Lenna XIV

They docked mid-morning. Making their way up from the Mud Gate took little time, and Sandor left her in the courtyard without a word. She didn't even seen him go, he retreated when her back was turned, distracted by instructing the servants to take her luggage. She was bereft to find him gone.

He'd been irritable and fractious the whole ride from the quay, refusing to look at her or speak to her, his eyes coldy scanning the streets as he led Stranger, his other hand on the hilt of his shortsword. Already, the delicate threads that bound them were being rent asunder, and she felt frayed and miserable. The last weeks had been like a dream, a wonderful, comfortable dream, and she didn't want to wake to reality again. She felt his absence on her very skin, suddenly cold. It took great effort to keep her face a study of amiability, her lips set in a smile for the guards, the stable boys, the maids that she passed in the passageways on her way back to her room, wishing he were walking beside her, knowing he could not even if he wished to.

The first thing she saw when she opened the door to her chamber was a large, heavy envelope sitting squarely in the middle of her bed. Her name had been written in ornate script: Lady Helenna Manderly of White Harbor, Royal Tutor. The flap was secured with a red wax seal bearing the Lannister lion.

Her eyes shut involuntarily, so tired she could hardly stand. She couldn't immediately bring herself to open it, instead thinking back to the same seal she had broken the week before, wondering if this one was to bring as much heartache as that one had. Every time she'd had to open a missive sealed with that damned lion it had brought pain. The last had brought her unspeakable and unnamed loss, that of her family, of course, but also that of the friend she could not put from her mind. When she'd turned in the courtyard, looking to say goodbye to him, and he'd already left, she'd felt as raw as if she'd been cut, and not just a little angry at him for leaving her without a word.

They'd spent the final days of the journey in quiet company with each other. After their argument they both seemed more aware of the other, more careful, but it wasn't at all uncomfortable. If anything, they were more deliberate in their care of each other. He was cautious at first, treating her as gently as he might a skittish horse or an injured bird. She realized that his outburst had hurt him far more than it had her, and he was afraid. She saw it in that grey gaze, the tentative way he looked at her, unsure of himself, of her, like he was worried she was angry.

No, he was worried you were frightened. Of him.

Never. She could never be frightened of him, even when he loomed over her with his fists clenched. He'd been an awesome sight, and she had shrunk from him, but not because she was fearful. She was sorry. She had needled him, pushed him, and she should have known better. She was keenly aware that he treated her with a care he reserved only for the princess, and it was different even then. Tenderness, she thought. The way he looked at her, sat with her, listened to her, with his whole attention, like there was nothing else he could possibly be doing.

Oh gods.

Every breath, every movement was like an apology, and he reminded her of nothing except his namesake. He was behaving like a chastened dog, one that lashed out at its owner in self-defense, his tail trod upon, and was desperate for a sign that he was forgiven. He had listened to her talk and read in the sunshine in silence, his face like a statue, and that night he didn't protest when she leaned against him, his arm sliding around her, tension in his fingers even though he didn't grip her to him like she wanted him to. She had felt him sigh, though she didn't hear it, his great chest expanding and collapsing in palpable relief.

Each night she had done the same, slipping up against him. His arm didn't come around her again, but he seemed easier. They had passed skins of wine between them as they looked at the stars and spoke softly of nothing in particular. He surprised her, shyly asking her to sing. She had done so gladly, but felt bashful herself, wondering why all her favorites were stories of sad loves. She'd nearly cried singing My Heart is Sair, her voice thickening toward the end as their reality came crashing over her. She could have sworn it had moved him, too, something silvery on his cheek when she turned her chin up toward him, but he'd cast his hair across his face, looking away, before she could be sure.

