Lenna XVII

Lenna was shocked by how beautiful Casterly Rock was. The height of it was staggering, perhaps eight or ten times as high as her own Seal Rock, towering over the landscape above misty meadows like the promised kingdom from some fairy story. The Keep itself rose ever higher, spires of gold against a blazing blue sky hung with white clouds like pennants. It didn't look real.

She had begged to ride in on one of the pack animals, a stout little pony, blithely telling the queen that she wished to see the countryside around Lannisport. In fact, she had wanted to ride in with Sandor. She had suffered for her pride and cruelty to him the day of the tourney. It was her moment of greatest shame, lobbing that epithet at him like a Lannister. It still made her cringe, even though it had been he who had first asked for pardon, who had acted like he had nothing to forgive her for, that it was beneath her to ask him for his forgiveness.

He thinks he deserves to be treated like that, she thought bitterly, and it brought angry tears every time it crossed her mind. He'd begged her pardon, swallowing his own pride, and had accepted her apology with open arms. Literally, she thought, shivering to remember. She'd ungracefully flung herself at him, and he'd actually embraced her, his massive arms around her just as they'd been in White Harbor, giving solace. She promised herself that it would never happen again, she couldn't bear to be the one who rendered him mute and hard like that. She thought it likely that he only forgave her because it was her. Anyone else and he'd have carried that grudge until his last breath. Instead, he'd tucked her into his warmth with an almost desperate relief.

She hadn't meant to trouble him further, asking him about the Westerlands. She'd enjoyed hearing him talk about the dogs, but she didn't miss his meaning. She couldn't imagine the pain he'd been through, and it laid her low again with shame. She had kissed him, pressing her lips against the scarred skin on the side of his neck, stunned by her own courage. It was no display of passion, just simple care when there were no words. She wondered if he'd even felt it. He'd shuddered, but he'd said nothing, the most eloquent of his gestures coming as he delivered her back to her tent, his rough fingertips trailing along her jaw so softly she could have imagined it.

You didn't.

Tywin Lannister had escorted her into his home that first night, riding beside her as they entered the Lion's Mouth. It was after nightfall, the journey through the city taking the better part of a day. The only clue that they were in a cavern and not under the vault of the sky was the absence of stars. The torchlight couldn't penetrate the darkness, and Tywin had smirked as she looked up in awe, realizing how deep and impenetrable the Rock really was.

The days passed in peaceful indolence. She and Tyrion took long walks through the gardens that looked out from a staggering height to the sea. They were lush, verdant, the trees full of birds that sang so sweetly in the sunshine, and at dusk the sunset was spectacular as it spilled its reds and oranges and golds over the shining waters of the sea, the purples and blues falling like silks shot with the silver of the stars.

She was standing on the ramparts one evening, watching the spill of color over the waves before she went in for dinner. It was so different from standing on the walls of the New Castle, the wind here a pleasant, sultry breeze that gently stirred the few curls that had escaped her coil. The sun was still warm on her face even as it melted below the horizon.

"The Westerlands agree with you. You look quite at home here."

She turned to find Tywin Lannister standing at her elbow. His grim features were oddly softened. She wondered if her was remembering another woman who looked like her standing in that very spot in another time.

"I have never seen anything so grand as this," she said, the smile in her voice real and brimming.

"Were there not sunsets in White Harbor?" he asked, his hands splayed on the wall.

"Of course, my lord, but to see them spill over the sea, like so much fire…"

"It is beautiful, isn't it?" he said, but his eyes were on her face. She flushed under his gaze. "Your father liked this walk. In his youth."

She laughed, unable to stop herself.

"Why do you laugh?"

"My father is not known for his appreciation of beautiful things."

"He loved your mother. As much as I loved my Joanna, I'm sure."

"I have heard she was a great beauty. Your wife."

"She was. Cersei is the very picture of her. Just as you are of Adalyn Locke. You know, looking at you, I can almost imagine that Joanna is still alive."

