A/N: Thank you to everyone who has been reading! I get a big boost of energy to keep writing from the reviews, so thank you if you've taken the time to leave one! Brookeworme- I hadn't originally planned much with Robert, but he's making a special appearance in this chapter just for you. Hope everyone enjoys!

The song in this chapter is John Dowland's "Come Again, Sweet Love." I've always loved it, and found that writing a good song is difficult. Lifted this one instead as it sound precisely like something our friends might hear in Cersei's court. Check out the recordings of it if you are curious. I am extremely partial to Sting's rendition of rather than the more academic, period-appropriate ones.

Lenna VI

Becoming the little princess' tutor had an instantaneous effect on Lenna's status in the Keep. Her absence must have been noted at breakfast and explained, for all of a sudden, courtiers who hadn't previously given her the barest hint of attention now bid her good morning with smiles and respectful nods of their heads. It turned her stomach and made her so angry she could barely muster the courtesy to make the customary replies.

The first few times it had happened she had been so flummoxed she was sure it had shown on her face. After the first week, she had developed the automatic response of a smile and a murmur in return, even though it absolutely galled her to do so. These were the same people who had snubbed her for four years, only now speaking to her because she had some little distinction.

Only it wasn't just a little distinction. It was prestige. Clegane had hinted at it that day he'd brought her to the queen. She knew now that he'd been struggling to warn her, and she understood why. It was unexplainable, this odd game she now found herself unwittingly playing. There were quite obviously rules, rules she wasn't privy to but expected to play by. She was now part of the royal family's circle in a way she never anticipated or desired. She took her breakfast with the children of course, but was now found herself at the family table at the evening banquets as well. Where in the past she could blend into the walls with her pitcher and slip out unnoticed, she now found herself practically on display during the evening meal, expected to stay with Myrcella until the nurse came to take the little girl to bed.

The dinners were always rather grand affairs. She'd been to many banquets, but they'd always been held for special occasions at home. Dinner in the Red Keep was far more elaborate than any of her father's feasts, the tables laden with rich food and wine. She was expected to dress for dinner as well, and had to order a few additional gowns in richer colors to wear in the evening. Nothing ostentatious, of course, but jeweled tones of deep green and wine that were more in keeping with the formality of the meal.

She was wearing a claret-colored dress tonight. She tended to stay away from reds, they were too flashy to her, and she didn't know why she had ordered this one at all. It was quite out of the ordinary for her. She preferred cooler colors that reminded her of home. She was picking at a stray thread as she waited for the nurse to collect the children. Myrcella and Tommen were both being fussy, and Joffrey was being more of a prig than usual. He was currently running around the hall throwing grapes at guests who indulgently laughed. If she wasn't keenly aware of both her observers, she would have rolled her eyes.

One watcher was Clegane, who stood straight-backed against the wall. He hadn't moved a muscle since the meal began, and Lenna wondered at his self-control. She often did. She flattered herself that she had figured out a few of his mannerisms well enough to guess at what he was thinking, but tonight his eyes betrayed nothing of his thoughts, steely and blank. It troubled her, she was so used to being able to read him. In fact, she'd been having difficulty doing so for several weeks. Something between them had closed off since she'd been working with the princess, despite being thrown into each other's company far more frequently. It pained her and it puzzled her. Now, the expression on his face was shuttered, but his gaze remained intent, even when her eyes met his. It almost made her uncomfortable, and she missed the odd rapport they'd had.

The other eyes were mis-matched and mischievous, and there was plenty of brow-waggling and smirking to be had from their owner when she glanced his way. Tyrion Lannister was seated at the head table with his sister and brother-in-law. His elder brother, Cersei's twin, was also in attendance with the rest of the Kingsguard, but Jaime Lannister had never spoken to Lenna that she could remember. Tyrion, on the other hand, was being quite conspicuous in his attention, or at least it felt that way to Lenna.

Truthfully, she didn't mind. They had built a fast and easy friendship, Tyrion treating Lenna much as her own brothers had once upon a time. No one knew of the many hours they had passed together in the library, late into the nights after dinner. It felt wonderfully secretive, even though her inclination toward him was purely brotherly. She was certain that for all of his compliments and flirtatious talk he viewed her as something of a little sister. He teased her mercilessly, but he was her biggest supporter. It was clear that he had elected himself as some kind of teacher, setting her assignments and quizzing her on her studies. She, in turn, teased him back and delighted in having a friend. They were two cut from the same cloth. She had a sneaking suspicion that he was almost as lonely as she was.