That last morning they had eaten their biscuits and downed their tepid tea with the sunrise, sitting together on the deck. The Keep was already in view, and she was put to mind of the morning of her first arrival, when she had watched the gulls as they flew about the harbor and seen the florid ramparts of King's Landing for the first time. They didn't speak much, just a word here or there that she couldn't remember now, even though she desperately wanted to. They had stood shoulder to shoulder, and she had leaned against him, her head in its place against the muscle of his upper arm. She stayed as long as she could, and it was Sandor who reminded her to go below and prepare. He followed after her, going to the door of his cabin, looking back at her with an inscrutable, powerful expression in his eyes before purposefully turning and shutting the door. She, too, turned and went into her cabin, her breast heavy, carefully taking off the woolen dress and replacing it with one more suitable for the capital, a slate blue she was fairly sure he liked. She'd long noted that he liked her in blue, the way his eyes softened when they settled on her. They always soften, has nothing to do with the color of your gown. She wove the gray ribbon through her hair, and after a final check that everything had been packed away, she went above to wait.

When he met her on the deck to disembark, he was wearing his armor. She'd barely seen him in it for three weeks, and she found she no longer cared for it. Once, she thought it made him look strong, the dull plate and green cloak suiting him. Now, she hardly recognized him. In a jerkin, a tunic, trousers, simple attire, he'd been a man, someone she knew and trusted. It was the armor that changed him, his bearing becoming more adversarial, his head and shoulders stooped with challenge. He had gone below as Sandor and reemerged as the Hound.

She should have said goodbye before they went below, because the man who walked down the gangplank with her wasn't Sandor. His face was hard, his eyes narrowed, a scowl already brewing. Her chest cracked, but she had no time to examine these changes or her own feelings. An escort was there to take them back to the Keep, just two mounted guards. They were disinterested in their task, their horses pawing impatiently on the dock. Sandor had led Stranger down the gangplank, and the enormous beast stood placid beside him. Even Sandor's helm was in place, the warm sun reflecting off its fangs. He had looked down at her askance, and she saw him in the gray eyes, just for a moment, but then his face had hardened again. It was like he was saying farewell. Without word or warning, he stooped and threw her up into Stranger's saddle before taking his reins in hand and leading the massive beast toward the Mud Gate.

"You won't ride?" she asked quietly. He looked up at her from the corner of his eye.

"Never here. Not with you," he replied. The sharp pain that ached beneath her breastbone flashed hot and her throat suddenly closed. He was right, and for a moment she hated him for it. He couldn't be Sandor, not any more than she could remain Lenna, not with all these eyes and ears about them. The Hound had returned to the capital bearing back Lady Helenna Manderly, and they must play their parts, even better than before.

She laughed hollowly to keep herself from crying, returning from her memory to the stillness of her room. She shook her head to scatter the unhappy thoughts, looking down at the thick envelope that lay unopened in her hand. She collected herself, imagining that others were watching. Her spine became straight, her shoulders relaxed back and down, her chin lifted. With cool detachment she broke the seal.

It was an invitation. To Tyrion Lannister's nameday banquet that very night.

She replaced the invitation in its envelope with neither pleasure nor pain, but deliberation. Declining was not an option, even if she was exhausted and heartsore. You don't have time for either. She ordered a bath from a passing maid and set about making herself into a lady again. The voyage hadn't lent itself to cleanliness beyond a quick scrub with cold water and a rough sponge. She had flubbed her first entrance into King's Landing in her roughspun dress and windblown hair. She'd not make the same mistake twice.

While she waited, she selected her gown. The crimson silk, the one she'd worn the night Tyrion Lannister had made her sing for him. The color gave her courage, reminding her that she had played her part for six years and could continue to do so. Red for boldness, a show of loyalty. She then took out a pair of soft gray slippers, and she decided she would twine Sandor's gray ribbon into her hair once it had been washed and dried.

The servants arrived with the steaming ewers of water. She dismissed them as soon as the tub was filled before her hearth. She took advantage of the hot water to wallow while she could. Yes, she missed her family and White Harbor, but she had expected that loss. Their time together was always She hadn't expected the ache that had started when he'd appeared on deck in his armor, every inch the Hound again. It was strange, when he was Sandor, she didn't see his scars. She'd become so used to them before, that was true, but she was always aware of them when he was the Hound, because he was aware of them. She had looked past them to see him in spite of them. But she didn't even notice them on the man who had travelled north with her, and he seemed to pay them no mind, not bothering to hide them from her. The Sandor who had sat on the decks and told her stories and shared his wine with was handsome, and tall, and strong. But he had been put away as quiet as she had packed her gowns that morning, replaced by the Hound- ferocious, enormous, and intimidating.

