Lenna XXV

She looked forward to his unexpected appearances in the Sept. The upset in their routine was disheartening, but at least she was confident that he was as unhappy as she was about the arrangement. His new detail meant he was with Joffrey more or less all day, every day, except for when he was eating or training. She missed seeing him for Myrcella's lessons, and the princess voiced the same. The latter earned her an oddly arched eyebrow from her mother, but no further comment. Lenna wished she could squeeze the girl and tell her she felt the same.

She found herself distracted, wondering when she might see him again. It was never something she could predict. When he did make it to the Sept, he would sneak away for a handful of minutes here or there before or after his midday meal, or before he went to the yards. She wondered how many times she had missed him, pulled back to her own duties after reluctantly leaving her candles at the feet of the Seven, wondering if he saw that she lit three now instead of her previous two. Always she prayed for her Manderlys and the royal family, but since the incident on the Kingsroad, she had spent most of her prayers on Sandor Clegane's health and redemption. She wondered if he'd be cross to know that she went on her knees in supplication on his behalf. Something in her said that no, he'd be moved by such a display.

When he did come, he was never able to stay for long, always due somewhere or other at Joffrey's bidding. He'd slip in through a side door without her ever hearing him. He knew her routine so well that when she went to unenthusiastically went to leave he never failed to unnerve her. She'd long noted that for such a large man he was sure-footed and silent as a deer, and she never once heard his footfalls. The Sept was always quiet as a tomb, and he'd taken to playing a game in which he'd hide in an alcove and wait for her to make her way towards the door. He'd grab her around the waist and haul her against him, pushing her up against the wall as he chuckled into her gasping mouth. She might slap at his breastplate half-heartedly, but she didn't resist for long. The fright quickly changed into something much more pleasant, and she lived in anticipation of it. He'd even done it once or twice in the passageways of the Red Keep, throwing a hand across her lips to muffle her shriek of surprise, a playful glint in his eye that made her burn. Then they'd have a minute or two of frantic fumbling and fevered whispering before he nudged her back on her way feeling thoroughly disheveled and wanton, a grin that was almost a leer spread across his face from the shadows.

She wanted to be cross with him for being so busy, but she was no better. At the queen's behest, she now spent the majority of her day attending to the princess, her afternoons of quiet study suspended in the wake of the added duty. Her new orders had come hot on the heels of Sandor's transfer to Joffrey, that morning leaving Lenna's head in more of a whirl than it already was. To add to it, Sansa Stark had begun attending Myrcella as well. Cersei had decided it would befit the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms to get to know her sister-in-law, a princess born to the role.

The introduction of the Stark girl gave Lenna a new perspective of her princess. Myrcella was naturally kind, and it was clear to Lenna that she was thrilled to have a friend close to her own age. Sansa took to the princess as well. They were similar in their ways, both well-mannered and gentle by temper, but in contrast to Sansa Stark, Myrcella possessed a confidence and a poise that Lenna had not noticed. She was growing up to be a proper princess, conscientious and graceful, sound in her judgement for such a young girl, her very bearing speaking of responsibility and duty.

For all Sansa tried, it was much more difficult for her. She reminded Lenna so much of herself at that age, uncertain and naive as she attempted to understand the unspoken rules of her new lot, and Lenna tried to be of as much assistance as she could. The girl often did not recognize her advice for what is was, being so used to artlessness, of being the most important lady in the room. It was clear to Lenna that Sansa hadn't quite realized her role in King's Landing, or how to use it. Not surprising, the child was only thirteen, but there were moments when Lenna wanted to shake her. But, despite Sansa's streak of adolescent selfishness, of that guilelessness that bordered on gullibility, Lenna's affection for her grew each day. She so wanted to please, and Lenna so wished for her to be successful where she had not.