He caught her attention and rolled his eyes at something Joffrey had done, almost breaking Lenna's resolve to keep her face neutral. The nurse entered at that moment to collect the children. Lenna rose to leave as well, grateful that she was to be finally free.

"Lady Helenna, do not feel you have to go when the children do. You are not their nurse," Cersei called, noticing Lenna's move to exit.

"Oh, your grace, I had not thought to stay." Lenna looked around warily, desperately wishing to escape. She had planned to slip into the library later, looking forward to a tricky bit of translation before Tyrion joined her.

"But my sister has brought in a fine lutenist to play. Don't all young ladies enjoy music?"

The voice came from her elbow, and when Lenna turned she smiled despite herself.

"Lady Helenna, have you met my youngest brother?" Cersei asked, her voice dripping with disdain.

"Our paths have crossed a time or two," Tyrion replied, taking her hand and bowing over it with mischief in his eyes. Oh, Cersei would be so angry if she knew just how often, Lenna thought.

"Of course I enjoy music, my lord," she replied, dipping a curtsey.

"Won't you sit by me? You mustn't sit alone, after all." Lenna looked at him, her eyes flashing. She truly wanted to leave, but she knew she couldn't refuse him twice in front of his queenly sister.

He gestured to a chair, and Lenna sat, shooting him a bit of a glare and a purse of her lips. The hall was beginning to empty out bit by bit, people heading to bed despite the promise of music.

She turned to look at her companion. He was studying her with clever eyes, his lips slightly puckered together in a faint smirk, his goblet poised at his lips. He had a rakish air to him that made it impossible for her to stay annoyed with him.

A young man entered the hall, a lute slung over his shoulders. He made a low bow to the head table. The queen nodded her head, but King Robert was too busy jawing with his Hand, John Arryn, to take note of him.

A stool was brought and he sat, tuning his instrument before beginning to play a lay of surpassing sweetness. Lenna found herself transfixed by his playing, watching as his fingers danced over the fingerboard. He seemed bewitched himself, his eyes fixed on the floor, his head and shoulders moving, not in rhythm, but to something more primal and instinctual than mere meter.

"I see you are very fond of music."

Lenna tore her eyes away to look back at Tyrion.

"Aye," she replied, only then realizing that there were tears in her eyes.

"Remind me, do you play?"

"No, my lord. But I do sing a little."

"A little? Then we must have a song."

"No, my lord!" she exclaimed, but it was too late. He signaled the musician. The lutenist curtly nodded, acknowledging the summons. When he finished, he rose and approached them. The melancholy pleasure she had felt listening to the lute changed in an instant to indignation toward her traitorous friend.

"A request, my lord?" he asked.

"My lady has promised me a song," he said, and Lenna had to forcefully bite down on her tongue to keep from protesting.

"I can play whatever she wishes, my lord."

"Well, Lady Helenna, what do you know?"

Lenna smiled tightly, looking at Tyrion. "I'm not sure I would know…"

"I'd hear 'Come Again, Sweet Love.' That is, if you both know it," Tyrion suggested with a waggle of his brows.

She did know it, and knew Tyrion was aware of the fact. They had discussed it just the other evening. They'd gotten off topic, discussing the merits of poetry and music. Lenna had mentioned it as a particular favorite, and Tyrion had ridiculed her for having a maidenly predilection for star-crossed and unrequited love. He had made her quite cross, forcing her to admit that yes, she did enjoy the melodramatic tales of courtly love he found so ridiculous. She'd determined that he didn't have a romantic bone in his body, at least not yet. And now he wanted her to sing it for him, in front of all those people, exposing her frivolity to the entire court.

The young man smiled at her and gestured to the floor. Another stool had been brought and she found herself seated on it without delay. With deliberation, she schooled her features into something more pleasing than the peevishness that she felt.

She looked up at the table to find not only Tyrion's eyes on her, but also Cersei's and Clegane's. The guard stood with his back to the wall behind the king and queen, his face implacable as usual. As she looked at him, he tore his eyes from hers and looked at the floor, his hair swinging forward to cover his face. If it wasn't him, she would have sworn his color heightened.

The young lutenist touched her sleeve lightly, asking quietly if she was ready. She smiled and nodded. He positioned his instrument and began to play.

Come again, sweet love doth now invite

Thy graces that refrain to do me due delight,

To see, to hear, to touch, to kiss, to die

With thee again in sweetest sympathy.

