292 AC

Lenna III

Princess Myrcella enthusiastically picked up the brightly colored blocks and flung them back down again in abandon, chortling in delight. She was sitting on the floor of her mother's solar with Lenna at her side. They had been sorting them rather successfully for a time, but the little girl's interest was beginning to wane. She'd grown into a robust two-year-old, crowned with downy golden curls and sporting the Lannister beryl-green eyes. Nothing about her said Baratheon, she looked to grow into a miniature version of her mother, albeit with a sweeter temperament.

Lenna enjoyed playing with the busy little girl, especially since Joffrey had become so much more changeable. The prince was sitting on his own playing with two toy soldiers. Sometime in the past year he had stopped climbing into Lenna's lap, though he would still often sit close when she read aloud. At first Lenna had attributed his growing petulance to the birth of his baby brother, Tommen. She'd observed the same thing when Wylla had been born, Wynna no longer the sole focus of the family's attention. Wynna had gradually warmed to her sister as she grew older and the two became inseparable, but Joffrey showed no signs of accepting his brother despite the little lad being almost a year old. Instead, the Crown Prince had become more and more withdrawn, scorning his little sister as well. Sweet child that she was, Myrcella only wanted to play with him and love him. She was openly affectionate to everyone, but Joffrey often grew angry with her. There had been many occasions when Lenna had to physically separate them, whisking Myrcella up in her arms and out of the boy's reach when he'd became enraged if she touched one of his things or tried to kiss him when he was in a mood. It broke her heart for both of them. Myrcella's tears dried quickly, but she grieved that Joffrey would turn away his sister's companionship. He'd always struck her as a lonely little boy, and now she couldn't even trust him to play with the princess without constant supervision.

She wasn't the only one watching. Clegane clearly had a soft spot for the children. Myrcella openly adored him, and when she would toddle to him and grasp his finger a softness would overtake his rough features that made Lenna smile. He clearly took his duty seriously and was fiercely protective of the little girl, especially when she was caught in her brother's anger. His gaze would harden and his jaw clench, though there was little he could do except distract the prince until he forgot about tormenting his sister. Lenna felt caught in these situations as well, wary of the queen's wrath and furious that he should be allowed to get away bedeviling his sister. Unfortunately, Joffrey had long ago learned that Lenna had no power and that he could ignore her without consequence. He'd even struck Lenna a few times in his fits. It was shocking how strong the little boy was, and more than once Clegane had stepped in to sidetrack him. Neither of them had ever uttered so much as a rebuke, and Lenna was keenly aware of Cersei's scrutiny.

Joffrey was currently playing with his toy soldiers, having already gotten over an earlier fit in which he'd slapped his sister and yanked Lenna's braid. Her scalp still stung, and she was stewing over the queen's lack of action. Such poor behavior might be expected of a child of three or four, but not a lad of eight. Joffrey should know better, and she suspected that he did but simply didn't care. His willfulness was praised by his mother as spirit, but Lenna felt sure it would take a darker turn if something wasn't done. However, it wasn't her place to correct a prince, and her powerlessness angered her to no end.

Clegane was keeping on eye on him while he played, his dark eyes hooded with annoyance. She'd been grateful to him when he'd quickly gotten the boy's attention with a bawdy joke. It wasn't the most appropriate thing for a child to hear, but it was better than having her hair ripped out by the roots. She'd moved as far from Joffrey as she could, and from her position she now had a good command of the room, keeping one eye on the princess as she played and the other on the idle busyness of another day at court.

The average day in the queen's presence felt both bustling and idle. There was a hum of chatter from the moment the doors opened in the morning until she was dismissed. Sometimes she could still hear it even as she worked over her books and parchments in the library. It was mellow and almost comforting, occasionally broken by a peal of laughter. The courtiers that flocked to the queen were a motley assortment of second sons and daughters of great houses and social climbers with barely a name to recommend them. Many of them were exceedingly dull in Lenna's opinions, but they were beautiful to watch. Every movement was affected, every gown and jerkin carefully chosen. Lenna often felt like she had her on private theater, and she took great delight in following the various, sometimes scandalous, dramas that were the lives of her fellow courtiers.

She was listening intently to a young nobleman's outrageous account of a night in Lord Baelish's brother when the doors to the solar opened and in bustled Grand Maester Pycelle. She'd encountered him in the library many times, and the old man had been indulgent if a little condescending as he helped her locate a volume or two. He'd even tried to make recommendations, though considering he had suggested only romances she guessed he didn't think she really could read that Old Valyrian poetry she'd asked for. Despite his patronizing manner, Lenna detected a bit of kindness in the old man and wasn't ungrateful to him. The romances had indeed been entertaining even if they were a bit overwrought.