Cold.

Wrong. All wrong. She knew he wasn't cold. True, it had taken him time to open himself to her, years even, but he was her friend. Never before had she felt a wall between them as she had that morning as they left the ship. He'd always been more to her than a suit of armor with a devilish tongue. It was the abrupt disappearance of the gentler man that inspired the worst of her heartache. She mourned the easiness they'd learned together, the underlying, unspoken affection. She already missed him.

How he talked about himself disturbed her. She almost wished he hadn't told her what had happened to him, and she knew that he intended to scare her with his vile bloodlust. He seemed to have long ago decided that he would be better off dead, and he'd spent a considerable portion of his life trying to make that reality. He'd pushed people away before they had a chance to do the same to him. She couldn't imagine it had been easy growing up with a face like that, especially in the same household as the one who had done it to you. Of course he didn't want to be hurt again, and it was much easier to be angry.

He wanted her to think he was rough, that he had no feelings, that he was just as monstrous as they said he was. He wanted her to think that he wasn't honorable or good. And perhaps he wasn't, not entirely, like she always believed her father and brothers, and their liege, Lord Stark, to be. He might have killed many, he might even have delighted in it, but she could not believe it was all he was. She knew it wasn't. She wished he could see himself as she did, tempestuous, yes, but capable of great kindness. He had stood watch for a stranger's grief, brought a lonely girl ribbons, and then held her while she cried even though he was clearly uncomfortable doing so. She didn't know his motivations for sure, but she thought it almost certain that he did so out of some tender feeling for her. The way he looked at her at times made her breath shallow. Monsters don't have tender feelings, she thought. But then again, I've never thought he was one.

The only monsters she had met were beautiful, golden-haired, and expecting her to make an appearance that evening. She quickly scrubbed the salt off her skin, feeling refreshed despite how tepid the water had become. Her maid knocked at the door, and she rose to dry off and wrap herself in her dressing gown. The girl came in quietly, and together they went through the tedious process of preparing for a royal banquet. She wondered briefly who would be there, then found she didn't much care.

When the maid laced her into her dress, she tsked as she pulled the laces tighter than she had before. Lenna knew she had not eaten much on the return voyage, and she knew she was thinner for it. The dress itself was light as gossamer, and it made her feel exposed even though she was covered almost from collarbone to wrist. It felt foreign after a month of warm woolens. She allowed the maid to plait her hair and arrange it in a coil on the back of her head instead of letting it hang free. The girl threaded the gray ribbon through it, the same color as his eyes, and when the girl dabbed rouge on her lips and cheeks, she didn't object. Neither did she protest the lines of kohl she drew along her eyes.

"You are very beautiful, my lady. You should wear your hair like that more often. Many women would kill for your neck and eyes." the maid chattered, and Lenna looked at the girl, perplexed. She hadn't been attending the girl's ministrations, far too caught up in her own thoughts.

When Lenna looked into her dim little glass, she didn't recognize the woman looking back at her. It was the first time she saw the resemblance to her mother, her long white neck bared and graceful, the heavy dark hair a startling contrast. Her mother had had fine cheekbones, and Lenna saw them peeping through her own flesh, as well as the finely arched brows like swipes of ink across her brow. Her mouth was Adalyn Locke's, too, a reddened bow with a full lower lip. Only the eyes were that of a Manderly.

It heartened her to see her mother reflected back at her. She needed her mother's strength, needed to think as she would have. It had always fascinated her to watch her mother arbitrate as a child. Her father had trusted her as much as he did his most senior advisors, and it wasn't unusual that she would pass judgment in his absence. She could quell discontent with the subtlest tilt of the head, the mere appearance of a dimple. It was a form of magic.

Lenna wondered vaguely if Adalyn Locke had learned it all from Joanna Lannister.

She remembered sitting before her mother's effigy in the crypts, astonished to see her own face on the statue. Tywin Lannister and her father both had told her she looked like her mother's twin, but she had never seen the resemblance before. She had always thought her mother so beautiful, so graceful. It then occurred to her that she hadn't resembled her mother that strongly at fourteen, the last time she had seen her alive. And after her mother's death, she had almost forgotten what she'd looked like. The thought never crossed her mind that she might grow into her mother's gentle beauty. After all, her reputation was for study, not her looks. She didn't think anyone other than this little maid had ever called her beautiful before.