"You were right," Lenna had said one evening, her back propped against Sandor's chest. It was a more recent developing, his visits in the library after day. He'd only been coming for about a month, and she had chastised herself for not thinking of it sooner. He'd begun appearing in the library after dinner, especially on nights when he hadn't been able to steal into the Sept to see her. It delighted her that he wanted to see her so badly, as much as she wanted to see him. It afforded them a privacy the Sept hadn't as well, as well as leisure instead of frenzy. They spent much of their time together sitting with Lenna nestled against him, his fingers caught up in hers, reading or talking. He didn't say much, he wasn't suddenly effusive, but his hands said what his tongue didn't. He could not abide lack of contact, his hands constantly on her in some way, keen for her.

"Hmm?" he murmured, drowsing against her, his cheek on her head, their hands twined together in her lap as she used the other to turn the pages of the book they were reading. Well, that she was reading. He seemed much wearier since he'd started following the prince, and it wasn't uncommon for him to doze off. Nor did she mind it. It felt strangely intimate knowing he was asleep wrapped around her, his breathing even behind her back, against her hair. He was on duty longer, sure, but she suspected that was only part of the problem. He said little about Joffrey, but she surmised from what he let on that the boy was just as exhausting as she feared. It must be hell for him to keep his mouth shut around that attitude all day long. She smiled at the thought of his quips and turned into him, brushing her lips against his neck. He stirred, leaning his head down toward hers.

"Your little bird. She's having a hard time."

She thought about the girl almost constantly, concerned with what she was seeing. Though pretty and pleasing, Sansa was struggling with the way of life in the Keep. It was one thing to be courtly and well-mannered, and something completely different to understand the machinations of court. She didn't know that she wasn't supposed to speak her mind, that it was better to listen than it was to talk. Innocent mistakes, but Lenna feared Cersei was beginning to think her a simpleton. There had been some pointed remarks once the girl had returned to her father in the afternoons about her lack of worldliness that weren't complimentary, more feared liabilities in the chosen spouse of the future king. Lenna had been similarly disadvantaged when she arrived, but nobody had given two figs about her and she had no one to talk to anyway. Sansa Stark, however, was constantly on parade, and the girl was in danger of stumbling.

"She'll learn," he said gruffly, stifling a yawn. "You did."

"Not fast enough," she replied.

After eight years, she still felt that she was in constant danger of wading into unseen quicksand, court politics often passing right over her head. Sansa was certainly no better, walking right into rhetorical traps set for her by the queen. On top of this, the girl was still so enamored with Prince Joffrey that she couldn't see how tense and strained things were, how tenuous.

Sandor had told her what he'd heard of the goings on, the arguments between Ned Stark and the king. She knew them for truth herself, having been privy to more conversations between Jaime Lannister and the queen than she thought entirely appropriate. Cersei had been holding her closer, asking Lenna to take wine in her rooms after the evening meal as the queen sat and finished up her daily business. Ser Jaime often joined them, but frequently enough it was just the two of them.

"The queen has noticed it. Even Ser Jaime has, when I got and sit with them."

"What do you talk about when you go there?" Sandor asked. She enjoyed the way his voice rumbled in his chest, vibrating against her back.

"Myrcella most of the time, she likes to hear stories about her. And we talk about books and music and poetry. She has a bit of a romantic spirit, believe it or not."

"Fuck. You're her bloody friend." She felt him lean away, and when she craned her head around, she saw that he had tipped his own back against the stone, eyes searching the darkness out the window, the grooves around his mouth deep with a scowl.

"I'm her lady-in-waiting," Lenna replied. "A servant."

"You're the closest thing she's got. Who else would she talk to? It's a compliment." His face told a different story entirely.

"She tells me nothing of importance, we just...talk. I usually enjoy myself. More than I want to," she finished lamely.

It was true. Lenna struggled to reconcile her feelings about the Lannisters. They were, after all, the source of her greatest unhappiness, the reason she was in King's Landing and not at home in White Harbor. The queen herself had stopped her letters, further cutting her off from the family she loved, holding her as some tacit threat against her father. All the while, the whole pack of them treated her with and exceedingly intimate kindness. It was incomprehensible. Whenever she thought about it she grew angry and hurt in equal measure.

