Lenna VII
His unexpected appearance in the library had created the oddest sensation in her belly. Eating a live fish was the closest thing she could liken it to, an unsettling feeling that left her feeling flushed. It didn't help that she'd been thinking about him at the very moment he appeared. Ever since he'd put that distance between them he had become a frequent fixture of her thoughts. She felt the absence of their peculiar friendship keenly, almost dreading the mornings with Myrcella because she knew, more likely than not, that he would stand at attention blank faced and then walk out without a word for her. It wasn't as if they talked much to begin with, but he always answered her 'good morning' and responded to her questions, though usually in monosyllables. Now, he flat out ignored her. Not even a grunt or a glance, like she wasn't even there.
It hurt her more than she wanted to admit, and she wondered what she had done to deserve it. She wanted to ask him, to make amends. She'd taken to having imaginary conversations with him, far more in depth than any they'd ever shared. It made her ashamed, but she was so lonely that the thought of losing her only steadfast ally grieved her.
He was a puzzle, a complicated map without a key. There were moments when he would look at her so openly that she felt she could read his thoughts, but those moments were now few and far between. Tyrion, the only other person she had in King's Landing she could possibly describe as a friend, had returned to Casterly Rock with no real idea of when he might return. Lenna was left feeling more alone than she ever had.
Then, unpredictable as always, he had appeared before her table as if she had conjured him with her thoughts. She had been sitting with quill in hand, working on the extremely long translation Tyrion had assigned her, a bawdy Myrish poem she was sure he'd meant to make her smile. It wasn't working. Tyrion had been somber the night he'd bid her farewell, holding her hand in both of his with his mismatched eyes full of regret. She'd wondered for a twinkling if he felt anything for her, but the brotherly squeeze of her hand left her in no doubt that he didn't. She was relieved. She was sure she wanted him as a friend, but nothing more.
She was trying to studiously distract herself from thinking about any of her troubles, relying on the familiar comfort of the stacks. The quiet helped her channel all of her focus onto the poem, the only noise the clutter in her own head. Her thoughts, however, were like cats or birds, darting hither and yon, seemingly beyond her control.
For such a large man, Clegane could move silently, especially considering he was wearing a full kit of armor. So many of the guards clanked about like wheelhouses when they walked, but not the Hound. There was an unexpected litheness in the way he moved, much like the great dogs he was named after, a circular and graceful loping that allowed him to creep up undetected despite his massiveness.
"My lady."
Her head had shot up in alarm, a strange bolt of pleasure running through her in seeing his face. She had just been thinking about him, about his strange behavior at the banquet the night she sang, of his refusal to even look at her after. She couldn't imagine why he was there now, but she was glad.
"Clegane," she'd said, smiling for the first time that day, and then he'd produced a piece of paper that proceeded to skew her world even more than it already was.
She had been astounded to recognize her niece's hand. She would have recognized it anywhere, much more graceful than her own. The sight sent a wave of icy shock through her, causing her heart to speed faster beneath her ribs, her hands to go cold and begin to tremble. The first words she'd had from Wynna in two years, brought to her by the most unlikely source.
She read the letter quickly at first, and it broke her heart a little more each time she reread it. She couldn't believe it. To think that her family, her beloved family, thought that she had forgotten them, had spurned them- it was unimaginable, a wave of fresh grief overcoming her. She had grown adept at sectioning off her heart, locking away the agony of her isolation, finding ways to stay cheerful, occupied. She felt like a different person who had two sets of memories; the first of her happy past, the other of her painful present. But this letter broke through the wall between her present and her past with excruciating ease, allowing for an unprecedented tumult of feeling.
"Where did you get it?" It was the first thing she could think to ask, her voice shaking, hot tears gathering in her eyes. She looked at him desperately, her vision seeming to funnel until just his familiar form was visible.
"The queen. She gave it to me to burn."
She furrowed her brow, hurt and angry. She could hear the guilt in his voice, purple like a bruise, and the words hit her like blows. The answer raised more questions than it answered. Terrible, disturbing questions. Why would Cersei Lannister keep her mail from her? Why would she separate her from her family in such a way? Part of her bedrock had crumbled at his admission, falling away from beneath her feet like a collapsing seacliff. Her trust in the queen, trust she had freely and unthinkingly given, evaporated. She wondered what on earth she was supposed to do with the knowledge.