He did, her mother whispered, I heard him. And he had. She'd made some listless comment about how lovely her mother was, and he'd agreed with her, telling her that she looked like her. At the time, she'd thought nothing of it, just another person noting a resemblance. But it had been more than that, his voice soft as he acknowledged her mother's beauty and saw it reflected in her.

Her chest felt full, and she shook herself, sparing a smile and a word of thanks for the maid. It was time. She rose and followed her feet to Cersei's private quarters. It was apparently to be a small affair, and when she was ushered into the room she was surprised by just how small.

Tyrion Lannister, the queen, her brother, and their father were all gathered in the queen's private chambers. The king was conspicuously absent. Gods, she thought, truly a family party. She walked right into an actual den of lions, their green eyes all turned to her. And, of course, Sandor Clegane was standing in the shadows, back against the wall and arms crossed against his armored chest.

The Hound looked at her from beneath the fall of his hair without any warmth whatsoever. Her courage nearly failed her.

"My lady Helenna," Tyrion cried. He had been standing with his brother, but when the guard opened the door he had spotted her immediately. He rushed toward her on his bowed legs, seizing both her hands in his. "I wasn't sure if you would come."

"I couldn't ignore a royal summons, could I?" she replied as jovially as she could. Despite herself, the pain and exhaustion, she was pleased to see him. He was clearly delighted to see her, a large grin splitting his face, the mismatched eyes glowing.

"Even lovelier than I remember," he said softly, pressing her hand. "What a fine present you are."

She smiled, letting him lead her into the room.

"We are glad you could join us, Lady Helenna," Cersei said smoothly as Lenna sank into a low curtsey.

"I wouldn't have missed it," she replied. "How lucky it is that we returned in time."

"Indeed," Cersei replied lightly. "My brother would have been quite disappointed if you hadn't. You had a pleasant journey?"

"Yes, your grace. No storms in the Fingers this time," she replied, thinking that the only storm she had to face was the one she had just entered.

"Your hair looks quite becoming that way," Cersei said, her brows coming together. "You look quite grown up."

"I am nearly two and twenty, your grace. I suppose it is about time." Lenna forced herself to laugh, praying that Cersei would buy her humor.

She did.

Before long, they were seated at the long table that had been brought into Cersei's chambers. Lenna was seated between Tywin and Jaime Lannister, with Tyrion opposite. The older lord was solicitous as ever, inquiring after her health, the length of the voyage. Everything delivered in cool, polite ones that made her cringe inwardly. All she could think of was dark caverns brimming with drowned children.

She tried to keep her attention present to the party, ignoring Sandor where he stood against the wall. Each time she did look at him, though, their eyes met, as if drawn to each other. His face was long and gaunt, his eyes dark, and he watched each of the attendees like a hawk, herself included.

The table was laden with rich food, though Lenna took little. She picked at the feast of roasted meats and vegetables, delicate rolls and bowls of fruit. Her wine goblet was never empty, and with an empty stomach she was soon a bit tipsy. She could feel heat in her cheeks as she listened to the conversations around her, frequently meeting Tyrion's gaze over the platters and candles, his eyes alight with soft pleasure each time they rested on her.

"I hear that you are lately returned from the North."

She turned to the silky voice at her side to find Ser Jaime Lannister looking at her intently. She was sure they had never spoken beyond bare pleasantries before, and she'd certainly never been so close to him. She was momentarily struck by how beautiful he was, like each feature had been sculpted by some master artist as an exemplar of masculine perfection. The strong jaw, the well proportioned mouth, the smooth brow, and beryl-bright eyes, yes, he was extremely handsome indeed. He was regarding her with a little smirk about his mouth and a calculating look in his eyes. They were identical to Cersei's, unsurprising given they were twins, but there was a hint of warmth in them that she never saw in the queen's. It made her curious.

"Aye," she replied, slightly stunned, the everyday word slipping out in the Northern brogue that had begun to recolor her speech at home. She quickly collected herself, a blush pinking her cheeks as she remembered where she was. "I mean, yes."

