Lenna XXVI
Lord Stark was unconscious for six days. In that time, Ser Jaime left the city and rode north toward the Riverlands where his brother was being held. Lenna felt vaguely nauseated thinking of Tyrion in captivity, and a low level of anxiety had gripped the court, made worse by the fact that she had been unable to talk with Sandor since the incident. She dearly wanted to know what he thought of it all. Especially seeing as when Ned Stark awoke, hobbled by his injury, the king did not seek retribution. Rather, Robert reinstated his Hand, much to everyone's shock and to the queen's fury.
She had appeared in her study in a cloud of righteous anger, a bruise blooming over her fine cheekbone. Lenna had risen almost immediately, Myrcella barely looking up from her lesson. Since Sandor's reassignment, Cersei had kept them close, often listening in as the princess' lessons continued in her private study. Sansa Stark had been kept to the Tower of the Hand after her father was wounded, staying close to him as he recovered. Lenna suspected her absence had more to do with Cersei's displeasure over the mess her mother had made.
When Cersei came into the room, she immediately made for the decanter beside her desk, pouring out a goblet of wine and downing it in a single gulp. She quickly refilled it, but her tense fervor slowed to something resembling her usual poise.
"Your grace," Lenna said lowly, and the queen turned to look at her. The mark on her cheek was fresh and beginning to darken. "You are injured."
"I'm perfectly well," the queen replied, arching an eyebrow at her.
"If I may, your grace," Lenna whispered, rising and walking quietly toward her. "I have a salve that can help with that before it purples."
"I want people to see it," Cersei spat.
"Your grace, the princess…" Lenna let her voice die away as she saw recognition overtake Cersei's fair face. She nodded briskly.
Lenna retrieved the tin of salve from her bag and returned to where the queen stood.
"Shall I, or would you prefer-"
"You do it," the queen said harshly. Lenna pressed her lips together and scooped out a fingerful of the paste, smoothing it between her fingers to warm it and make it more pliable. It was strange being so near to Cersei. They were almost the same height, and the queen was watching her avidly as she dabbed the balm across the forming bruise.
"That will stave off the worst of it, I imagine," Lenna murmured.
"My thanks, Lenna," Cersei replied, the expression on her face unreadable. "I would ask that you attend Lady Sansa in the mornings for at least a few weeks. The princess will stay with me, and I'll see to it she does her work if you leave her assignments."
"Of course, your grace."
"Lord Stark is Hand again, and Lady Sansa will need a friend now, I think."
From the expression on her face as she pronounced the word, Lenna was sure the queen cared very little as to whether or not the Stark girl had a friend, but she did want a pair of eyes on her. It made Lenna's stomach clench.
She went to Sansa after breakfast was done and Myrcella was at work on her lessons. She and Sansa walked and chatted, and Lenna even took up a needle again. The girl was a fine seamstress, and Lenna learned a trick or two from her. Lenna even accompanied Sansa to watch her father as he sat on the Iron Throne issuing judgements in the name of King Robert. The girl fairly glowed with pride to see her father perched in the king's seat.
Lenna was impressed as well, Lord Stark was a fair and honest man, just as she remembered from her youth.
Those mornings were long, consisting mainly of listening to mostly petty complaints, a long list of business dealings gone wrong. Duplicitous contractors, stolen sheep and the life. Lord Eddard looked strained and sallow, stretching his injured leg and shifting his weight frequently. The Iron Throne looked uncomfortable to begin with, she couldn't imagine being stuck on it in his condition.
That morning, even Sansa was beginning to grow bored when the a disheveled man in ragged clothing made his way to stand before Lord Eddard, his cap nervously gripped in shaking hands.
"State your grievance," the Hand said, his voice gentle and soft as he looked at the poor man.
"We come from the Riverlands, your grace," the man said in a tremulous voice, addressing the Hand as if he were the king. Lenna immediately pitied him, he was so evidently ill at ease in such unfamiliar surroundings. "We're being scourged. They're moving through our lands like reavers, burning our fields, our granaries, our homes. Our women...they took 'em. Then they took 'em again."
Lenna felt ice gush through her innards, turning quickly to Sansa. The girl shouldn't hear such things, but Sansa stood rapt and pale of cheek. Whatever she'd been expecting to come out of the man's mouth, this was not it. Tales of destruction and rape were not the norm in peaceful Westeros, especially in the Riverlands. All she could think about was Ser Jaime's intended destination, hoping against hope that these doings were unrelated to Tyrion's capture and the Lannister march north.
"When they was done, they butchered them as if they was animals. They covered our children in pigshit and lit them on fire."