"My mother-" she began, her voice soft in light of his oddly tender reminiscences. She would never have thought to see Tywin Lannister looking wistful, but that exactly described the expression in his hawkish face as he tilted his head to look at her.

"Yes. Very like you, in ways far beyond the resemblance. She was intelligent, kind, and a little obstinate. She was my wife's dearest friend before we married. It was a bitter separation. My Joanna-"

"Yes?"

"She loved your mother very much. I have always felt...well, guilty, that their friendship was severed."

"It is hard to lose a friend," she said quietly, thinking of her own and how close she'd come. Instead of a lovely lady, hers was a massive killer with grey eyes and a savage streak as wide as the sky. Despite their evening in the meadow, riding through the city side by side, he was still far distant from her. It was impossible for them to be as she sure they both wished to.

"It is. No riches could replace that loss. When I see you next to Cersei, it's almost like no time has passed, but alas. It's just an illusion. It was another lifetime. They are both gone now," he replied, and his voice sounded almost forlorn. She wondered if they were still talking about his wife, and not of himself. For the first time, Lenna allowed herself to look at Tywin Lannister as a person and not a great lord. Her own father had said they'd loved each other as brothers once, had been as close as close could be. He'd spoken with pain in his own voice when he told her the story of their boyhood, how so many years had been levelled with a single act. Though this lord was cruel and cold, it was possible he still had some brotherly feeling for her father, some deep hurt. Knowing Sandor had taught her that those with the hardest exteriors were often a writhing mass of pain on the interior. Perhaps Tywin Lannister wasn't simply corrupt. She suspected he was rather more complicated than that.

Long ago, she had accepted that good and evil were not so clear as they were in the storybooks. Good men appeared wretched, did horrible things, and evil men were capable of kindness. Most certainly thought that the Hound must be evil with his twisted face and well-deserved reputation for brutality, but she knew better. He was far more complex, just as these Lannisters, so beautiful to look at, could be so unbelievably cruel and unscrupulous. The distance between virtue and vice was smaller than she'd wanted to admit, with most people unknowingly flitting between the two. There were so few absolutes.

"It is time for dinner," he said, his attempt at a smile landing cold, extending his elbow to her. She put her hand in the crook, allowing him to lead her in.

She was seated next to Tyrion as usual, Sandor opposite as he stood behind the queen and Myrcella. All through dinner, her eyes flicked to him. He was watching her intently, his face blank but his eyes and brows active, their secret language flowing easily even among the lions. They were distracted by each other, and Cersei was in high spirits, talkative with her brother and her father, the children whisked off as soon as the meal was finished. The adults adjourned to the hearth, the large comfortable chairs clustered around the flames. Sandor moved to stand against the wall, just out of the circle of light.

We are not in White Harbor.

"Will my lady sing for us?" Tyrion asked, pushing out his lower lip like a child. She shook her head, but smiled.

"What would you have, my lord," she asked. She didn't wish to sing, but she'd not deny them.

"Why don't you sing us something melancholy," he said.

"Most songs are melancholy, my lord," she replied.

"Take your pick, then," he laughed.

Lenna closed her eyes, rifling through the lyrics she knew by heart. When she lit upon it, her eyes darted just briefly to Sandor, standing with his head thrown back and his throat exposed. His eyes were staring unblinking at the ceiling as if preparing himself.

She chose My Heart is Sair, regretting it almost as soon as she'd begun.

The events of the past few weeks came down on her with force. The tourney, their argument, their reconciliation. She had denied what it was she felt for Sandor Clegane for far too long, and the music was ruthless, granting no reprieve. When she'd sung it in White Harbor it had been true, she'd know she'd cared for him as more than her friend even then, but now, after so much time, it was even more poignant as that feeling had spun itself into something encompassing and staggering. And hopeless. Each word became a little dart of pain that nestled in her chest. She knew her voice had thickened, and she hoped that they all simply thought it was part of the performance.

When she came to the last refrain, even the queen had tears in her eyes.

"That was quite moving," she said, swiping the wetness from her fair cheeks. "I wonder, Lenna, if you've someone in mind when you sing it."