But it was disturbingly easy for Lenna to forget what they had done when she was with them, like they cast some spell on those around them. She enjoyed the glasses of wine and conversation in the queen's study, handsome Ser Jaime joking and teasing her, Cersei wanting to hear everything about the princess, to discuss the topics Lenna wanted to talk over with someone, anyone. Music and books and poetry. Anything but court life. The queen was a poor substitute for Tyrion, but it was better than just writing down her thoughts, and while Sandor would listen to her jaw on to her heart's content, she knew he did it solely out of affection for her and he seldom asked questions or gave his own opinion. So unlike Tyrion.

Tyrion. He was the hardest of all of them for her to understand. Cersei and Jaime were fairly transparent, as was their lord father. There was no conflict within them, they did what they did with a clear conscience, so secure in their pursuit of the best interests of the family. But Tyrion seemed so intensely aware of the despicable things his family did, the way they used others to serve their own ends without a thought to consequences or injuries, but he alone appeared to feel at least a little bit badly about it. Just not badly enough to stop it, to be willing to give up the benefits that fell to him as one of their clansmen.

Lenna wondered what it said about her that she was so able and willing to forget what they were when she was with them, feeling a bit like Sansa Stark basking in the golden light of their attention, keen to be part of a circle, even if it was a pride of sharp-clawed lions. Shouldn't she hold herself apart from them, keep them at a distance? Remember what they'd done to her, how they'd treated her and her family? She was sure that they had no idea how much she knew and understood, especially seeing as they acted as if everything was right in the world. In their world, it was, and hers didn't concern them in the slightest. She was welcome only so long as she was convenient, or so she thought.

"Does she ask you questions?" Sandor asked. His fingers were tracing lightly up and down her arm, ranging as far as her collarbones, rough fingertips ghosting over her skin and making her shiver.

"None worth remembering," she replied truthfully. She was quite confident she wasn't being used as a spy, the queen never asking her anything beyond what she had done with Myrcella that day, what she thought of this poem or that, or if they should employ this lutenist at an upcoming feast. Drivel, really.

Sandor hummed low in his throat at that, lowering his head and bringing his mouth next to her ear, breath hot against her neck. His hand slid along her jaw as he turned her face to his.

"I'll give you something worth remembering." There was the feral glint in his eyes that made gooseflesh raise along her skin.

This part of their relationship had started slowly. When he first began coming to the library, they did little more than they had before, sitting together and talking or reading. He was so hesitant, so polite with her, almost gentlemanly in his manner. They would sit together in the window as she read, his arm loosely around her as he brought her close against him so she could snuggle into the warmth of his chest. It was as if he was a little wary of her in the circle of lamplight in a way he wasn't in the darkness of some random nook. He didn't reach for her first, he didn't even try to kiss her, cautiously letting her set the pace. He would speak lowly in her ear, usually some snark about this knight or that lady in the story, and she would turn to look up at him in exasperation only to find him smirking back at her.

That was her cue, and his. It had been relatively chaste for quite a while, uncertain touches, whispered words, sweet, unhurried kisses. Completely unlike their stolen time in the Sept, in the passageways. There was liberty and quiet that allowed them to explore each other, at first Lenna taking the lead. Then, he seemed to gain confidence the longer she didn't push him away. The earlier hesitance and wariness ebbed, replaced by a burning curiosity and then daring. His hands began to stray, first rather innocently to her shoulders, her sides, her hips, fingers moving in greedy circles over the fabric of her dress. Then, the touches became not so innocent, tracing her collar bones, the swell of her breasts where they pushed up beyond the cut of her dress, rough fingertips leaving tracks against her sensitive skin that she could feel for hours after.

If she thought she'd been left breathless by his ministrations before, she hadn't quite understood what breathless meant. Lips followed fingers as he dipped his head to her shoulders, her chest and neck, anything he could reach as she sat reclined against him. It left her gasping and mewling, and just as often infuriated and frustrated. He'd hold her arms fast against her sides so she couldn't touch him in return, effectively trapping her as he did as he pleased. She could feel him smiling against her skin, hot want bubbling beneath her breastbone, even as the touch of his hands pulled the most delicious and feral sounds from her.