He chuckled at the slip and she smiled genuinely in return.

"Did you enjoy it?"

She felt pinned by the green gaze. He cocked his head, an irresistible gesture, like a good natured hound. Hound, she thought, coming back to herself. Sandor was watching, and Jaime Lannister was flirting with her.

"I had not been home in a very long time. It was good to go back," she said, raising her goblet to her lips.

"Did you miss the capital?" he asked sleekly, a lilt of teasing in his voice.

"Of course I did," she replied gamely. "Especially the princess."

"She is very fond of you," he said seriously. "She talks of little else. The whole time you were away, she constantly asked when you would return. Have you seen her yet?"

"No, ser. We just arrived back today. I hope to see her tomorrow."

For a moment, she thought the conversation was over. She hoped that it was. Despite herself, she was enjoying his attention, the way his eyes rested on her appraisingly. He obviously liked what he saw. Or rather, she thought darkly, he wants you to think that he does. He sat back a little, the candlelight making his golden hair glow, licking across his sharp cheekbones.

"We?" he asked lightly.

Lenna furrowed her brow. "Clegane was sent with me to White Harbor, of course."

"Poor company for a lady," Jaime said, looking at her from over the rim of his goblet as he raised it to his lips.

"He did his duty serviceably. I have been returned in one piece, as you see," she replied with a smile, gesturing along the length of her torso with a quirk of her brows.

Jaime smirked. "But not much of a conversationalist."

"Perhaps not," she replied, subduing the urge to look at Sandor, knowing that to do so would be a mistake. She was right to be wary of Jaime Lannister's attention. "I fear his bite is worse than his bark, though."

"You'd be right. Fearsome brute. I've seen him cut down men two and three at a time. All the while with this mad grin on his face. Quite formidable."

Lenna bit back a retort about his own reputation, knowing very well that Jaime Lannister had put his sword this his own king's back during the rebellion. Kingslayer, they called him. A man without honor.

Honor is such a complicated thing.

"And your father?" he asked blithely. Ah, here it is.

"Older. More cantankerous than I remember."

"And your brothers? I believe I met both during the Rebellion."

"Much the same, though I suppose more interested in me now that I am older."

"Now that you have made a way for yourself." Do you think you are sowing the seeds of doubt? She wondered how stupid they thought she was. The dimmer the better, she thought cynically.

"I would not suspect family of such motives, but perhaps it is as you say," she replied diplomatically.

"And the city? Was it as you remembered?"

She plumbed her mind for a reply that would give him some bit of information they might want. "Clean as ever, the harbor was much busier than I recalled. Seems that the import trade is booming. My father has added almost three dozen new ships to his fleet since I left White Harbor."

"How long exactly have you been in King's Landing?"

"About six hours," she replied quickly, cocking her eyebrow and smirking at him. Jaime Lannister's brow quirked in genuine delight and he had the grace to laugh and bow his head in acknowledgement of the quip. Lenna was keenly aware of what was happening. The handsome knight had been tasked with winkling her. It was better to give him what he wanted than to possibly tip him off that she knew what he was up to.

"Is my brother interrogating you?" Tyrion called from across the table. He was three sheets to the wind, full of wine and rich food and reveling in the attention of his family.

"What an unkind word, my lord," she replied. "Ser Jaime was merely inquiring after my time in the North."

"Yes, the trip that nearly cost us this visit. I was so cross to find my sister had sent you North," Tyrion said, taking another deep swig of his wine and wagging a finger at the queen. Cersei looked less than amused.

"It was an overdue visit, my lord, though I am glad I returned in time to celebrate you," Lenna replied, raising her glass in a mock toast.

"I'd not have left without seeing you. Was it all you hoped it would be? Your home?"

Lenna paused before she answered, keenly aware that all eyes at the table were on her. "I think, my lord, that expectations of homecomings are bound to be painful. There is no going back, you see. People do not remain as you know them, any more than we stay the same. It was good to be among my family, but we now walk different paths."

"What do you mean?"

"It was clear to me that my place is here, however fond I am of my memories of my girlhood. Of White Harbor."

"Well said," the queen chimed in. "I know it grieves my father, but I have said so often enough myself, have I not?"