And Clegane had simply stood there. She had been able to see his helplessness in his hands, the palms open to her in some unconscious supplication even as his melancholy eyes spoke of guilt and shame.
She knew she started babbling, heart and mind in such turmoil that she didn't even know what she was saying. He had stayed steady, holding her eyes with his, and she clung to his gaze like a shipwrecked sailor might have clung to a mast.
Gray eyes.
"I'll send it."
His eyes were beautiful, and when he said those words, he was, too. Noble, steadfast, everything a knight should be, like the ones in her books. The shutters fell away from his face, and Lenna saw him again, the glimmer of what she had always suspected, the possibility that there was more to his character than scowls and curses. He was rough, and harsh, but he'd always been unpredictably kind, to both her and the children, catching her unawares with his consideration. But this offer...
This offer went far beyond kindness. He was incurring risk as well. Great risk, and Lenna was briefly overwhelmed by his willingness to chance being discovered. If the queen was intercepting her mail, and not allowing her letters out of King's Landing, being found carrying a message for her would have terrible repercussions for both of them.
Seven, his head could end on a spike.
But she had to try. Surely, he wouldn't offer if he thought it so dangerous. Still, it frightened her. She asked him to walk with her back to her room. No one would think twice of seeing them together. They often were. She felt better with his bulk beside her, knowing she didn't have to talk. She could just be. She felt safe when she was with him.
He'd left her at her door, promising to return at midnight. Like a lovers' assignation, she thought hysterically. The thought of him as anyone's lover, let alone hers, made her lip turn up wryly as soon as the door was closed. She had to shake herself out of the thought.
It took above an hour to determine what to say to Wynna, deathly afraid of her words constituting treason if they happened to be intercepted along the way.
My dearest Wynna,
Dear you are and ever shall be. I have not forgotten my family, and it pains me greatly to know you could think it. My duty has prevented my letters. Do not despair if you do not hear from me again for a very long time. Just know that I cannot send word.
I am well. I am as content as I can be without you, my brothers, and Father. I have found unexpected favor with the queen. I am not without friends. One has ensured that this letter will reach you when I have been unable to send others.
I keep you all in my prayers and miss you beyond words. Please believe me. Please convince Father- I cannot bear that he believes me faithless. Until we are able to meet again, know that you are always in my thoughts.
Always yours,
Lenna
She'd had to recopy it three times, the ink becoming so blurred by her tears that the first were illegible. She'd burned the drafts immediately.
Long before midnight, she took her place by the door. She heard his step as soon as he arrived, opening the door just as he raised one tremendous hand to knock. He was cloaked, not that anyone who knew him could mistake him, dressed in a common tunic and trousers. She had never seen him out of his armor, and if possible he seemed even larger. She had always assumed his armor made him appear bulkier, but it was evident that it wasn't so. The height and breadth of him was staggering, to think all of it was flesh and bone. Even in the dim light she could see a tuft of dark hair on his chest, peeking above his neckline. It made her stomach fizz hotly to see him this way, simply a man and not a soldier.
They didn't speak, but he had taken the letter. She surprised both of them by reaching out and seizing his hands, pressing her lips to his warm skin before she even realized what she was doing.
The action rocked her. It did him as well, if his face was any indication. He looked at her as if she had hit him with a warhammer. His lips parted, and noted absently that his mouth was beautiful, gracefully curved with a full lower lip. She stared at it a moment longer than she meant too, and she was sure neither of them were breathing. Worried that she may have angered him, seizing him in such a familiar way, she gingerly raised her eyes to his. They were suffused with a fierce expression that made her quake. Without a word, he'd tightened his jaw and turned from her, leaving her stunned and breathless behind her door to mull over the memory of his hand in hers, his mouth, and the inscrutable expression in his gaze.
She had slept ill, but rose the next day with a clearer head, having shaken off the strange fancies of the night before. It was the Seventh, and she resolved to find him and thank him properly for what he had done. He deserved that much at least for putting himself in danger on her account. She thought she'd be able to catch him as they left the great Sept of Baelor with the royal family. Neither of them were expected on duty for the Seventh, and she hoped she'd be able to cross his path.
She wasn't disappointed. He was hard to miss. When the courtiers began exiting through the many doors, streaming out into the streets as they headed back to the Keep, Lenna skirted around the crowd until she was able to see him heading her direction. She darted into an alcove, and then it occurred to her how idiotic her plan had been.
