Lenna II

Lenna thought if she had to listen to one more inane conversation about silk ribbons or hair pins she would run mad.

Everyday it was the same. She rose at daybreak to wash and dress. "Attending the queen" at breakfast meant standing ready with a pitcher of wine. In the morning. Before noon. Her pitcher was frequently empty by the end of the meal. Lenna didn't know whether to be disgusted or impressed. The queen never so much as stumbled. Either the wine was weak or the queen was simply used to its constant consumption.

She was permitted to grab what she wanted when the queen was finished, though she had to quickly follow her out the door. She and the two dozen other young women called to these particular duties went to the solar as soon as they had choked down their breakfasts. Then the real excitement began, she thought wryly. It began with an hour or so of embroidery. Lenna wasn't a great artist with a needle, but neither was she unskilled. She was proficient enough, but staring at the threads made her head hurt if she was as it too long. After the hoops and silks were put away, perhaps one of the women would play the lute or sing. Lenna was grateful that no one paid her any attention when it came to this part of the morning. She had a passing fair voice, but the efforts of trying to keep up with an inept lutenist would have made her snap. Best no one knew of that particular talent. Once the queen had tired of her maids imitating howling dogs, they sat until dismissed. Idle. Granted, the others chattered away like popinjays, but they wouldn't even look at Lenna. Each time she would open her mouth the contribute some girl or another would beat her to it, talking over her until she simply stopped trying.

Sometime before lunch the magical gesture would come, and the girls would scatter off. She had tried to follow the first few days, but they eluded her. She'd returned to her own room and sat on the fine canopied bed looking out on her view of the city and the sea. She read the book of fairy tales cover to cover two or three times, cursing to herself for not bringing more books with her.

Then it would be time to return to the hall for dinner, where she would take turns with a plump girl from the Westerlands as they held the pitcher and ate their own dinners. She wagered the girl had been told not to talk to her and rather regretted it, if her half-smiles and frightened eyes were any signal. Lenna wondered that she should warrant such strong censure, not able to fathom what she had done to deserve it. Her house was not a major one, but they were rich at least. She supposed it could be because she was Northern. As far as she could tell, she was the only girl from north of the Neck. She told herself she didn't mind being so left out, but it did sting, especially when she had to sit in the hall by herself after dinner until the queen was ready for bed. Sometimes it would an hour or two of nothing but listening to the others talking and giggling while she sat silently waiting.

For the first few weeks, Lenna tried to do what was expected of her cheerfully. It wasn't particularly hard, but between the boredom and the gaping hole of homesickness centered in her chest, every moment was a struggle. To heap insult to injury, the harder she tried the more the others seemed to scoff at her.

She was naturally friendly. She smiled as easily as she breathed. That wasn't apparently the way it was done in King's Landing, her overtures turned away with upturned noses or deliberate ignoring. She'd never felt so little in her life. She had free command of the New Castle at home, all of its inhabitants familiar to her from the maester to the guards to the scullery maids, not to mention her father's vassals. Here it seemed she was beneath the notice even of the little wards of seven or eight.

That very morning, one of them had looked her up and down and had the audacity to comment that she was glad Lenna had learned to brush her hair.

If it hadn't rankled her so much she would have laughed. Instead, she sat with her hands folded in her lap and tried to be interested in the other girls' conversation. Perhaps she could learn something of the King's Landing ways that would help her to find her footing. From what she could tell, a thorough knowledge of silk and hair styling was the key to power.

She did enjoy watching the little prince, though. It surprised her that Cersei kept the children with her in the solar. She didn't have much to do with them, but they were there. A space on the floor had been carpeted for them, baskets of toys overflowing all around. Joff played away while the little princess slept, building towers and fighting with invisible foes. It made her heart hurt to see him playing so by himself, with no other children to cavort with.

Behind them, more often than not, was the Lannister's personal guard. The other girls spoke of him in the cruelest of terms, seeming to take delight in who could relate the worst rumor. It seemed he drank rather a lot and tended to get into fights. Neither of these facts surprised Lenna. Everyone in King's Landing seemed to be a bit of a drunkard, and she had seen a fair few drunken rows in White Harbor at the banquet table to know this was remarkable. It wasn't so unusual to think he was like other soldiers. By the looks of him she wagered he was a rather fair fighter. She certainly wouldn't want to be in his way if he were to get into his temper. The scowl alone was enough to stop most in their tracks, and it was almost a permanent feature. No, it seemed to her that the girls enjoyed being afraid of him, of rendering him less than human. They talked about him like he was some beast instead of just a man. It made her skin crawl. She didn't like the they spat his nickname from their tongues: the Hound. They said it like it was repugnant, wrinkling their noses. She guessed they didn't know its only ugliness lay in their own lack of charity.