"You have," Tywin replied slowly. His cold eyes were resting on Lenna now, and she thought she saw a flicker of something in them that she couldn't name. Perhaps it was pleasure, perhaps suspicion.

"Casterly Rock will always hold a fond place in my memory," the queen continued, warming to her theme, "but my home is here in King's Landing. I am happy to hear your feel the same, Lady Helenna. I had worried."

"Your grace?" she asked, genuinely curious. She hadn't realized she warranted many of Cersei Lannister's thoughts.

"You sometimes seemed unhappy here. I am glad to hear otherwise." Her voice rang with sincerity that surprised Lenna.

"I am very satisfied with my life here, your grace," she replied carefully. "And I have you to thank for it."

"You have yourself to thank, Lady Helenna. We could not ask for a better teacher for our princess. She will be thrilled to see you tomorrow morning, you know." Cersei was beaming at her, a mother's pride flashing over her face. It was the most beautiful she'd ever looked in Lenna's eyes. Pity. "All we've heard since you left is 'when is Lenna coming back?' The child adores you."

"I have missed her as well," Lenna replied softly.

If a test had been set for her, surely she passed it, for there was no more mention of her travels for the rest of the evening. Tyrion was drunk on good Dornish wine, and he did require her to sing. She did as she was bid, taking requests from them, even forcing herself to sing Rains of Castamere at Tywin's bidding. She didn't think the lord's eyes left her face the entirety of the song, and it was a feat for her to finish it without trembling. But his lips quirked in a wintry smirk and she felt the danger had momentarily passed.

When the evening at last drew to a close, Ser Jaime himself escorted her back to her door, taking her hand and saluting it gallantly while wishing her a good night. He waited until her door closed behind her, and she listened as the sharp report of his boots against the stone faded into the distance.

She wondered if this was how soldiers felt after a battle, bone-weary and yet restless. She didn't even bother to undress, she simply collapsed into bed, too exhausted to do anything but sprawl across the coverlet, praying for sleep.

Sandor XIV

He hadn't been released at the end of the party. He had felt it coming from the moment he got word he was expected. Of course they would call on him the day he returned from a four week mission. He'd spent the whole evening propped against a wall, fighting exhaustion and the desire to look at her.

She was wearing the red again. It had been years since he'd seen her in it last. He liked the way it fell against her skin, her hair. Just seeing her in the color made his blood rise in hunger. She'd coiled her hair around her head, though, and he didn't like it. It didn't look right, even with his ribbon plaited through it, the gray standing out sharply against her dark locks. Hair like hers should always be flowing, loose around her shoulders. He'd had to bite back a vision of her cloaked in nothing else, that mass of curls against pale skin. It wasn't right to think of such things, at least not in a room full of lions.

But nothing was right, and he felt that it wouldn't ever be again. He'd felt the shift it as soon as they'd stepped foot on the quay. As he led Stranger through the city, he mulled over his own regret. He felt that he'd squandered his time, the only thing he wanted from her, that he'd wasted it foolishly. He'd lashed out at her, had spent what little time he had with her doing penance, at once wishing to push her away and bind her to him as tightly as he was bound to her.

As soon as he'd strapped on his armor, a change came over him. He resented it, the strict confines of the plate, of his role. A lightness had taken up residence in his breast those past few weeks, even as the heaviness of his feelings for her settled over him. Love. He spat the word even when he merely thought it. Fool cunt. The armor and the helm only served to remind him that he was once again the Hound, and he had no time or opportunity for the pleasures he'd developed a taste for on their journey North.

He'd had to watch as she blushed and bantered with Jaime fucking Lannister. He despised the man for his cruel streak, for his betrayal of his vows, but now he hated him for making her laugh, for flattering her. And he hated her for letting her cheeks pink with pleasure, for enjoying the attention of the Kingsguard. He remembered the conversation between Tywin and the queen, when the old lord had said he was thinking of Lenna as a march for his eldest son. Vows could be repudiated, Jaime Lannister could take his place as heir of Casterly Rock, and she could stand beside him. The queen had laughed at the time, but he wondered if it wasn't something Tywin was thinking of again.