She quickly surmised that he adored making her squirm, running one long finger lightly along the the dip of her gown, skimming a palm up the smooth expanse of her calf, her thigh, as she sat cross-legged on the cushions with her rear pressed against him. The first time his hand had gone under her skirts had made her go wide-eyed with shock and embarrassment, but he had murmured such salacious things that instead of making her self-conscious, she had instead found herself yielding to him, pliant as putty as his hands rose dangerously. She felt shameless and tousled, knowing she was writhing and completely unable to stop herself. It amused him as much as it mortified her. She just wasn't abashed enough by her own behavior to stop, rather she craved it.

He didn't laugh when she retaliated. He was usually successful in keeping her turned away from him, her back against his chest as he explored her at his leisure. She could feel him stiff and hot, jutting against her backside, and she never missed the subdued grunts from his throat when she would purposefully and cruelly rub against him. She wanted very much to give him the same treatment he gave her, managing on several occasions to escape his iron-like hold and turn in his lap, running her hands over the firm planes of his chest and stomach beneath his tunic. She took great delight in watching his skin jump and skitter under her touch, especially along the hard lines of his abdomen. She'd gotten him out of his tunic once, practically straddling him to gain purchase on his skin. His chest and shoulders were massive, heavily muscled, his breast and abdomen covered in dark hair. She'd buried her nose in it, thrilled by the smell of him. There were scars everywhere, some pale and ghostly white, others raised and knotted. She mapped every single one from his breastbone to the waistband of his trousers as he watched her avidly, his own hands flat on the stone ledge, knuckles turning pale as he forced them to remain still.

She knew she could make him hiss if she slid her fingertips below his drawstring, tracing the line of hair from his navel to where it disappeared beneath his trousers. It always earned her the same punishment. One of those tense hands would fly to grip her slender wrist in his impossibly large grasp and pull her hand away, his eyes dangerously dark. His face was no longer playful, but an expression not unlike his battle-fury would settle across his features when she did that. It made her feel powerful.

"You don't know what you're asking for when you do that," he would growl, and it became a refrain because she did it again and again. It excited her to no end to work him to that state of want. She could see and feel the evidence of what they were doing, she wasn't blind or completely ignorant, and it fascinated her. She wanted to know exactly what it was that she did to make him react in that way, what he would do if she touched him there, to catalogue it. A purely academic interest, of course.

It made her ache.

In retribution, he'd become much bolder with her when he was in control, firmly running his hands up her legs, over her belly. He would undo the first few ties of her gown just so he could access one breast or the other, dipping a massive hand into her bodice to cup it, toying with her nipple, tracing those roughened fingers lightly around her curves as she pushed herself against him, desperate for more from him. It drove her absolutely mad, turned her into a puddle of want, distracted her until one night, off of a sudden, his other hand was there.

Oh gods.

Standing behind the girls as they bent their heads over their scrolls, Lenna permitted herself a moment of delicious remembrance of what that had felt like. How his long fingers had been at first strange and then wonderful and full of fire. He'd pull her back against him, one hand at gently at work between her thighs, the other hand across her mouth to muffle her cries as heat coursed through her. He crooned into her ear, absolutely lascivious words of encouragement that made her blush later when she remembered them, continuing until she felt like she was splitting out of her skin, a long, inebriating moment of rapture as she strained against him with her head thrown back against his shoulder. She'd felt that way many times in the confines of her own room, thinking of him, but it was different. It was a voluptuous fullness that left her completely exhausted, and he looked so smug after he resettled her skirts and fastened her ties, turning her face to him so he could take in her flaming cheeks and dazed eyes. She tried to reach between them afterwards, to touch him in a similar way, but he only grunted and drew her hands away.

"Why?" she asked in frustration.

"Because I'd have your maidenhead right here against this wall," he growled, and the darkness in his face and voice was enough to stop her. For the time being, at least.

She was thoroughly distracted by the thought of what that would be like, knowing she shouldn't be thinking about such things as the girls sat hard at work over their assignments as she paced the length of the queen's study, fully aware of her own besotted smile. It wasn't seemly, or appropriate, but she couldn't help herself. A quick glance assured her that neither her pupils nor the queen had noticed.

