295 AC

Sandor VII

How she could possibly be running late he couldn't fathom, but when he arrived at the library with the little princess, she was nowhere to be found. In a year of lessons, she had never been late. He shifted nervously from foot to foot, eventually nudging Myrcella toward the table where she took her lessons. The child grabbed her slate and a handful of colorful chalk and set to scribbling while he waited, arms crossed across his chest and getting more annoyed by the moment.

He walked to the back of the library, careful to keep the child in his sight. Lenna wasn't at her favored a table to the back of the stacks where there was a thick shaft of sunlight during most of the day. She didn't return her books to the shelves each day, instead leaving them in piles until she was done with them. Literature, philosophy, long dusty histories. He'd flipped through them, looking with distaste at the long and dry passages, many in tongues he didn't know and could barely identify. Dornish, Braavosi, Meerish. Old Valyrian. He found himself keeping track of what she was working on, not just because he knew the queen would ask, but because he wanted to know everything about her that he could.

He tried to remain aloof during the lessons, tried to ignore the way he felt where she was concerned. It wasn't just that he found her attractive, he also found her interesting, more and more as the years passed. Against his will, he enjoyed standing there, listening and watching her, the way her expressive features would transform as she told a story for Myrcella. Her brows were agile, her mouth quick to smile, and while she had the reputation for being reserved he didn't know how she acquired it. She never fucking shut up. Not that he truly minded. She talked enough for the three of them.

He learned a fair bit himself, found himself intrigued as much by the material as by the teller. And she, seven keep her, she always tried to draw him in, but he had resisted again and again, often simply turning heel and leaving so he wouldn't get entangled. More than he already was.

If he were to take an inventory of his thoughts where she was concerned, a large portion of them would be easily categorized as lust. He was physically drawn to her, and he enjoyed looking at her odd eyes and long hair, remembering the soft whisper of it against his hand, thinking about what it might feel like brushing against his chest, his thighs. He wanted to dig his fingers into fleshy hips, trace her cheek with the back of his finger, know what that plump mouth would feel like against his own instead of just the back of his hand. He thought it likely he could still pinpoint the exact spot on his hand she had kissed it months ago. No, his discomfort went beyond being physically attracted to her. He knew what to do with that, and it was nothing that a good wank in his bunk at night and an afternoon of avoiding her eye in embarrassed memory couldn't fix.

What he couldn't easily handle, though, was the odd aching desire to talk to her. It wasn't enough to be bodily near, though he craved being in the same room with her, his eyes seeking her out at the evening meal just so he could rest them on her at his leisure. No, he wanted to engage her, to look down into her upturned face as she looked back at him without any fear or difficulty, as if his face was as whole as any other man's. And when she spoke to him she never called him dog, or cur, none of the names he despised. She'd called him ser just the once, and instead of it making him angry, something in him had puffed up with pleasure. She talked to him as she would have talked to the man he might have been if his fucking brother hadn't shoved his head into a brazier. And he craved it, despising himself for it all the while.

And he'd been stupid enough to give her his name. That day in the Sept, when had foolishly sought him out, he'd gotten carried away and given her his name. She seldom had occasion to use it, but she did often enough when they were walking to and from the children's quarters. It was a whisper on her tongue, pitched low so others wouldn't hear, and though he knew she meant it as a mark of friendship, it made his gut stir each and every time.

For at the same time that he wanted her friendship, it also made him suffer. He wanted to despise her for making him feel a fool, but he couldn't. The longer he had to be around her, the more he had to control himself. Forcing his thoughts away from stupid musings where she was concerned had become a full-time endeavor.

The princess's lessons had been going for over a year. Three days a week he found himself leaning up against some bookcase or another when he could have been sparring and training, listening to a four year old learn her letters. It should have been maddening.

And it was, in the most pleasurable and painful way. He was both given and denied what he craved. He constantly had to reroute his thoughts, making the decision to focus on doing his duty and stay out of his own head. Especially since his daydreams had taken a much more disturbing path. The imaginings of her in his bed were reserved to his bunk, her name, Lenna, slipping from his throat even as his cheeks burned in shame. But the morning musings were much more terrifying: thoughts of her laughing, walking with him. Being with him. Talking to him about the fascinating things she knew, that she shared with the princess, but which he lapped up besides, just like the dog he was.