He usually arrived later in the morning to deliver the queen's mail. Letters to the courtiers were typically delivered by a runner or simply slid under their doors. Lenna always counted it a good day to find a letter, usually carried by one of her father's ships, under her door. The queen's mail, on the other hand, was delivered by the Grand Maester himself. The queen usually received a mixture of both couriered letters and ravens, neatly arranged and brought to her on a tray with a special stand fitted with slots for the scrolls.

Pycelle did not carry the tray today. In his hand he held a single roll of parchment bound with a black ribbon. Raven sent, judging by its size, and Lenna knew well what the black band meant. Dark wings, dark words. She felt for whoever was to receive it, offering a quick prayer to the Mother to comfort them at such ill tidings.

Pycelle slid his eyes to her where she sat on the floor, but quickly averted them as he hurried toward the queen like he hadn't wanted to see her. It was odd. He usually nodded and bestowed a decrepit smile when he saw her. It had grown almost as customary as smiling at the Hound. Pycelle's refusal to meet her eye was followed by the foreboding stir of dread in her gut.

He bowed lowly and approached Cersei, handing her the scroll and leaning to whisper in her ear. Cersei's eyes immediately found Lenna's, a grave expression overtaking her fair face. She glanced back at Pycelle and thanked him, speaking so low Lenna couldn't hear her.

Lenna didn't need to hear or see anything else, and it was if her limbs turned to stone.

"I would speak to Lady Helenna." Cersei's voice was soft, lacking the hard edge it often had. All eyes in the room flicked from the queen to Lenna, and the familiar drone of the chamber died to silence. Without a sound, the gathered courtiers exited in a single breathing mass, leaving Lenna alone with the queen, the children, and Clegane.

She'd heard Clegane shift behind her as soon as Cersei had dismissed her court. He usually stood with one foot propped against the wall, his arms across his chest. Now he had moved to distribute his massive weight, hands falling by his sides as he looked down at her. She could feel his gaze though she could not bring herself to look up at him. She instead sat transfixed as the queen regarded her steadily, her usually cool eyes awash with pity.

"Come here, my dove, and sit with me." The queen held out a hand, her golden brows knitted together ruefully.

Lenna didn't know how she made her way across the room. It seemed that one moment she was on the carpet and the next she had sunk down on the cushion at Cersei's feet. She had no recollection of rising or walking.

Cersei proffered the scroll with one graceful hand. Lenna stared at it, as if doing so would make it disappear.

"Do you wish to open it, or shall I?" The queen's voice was gentle, the kindest Lenna had ever heard it. She lifted her eyes to Cersei's face and took no comfort from what she saw written there. There was not use pretending they didn't know what that scroll contained.

"I will do it, your grace," she whispered, thinking of her father's brusque attention to unpleasant business and her mother's dignified acceptance of duty. She sat a little straighter as she reached out, taking the paper from Cersei's grasp.

She broke the seal with trembling and opened it, needing only to read it once. She felt icy cold and shaky, and she handed it back to the queen, glad that she was no longer holding it.

Once, when she was very little, she'd been paddling on the shore and the waves had picked her up, slamming her against the bottom again and again until she no longer knew where the surface was. Her lungs had burned, her mouth had filled with seawater as she flailed, heart pounding as she desperately fought against the tide. Her father had plucked her out of the surf, squalling and gasping for air, her whole body raw from repeatedly scraping against the sand, the roaring of the waves still in her ears. It was that same roaring that now filled her head with each wallop of her heart against her ribcage.

"Your grace, may I be excused?"

"Little dove, is there someone I should send to stay with you? I do not think you should be alone." The queen had reached out and taken Lenna's hand. Lenna looked at it as it lay in her grasp like a pale, dead bird. It didn't feel like it belonged to her.

"No, your grace."

I want to go home. If she'd been able to speak she would have wailed. She would have screamed and flailed, but all she had was silence. Silence, and the thought of her lovely mother laid out in the Sept at home with the funerary stones on her eyes. She wondered if she was there now, her hands quietly folded over her stomach, dressed in her best gown with her hair coiled around her head. She wondered if her father and brothers were there with her, or if she were alone with the silent sisters in their eerie robes, only their eyes left visible.

"Of course, child. If that's what you wish. Let Clegane escort you back to your rooms."

Lenna was pulled out of her ghastly reverie and nodded, allowing Cersei to draw her to her feet. The queen put her hands on Lenna's shoulders and turned her so they were face to face, nearly the same height. The queen peered into Lenna's face, and for the first time she saw compassion there. Cersei's jaw was tight and her eyes shimmered with tears.

"Lady Helenna, I cannot share what you are feeling now, but know that you have my most sincere condolences. I never met your mother, but my father has spoken of what a fine lady she was. I, too, have lost a mother, but at a young enough age that time has lessened the loss. I will pray to the Mother to comfort you."