The queen called him Clegane unless she was in a foul mood, which was about half the time. If she were feeling particularly vile, she didn't even bother with Hound, substituting dog or cur, which Lenna found revolting. To her dismay, it didn't seem to phase him in the slightest.

His ability to disappear into the background was extraordinary, especially given how eye-catching he was. He was exceedingly tall, built like a bull with the most impressive set of shoulders and the biggest arms she'd ever seen. His upper arm was as big as her thigh, and she was no waif. He looked out of place in his dark gray plate in a sea of colorful courtiers, but he seemed to be deadly serious about his occupation.

His eyes were constantly roving, and more than once she had caught him unintentionally. At least, she told herself it was on accident, but she wasn't sure. So far, he had been the only person other than the queen who would look at her for more than a moment. It always seemed to surprise him a bit when she caught his eye, and he would pause for a moment and look back at her. She liked him for it.

His face had taken some getting used to. She was a mannerly girl. She'd been taught not to stare at such people, and she tried not to. The scars on the right side of his face were devastating, and she wondered if they still hurt him. He surely hadn't been born like that. No, she'd seen burns like that before on one of the scullery maids after she'd been scalded, but hers had smoothed out and gone pale, ghosts across her skin. His were vivid and knotted.

He was obviously conscious of them. When the queen spoke to him, he turned the unscarred side of his face to her. He kept, or tried to keep, his long hair brushed over that part of his head, though it was made difficult by the fact that much of his scalp had burned as well, leaving his hair patchy on that side. Still, he made an effort to minimize their appearance, though whether it was for his sake or others' she couldn't tell. Probably some combination of both.

She didn't think he wasn't as fearsome as the other girls said. He had a reputation for rudeness, but she hadn't ever heard him speak. She wondered if the stories of his brawling through the Flea Bottom alehouses were true. In a way, she hoped they were. He had to have something more interesting about him than standing and watching babies play all day.

It was the unscarred side of his face that she found more interesting. It was almost handsome. His wavy hair was a middling brown and hung to his shoulders. He wore a scruffy beard, which suited his long face. The nose was crooked, by far the best evidence that tales of alehouse brawls were true, and his eyes were deep-seated and dark. Watchful. Oddly expressive.

Even from across the room, Lenna could tell when he was annoyed or bored or amused. His whole face softened when he looked down at the children, sometimes helping Joffrey pick up a mess or even lifting Myrcella out of her cradle and carrying her braced one-handed along his forearm to the queen. It was comical to see her, tiny thing that she was, engulfed more less in just one of his tremendous hands. It was impressive to see such an enormous man move with such gentleness, like he was afraid if he breathed too hard he might hurt the little one.

They were both watching Joff that morning when the little prince began to wind himself up into a tantrum. She'd seen it happen plenty of times with her nieces. First, the lower lip would jut out, then the whole face would crumple. Before a count of ten, there would be screaming, hot tears, and the pounding of little fists and flailing of little legs. Lenna didn't think she could bear to hear him squalling over a knocked-down tower again.

Before she knew what she was doing, she'd crossed the room. It felt like all eyes were on her, and she cheeks heated. When she glanced at the Hound the expression in his eyes was goading, his lone eyebrow twitching up in a dare. She'd come this far, so without further hesitation Lenna sank to her knees next to the little prince on the carpet.

"It's alright, my prince, we can fix it." She began picking up the blocks, gathering them together into a pile of bright colors.

The child didn't move to help her, instead looking at her with an imperiousness beyond his years. If she didn't think it would ruin her chance she might have laughed at him.

"Who are you?" His golden face as scrunched up again, but this time in confusion.

"I'm Lenna, my prince. Do you mind if I help you?"

"Don't need help," he whined. "I'm a prince."

"Of course you don't need help."

He looked at her, then at the pile of blocks scattered on the floor.

"Alright," he said softly.

He plopped down on the carpet next to her and started trying to build them up again. She glanced up at Clegane, unsurprised to find him looking back at her. The expression had changed from challenge to amusement. She let herself smile faintly back at him before turning back to the little boy. No matter what he did as soon as the blocks were stacked three or four high they would topple right back over again. Lenna quickly identified the problem.

"My prince? Can I make a suggestion?"

The little prince looked at her shrewdly. "Alright."

"I always heard that Brandon the Builder would only start construction on level ground. And, forgive me, my prince, but this carpet isn't even. What if we moved our materials to the edge and built on the stone floor? It might make it easier."