Jaime Lannister didn't look like he would mind. There was sincerity in his admiration, Sandor was sure of it. Who wouldn't admire her, he thought darkly. He certainly did, and not just for how lovely she looked that night. He was apprehensive when she appeared, clearly reading the surprise on her face to find herself ensconced in what was clearly a family party. He had been shocked, too. She was the only one not sporting the name of Lannister, and that made his hackles rise in anticipation before she even stepped for in the room.

But she had done well. He had been afraid, then felt foolish for it. He didn't do her credit. She'd been playing her part for six years, she could put her costume back on. He'd seen her gather her ladyship around her just as she had her first day in Cersei's solar, only this time she was prepared. She didn't walk into that room without any precautions, she had walked in every inch Lady Helenna of White Harbor, a loyal Lannister servant.

He'd felt his chest swell with pride when she had cleverly inserted the information about her father's fleet into her banter with Jaime Lannister. She had identified his purpose and was gamely playing along. She didn't even need him to outline it for her, she was finding her footing. And he'd nearly guffawed at her retort when the Kingslayer had asked how long she'd been in White Harbor. He knew she had a wit, though she seldom whetted in public.

As torturous as it was, as wary as it was, he had felt pleasure in equal measure watching her handle herself like a seasoned courtier rather than a naive girl. While it had gladdened him, it also twisted the knife. One of the things he loved was her insistence on believing in goodness. Now there was something of a cynic about her that made his stomach turn. Too much like you.

Once she had left, escorted by fucking golden Jaime Lannister, Tywin's attention had turned to him quickly. The old lord had peppered him with questions, and he gladly told what he knew. It felt like a weight being removed from his chest, the burden of passing on that information. He wondered what Tywin would say if he knew that Wyman Manderly had supplied the details himself. He wondered if Tywin already knew what he was telling him, if this was some test of loyalty, or if he had merely been sent to corroborate.

At last, it seemed they would let him go, but as he moved to leave, Tywin's voice arrested him.

"Lady Helenna," the old lord said abruptly. "Did she mean what she said earlier?"

"My lord?" He turned and looked at Tywin, ice trickling through his veins.

"About her place being here. Did she mean it?"

So it had little to do with ships and garrisons. It had to do with seeing if Helenna Manderly was going to remain loyal. If Wyman Manderly was in line. It made him furious.

"She's not a liar, my lord."

"No, I didn't think she was. But was she trying to...please us? You know how young ladies can be."

"I don't believe so, my lord. She spoke often of the princess." Not a lie. She had talked about the princess. She'd told her nieces every little detail about her life in King's Landing, spinning it into a far more glamorous story than it was.

"And Wyman? How did he receive her?"

"She's his daughter, my lord, he was glad to see her. He clearly loves her dearly."

"Did they spend much time together?"

He wondered why he didn't just ask him if they'd formed a plot. It would be an easy answer: absolutely not. If Wyman Manderly had one, he'd not share it with his daughter and send her back to Tywin Lannister's den.

"She spent most of her time with her nieces." Not a lie.

"Her brothers?"

"Around, my lord, but not terribly interested in her being at home."

"What did you get up to, Clegane?" The old lord's eyes narrowed.

Lannister eyes had seen him on the wharf, in the ale houses. He wondered if they saw him sitting at the family table, too.

"The usual, my lord. The Manderly's are hospitable hosts, though."

"How so?"

"I was expected to break bread with them."

Tywin's eyebrow shot up in delight. He did know. "Always were an odd bunch."

"Aye, my lord."

Tywin seemed satisfied. After all, he'd gotten what he'd really wanted. He had already known that Wyman Manderly had a fleet of over a hundred and fifty ships, a garrison of three thousand men with many more bannermen besides, and the capability to manufacture fifteen ships a year. Now he knew he had a loyal hostage as well.

"I'd half expected the girl to stay," Tywin said softly.

"She'd not do that, my lord. As she said, her place is here."

"Like yours." It was a chilling reminder, Tywin's cold eyes holding fast to his.

"Yes, my lord," he rumbled darkly.

Tywin's lip quirked in a serpentine smile. With an inclination of the old lord's head, Clegane knew he was dismissed.