The door opened with a creak and in shuffled the old Grand Maester.

"Your grace," Pycelle wheezed. "News."

The queen was startled from her own thoughts. She'd been standing by the window much of the morning, listening absently as Lenna went over the girls' lessons with them. Lenna had surmised that she less interest in what they were learning as she did in observing Sansa Stark.

The queen took the raven from Pycelle, her brow furrowing when she saw the seal. A fish. Her beautiful face went hard as she read, and she looked up sharply.

"Lady Helenna," she said quietly. "Please take the girls on a stroll around the gardens. I'll send a messenger when I wish you to return."

Lenna didn't bat an eye. "Yes, your grace."

Both girls rose, Myrcella without a care in the world, but Sansa Stark looked troubled.

They walked through the terraces toward the Blackwater, the girls enjoying themselves as one hour became two.

Lenna heard the fall of boots on the path, looking up to find Jaime Lannister approaching them with a dark expression on his face. Lenna noticed almost immediately that his armor was dusty and his face streaked with grime.

"What has happened?" she asked.

"Tyrion has been taken prisoner," he said lowly. Lenna felt the cool rush of blood from her face as fear flooded her.

"Who would do such a thing? And why?"

"Catelyn Stark. She claims he was behind the attack on her son."

"Surely she doesn't think Tyrion pushed him off that tower-"

"No, someone came after the boy. With a knife. Lady Stark believes it was an assassin sent by my brother."

"No," she breathed. "Jaime, there has to be some mistake."

"Of course, but Cat Stark has taken him prisoner on the road. There was a tangle in the streets, our men and Stark's."

"On the road?"

"Here in King's Landing," he said quietly, not looking her in the eye. That explained the state of his armor, of his face.

"Are you alright?" she asked, laying a hand on his arm.

"I thank you for your concern, but I am perfectly well," he replied, laying a hand over hers. "You are too kind, Lenna."

"Is there anything I can do-"

"Actually yes. There is. My sister requests that you stay with Myrcella and the children until this blows over. I am here to return Sansa Stark to her father."

"Let me go to her."

"Lenna," he said, reaching out to stop her by the elbow. "Lenna, he is grievously wounded."

"Who would attack the Hand of the King?"

"Well, technically, he isn't the Hand of the King." He wouldn't look at her as he spoke, his voice lingering on the word 'technically', producing each syllable individually. Dread thrummed in her belly.

"What do you mean?"

"He resigned this morning. He got into an argument with Robert, and he handed back the badge of his office."

"Sansa has no idea."

Jaime shook his head, squinting into the sun.

"Oh, gods, what a muddle. Will he live?"

"Probably."

Lenna looked at Jaime gravely. "Let me tell the girl. Please. It will be better coming from a friendly face."

"Mine isn't?" he quipped with a sardonic smile.

"You would joke at a time like this, Ser Jaime," she said wryly, her stomach turning just a bit at his nonchalance.

Inside, she was quailing. This was a very bad business, a move by the wife of the Hand against the queen's own brother. She remembered the fish that sealed Cersei's scroll from that morning, knowing it to be the sigil of House Tully. It would have come from Riverrun, then.

It took her twenty paces to walk to the girls, and in that time Lenna gathered all of her courage around her. It felt like acting a part in a play, crossing to the girl and pulling her aside while Myrcella went to her uncle, sitting her down on the bench, her little white hands in hers as she told her what had happened. Lenna felt strangely detached through the whole ordeal, like she was watching someone else, listening to someone else speak the words that fell from her own mouth.

She might have expected Sansa to cry, and her pretty brow did knot in worry, but when she spoke, her words surprised Lenna.

"Will we have to leave King's Landing?"

Anger and then pity flashed through Lenna. Sandor was right, the girl was a silly little bird.

Sandor XXV

He was assigned watch over the family while the business was sorted, pleased despite the events of the day to see Lenna in Cersei's solar. The queen was roving from one end of the room to the other, her arms crossed but grasping her customary glass of wine. Lenna read with Myrcella and Tommen, the youngest crawling into her lap and laying his golden head against her neck. She kissed him on the top of the head, her eyes flicking to Sandor's as she did so, and he was seized with the most overwhelming surge of feeling.