She enfolded the young woman in her arms, running a hand over her hair like she sometimes did to Myrcella when she was fussy. Lenna knew she meant it to console her, but she only wished to be free of it. After all, if Cersei hadn't made her come to King's Landing, she would have been there with her mother. If she'd been allowed to stay home, perhaps she wouldn't have fallen ill. Any sympathy from the queen felt hollow. Instead of yielding, Lenna kept her back stiff and arms at her sides, willing the embrace to end so she could attend to her pain in privacy.

Every last sinew wanted to escape at a full run, but she kept her steps measured and slow, reminding herself to breathe. She felt like she was going to vomit, like every part of her wanted to empty itself so there would be nothing left to bear the pain.

She barely notived his footsteps behind her, walking blindly through the corridors with her enormous shadow in her wake. When she reached her own chamber she was surprised so see his hand reach toward her doorknob, then falter.

"My lady." His voice was rough and low, the syllables full of agitation.

She forced herself to turn and look up at him. He was standing closer to her than she could ever remember and she was faintly conscious of how massive he was. He was looking down on her with doleful eyes, his good brow furrowed with surprising concern.

His eyes are grey. Why she would notice such a thing at a time like this she didn't know.

"Who?" Harsh as stone on metal.

"My mother." Her voice cracked on the second word. He closed his eyes, clenching them briefly shut as if in pain or prayer.

"I'm sorry." His demeanor was painfully awkward, as if he had never offered condolences in his life. It occurred to her that perhaps he hadn't. She didn't doubt his sincerity. The grooves that framed his mouth had deepened gravely, and his shoulders had stooped so he could bend closer. His throat worked wordlessly, like he was trying to think of something else to say. Her heart, which had felt like a chunk of ice, cracked painfully with the warmth she suddenly felt for him for trying so hard. His scant words meant more to her than Cersei's pretty speech, though she was sure the queen had been in earnest for once. But the Hound had no obligation to console her, and he was clearly made uncomfortable by it. It was an unexpected kindness from what shouldn't, she thought, have been an unexpected source.

"Thank you," she replied faintly, trying to summon a smile but failing, her lip trembling instead. He nodded, then reached beyond her to open the latch to her door.

She felt like a ghost as she passed him and closed the door behind her, gray and transparent. She knew he was still standing there as she sank to the floor, her back pressed against the door, but she could no longer hold back her grief. It bubbled up so violently from her gut it frightened her, coursing savagely through her core, cold and hot and unbearable. She knew she was sobbing, keening, and threw her arm across her mouth, biting into her own flesh to muffle the sounds she barely recognized as emanating from her own throat. She fought to control her breathing, unable to slow the rapid working of her lungs, becoming lightheaded. Frustrated and helpless, she struck at the door with her fists, using the pain as a focus in the midst of the anguish. Her knuckles quickly grew bruised and raw, but her breathing regained a hitching, regular rhythm. She cried until she was utterly spent, nearly falling asleep sitting there on the floor. She had no idea how long it was, but it felt like hours.

She dragged herself up off the ground and managed to strip off her clothes and stays. She crawled dazed into her bed. She was almost asleep when she heard the scrape of a boot on the floor outside her room. Heavy footsteps retreated from her door as she huddled into a little ball, her legs drawn to her chest, vaguely comforted that she hadn't been alone.

Sandor III

Joffrey acted like a little cunt all morning. If he'd been able to do so without losing his hand or his head, he would have backhanded the little prince across the room. Joffrey was becoming exactly the kind of boy he had hated during his own childhood, always choosing violence and cruelty. He could have ignored his sister, he could have moved away, but instead he'd struck her, making her sob not just because of the raw red mark on her chubby cheek, but because it was her beloved brother who had done it.

Sandor Clegane wasn't a kind man. He wasn't a gentle man. He had a savage and well-deserved reputation for using his sword, his firsts, and his foul tongue when he was displeased. Despite his own penchant for violence, Clegane did not go after those weaker than himself. Smaller, yes, but not weaker. Call it a warped sense of justice, but his own experience had been too traumatic for him to ever justify preying on weaker creatures by choice. Every time he saw his own face, rare as that was these days, he was reminded of the difference between cruelty and justice. He'd wrought havoc on other men, taken their lives or left them mangled, but he'd given every last one of them the chance to defend themselves first.

Joffrey was not going to grow up to be a just king, and it made Clegane's blood roil. That so many men had fought and bled and died for a little cunt to ascend after his father was unspeakable. He blamed the queen, and the king, too, for that matter. No one ever checked the boy. He was far beyond spoiled and quickly becoming a monster. It was a test each and every day not to seize the boy the arm and dash his head against the wall when he struck the little princess. It would spare them all if he did. His vision had actually flashed red when the maid from Manderly had gathered him up in her arms to move him away from little Myrcella that morning and he'd wildly yanked her hair. The girl's eyes had welled with tears, and Clegane had nearly seized the boy by the throat, but he'd managed to grab the boys attention by other means.