Myrcella's lessons began the following week. In the interim he found himself mooning, missing her. He felt ridiculous, looking forward to glimpses of her in the banqueting hall, in the passageways.

The first morning he stood against the wall as he always did and watched her, only it wasn't with fascination as it had been in the past. He watched her with the hunger of a man who wasn't sure when he'd have a meal again. She caught his eye, but he continuously found himself unable to hold her gaze, wary that she might see some evidence of his state of mind there.

For weeks it continued in this way, her smiles gradually fading. She still tried, but by the second month each attempt seemed melancholy. They hadn't properly spoken since they'd left the ship, and it seemed that she was wilting to him. It made him feel terribly guilty.

Your promise was to keep her safe, not happy.

He had taken to sneaking in each afternoon she went to the Sept so he could watch her unawares, imagine that they were alone together. Strictly speaking, they were, only she didn't know he was there.

He'd spent above an hour torturing himself one morning when he turned to go.

"Wait."

Her voice seemed to hang in the air, echoing through the Sept. He froze, and he could barely detect the soft sounds of her slippers against the stone floor. She came to him on silent feet, slipping into the alcove where he had hidden himself.

"I knew it was you," she said quietly. "I hoped it was you."

A little thrill went through his gut to hear her say it even though he couldn't look at her.

"I...I've missed you," she said sadly. His eyes shot to her face, taking in as much detail as he could in the dark, his heart thundering.

"Aye," he agreed gruffly.

"I know it can't be as it was, but-" he voice trailed off and thickened.

"But what?" he prompted.

"Have I done something wrong?" Her voice was so sad and little. She was looking up at him with distress in her face. "You haven't spoken to me. You'll barely even look at me."

"I have a job to do."

She looked forlorn, her eyes narrowed with hurt in a way that made his chest clench. To his relief she nodded.

"I think I understand," she whispered. "But-"

"Yes?"

"Sandor," she said plaintively, and his stomach fell to hear his name on her lips again. "You're all I have. I can't continue on like this, so alone."

"You must," he replied. He wanted to put his hands on her shoulders, to lower his head and rest his brow against hers. Anything to take away the hurt he'd caused, necessary as it was for both of them.

"Alone?"

"Not alone," he said, swallowing hard. "You're never alone."

"Is there a way for us to...talk?"

She sounded like a lost child, disoriented and terribly sad. He closed his eyes and pushed down against the desire to pull her to him.

"Not in the way I think you mean," he said quietly. "We are not in White Harbor, Lenna."

When he said her name, her face bloomed. She looked up at him with eyes glowing, and he found it in himself to twist his lip at her.

"If I need you-"

Need me. Want me. Please. "Leave the book on the table. The red one. But only if necessary. I'll come to the library at night, but we can't risk-"

"You'll come, though? If I need you?"

"Aye." Another oath.

She nodded, a small smile on her lips.

"Go now," he said, pulling away from her. Without realizing it, he had leaned so close he could feel her warmth radiating into his skin.

"Sandor, why have you been coming to the Sept?"

"To make sure you are safe." Lie.

"Don't stop," she said quietly, and his heart began to race. "I don't want to be alone. I won't seek you out, just please, don't stop coming. I want to know you're here."

He nodded, swallowing thickly. She reached out and pressed his hand in both of hers then, turning to leave him. When she did, he proceeded to curse himself for his foolishness, pressing his forehead against the stone wall, wondering if she knew the real reason why he was hiding in the shadows, somehow knowing that she did. To his astonishment, he didn't care, so long as she wanted him there, he would take it.

A/N: So, I lied. THIS is the longest chapter yet. Ouf. And thank you for bearing with my typos. I promise I reread before I post, but sometimes I just don't catch them.

To answer at least one inquiry- never fear. This won't be over before AGOT starts. I already had 120,000 words written before I started posting, and I've added to that considerably because of the feedback from you fine folks. But, it will start incorporating whatever I please from the books or the show, and I make no apologies for taking what I want from either. Serves my selfish purposes. So, please keep the reviews coming. I get a little jolt of excitement every time I see a new notification!

Thank you again for your kinds words. Hold on to your hats, things are going to get even bumpier, but hopefully the payoff will be worth it.