She had been so hell-bent on thanking him that it didn't cross her mind that they were in full view of hundreds of people. How was she supposed to get his attention without anyone noticing, let alone talk to him? It would be highly irregular for her to be seen waiting for him, seeking him out. There was no reason why a lady of her position would need to talk to a man in his, let alone him in particular. The Hound's reputation, and her own, for that matter, made it a daft idea from its inception.
A heavy pair of boots stopped just outside of the nook she was hiding in. She knew it was him, didn't need to see the long fall of his shadow to confirm it. Now, instead of wanting to talk to him, all she wanted to do was go.
It took a full fifteen minutes for everyone to make their way out of the building. He never budged. Suddenly, he was there with her.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing, girl?" he hissed.
She drew back, put off by his anger even though she expected it. The alcove was small, and it seemed to her that he filled up all of it. She felt tiny in the face of his ire, suddenly aware of just how enormous he was. It was one thing to stand at a distance from that much strength, another to be so close she could feel his warmth, the light from the Sept blotted out by the broad expanse of his shoulders.
"I wanted to talk to you." It sounded weak and tiny in her ears, and yet another wave of foolishness washed over her. She regretted this half-cocked idea immensely, wishing she had never said anything at all. Wishing she had done as so many others would have done, taken his generosity and never said a word about it. She should have just fled.
"About what?" he demanded. "What is so important that you felt the need to risk both our necks? Do you really think no one would want to know what a pretty lady-in-waiting would want with the Hound? That it wouldn't make them talk?"
"I..I hadn't thought that." It had only occurred to her once she'd ducked into that alcove that if they were seen together like this their names might be linked in that way, that people would think there was something between them. Oddly, the thought didn't bother her as much as she expected, except for the danger it could put them both in. Highborn ladies were not supposed to have lovers, especially not one like the queen's Hound. He's not even your lover, you twit.
"Obviously you fucking didn't." He was clenching his jaw, the words hissing against his teeth.
He was angry. It was the first time she'd seen him truly heated, and never before had his irritation been directed at her. It was fearsome to see his brow contracted together until the rippling of the scar was indistinguishable from the contortion of his face, to hear him splutter and spit, anger thickening his tongue.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, a little afraid. " I'm sorry. I didn't think. It was thoughtless."
"Aye," he ground out."What do you want?" He emphasized each word as he said it, like boulders dropped into deep water.
"I wanted to thank you," she murmured, feeling exceedingly silly. You wanted to see him, she thought.
"You couldn't have done that somewhere every fucking courtier in King's Landing wasn't watching?" There as the slightest hint of humor in the question, but Lenna was far too embarrassed to hear it.
She closed her eyes tightly, a flush of scarlet chagrin riding up her neck. He growled in frustration. It was an oddly animalistic sound, and it made her cheeks flame hotter.
"You're welcome." His tone had softened, deep and rumbling, the harsh edge filed off but still raspy. The words sounded like they were difficult for him to say, like he'd had to make an effort to get them to come out.
She hoped it was a peace offering. She made herself open her eyes to look at him again, relieved to find his features more relaxed, but still scowling darkly.
"Do you think it will be intercepted? I tried-"
"Not for what I paid for it."
She colored again.
"I didn't realize- how much do I owe you?" She was ashamed of the very idea that he had spent his own money to send her letter. It was thoughtless of her to not ask, to not have offered compensation already. She had never thought very much about money, even less so in the capital, but she didn't imagine a man like him earned much beyond his keep. It was the way of many second sons from minor houses. He was in service to the Crown, and they provided for him physically through room and board, perhaps some small stipend. In return, he would fight and die and bleed for them. It shamed her that she hadn't thought to give him money to bribe a ship's captain or even a crewman.
"I don't want your fucking coin, girl. I offered to do it, and I did it."
"I insist," she replied. "It would be no bother, just tell me how much and I'll get it to you."
"No." It was as much a growl as a word.
She'd never seen his streak of pride before, but here it was in full display. He stood at his full height with his shoulders rolled back, his chin set defiantly as he looked down the crooked run of his nose. He was gritting his teeth together, so hard she thought she could hear them squeak. In a flash, she realized that she had insulted him on top of everything else. Of course he wouldn't take her coin, and her insistence would only further embarrass him, further throw into contrast their respective statuses, not in the Keep, but in the world.