It had been intriguing to watch her as she grew into her role. She hadn't the slightest clue where to start, that much was clear. At first, Helenna had tried to mimic the Septas, with their stern ways and dry instruction, but before he knew it, she had drawn the little princess down onto the carpet, and they sat there for most of the morning in a heavy shaft of sunlight. The little girl would crawl up into her lap as Helenna Manderly talked and talked, about anything and everything. They read, they built, they drew. The lady managed to insert lessons on history, science, even philosophy and math. He would watch from his post as they gradually surrounded themselves with books and toys and painted parchments, two birds in a nest of learning.

He was thinking of them like that, with a small smile playing on the unscarred side of his mouth, when he finally heard the doors to the library spring open. He looked up as she flew in through the doors, her skirts all in a whirl. Her eyes were bright and her face was pale, looking oddly strained.

"I do beg your pardons," she said, the brightness of her smile not reaching her eyes, addressing Myrcella as much as she did him. "I received a raven."

"All well?" he asked gruffly, knitting his brow. She didn't get ravens, or mail, and they both knew it.

"Aye," she replied softly, glancing up at him through her lashes. "It is my nameday and my father sent his greetings."

He searched for a reply but couldn't come up with one. Her nameday. It should be a cause for joy, and hers only brought sorrow.

"Oh, Lenna," Myrcella cooed. "Did he send you a present?"

"The very best," she replied, masking slight hysteria with a merry laugh. It was hollow to his ears. "He sent his love."

Clegane felt a shaft of pity rush through him. The lone raven that was allowed to reach the Lady of White Harbor, all the others intercepted or turned away. It made him angry and melancholy in the same moment. He suppressed it, trying to busy himself with watching and listening to her as she began the little grace's lessons. It wasn't long before they were spread out on the floor in the sunbeams with their materials strewn around them. Myrcella was feigning boredom and frustration, and Lenna was cajoling her to return to the lesson at hand. A little of her former brightness had returned.

"All of our history is but a tale," Lenna told the little girl, flipping reverently through the pages of a heavy tome, allowing the princess to trace her stubby finger over an illumination of Rhaenys Targaryen and her mount.

"But isn't it in all those dusty books?" Myrcella lisped, wrinkling her little nose in disgust.

"Of course, but that's just where it sleeps. You have to open the covers and wake it up! It lives only so long as we remember it, as long as we hear it. Would you have guessed a picture like this was inside this book?" The princess shook her golden curls, the sunlight bouncing off them brightly. The tutor laughed. "No? That proves my point, silly. You have to open them to find out."

He couldn't contain the humph that escaped from him. Sometimes, he thought, she's full of horseshit, even if it is her nameday.

He stood with his head thrown back against the bookshelf, propping one foot against it. He insisted on standing throughout the morning, despite daily invitations to take his ease. Not only would he not sit, he wouldn't move. Any other guard would have at least paced if forced to listen to a five year old's lessons several times a week. But he remained almost completely still, shifting occasionally to redistribute his weight and nothing more. If I don't move, he thought, she won't try to talk to me.

But he wanted her to talk to him. He wanted her to try and draw him out, tease him as she was wont to do. He didn't think she was aware of how much he watched her, in fact he hoped she wasn't. If she was, she probably would have stopped trying to get him to speak by now. He was glad she hadn't. He would be sorely disappointed if she gave up on him.

"Do you have something to add, Clegane?" He tried to ignore her, like usual. It irked him now when she used his surname, though he knew she wasn't so stupid to say his given name in the princess' hearing. He chose to ignore her now, filled with the perverse desire to annoy her. It usually worked. Sometimes he might look at her, but he wouldn't utter a sound, even to a direct question like this one. It seemed to have become a bit of a joke between she and Myrcella. They both seemed to take delight in needling him as well, grinning at each other without caring if he saw them. As a result, her voice now had the edge of a dare.

"No." Damn. He hadn't meant to answer her. He was usually more guarded, but her eyes were so sad that he was momentarily distracted, even as she tried to bait him.

"Really, because it sounds like you do," Lenna pressed, winking at her charge though her face was still rather drawn. Myrcella giggled. "Do you like history, perhaps?"

"No." his lips quirked. I like this, he thought. I like making you look at me, irritating you.

"Do you like tales?" Her lips had pursed into a childish simper.

"Not particularly," he said, trying to effect an air of complete boredom. And failing.