Come again, that I may cease to mourn

Through thy unkind disdain for now left and forlorn,

I sit, I sight, I faint, I weep, I die

In deadly pain and endless misery.

All the day, the sun that lends me shine

By frowns do cause me pine and feeds me with delay

Her smiles, my springs that make my joy to grow

Her frowns the winter of my woe.

All the night, my sleeps are full of dreams

My eyes are full of streams, my heart takes no delight

To see the fruits and joys that some do find

And mark the storms are me assigned.

Out alas, my faith is ever true

Yet she will never rue, nor yield me any grace;

Her eyes of fire, her heart of flint is made,

Whom tears nor truth may once invade.

Gentle love, draw forth thy wounding dart,

Thou canst not pierce her heart, for that I do approve,

By sighs and tears more hot than are thy shafts

Did tempt while she for triumph laughs.

When the last chord was struck, Lenna was startled by the applause. Despite herself, she'd gotten quite caught up in the song, enjoying the easy back and forth the lutenist had established with her. The young man was smiling broadly at her.

"You have a fine voice, my lady," he said over the din. "I'd not expect a professional to do it better."

Lenna blushed with pleasure. He stood and offered her his hand. She took it gingerly in hers and stood to face the queen. The two of them bowed together, and Lenna felt a bubble of joy at the continued applause.

Tyrion Lannister was standing in his chair, clapping loudly and beaming at her. Beside her stood his sister and brother, both clapping as enthusiastically. Jaime Lannister winked at her, flustering her. Even the king was applauding, adding his voice to the whoops and yells of some of the drunker tables.

The only person in the room not clapping was Clegane. He remained stock still against the wall. His hair was still obscuring his expression, but she knew his eyes were rooted on her face as surely as if he'd touched her.

"What a fine instrument. Both the lute and the girl!" The king's booming voice rang out. He turned to his wife. "My dear, isn't that the Manderly girl?"

Cersei waved to Lenna to approach them. Lenna hurried back to the table. The king had stood, reaching out both hands to her. Lenna took them, curtseying quickly as she did.

King Robert was a broad man who had once been brawny, but who was now merely large. Her reminded her of her father in some ways, from the girth of his belly to the merry, mad glint in his eyes. He was as dark as the queen was fair, and he commanded the room with a bombastic presence. Lenna had met him once or twice, but he had taken no great notice of her before. She tried to keep her composure even as she felt her cheeks darken yet again.

"Don't take after old Wyman, do you girl? Far prettier than I'd ever have thought he'd get. Good man, your father."

"Thank you, your grace."

"It is I who should be thanking you, my lady," he said, squeezing her hands. "Who knew we had such talent in our midst."

"I hardly think, your grace-"

"Take the compliment, girl," he growled, and for a moment Lenna thought he was cross. Then he laughed that great, booming laugh. "Will you give us another song, then?"

Lenna knew she couldn't refuse, but being the focus on everyone's attention was starting to make her feel on edge. The queen must have seen her stuttering for a reply.

"My love, let's allow the girl to rest for tonight. She never thought she'd end up performing, did you, my dove?"

"No, your grace," she replied gratefully.

"We mustn't let her get away," the king replied.

"No risk of that, my love. Remember, she's Myrcella's tutor now."

"Is that right? Well, if a little of that rubs off on Myrcella, she'll have her pick of princes."

Cersei rolled her eyes behind her husband's back. Robert, seeing that he wasn't going to get another song, tired of her. He pulled her to him roughly and kissed her soundly on the cheek before turning back to his Hand. Jon Arryn looked at her in surprise, as if just now noticing that his closest neighbor's daughter was in the room.

Lenna turned back to the queen. Cersei smiled at her kindly.

"I can see that you're tired, my dove. Go to bed if you wish."

"Thank you, your grace," she replied, curtseying. She turned to Tyrion Lannister, giving him a nod and a brief look of annoyance. "My lord."

"A delight and a surprise, my lady," he said, bowing with a flourish. He looked up at her with a devilish smirk.

Sandor V

It had been days since the banquet, but it was as if the damn lutenist had been following him around, that fucking song repeating itself in his head over and over.

He had to force himself not to leave the banquet hall when she'd taken her place by the lutenist. He'd watched her all evening, enjoying the way her dark hair contrasted with the dark red of her dress. He'd never seen her wear such a color, and it became her in a way the cooler colors he'd long admired simply didn't. It made his blood heat, wondering what it would be like to peel it off of her.