"No, your grace," she lied, hoping Sandor would hear the falsehood in it. He always could tell when she was lying. She hoped he'd hear it and know it was him. "It's just an old song."

"Clegane," the queen said imperiously. He straightened himself out, stretching to his full height. "See the lady back to her chambers."

Tywin Lannister walked out with his daughter, leaving Tyrion and Lenna before the hearth, Sandor standing in the shadows. Lenna made no move to leave, staring at the fire as she tried to gather herself together, dreading walking back alone with him through the dark halls of the Rock after such an emotional display.

"I'll see her back, Clegane," Tyrion said softly, his eyes fixed with deadly seriousness on Lenna's face. She looked at him, the expression on his features making her feel a thin trickle of misgiving.

"My orders-" Sandor protested, clearing his throat.

"Never fear," Tyrion said, flicking his eyes toward the other man with a smirk. "No harm will come to her under my watch either."

At such a dismissal, Sandor strode from the room with purposeful, angry steps. Lenna looked at Tyrion with as little expression as she could muster, wary at his continued silence.

"My dear," he breathed, his mismatched eyes glowing with significance. "Does he know?"

"Know what?" she asked quickly, her breath hitching, an icy bolt of terror running down her spine. Tyrion looked at her solemnly, his tousled curls spilling over his forehead above grave eyes. He had clasped his hands behind his back, straightening his spine to look at her from his full height. The expression on his face was shrewd, studious, taking in every line and flicker in her own.

He drew in a great breath, running a hand through his hair as he looked into the fire, away from her. "I hardly know what to think of it, but-"

"But what?" she bit out.

"You," he said heavily, then he nodded to the door with a raise of his chin. "And him. And-"

"Hush, Tyrion." Her voice was a low plea. She was distressed that he would speak of it, that he couldn't detect her pain. She had hidden it for so long, so well.

His eyebrows shot up under his hair, out of view. He took three steps toward her, hands still behind his back, his mouth quirk humorlessly.

"So it is true! You are- dare I even say it- in love with Sandor Clegane." When he pronounced the last, he said it with a knotting of his brow, as if such a thing were complete incomprehensible.

Lenna didn't answer, feeling her face blaze with embarrassment, her chest so tight she couldn't breathe. She'd never allowed her to even think the word before, and here was Tyrion discussing it openly. He wasn't upset or disgusted, more bewildered, just as she was. She didn't know where to look, what to do with her hands, so she stared at them as they lay limply in her lap like dead birds.

"Oh gods," he said with a hiccup of a laugh, his hand flying up to cover his mouth, the signet ring on his little finger flashing in the firelight. "I was hoping you'd at least try and deny it. Is this the lay of things, then?"

Tears sprang to her eyes and she opened her mouth, but there were no words. Her hands bunched in her skirts, her knuckles going white.

"He doesn't know." Tyrion uttered the words tenderly, with realization and a great deal of sympathy. So much sympathy that the tears that had gathered in her eyes now ran in a steady trickle down her cheeks.

She shook her head.

"Lenna, my dear," he said, crossing the distance between them and pulling her hand into his. "You have no idea, do you?"

"Of what?" she sniffed, unable to look away from his earnest gaze.

Silence weighed heavily between them, a bough laden with rotting fruit. "The Hound- Clegane- he's been in love with you for years."

She tore her gaze from his, so earnest and open, and her back stiffened. "You don't know that."

"I'm certain of it," he replied, matter-of-factly, putting a hand to her cheek and pulling her to face him. "I know I've teased you about your...friend...but I've watched him. I admit that I've never liked him, and from the moment I saw his interest in you, I have kept my eye out."

"He'd never hurt me," she whispered. "He's never done anything inappropriate."

"I know that now. No, quite the contrary. It was obvious to me even then that Sandor Clegane would die for you a thousand times. Since the first time I saw you together in King's Landing, I've known. When you are in a room, he sees nothing else. He looks at you like a starving dog looks at a bone, all want and hunger. You sang that song one night, Come Again, Sweet Love, the one I needled you about. Do you remember?"