You certainly are making a mess of things.
"Then I must thank you again." She made her voice soft and cajoling, willing him to understand that it was gratitude that prompted her to seek him out. "I'm in your debt."
He made a low sound deep in his chest. "I hope you didn't write anything in that fucking letter as stupid as the bullshit you keep spouting."
"Me too." The vulgarity didn't faze her. It was a fear that dogged her, the idea that she had said too much. Too little and Wynna, clever as she was, wouldn't understand. She'd tried to write in such a way that strange eyes would think it was just an overdue letter, that she was merely busy. It had been a challenge to find the way to tell them that she was being prevented from corresponding, to allay their fears without telling them her mail was censored outright, to convince them to let her be.
She heard him take a deep breath, like he was building up his patience. His body bent toward her slightly, the pride put away.
"What did you tell them?" His face had relaxed, question and concern in his eyes, tolerance in his voice.
"That my duty prevented me from writing." She felt a wave of relief in telling him. She had spent so long trying to find the words, and she had wished she had thought to consult him before she sent it. There had been no time, no way to ask for his help.
He turned it over in his head. "Good enough. What else."
"Not to expect to hear anything from me soon. That I hadn't gotten their letters."
"Not so good," he said, shaking his head. "Just the last part. They'll wonder why."
"They'll understand me." She was confident that Wynna would read between the lines, as it were, and understand that Lenna couldn't tell her the whole truth. At the very least, she'd show her father, and Wyman Manderly would understand in a trice.
"What else, then?" His tone had become even, his anger fled. Lenna was glad of it. She didn't like thinking that he was angry at her as well as ignoring her.
"That I am well. Content. That I have friends."
He snorted and cocked his eyebrow. "Comfort them with lies. If it puts them off the scent-"
"They're not lies," she replied insistently. "I am well. I am as content as I may be. I have friends."
"Who?" he demanded with a curl of his lip.
"Lord Tyrion." He snorted and looked to the ceiling, almost rolling his eyes. "And you."
Her voice was just the barest hint of a whisper, and it died away on the last syllable. He froze, as if they were some magic words that enthralled him. There was a long stretch of silence as he seemed to gather himself. When at last he spoke, he wouldn't look at her.
"Aye." It was a simple syllable, begrudgingly said, but rich with meaning. It brought Lenna more hope than she dared say.
"That's what I've been trying to say, however clumsily," she said, all in a rush. "I am grateful. Grateful to call you friend. You have helped me more than I deserve, Clegane."
"Sandor." It was soft, so soft she almost didn't hear it.
"What?" Lenna blinked at him. He always managed to surprise her. He was not predictable from one moment to the next. One minute he was raging at her, the next counseling her, and then, most unexpectedly, giving her his name in the most unaffected tone she'd ever heard. She wondered if he'd meant to say it, or if it had slipped out unbidden. She wondered if he'd retract his permission to use it.
"You heard me, girl."
Oh. Oh, well then.
"Then you must-" She desperately wanted to hear him say her name. Tyrion used it liberally, but he was gone. To have someone know her in that way would be a comfort.
"Fuck no. I don't want to end with my head on a spike."
"Sandor, I wish you would." She knew what she was doing, pitching her voice like that to coax him into doing what she wished. He looked at her askance, his lips a firm line.
"Don't look for me like this again, do you understand? You are far too close to the queen to be this foolish. She must never think, even for a second, that you aren't exactly what she wants you to be, and one of those things is discreet."
"I understand," she said quietly.
"I don't think you do," he replied urgently. "I don't think you have any idea what you're doing."
"You're right." She laughed, a dry, muffled sound, even though she really wanted to cry. "But that's why I need you. You understand it better than I do."
"I'm not good at it," he said, shaking his head.
"You're better at it than I am, but I'm learning."
This seemed to bother him, though she didn't understand why. It seemed for a moment that instead of annoyed or angry, Sandor Clegane was sad. Not bitter, not melancholy, but sad.
"You should go," he said softly. "Opposite door. I'll wait ten minutes. Gods, this is fucking stupid." He raked an enormous hand through his hair, annoyance creeping back into his face and voice.
She smiled at his frustration. She preferred him frothing at the mouth.
"Sandor," she said, enjoying the feel of it in her mouth. "Thank you. Again"
He grunted, but she swore she saw him smirk.