His mood had soured when he noticed her interactions with the Lannister Imp. He knew they both went to the library at night. He'd seen her once on his way back to the barracks and had followed her, dismayed to see the Imp follow minutes later. It made him ill with jealousy to think of Tyrion Lannister, of all people, enjoying Helenna Manderly in the privacy of the darkened library. He admitted that he'd started refusing to talk to her in the mornings, ignoring her pleasantries, so enraged at the idea that the Imp might be taking advantage of her, might be touching her, that he could scarcely bear to look at her.

It comforted him to see them together, though. They didn't act like lovers, that was for sure. Teasing, sure, but no undercurrents of passion. The furtive looks they shot each other were more like two comrades making fun of their betters, and he it didn't take him long to realize that they were. It didn't make him less jealous, it did the opposite. Once, she'd reserved that kind of silent language to him, though he now refused it, and he was hurt that she'd replaced him.

Then the little Lannister had bid her sing. He didn't know if he could bear that, either. He cherished the mornings he eavesdropped on her hymns to the mother in the Sept, her clear voice rising, intended just for the gods. If he'd put more stock in the gods, he might have thought he was earning some kind of hellish penance for stealing what belonged to them and keeping it for himself.

She'd been bewitching and he'd been transfixed. He was glad he was leaning against the wall, that no one took any mind of him. If someone had tried to assassinate that king at that moment, they would have succeeded. Sandor Clegane would have been to enthralled to notice anything except the sound of her voice and the contrast of her rosy lips and pale skin.

The song the Imp commanded was a popular one, it was sensual in a way that made him intensely uncomfortable. It was far too intimate, the rising refrain breathless as she sang of touching and kissing and dying. He was no poet, but he understood what that meant, and it would wreak havoc on his sanity later.

More than that, it was like the song had been chosen specifically to mock him. I sit, I sigh, I weep, I faint, I die in deadly pain...all the night my sleeps are full of dreams, my eyes are full of streams, my heart takes no delight...Out alas, my faith is ever true, yet she will never rue, nor yield me any grace…

He shook his head forcefully to return to himself. It was near the end of his watch, and he was grateful. He wanted to go to training yards and destroy something, anything. At least he wasn't subjected to the girl today. It was one of her off days, the little princess now napping in her mother's private study while he looked on.

Cersei was silently working through the correspondence Pycelle had brought her. She was methodical as she broke the seals, wrote her replies, and sorted the letters into piles. One stack she would keep, the other he would destroy for her on his way out. It was part of the routine on these days. His replacements would arrive, and she would wordlessly hand him the pile of letters that were to be destroyed.

"Here, Clegane," the queen said, proffering the stack. His replacements were opening the door. The queen didn't look up, but he took the letters and went to the fireplace. As he was about to cast the lot into the flames, two words caught his eye.

Dearest Lenna…

He didn't think twice. He palmed the paper and threw the rest of the parchment on the flames. He glanced back to see the queen studiously gazing at her work and the guards peering down at the children. He hadn't been noticed.

Once outside the queen's study, he pushed the paper in his hauberk. It rested against his chest like a lead weight. His thoughts of going to the training yards fled, and he wondered what to do, if he should read it.

He couldn't resist.

He ducked into a rarely used corridor and pulled it out again, opening the parchment and feeling a burst of guilt for reading something not intended for his eyes.

Dearest Lenna,

I refuse to give up on writing to you. Even if you burn my letters unopened, I must at least try to reach out to you. Grandfather says you have quite forgotten us, but I simply cannot believe you would be so cruel. Something must have happened, there must be some reason we have not heard from you these many, many months.

The queen wrote to inform Grandfather that you'd been appointed as the princess's tutor. It made me proud to hear it, and I congratulate you on your success. I often wonder what your like in King's Landing must be like, all the fine people you have met, especially the little princess. I wonder if she knows how lucky she is to be in your care. I know I am more grateful now for the time we had than I was capable of being at the time. But I fear that your new station will keep you from us. Forever.

Oh, Lenna, please write just a few words to tell me you are well. I beg you, for my sake and Grandfather's. He will never admit it, but he suffers from missing you. Just a few words, if you have any love for us left.

Always your affectionate niece,

Wynnafred Manderly

Clegane's vision blurred to red. Without another thought he tore out of the corridor and bolted toward the library, the parchment once again tucked into his hauberk.