Joffrey looked down at his feet, shifting his weight from side to side, his little toes sinking into the thick pile. He glanced at the stone and then back at Lenna.

"Let's try."

Lenna smiled at him, helping him push the blocks over so they were closer to the floor. She laid a few herself, but before long the little lady was busy back at work. She periodically gave him words of encouragement, oohing and ahhing over how tall it was getting.

Eventually the lad ran out of blocks, looking around himself in astonishment.

"Where'd they go?"

"You used them all, my prince. Look how tall it is!"

"I need more blocks."

"How do you like the sound of Joffrey the Builder? That could be your name one day."

"When I am king, I'll have all the blocks in the world."

He turned and looked back at his creation, delight chasing away the precocious haughtiness he often showed.

"Lenna," he said, his voice sweet. "Who is Brandon the Builder?"

"He built the Wall, your grace, and Winterfell in the North."

"Is it a big wall?"

"The biggest, my prince. Hundreds of feet high, made of ice. To keep the Wildlings and the White Walkers out of our lands."

"Will it be mine?"

"One day, your grace."

"I would like to see it."

It was then that Lenna noticed how intently Cersei was watching this exchange with her little son. She hadn't risen from her chair, hadn't moved to stop Lenna. Her expression was a curious mixture of annoyance and pleasure.

"Perhaps, Lady Helenna, you have a picture of the Wall to show the prince."

Lenna looked down at her hands. "I don't, your grace. I did at home, in a book about the Night's Watch, but I didn't bring it with me."

"But you are fond of books, are you not? You brought one for my Joffrey."

"It was the only one I brought, your grace."

Cersei's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Hound," she said, her eyes not straying from Lenna.

"Your grace." It was the first time she'd heard him speak. His voice was low and rasping, like a whetstone across steel.

"Your replacements have arrived. Would you show Lady Helenna where the library is?"

"Of course, your grace."

Lenna looked to the queen and back at Clegane. He had taken a step away from the wall.

"Joffrey would like to see the Wall. Do try and find a picture for him somewhere."

"Now, your grace?"

"Of course."

Lenna rose as gracefully as she could from the floor. Her right leg was asleep. She looked to Clegane and he nodded almost imperceptibly for her to walk ahead of him. Turning to the queen she curtseyed low and walked toward the door.

Once outside with the doors closed again behind them she stopped. He stood looking back at her impassively.

"I don't know where to go."

"This way," he rumbled, turning right and walking down the covered walkway. She had to speed up her gait to keep up with him. Despite being tall herself, her legs weren't nearly long enough to keep up with him without the extra effort. He seemed to note that she was nearly running, her breath coming hard, and he slowed down his steps and shortened his stride.

A few turns later, he came to a stop before an enormous pair of scarlet doors.

"This is the library."

"How is it organized?" She pulled open one of the doors and stepped in. It was a huge room, many times larger than her father's library in the New Castle. The ceiling was so high she could barely make out the beams, the walls covered in hundreds of thousands of spines. There were at least three levels that she could see, rickety wooden ladders tilted against the stacks here and there, not to mention the innumerable rows of bookcases on the ground level.

"Fucked if I know."

She had almost forgotten he was there or that she had asked a question. She felt like she was going to weep with joy looking at all of those books. The curse briefly shocked her, and she turned sharply to look at him.

"Sorry." He pressed his lips together in apology. She quirked the corner of her mouth back at him. Perhaps his reputation was deserved. That didn't bother her a bit. It was the first sincere word she'd heard in weeks.

"I have my work cut out for me, it seems," she said, looking back at the books.

"I'd find it fast, if I were you. Don't keep her waiting."

"Thank you, Clegane. Don't stay on my account. I know you're off duty. I think I can make my own way back."

"My lady," he replied, nodding. He left as quickly as if pursued by wolves. She wondered why he was so eager to flee.

She didn't think about it for long, though. She was too absorbed in her task. It took an hour, combing through the stacks, but she figured out the rough organization. Histories and tales were all grouped together, there was a section each for philosophy, economics, and the sciences. There were a great many books on the noble houses, and there were areas related to each of the Kingdoms. It was in the section on the North that she found a copy of the very book she'd had at home about the Night's Watch, though the illustration of the wall in this one was far grander. Much more suited to a prince than the pen-and-ink one she remembered in her father's collection. This one was rendered in vivid blues with generous swaths of lead-white which made her feel like an icy blast of Northern wind emanated from the pages themselves.

She turned reluctantly away, knowing Clegane was right. It wouldn't do to keep the prince waiting. She paused at the door, though, the book pressed against her chest, and looked back at the great cavern of the library.

Books are better than most people, after all.