"Everyone likes stories, Sandor," lisped Myrcella, running to him and wrapping her arms around around his calf. She barely came to his knee. He looked down at the little girl from his prodigious height, his face opening with something close to affection as his version of a smile tugged at the unmarked side of his mouth. Despite himself he was passing fond of the moppet with her golden curls and sweet little voice. She reminded him of the sister he had once had, all innocence and wide eyes. He'd known the princess since she was an infant, he'd held her mewling little body in one hand, her little face puckered up and red. She'd eventually learned who he was, and sometimes she'd coo when he'd pick her up to deliver her where he was bid. Each little sound buried itself somewhere tender that he'd forgotten he had.

"I guess I do like some stories, little grace," he said. Myrcella plopped on his boots, leaning against his greaves. His enormous hand ghosted over the blond curls, and he could feel her warmth.

"What's your favorite one?" she asked, looking up at him with enormous crystalline eyes. She looked just like her mother and uncle with their golden hair and eyes like sea glass. A Lannister princess, through and through, he thought ruefully. He had heard the rumors since before she was born, knew what people whispered about she and the princes. He suspected that the rumors were correct, that this child was not Robert Baratheon's at all. That none of them were, except for the first little one who had died almost as soon as he was born. But Clegane had grown up in the shadow of Casterly Rock, his family loyal her mother's house. And she was but a child. She had as much control over who birthed her as he had.

"I guess the Lord of Castamere. I like it when people get what's coming to them. Doesn't happen that way in real life," he said quietly, thinking of all three of them. The little princess with her mother like ice, his own lot and his brother who had ruined him. And her tutor, the pretty girl seated on the floor, who was alone a thousand miles anyone who actually might care for her. They were three cut from the same sad cloth, he thought.

"I don't know that story," Myrcella said, rapping her baby hand against his enormous toe.

Lenna shot Clegane a look, but he met her eye with challenge. He relished her disapproval, enjoying the way her cheeks pinked, anything but the sadness that had been there before. He stood there with his fingertips on Myrcella's little head, but his eyes were fixed on Helenna Manderly. There was a flash of anger across her face and he felt vindicated. Anger was better than melancholy.

"It isn't a very nice story, Myrcella," she said at last, settling down on her haunches to get to the princess's level.

"Is it sad?" the little princess asked, furrowing her brow.

"Very," Lenna replied, still crouching in the shaft of sunlight with her arms folded across her knees.

"Really depends on who you ask," Clegane offered, addressing the princess directly. For as taciturn as he was, when he did talk of his own volition it was often directly to the children. He was more comfortable speaking to them than he was with the adults that surrounded him, he never felt off-kilter when them. "Your family thinks it ends happily enough, little grace."

"Clegane," Lenna said, warning in her tone. Though he kept his eyes on hers, he crouched down the Myrcella's level and began to hum, a deep rumble that he knew was not unpleasant to hear. He felt a soft frisson in his gut when the tutor's pretty mouth opened into an o of surprise.

"Sing, Sandor!" the princess clapped, breaking the spell, then grabbed one of his giant hands in both of her tiny ones. Her entire hand barely managed to wrap around his thumb.

"I don't sing, little grace," he said, cocking an eyebrow at Helenna. She still looked sad, and he didn't like it. He seized on the nugget of an idea. "But Lenna does." They were merely feet apart and he could see the amber flecks in her odd eyes, lit up by the shaft of sunlight to starkly contrast with the ring of dark green. A flush spread across her cheeks, and he was sure that they were both intently aware that he'd just said her name aloud. He'd never said it outside the confines of his room before, certainly never in anyone else's hearing. He cleared his suddenly thick throat. "Aren't you going to give the little grace a song? She so wants to hear the story."

Myrcella looked to her with such expectation that he knew she couldn't deny her. The tutor threw an exasperated look Sandor's way and he smirked back at her. He enjoyed watching her react to this, a darker flush of pink sweeping across the bridge of her nose, chasing away the strain from her earlier sorrow.

"Come here, darling girl," she said, extending an arm to the little princess as she cast her eyes down. She was flustered. It gratified him to no end. He felt almost gleeful until his breath caught in his throat. Myrcella had crawled into her lap, looking up at her. She put her little baby hand in Helenna's hair. It was hanging in a loose, thick tail over one shoulder, which the little girl buried her hands in and twisted. His hands itched to do the same, wondering what it felt like, if it was warm and silky or if would be coarse, clinging to his fingers. He had many thoughts about Helenna Manderly's hair, none of them particularly chaste.

But that wasn't what caused his breath the hitch. It was the way they were snuggled together, all affection and care, Lenna's arms wrapped around the little girl as if she were her own and not a princess it was her duty to teach. It was startlingly intimate to see her like that.