She nodded.

"At the time, I believe I told you it was too saccharine, too unrealistic. A poet's idea of love, something so painful and consuming, all that panting and sighing and dying. I had certainly never felt that way. But that night as you sang, I glanced at him and I saw a man just that...afflicted."

"Stop it, Tyrion," she said softly. She didn't want to hear any more. She couldn't hear any more. The careful control she had over herself was rending like a rope fraying under too much pressure.

"He couldn't take his eyes from you, and I swear he never drew breath, just looked at you with this terrible, gaunt yearning. It embarrassed me to see that sort of look on a man's face, especially his. I would have mocked him if I'd had the chance. It almost angered me, I believed he had no right to look at you like that, though I must give him some credit. I'd never thought he'd have much of an appreciation of beauty and goodness. A beast like that, so hopelessly devoted to a fair young maid." Tyrion laughed humorlessly. "Just like a hound. I always thought the name stemmed from his sigil, at the very list that hideous face."

"He isn't a beast," she protested, tears in her voice. "Or a dog."

"No, and you can't bear to hear him spoken of like that. You never have approved, your eyes always going narrow even though you try to hide it. You are so good at controlling your face, except when it comes to that. I always thought it was because you were too kind-hearted. After all, you befriended such as me."

"Don't do yourself such disservice," she protested, seeing her opportunity to change the course of the conversation and taking it.

Tyrion shook his head. "You won't distract me, not about this. This isn't about me. This is about you. And him. And your...predicament. I never dreamed, never imagined, that it might be reciprocated on your part. It seems too ridiculous, though I had rather hoped-" His voice trailed off and she closed her eyes as if in pain. She knew where he was leading. "Seeing as you love him, I suppose it was never too much to hope that you could love such as me."

"I do love you, my lord," she said lowly.

"Yes, as dearly as I love you, dear Lenna." He had come closer to her, actually having to stoop to see into her face, her hands tightly held in his.

"As a friend," she whispered, opening her eyes to find him watching her. Perhaps there was a pang of disappointment in his face, but she knew it wasn't from any romantic feeling.

He nodded sadly, owning it. "It would have been a brilliant alliance. I dare say, we would have found happiness of a sort. My father would have been elated. He's been turning it over in his mind for years, you know, a union between two great port cities. And our children, what clever little fellows that would have been, though hopefully they would have taken after you."

She smiled lopsidedly.

"If you'd have preferred Jaime, I do believe he would have renounced his vows. He's passing fond of you, you know. I haven't seen him dance in years."

She smiled sadly. "You are both very fine men. I should be overjoyed at the prospect of either of you, but I doubt at this point that I will ever marry. Any other woman would be thrilled at a husband of your father's making."

"I wonder at the truth of that, given your taste," he laughed, unable to control himself. She looked at him seriously and his smile faded. "I'll tell none. You needn't worry, your secret is safe."

"If you sniffed me out, then your sister-" she replied worriedly.

"Can't see past her own nose," he said derisively. "You've nothing to fear there. I had only been sure of his side of things, and your behavior has been nothing but what I would expect from a good-hearted lady who has a tender spot for the bastards and the broken things."

"Then how-" she asked brokenly, wiping her hands over her thighs.

"That song tonight meant something. To both of you. You looked at him when you stopped, to see his reaction."

She nodded once. She had and he'd been looking at her through the fall of his hair, the gray eyes so despondent.

"And did you see?" he asked, urgently. She shook her head. But she had seen. She had seen how intent his eyes were on her face, his parted mouth, the desolate stoop of his shoulders. She had seen and it had made her even more wretched than before as she had no idea what they could do. "Darling Lenna, what have you gotten yourself into?"

"It cannot be."

"He cares not what my sister tells him, or my father, but when it comes to you, my dear, he would lay down his very life if you asked. I'm sure you need do nothing but speak-"

"Tyrion," she said lowly, her throat thickening, silently pleading with him to let it be.

"Dear girl," he said, coming close and drawing her to him. She rested her head on his shoulder. "You're living out one of your stupid romances. There's no need to suffer so. What good comes from him not knowing?"