His mind was a mass of anger. It was clear that the girl's niece thought Helenna Manderly had stopped writing to them. He knew it to be false, he knew that she faithfully sent a letter to her father each week. He'd seen her hand it to a maid himself.

If her niece's letter had been found on Cersei's desk, and her letters had not been reaching White Harbor, there was only one explanation. The queen was intercepting her letters on both ends. He wondered, with a hot blast of shame, if he'd inadvertently burned any of them himself.

He opened the library doors and strode to the back of the stacks. He knew where she would be.

She was seated at her table, hunched over her parchment. He hadn't bothered to silence his steps, but the girl had obviously taken no note of them. She was furiously scribbling, a little pair of spectacles resting on her nose.

"My lady," he said. He was breathing hard, fighting to control his anger.

"Clegane," she said, her mouth an o of astonishment. A wide smile crossed her face, and under other circumstances he would have enjoyed it. "What on earth-"

"I thought you should have this," he replied, shoving his hand beneath the hauberk and producing the letter.

Her brow furrowed and she reached for it, her fingers brushing his as she took it. She turned it, the little notch between her eyebrows deepening as she opened it and began to read. He saw her hands start to tremble, one coming up to press against her mouth as she slumped, half-sitting, half-leaning against the table. Tears began to roll down her cheeks in two fat rivers, her eyes darting back and forth across the page again and again. He counted the number of times she read it. Seven.

She withdrew a handkerchief from her pocket. It was a startling aqua, embroidered with white. A Merman with a trident. Her sigil. She dried her tears, crumpling the fabric in her hand until her knuckles were as white as the thread.

"Where did you get it?" she asked quietly, lifting watery eyes to search his face.

"The queen. She gave it to me to burn."

"My mail-"

"Intercepted."

"Why? What on earth could she possibly want with my mail?"

"I...I don't know, my lady."

"And the letters I give my maid, they must be handed over to her as well."

"Yes."

"I have to get a letter to Wynna, to let her know-"

"I'll send it."

The offer came unbidden to his lips. As soon as he said it, he knew he would carry it all the way to White Harbor himself if she asked him to do it.

"Thank you, ser," she said quietly.

He colored and looked at his feet. "I'm no ser."

"Maybe not in title. Clegane, I cannot thank you enough. I have despaired…" Her voice cracked with the return of tears.

He nodded, looking back at her. She smiled, a thin, watery thing that made him ache through and through.

"I'll carry it today, if you want," he said. She nodded quickly, pulling out a piece of parchment and sitting back down at the table.

"Tonight? Could you come to my room and I'll give it to you then? I need time to think."

"Of course," he said lowly, turning to leave.

"Walk with me? Please? I do not wish to be alone."

He groaned internally, but did as she bid. They didn't speak, but she seemed comfortable with him, the silence between them easy. He left her at her door, almost breathless when she lifted her eyes, a brighter green from her tears, to his and smiled at him. He wanted to bend forward and wipe the moisture away from her cheeks with his fingers so badly.

"I'll come back. Midnight."

"Yes," she agreed, and she went into her room and shut the door.

He was distracted the rest of the afternoon. He didn't go to the sparring yard as he usually did, instead he lay on his bunk and tangled with his thoughts. Time crept at a snail's pace as he thought over the afternoon's events, torn between rage at the queen and a queer tenderness for the girl that only grew the more he tried to ignore it.

He watched her, wan and pale through dinner, and at the appointed hour he appeared at her door. She must have been listening for him. The door swung open as he raised his fist to knock lightly. She stood before him in her dressing gown, her hair loose and cascading in a dark mass of curls around her shoulders. He had to suck in his breath. She held out the letter and he took it absently, transfixed by the sight of her.

To his astonishment, she did something then that he knew he'd remember the rest of his life. She seized his hand, the one holding the letter, and she bent over it. Her hair fell against his skin, soft and silky. He wanted to lift his other hand to touch it. Then, unbelievably, he felt her warm breath against his skin as she pressed her lips to fingers, pleasure and pain both lancing through him like being pierced with arrows.

It was done in an instant, a sweet and innocent gesture of thanks, and then she smiled gently, closing the door.

He retreated quickly, knowing it was too risky to stay, had been too risky to even speak. He let his feet carry him to the wharf, but his mind was engaged with the sight of her dark head bent over his hand, her hair a warm curtain, her breath warmer still on his fingers, and her lips fire against his skin.