Their time together had become exhilarating, and he felt like he was constantly drunk when he thought about it. Which was all of the time. He had to be careful to keep the stupid smile he wanted to wear off his face, to keep the Hound front and center. At first he'd been hesitant, not wanting to scare her, to offend her. To hurt her. He'd fucked plenty before, but he'd never had a woman who wanted him. He certainly didn't place what he was doing with Lenna in the same category as his exploits through the brothels and alehouses of Flea Bottom. It made him self-conscious, knowing he didn't really know how to treat a woman in that way, never having given a thought to a whore's pleasure. He wanted to satisfy her, to give her delight, and it made him deadly nervous at first.

He needn't have worried so much. She practically begged for him, her body twisting against him, sounds pouring from her throat at such pitch and volume that he had to keep a palm firmly over her mouth as he stroked her from crown to toe, cataloguing every single reaction so he could use it again later. He wanted to learn to play her body like a lutenist played his instrument, finely tuned and perfectly plucked. Her vocalization was music to his ears, hearing those sharp and guttural exclamations, a sharp bolt of excitement making his cock twitch almost painfully when his name leaked from between her lips. He learned that as much as she liked it when he was forceful, the way to turn her into a quivering mess was to tease her mercilessly with a featherlight touch, to keep her from being able to touch him in return, to keep her waiting and wanting. Until he was ready, at which point he was merciless, making her cry out and shudder, her face flushed, breathing labored, eyes nearly black as she reached for him.

And she tried to touch him, gods, how she tried, once managing to pull off his tunic and sit astride his hips. He'd nearly spent himself right there like a green lad in his trousers, her soft little hands running over him, twisting in the hair on his chest, smoothing over his stomach as he shook with the effort of not hiking up her skirts and taking her maidenhead on that window ledge, his fingers digging mercilessly into the stone to keep himself from touching her. He was well aware she wouldn't have stopped him, would have been an eager participant, but he simply couldn't bring himself to do it. Not there, not now.

Looking at her with the children made him swell with a sad hope. She looked so content, moulding herself to little Tommen as he absently sucked his thumb, too old for it but looking so happy pressed against her. An image flashed through his mind of her sitting with children that looked like her, that looked like him, in such a fashion. It was one that he had become so familiar with, that filled him with such longing.

He'd never wanted that before he met her, a wife and a family. Perhaps he just didn't think he deserved one, that no woman would ever want that with him. Besides, he had nothing to offer. But she wanted him, said she loved him. The remembrance still filled him with wild joy and disbelief in equal measure. The minute she had said those words to him in the Sept, those irrevocable words, it was all he wanted. He had struggled against himself to return those words, sending up the weak prayer that he could that she would be satisfied with his reply. Words could not say what he wanted, what he had always wanted her to know, to understand. He hoped that she knew him well enough to see that even that much was tantamount to a vow. It had certainly felt like one. They were the best words he'd ever uttered.

As happy as he was when he was with her, he was likewise despairing when they were apart, his rational mind lobbing the impossibility of a life with her at him like a siege engine. He had nothing to give her, nothing to offer beyond his person and the protection he could afford her. It made him think back to his foolish hope in White Harbor, her father promising him anything if his precious daughter was delivered safely from the mess that was coming. He'd allowed himself to muse on the possibility of demanding her hand, convinced that her father had no notion that he would do such a thing. He thought about how eager she was when he held her fast against him, how easy it would be to slake this terrible hunger, but still he stopped himself. He could not risk her reputation, her standing, nor could he trust himself if she touched him as he touched her, so he kept himself from her, almost mad with need by the time he made it back to his bunk at night and slammed the door.

It wasn't right to think about such things while he was on duty, but he couldn't help it, especially when she darted her eyes to him from underneath her lashes like she'd been doing for the last several hours. The children had just been sent to bed, Lenna and the queen talking about Myrcella's progress in High Valyrian, when the door to the solar opened and Jaime Lannister entered.