"It cannot be," she repeated brokenly.

"Lenna," he said, cupping her face between both his hands.

"How? Where? When? Your sister, my father, they would never consent-"

"Take him as your lover, then. You're no silly maid, you're a grown woman, and you deserve some measure of happiness even if it isn't exactly what you want."

"You insult me," she said lowly. Tyrion rolled his eyes and it made her angry.

"Prudish miss," he said with affectionate scorn. "At least tell him. Put the old dog out of his misery," Tyrion said. It was a sore attempt at humor, and his face went serious again. "I can't stand watching you hurt, Lenna, and I have for far too long."

She smiled wanly, reaching out to him and squeezing his hand.

"I am not unhappy-"

"Don't lie to me. We have never lied to each other, Lenna," Tyrion said firmly.

"I'm not lying," she replied, even though it felt weak.

"Not being unhappy is not the same as being happy."

"Not in the way you're talking about, perhaps not."

Tyrion raked his hand across his head. "We've turned you into one of us, haven't we? Perhaps our greatest crime."

"What do you mean?"

"When I first met you, I was enchanted," he said with a warm smile. "I probably was a little in love with you then, the lovely, surprising girl in the library. Quiet, brilliant, and so exceptionally kind. You are still that girl, but we have brought you into this deceitful web, haven't we? We are a cynical bunch, though we call ourselves realistic. So much scheming and greed-"

"You are not selfish, Tyrion," she said lowly.

"Am I not? You are the only one who thinks so, I assure you. You, who don't have a selfish bone in your body. I am a Lannister. We're born ungenerous, except when it comes to those we bind ourselves to."

"You all have always been kind to me," she said quietly.

"Do you truly believe that?" he asked, his voice hard and his mismatched eyes like stones. "We ripped you from your home and didn't let you go back for how many years? And then, don't think I wasn't told about it later, then we forced you to return at a moment's notice, like jerking the strings on a child's marionette."

"I could have stayed in White Harbor. Sandor would have shouldered that blame."

"Then why did you come back? It wasn't for me. And as much as you love her, it wasn't for Myrcella."

"It would have put my family in peril, and..I didn't want to be parted from-"

"Oh gods, Lenna," Tyrion said, wiping his hand over his face. "Exactly how long has this been going on."

"I don't know. Five years, maybe?" At Tyrion's stifled bark of laughter, she blinked back her tears and stood quickly. "I am rather tired."

"One question," Tyrion said lowly. "Why? Why Sandor Clegane? Why not someone like Arys Oakheart, or Renly Baratheon, or even Jaime, for fuck's sake? They're all much better candidates for your tragic love than the bloody Hound."

She became very still, knowing that Tyrion wasn't angry so much as he was distressed. He truly was her friend, compassion evidenced in his agitation for her.

"He saw me," she said quietly. "From the beginning. When no one else would even look at me, he did. When my mother died, he waited at my door until I'd stopped crying. Hours. He risked himself for me-"

"How?"

"I'll not tell you," she replied. "It was innocent and good of him, a favor for a lonely girl and I'll not have him suffer for it. He is so loyal."

"To you."

"Has he been disloyal to your family? Ever?"

"Not in the fifteen years he's been in our service. It's almost a joke. We kick him and he apologizes. He laughs at honor, but it seems to me he binds himself to it more carefully than even Ser Barristan at times."

"Aye," she said sadly.

"I never thought I'd say this," Tyrion said wryly. "But I envy the Hound. I do wish you'd tell him."

"Perhaps one day I will," she said, smiling feebly. "But for now, I want to go to bed."

They walked together through the silence of the Rock. When they reached her door, Tyrion reached for her hand, taking it gently between both of his.

"I beg you," Tyrion whispered. "Think about what I said. Take it to heart. Consider it."

"I will," she replied.

Sandor XVII

He'd waited for over an hour, wondering what they could possibly be discussing beside the fire. He'd taken up residence in a dark corner, watching and waiting, his imagination being decidedly unhelpful, especially as the lines of that damned song ran through his head.