He'd been glaring down at the brat when the old Maester came it. He didn't leer over at Helenna Manderly like he usually did when he delivered the queen's mail, in fact, he wasn't bringing the mail as he usually did at all. Clegane saw the roll of parchment with its black band immediately. Someone was getting bad news. He watched as the old man darted his eyes towards their corner, resting briefly on Helenna Manderly before slithering closer to the queen. He glanced down at the girl and saw that she had stiffened, one of the princess' blocks dangling from her hand, forgotten.

It was fascinating to see the color drain from her face. She went completely white, whiter than he thought possible. Even her lips lost their color, like she'd wasted away into a ghost before his eyes.

Gods, no, he thought, not for her.

Cersei dismissed everyone from the room, but he remained. The children still played at his feet, completely oblivious to the dread that had settled in the room like smoke. He watched the girl rise to the queen's bidding and slowly cross the room, like she was under some terrible spell. Her movements didn't look natural, stilted and deliberate as she opened the parchment without any visible reaction. He expected her to cry, to collapse, anything except remain silent and composed as she sat with that parchment unrolled and limp in her hand.

Even the queen was moved. He had seldom seen her show anything but bored disdain except for own children, but he'd be damned if she wasn't actually upset for the girl. She tried to get her to talk, but the girl refused.

"Let Clegane escort you back to your rooms." He had missed the rest of what Cersei had said, distracted by how surprising troubled he felt, but he came back to himself at the sound of his name. Dismay settled across his shoulders.

He was disquieted at the thought of bearing her back to her rooms, just the two of them. He didn't know what to do for a girl who had just lost someone dear to her. He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he missed Cersei moving towards the girl until he looked up to see her embrace the unresponsive girl. The young lady's face was completely blank, her arms hanging limply by her sides. Few things disturbed him, but seeing her usually vibrant face transformed into a blank mask made him feel sick in the pit of his stomach.

He followed her when she went to the door. She walked ahead of him floating like a spirit, her steps unearthly even and slow. Her face remained fixed, not so much as a flicker of feeling when it was usually so agile and expressive. She had folded her hands primly in front of stomach, and her chin was level. Her eyes were mysteriously dry. She was unbowed.

He followed her hesitantly to her rooms, reaching for her doorknob but feeling that he had to say something in light of the circumstances.

"My lady." It was pulled from him against his will. He had no idea what to say to her, what could possibly comfort her. If only he could repair the emptiness and the hurt her saw in her eyes when she turned them to him at last.

"Who?" he asked dumbly, cursing himself for his clumsiness.

"My mother." Her voice sounded far off, lost, and it cracked sharply on the last syllable. Pain cut through him. He'd lost his own mother as a lad, and he had loved her. She'd died of the same illness that had taken his sister, and he remembered it with a child's misery. He couldn't imagine going through it again, especially not as this girl was, a thousand miles away from any who cared for her, who could comfort her. She should be with her family, and here she is far off and alone. All wrong.

"I'm sorry." It was all he could think of to say, and it was true. He felt it like a boulder was sitting on his sternum.

She lifted her eyes to him again and he thought he saw a glimmer in them. "Thank you."

Her lips trembled and he realized she was trying to fucking smile for him. He didn't think he could stand another second under her scrutiny, it was too painful. She deserves better than this. He reached out and unlatched the door. Without another word, she passed by him and shut it behind her.

He had planned to walk away until he heard the dragging scrape of her as she sank to the floor, sliding down the other side of the door. A sharp report of hiccuping sobs followed, gradually growing in volume and frequency, and he could no longer move his feet. He couldn't just walk away, not knowing she was alone on the other side, crying as her heart shattered. If she wasn't among those who cared for her, the least he could do was stand guard outside her door until her grief was spent.

So he stood there, each sob and wail like the strike of a whip. He might have flinched if he'd been made of weaker mettle. He stood as if on duty, his back to the door, his head resting against the wood so when she started to hit it he could feel it reverberate through his bones. He wagered her knuckles were well bloody. She was stronger than she looked. Much stronger than I gave her credit for.

He didn't know how long it went on for, probably an hour or two, well past the time he was released from duty. He didn't care, not today. He didn't care if Cersei was angry he hadn't returned. If she said anything, which he had no doubt she would, he'd tell her the truth, that he'd kept a guard outside the girl's door so she could weep in peace. He suspected she would let that drop, given the circumstances. He waited until he heard the girl get up, her feet dragging across the floor as she went to her bed.

When the room beyond the door had finally fallen silent, he allowed himself to leave. He felt wearier than he had in years, like he'd often felt after battle during the wars. His shoulders were tight with the strain of listening to her, and he single-mindedly headed to the alehouses, hoping for enough beer to mute the sounds of despair that would not stop echoing through his brain.