He'd cleaned himself up, but his face was grim. He nodded to Sandor as he walked in, immediately taking up a glass of wine.

"I'll go, your grace," Lenna said, rising to her feet. Sandor hoped they'd dismiss him, too, so he could have the pleasure of seeing her back to her rooms.

"Stay, Lenna," Jaime said with forced nonchalance.

Sandor almost growled at how easily the other man said her name. He still hated the comfortable rapport between them. Jaime was a natural flirt, though Lenna did little to encourage it. It was clear that Jaime liked and respected her, just in the same way his little brother did. That his sister did.

He'd known Jaime Lannister since he was a lad, the eldest Lannister brother but five years his senior. He'd never treated Sandor with the same disdain as his sister had in his youth, and when Sandor had joined the Lannister guard when Cersei married Robert Baratheon, still a youth of thirteen or fourteen, he'd looked out for him. Sandor didn't keep track of his namedays, but Jaime had seen to his training himself, already a Kingsguard, and he held a grudging respect for the man.

"Well?" Cersei said, turning to face her brother from her place by the darkened window.

"He will live," Jaime replied. "He is in a tremendous amount of pain."

"What were you thinking?" Cersei hissed, crossing the room with anger in her stride. "Attacking the Hand of the King-"

"He is no longer Hand," Jaime replied, looking up at her sullenly. "His wife has taken our little brother, does that mean nothing to you?"

"Such a fuss over Tyrion. He's not worth the effort."

Sandor saw Lenna stiffen at that, but she wisely said nothing and her face remained unfailingly pleasant.

"He is our brother. Any action taken against him is taken against our House. An insult that we cannot ignore."

"So what will you do now?" Cersei asked waspishly.

"I'll ride north with father and take him back. It's simple."

"You will march a Lannister army against the forces of the Hand's wife? Do you know what that will look like?"

"I cannot help it, Cersei. It must be done."

She was blazing with ire. Jaime had the grace to look regretful, but Sandor could tell that the orders and preparations had already been made.

"When?"

"Tomorrow. It will take weeks to get to the Riverlands."

"The Riverlands?"

"Our quarrel is with Catelyn Tully, not Eddard Stark."

Cersei cocked her head. "What will he do?"

"Right now, nothing. He's unconscious, Pycelle has him drugged on Milk of the Poppy. He'll not awake soon."

"Giving you time."

"Yes," he said lowly. "I suspect father will join me shortly."

"Bloody Tyrion, he always gets in the way," Cersei hissed.

"He has never been easy," Jaime replied with a tiny smirk. "But he is our brother."

"As you never fail to remind me."

Jaime sighed and ran his hand over his face. "More wine, Lenna?"

Sandor looked over to see Lenna extend her glass to the Kingslayer.

"What do you think, Lenna?" Cersei asked. Jaime poured wine into her goblet with a smile about his lips. Sandor looked on the scene with mild distaste. It was the first time Sandor had heard the queen use her name like that. Previously, she'd always been Lady Helenna. She was being absorbed, and he didn't like it any more than he knew what to do about it.

"I am sorry for the whole affair, your grace," Lenna replied. "I'm sure I don't understand the nuances, but it seems an impossible situation."

"Yes," Jaime said.

"Do you think Tyrion worth this trouble?"

Lenna paused, her brow furrowing only slightly. "You know that I am very fond of Lord Tyrion, your grace. It greatly worries me that he has been captured as I am sure he is not responsible. I will pray for his safe return. He is not guilty of this crime, I am sure of it."

"And if he was?"

"Then Lady Stark has gone about seeking justice the wrong way."

Cersei looked at Jaime with a flash of satisfaction. "But she is wife of your liege-lord."

"Your grace, I have served this household for many years. I owe my livelihood and my happiness to you. More than that, I know Lord Tyrion well, and I am sure that she is gravely mistaken to have accused him of trying to harm her son. Lord Tyrion has always been a friend to me, and I steadfastly believe him incapable of such a thing. She may be the wife of Lord Eddard, but that does not mean I have to agree with her. I would be surprised if Lord Stark does, frankly."

"Do you think my brother acted rightly, then?"