Her voice was so sincere, he thought, remembering the longing in her voice as she sang that old song, the one that had tormented him during their time in White Harbor long ago. It surely sounded like she meant it. He'd pressed his head against the wall as soon as they began to cajole her into singing, preparing himself for the torment to come. There had never been a song she'd sung that hadn't haunted him after, not even The Bear and Maiden Fair, and it was ridiculous. His mind had turned him into the bear in his sleep, and he huffed to remember that particular dream, lapping at his quivering, whimpering maiden-fair. It still made the blood rush out of his head and his breath come erratically short.

That evening, her voice had sounded so full and so bereft at the same time, like she was without hope. It wasn't likely that Jaime Lannister had provoked such feeling. He knew from listening to their conversations that Tywin was more than willing to consider pressing his eldest son out of the Kingsguard to usurp his little brother. Sandor had no doubt that Tyrion would leap at the chance to have Lenna Manderly for himself. The mutual respect and admiration between the two of them was evident enough.

Then who?

When she'd finished singing, he'd flicked his eyes to her and found her looking at him, her lips still parted. He'd thought nothing of it at the time. Daft, he shouted to himself now. There was no way that she'd been speaking of him. Was there? She had been looking at him so intently, her usually pleasing face tight with some indecipherable emotion. He'd never seen her look that way, certainly not at him, and it sent him into a maelstrom of confusion.

He knew she had a tender feeling for him. She treated him as kindly as he'd ever been treated. That was why hearing her call him 'dog' had been so devastating. Others had regularly done worse, but she had never stooped to such a low. He'd provoked her to it, saying unspeakable things, and when she apologized, flinging herself against him, he'd had to fight very hard not to do something irrevocable like ravish her there on the ground against that old tree.

She didn't shy away from any part of him, from his gaze to his touch, leaving her hand in his on the long walk back across that moonlit meadow. Then she had sought him out, riding beside him into Lannisport just as she had into White Harbor. He wondered what she thought at such times, what she thought of him. He wanted to be worthy of the esteem she clearly held for him, even though he knew he wasn't.

Which was why he was lurking in the shadows in a completely sound Keep, waiting to ensure that she was safely in her rooms before bedding down himself. At least, that's what he whispered to his own mind, knowing that he was really just jealous and needing to see, or hear, what she was discussing with the Imp so late into the night. He was jealous that Tyrion Lannister could make the decision to talk with her in the lamplight, to laugh with her, and no one would think the better of it. If he'd done such a thing, he hesitated to contemplate the consequences.

Just then, she and the Imp came down the hallway, their voices quiet. He stepped deeper into the shadows, watching as the Imp took her hand in both of his at her door.

""I beg you. Think about what I said. Take it to heart. Consider it."

His heart had begun to thunder in his chest. There was no doubt in his mind what the little Lannister was talking about. He'd made her an offer, a marriage and a keep and a fortune, a future. Of course. He'd dreaded it for years, the idea that she may be sold off in marriage to one of them to become the Lady of Casterly Rock. It would be an exceptional marriage, and she would be second only to the queen in terms of fortune and power. It comforted him to know that she cared for neither, aspired to nothing of the sort.

"I will," she answered, and he was glad to see that her face was serious, sad even. There was no spark of excitement about her as she went into her rooms, closing the door behind her. Tyrion Lannister had lingered for a moment, and he thought perhaps he may be spotted, but the Imp looked at her door for a long time, then shook his head as if clearing away cobwebs.

He wanted to go to her door, to knock and kneel at her feet. To beg her to refuse, even though he knew he had nothing to offer her. He didn't even have a home. His brother was the rightful heir to their modest holdings south of the city, and he had literally the armor on his back. It made him ashamed, knowing that even if she'd have him, there was nothing to give.

Except you, and that's a poor proposal for a girl like that.