"Sing, Lenna." Myrcella had a knack for breaking spells.

Lenna looked at Sandor again, sighing, though this time she wore a soft smile. He had stood up and schooled his face back to impassivity, but he cocked his good eyebrow at her.

Lenna met his eye daringly and arched her own brow back at him. It sent a bolt of pleasure through him to see the return of her spirit. If he didn't know better, he might think she was flirting with him. Taking a breath she began the old ballad, looking down on the princess settled in her lap. The story spun of its own accord, looping seamlessly with the sad strains of the melody. By the last refrain, Sandor had leaned back against the wall again, this time he closed his eyes as he listened.

And who are you, the proud lord said,

That I should bend so low?

Only a cat of a different coat,

That's all the truth I know.

In a coat of gold or a coat of red,

A lion still has claws,

And mine are long and sharp, my Lord,

As long and sharp as yours.

And so he spoke, and so he spoke,

That lord of Castamere,

But now the rains weep o'er his hall,

With no one there to hear.

Yes, now the rains weep o'er his hall

Without a soul to hear.

There was a long beat of silence after she finished. He only faintly rued making her do it, goading her to sing a song she clearly hated. It was her nameday, after all, and he'd done it selfishly.

He didn't know she was watching him until he opened his eyes at the dying of the last note. He felt a rush of chill surge through him when he found himself under her scrutiny. The coolness turned to heat and went straight to his groin, much to his consternation. She looked back at him with her unfathomable eyes, her head slightly tilted as she looked at him, as if there were something curious about his face that she had noticed for the first time. It made him feel self-conscious and embarrassed.

He briefly feared he might have made her sorrow worse, the depth of sadness in her voice had resonated with something in him he hadn't acknowledged in a long time. He was stunned, staring back at her in the near-darkness of the shadows. The silence stretched between them like spider-silk, taut and tremulous with unspoken feeling. With some effort he gave his version of a smile, and felt a little of the burden of sorrow lift when she returned it fully, light in her eyes again.

"You're right," interrupted the little princess, completely unaware of what was passing between the two grown-ups she loved. "Lenna, it isn't a very happy story. I don't understand it, but your voice makes me so sad." With that, the little prince buried her golden head in her tutor's shoulder.

"It's just a song, dear girl," Lenna said, gathering the little princess to her and planting a kiss on the golden curls. She looked up at Clegane over the crown of the little girl's head, her lips still pressed to her hair. Her eyes were much brighter, but this time not with tears but with contentment, more herself. He shrugged, the remnant of a smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth, feeling as though the air in the room had become too thick to breathe.

After they were both relieved of duty, Clegane found himself wandering toward the market instead of the training yards. He didn't know what he was doing until he was standing in front of a stall hung with silk ribbons in more colors than he thought possible.

"See something you like?" An old woman sat on a stool, her hands folded in her lap.

"That one," he said gruffly, pointing to a long stretch of green ribbon that shone with tawny light as it fluttered.

"Which?"

"The green one, dark with the bit of gold."

"Ah," the old woman said and groped in the right direction. With astonishment, Sandor realized that she was blind. Her eyes were clouded over with white. "This one?"

She held up a blue one.

"Two to your left," he replied quietly, digging out his coin.

"For a lady, then?"

"Not fucking for me," he bit back, regretting his harshness immediately. The old woman cackled.

"One that bites," she laughed, pulling the correct ribbon off her display and holding it out in his direction.

"How much?" he asked, chastened.

"Keep your money, young man. Give it to your lady with my compliments." The old woman waggled her gray eyebrows in his direction. He dug into his pouch and retrieved a stag anyway. Far more than the ribbon was worth.

After procuring a length of rough twine from the kitchens, he wrapped the damn thing in a piece of parchment and scribbled a hasty note on the inside. For your nameday, Lenna. The brashness of using her name again turned his stomach. He felt like the biggest fool in Westeros when he laid it on her table, almost pocketing it and abandoning the whole idea in an odd panic. But the memory of her sad eyes came to him and he left it, throwing it down and walking as quickly away as he possibly could.

That night at dinner she sat with Myrcella as usual, and he could see, plain as day, his ribbon woven into her braid, running through the strands and binding the ends. She caught his eye and beamed, reaching a hand up to touch the fabric in acknowledgement. He slumped against the wall, making his hair fall across his face so she wouldn't see him flush, his throat working against the discomfort and the satisfaction that suddenly robbed him of breath.