Lenna looked at Ser Jaime shrewdly. He had flicked his gaze to her, his face carefully neutral, though Sandor could see the subtle shift in his jaw that showed he was grinding his teeth. He wanted her approval for whatever reason. Lenna looked at Jaime steadily, her own face as a mask of courtly impartiality.

"I think Ser Jaime did what he felt he must. As Lord Tyrion's brother."

"So I should not stay angry with him?" Cersei replied.

"Who am I to tell your grace what to do?" Lenna replied, looking to the queen with a smile. Sandor saw Jaime briefly close his eyes as he looked away. "But I should think, if Ser Jaime is to leave tomorrow as he says, that the present would be better spent in peace than anger."

"Father always said you were wise," Cersei replied, and Sandor was amazed to see the harsh lines of anger in her face softening before his eyes. "Perhaps you are right."

Lenna remained with them another hour, at last being excused when her yawns began coming several every minute.

"See her safely back, Clegane," Cersei said, turning to look on Jaime. Her brother was looking at her raptly, not even tearing his eyes away to bid Lenna goodnight.

The two of them walked side by side toward her room. Sandor was having difficulty turning over the strange conversation in his head. On one hand, he was thoroughly confused as to why they would permit Lenna to be there for such a confrontation. It then occurred to him that they no longer saw her as a Northwoman, but one of them, and beyond that, someone whom they trusted. It made his marrow turn to ice.

He had been impressed with her words, the way she was able to diffuse a fraught situation delicately and without ever really saying what she thought. She had taken a chance in saying that she disagreed with Catelyn Stark, but it had been the right risk. He found that he agreed. It was one thing if Lady Stark believed Tyrion was at fault for her son's injury, it was another to capture him on the road and hold him prisoner. It wasn't how things were done, and he was sure the hurt from such an action would be grievous and long-lasting.

They reached her door, the light sputtering around them.

"You see, Sandor, I've done as you told me," she said quietly, resting her hands against his armor. He wished he could feel her palms against his chest, and he laid his own hands against hers where they lay.

"Aye, you have," he replied. "Though I do not like it."

"Couldn't be deeper in the eye of the storm than listening to the queen bicker with her brother."

"No, but the less you know-"

"We're far past that now, aren't we?" she asked, looking up at him. He closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. Her fingers were in his beard now, though he flicked his eyes to make sure there was no one to see. He knew there wouldn't be, but he had to be sure. He bent his head quickly to press a kiss to her upraised lips.

"You should get to bed," he said gruffly. Her fingers tightened their grip when he tried to pull away.

"Stay," she whispered. He was taken back to that night in Winterfell when she had begged him to stay with her, arms locked around his neck. She'd been drunk then, and he'd shaken her off, confident that she didn't know what she was asking. He'd wanted to badly to follow her into her chambers and bar the door, just as he did now.

She wasn't drunk now, and she definitely knew what she was asking for.

"No," he replied gently, morosely. "You know I won't."

"Why?" she asked.

"What do you think would happen if I was caught leaving your rooms, Lenna?"

"We could get caught anywhere-"

"It's not the same as being found in your bedchamber. No, I will not risk it."

"Don't you-"

"Don't ask me that," he growled, pushing against her firmly. "You know fucking well I want to."

She looked disappointed, but it couldn't be helped.

"I have to keep you safe," he said by way of explanation.

She made herself smile at him, and he leaned down to kiss her once more, hand finding the ring of her door and pushing it open. When she closed it, he made his way back to his own room, his mind working furiously to forget the way she'd looked at him, clear-eyed and hopeful, as she asked him to stay with her.

A/N: Sorry for the delay! I am traveling and it has been quite an adventure shall we say. There is much change afoot!

So this is me pushing T. It isn't my favorite chapter, but as awkward as it is, feedback is appreciated. I've never really written like that before, so there is a certain level of self-consciousness at play. Some embarrassed giggling, maybe a little bit of mortified forehead-slapping. Be gentle. Be Sandor. I would like to include more episodes of this variety in the future, and you know that your words are my guide. So…

Review! I beg you! Love to you all.