps, this was foolish of me, but I thought perhaps the little prince would like it." Her face had suffused with a blush that impressed him. He knew it to be a falsehood, he smelled it like he'd smell a three-day old fish in the larder, but her voice rang with sincerity. He wondered if she made herself blush to cover up the lie, or if it was the result of embarrassment in it's telling. He didn't know, but he did like the way it looked splashed across her pale cheeks.

"How sweet." Cersei looked faintly pleased.

"I like children, and-oh, your grace, it was foolish of me, wasn't it?" The girl squeezed her eyes shut, the blush deepening as she babbled. Cersei's face was astonished, and Clegane wondered which way the pendulum of her temper would swing. The girl was speaking to them so familiarly, with such informality, that it would either charm them both or count against her heavily. There was no way to predict which way it would go.

"Childish, but not foolish. It was kindly meant," Tywin said, and some of the a harshness had gone out of his face. He seemed almost disappointed, a soft version of his grimace emerging around his mouth. "Then again, you are a child."

"Well," the queen said, "I know you must be tired from your journey. You'll be escorted to your new room, and we'll expect you to wait on us at dinner."

"Yes, your grace," the girl said, ducking another low curtsey. The two ladies who had escorted her in went to her side and she turned to follow them from the room. He was surprised when she looked for him, clearly on purpose. When her eyes found his she smiled once more, but this one was a little fainter, tired. He didn't return it.

The doors had barely closed behind them when Cersei turned to her courtiers.

"Leave us."

The men and women trickled out, leaving only the queen, her father, the children, and, of course, Clegane to watch over them all.

"Not what I expected," Tywin said, raising an eyebrow as he looked at the closed door through which the new member of their household had passed.

"Nor I. Though, I do not know what I expected."

"I had rather thought we'd have to break a child of Wyman Manderly's. I didn't expect a girl so...unaffected. Charming, even." Tywin raised his eyebrows as he took another sip from his cup.

"Well, from what I've heard she must take after her mother."

"I could detect little of father in her, but you've never met the man." His voice, which had been almost indulgent when talking about the girl, hardened. Whatever lay between Tywin and the Lord of White Harbor, Clegane felt certain it was personal.

"She was-"

"Obviously well-bred. Mannered. Wyman married Adalyn Locke, if I remember correctly. Old family. The girl must take after her. How old is she?"

"Fifteen."

"She holds herself better than many girls her age. She'll be fine, and you'll have Manderly in your pocket."

"I don't know why I would need him at all. His isn't even a Great House…"

"They are richer than the Starks, and almost as powerful as the Freys. He commands the only port North of the Reach, and the ships that sail from it. His loyalty to Robert is unquestionable, but he has no love for us. Perhaps he will be more amenable in response to his daughter's elevated position."

Cersei humphed. "She was drab. She won't be happy here."

Tywin had tired of his daughter's waspishness, turning to her with an icy glint in his eye. "Since when are we concerned about the girl's happiness? I want Manderly in line. He will never be your ally, so make him your servant. He won't so much as breathe wrong if she's here."

"Perhaps we should bring girls from every recalcitrant house to be our ladies-in-waiting."

"It isn't a bad idea daughter. If it works this time, it may work again," Tywin replied, sipping from his cup deeply.

"So, what should I do with her now that we have her?"

"Nothing." It was disturbing to see Tywin Lannister grin. He had once been a handsome man, but years or cunning had whittled away at the flesh of him, leaving behind a dessicated elegance. Clegane thought, not for the first time, how easy it was for fair-faced villains. Most were so taken with their outsides that they neglected to listen, to notice, to understand, until it was too late.

"Nothing?"

"Yes, nothing. Have her wait on you when you wish, and other than that, let her idle away her hours like anyone else here. She's not a pawn so much as insurance. She's not important enough to be given extra duties, so leave her be. Let her figure it out. She doesn't seem to be quite as vapid as others. I doubt, though, that she'll make many friends. That first impression isn't likely to be forgotten."

"She looked positively wild," Cersei replied blandly. "Her hair, Father. Is that the famous Manderly stubbornness?"

"Perhaps? More likely the girl is naive. Brash, unthinking. You know how our Northern friends can be."

"Yes," Cersei replied. "I should keep an eye on her."

"Probably unnecessary, but you might want to watch her ravens, if she gets any. Wyman always liked to meddle."

"I can't very well open them for her," the queen replied.

"Then don't give them to her at all. Have them brought to you. Let her think her family has forgotten her. Bend her to your bidding, whatever you want, Cersei. I can't imagine a more fitting insult to Wyman Manderly than to make his precious daughter a Lannister woman."

"Again, father, why are you so concerned with Wyman Manderly?"

"I think of it as an old competition renewed."

"Because they're rich? Because he commands a port?"

"Something like that," Tywin replied, chuckling into his wine.

Cersei cast an exasperated eye at her father. He looked up and his face became serious.

"Remember, daughter. If they aren't with us, they are against us. Even a fishbone can kill a king."

"There are plenty of houses that do not care for ours, and we leave them alone."

"Perhaps look at it as an experiment. What works on him, stubborn brute that he is, may work on others. You are queen, my dear, but remember how that came to be. Another sat there before you. Nothing about power is guaranteed. The war for it is never over, even if arms have been laid down and the treaties all signed."

Tywin drained his cup and left it on the table, walking out of the solar and leaving the queen looking thoughtful in her chair.

Clegane was perplexed. He didn't often understand the schemings of the Lannisters, but even he thought this one seemed more petty than more. Tywin's answers were evasive and satisfying, and it appeared more and more that this girl had been called from her home as a plaything, Cersei and Tywin planning to bat her around with the paws like their damn sigil would a mouse.

He glanced at Cersei and was dismayed to see her looking at him shrewdly. He hoped she didn't want to talk to him. Sometimes she made him talk, peppering him with questions he didn't know the answer to or didn't understand.

"What did you think of her, Clegane?"

"Your grace?" Shit.

"You heard me, dog."

He racked his brain trying to think of something to say that wouldn't open an inquisition. Cersei seemed to appreciate his surveillance, often asking him what he had noticed about this person's behavior or that one's demeanor. He catalogued his observations: the girl was pretty, not beautiful. She had a nice smile. She was quiet. She was smart. The first two would open dangerous doors for him, the last seemed safer.

"Quiet. The girl was quiet." The words were forced, like they'd been pulled out with iron pincers.

"Afraid?"

"No, nervous but not afraid. Smart."

"How so?"

"The book. She spoke well. She was kind." Though her excuse about the book had been impulsive, it had been effective. More than that, it rang true because she offered no more than she was willing to actually give. He had no doubt she would have gladly handed it over to the prince if she'd been bid.

"Kind?" Disdain dripped from the word on the queen's tongue.

"She said the book was for the little prince." He wished she would stop needling him. She sat with her chin in her hand and a faraway look on her face. He fell silent, clenching his jaw. With a quick intake of breath the queen look back at him.

"I'll give her a few weeks, but then I have a job for you, dog."

"Your grace?"

"I want to know how she spends her time. See what she gets up to, the kind of company she keeps."

"I'm not the best candidate for a spy, your grace." He wondered what she was thinking, sending all of him after a slip of a girl.

"Are you refusing an order?"

"No, your grace."

"You're my Hound, Clegane, or have you forgotten? Of all the people in this Keep, I trust what you tell me almost as much as I trust my own family. More, probably."

He didn't know if he should take it as a compliment or not. It felt like something of a condemnation.

"Of course, your grace."