She should have been married long ago, and he had been fiercely happy that Cersei Lannister was selfish enough to delay or prevent it outright. She was too fond of Lenna herself, too reliant on her care for Myrcella, to have allowed her to make a marriage that would potentially take her from King's Landing. Lenna was well past the point that most women were married, and she hadn't been entirely joking when she referred to herself as an old maid.

But Sandor knew she yearned for it, for a family. It was obvious in the way she held Myrcella, let her fingers rest on the girl's head, let the child nestle into her even as she grew too big to sit in laps. And he wanted to give her that so badly, a brood of children, of bairns that looked like some combination of the two of them, all dark hair and stormy eyes. He'd spent as many nights thinking about her round with his pups, mothering them, as he had of making them with her. It was one of the sweetest and most haunting dreams that visited him, especially since they'd arrived in the Westerlands. He'd awoken on more instances than he could count from the brutally realistic vision of them walking hand in hand through the meadows by the sea, surrounded by those children, robust and laughing and whole.

He returned to his bunk, a narrow room with a high window, and he'd lain in the too-short bed staring at the ceiling. If he'd slept, they would come to him, and tonight he didn't want them to. Tonight he would be wakeful to keep them away so he could avoid just that much more pain. It was never a realistic dream, but if Tyrion Lannister had made an offer for her, such an impossibility would be too cruel to endure.

He took to the training yards early in the morning, destroying the pells with blow after blow. He was dripping with sweat and sore with exertion when he finally returned to the bath house. He was to guard at dinner, and he was determined not to show her how destroyed he was by what he'd seen the night before. It had bedeviled him long into the night as he was unable to see how she could refuse such an offer. It was more likely that she would acquiesce, even if it made her unhappy. If she'd asked his advice, he probably would have told her to accept. There was no other option.

He washed thoroughly, even lathering his hair, attempting to cleanse himself of that train of thinking. He hated washing his face, the scars made the water run into his eyes and they stung with the harsh soap, but he scrubbed until he felt raw. Donning a fresh set of underclothes and all of his armor, he went once again into the dining hall and took his place along the wall.

She flushed becomingly when her eye met his. His mood immediately darkened, but he cast his eye from her and rested his focus on the exits, methodically shifting his focus from one to the next.

The meal was perfectly normal until they got to dessert. Something ornate and fussy that he saw her pick at rather than eat. He knew how she felt about rich food. He had just made himself look away when he detected the flurry of movement at an exterior door, and it brought him to attention immediately.

Tyrion must have seen him go on alert, because the Imp swivelled in his chair to look as well. The Maester came, a dignified older man, and he was bearing a scroll bound in black.

For a moment, Sandor's eyes flicked to Lenna, seeing her go white, but the raven's message was delivered straight to the queen. Cersei didn't even look surprised, she simply smiled and thanked the Maester, slipping the ribbon from the parchment and breaking the seal. A Baratheon stag.

"Oh my," she said softly, the smallest furrow appearing between her brows. "What dreadful news."

Sandor swore that her lip quirked upwards when she looked at her father, passing the scroll on to him.

"Dreadful indeed," Tywin said, pinching the bridge of his nose and inhaling swiftly. "Jon Arryn was a good man."

Sandor felt a hot stone of apprehension drop into his belly.

"Well," Cersei said airily, pushing her dessert around on her plate with her fork. "It is so unfortunate. We shall certainly have to cut our visit short and go back to King's Landing. Though I fear we shall miss the funeral."

"Indeed, daughter," Tywin replied, letting the parchment fall to the table. "But you must console your husband as we as you can. He will have much on his mind, selecting a new Hand."

Cersei could barely contain her smile as she sipped from her goblet.

"You are right, father," she said cooly. "We'll leave at first light."

A/N: Again, a huge shout-out to everyone who has left a review. They make my day and push me to get this to you as quickly as I can. The more the better! How many of you can spot your influence? Just curious. I am also getting antsy for them to just go ahead and get together already. Your pain is mine. I'm not in control of them, they're in control of themselves at this point, and boy, they are frustrating even me! When it happens (I know when, it's already written), I hope it will have been worth the extremely long wait.

Well, damn. I guess I'm at that point not: review! Please!