Lenna covered her mouth with her hand, feeling the tell-tale prick of tears behind her eyes. Sansa's mouth was parted in faint horror. She looked to Lenna, her auburn brows furrowed with lack of understanding.
"Brigands, most likely," Pycelle said from his place on Lord Eddard's left. He coughed, completely unfazed by the man's testimony. The Hand was looking at the man sharply, and Lenna knew what he was thinking. It wasn't a band of brigands, and the man was speaking true. He was clearly terrified, but left with no recourse but to petition the king for help. Lenna despaired that any would be sent. How could the king send men after his own wife's kin?
"They weren't thieves," the man said defensively. "They didn't steal nothing. They even left something behind, your grace."
"It's the King's Hand your addressing, man, not the king," Pycelle said waspishly as the man misused the title for the second time. "The king is hunting."
Yes, thought Lenna, that's not surprise. Robert had never enjoyed the day-to-day of ruling the kingdom he had won. He had been on a hunt ever since Lord Eddard was well enough to go back to managing his affairs of state.
Another man stepped forward with a heavy, bulging burlap sack. Without any explanation, he upended it onto the floor of the throne room with a squelching sound. The room was suddenly filled with the stench of rotting fish as several dozen putrid trout and perch slithered out onto the floor. Sansa covered her nose in disgust, turning to leave. Lenna grasped her by the elbow, forcing her to stay.
"Watch, child," she said lowly.
"Fish, sigil of House Tully. Isn't that your wife's house?" Baelish said from his seat to Lord Eddard's right. Lenna narrowed her eyes at him. He knew full well it was Catelyn Stark's house. He'd been fostered himself at Riverrun, which everyone with a pair of ears in the capital knew. Just as they had all heard the rumors that Littlefinger had been in love with Catelyn Tully since childhood, thwarted when she was betrothed to the eldest Stark at Winterfell, thwarted again when he was slain and his younger brother stepped forward to honor the alliance. Lenna struggled to imagine Petyr Baelish in love with anyone, but the expression of glee on his face as he needled the Hand was signature Littlefinger. She had never met a more unpleasant man.
Lord Eddard didn't even spare the odious little man a glance. His focus was entirely on the peasant standing before him.
"These men, were they flying a sigil?" The man looked back at him blankly. "A banner?"
"None, your- Hand," he faltered. "The one who was leading, taller by a foot than any man I've ever met. Saw him cut the blacksmith in two. Saw him take the head off a horse with a single swing of his sword."
The room, already quiet during these odd proceedings, grew silent. Ice was growing in Lenna's gut as she, and every other courtier present, remembered seeing someone do exactly that at the Hand's Tourney just over a month before. That knight had delivered horror after horror, and Lenna blanched to think he was the one wreaking havoc through the Riverlands.
Baelish turned and whispered something to the Hand, but Lenna couldn't make out what he said.
"You're describing Ser Gregor Clegane," Lord Eddard said flatly.
"Why would Ser Gregor turn brigand?" Pycelle rasped with incredulity. "The man is an anointed knight."
Once, Lenna might have thought the same. That no man who had taken knightly vows could behave in such a manner. But that was in her childhood, before she'd learned something of what the world was, and listening to this poor common man describe what had happened to his friends and family, she realized how truly sheltered she still was. Ser Gregor's title was no shield for his actions, it was not the definition of his character, and she believed Ser Gregor capable of all manner of atrocities. She shuddered to remember Sandor describing what he'd done to queen Elia Martell and her children. What he'd done to him.
"I've heard him called Tywin Lannister's mad dog," Baelish said, just loud enough for Lenna to hear. It made her shudder to think of those cold green eyes, knowing beyond doubt that Tywin was capable of ordering such attacks. Her own father's account of the Reynes echoed in her ears, the sad refrain of Castamere that she'd been forced to sing on so many occasions.
"I'm sure you have as well," Baelish continued. He smirked at the Hand, his pointy little mustache twitching. "Can you think of any reason the Lannisters might possibly have to be angry with your wife?"
Of course they do. She thought back to her strained conversation with the queen and her brother the week before, how she had on the face of things agreed that some action needed to be taken against Lady Stark for her capture of Tyrion. She never would have imagined that they would have set a monster loose on common folk to prove a point, to intimidate another House. But here was this man telling a tale of unimaginable horror and every indicator pointed to Lannister involvement, if not a direct order.
"If the Lannisters were to order attacks on those under the king's protection that would be-" Pycelle began, only to be cut off by Petyr Baelish.
"It would be almost as brazen as attacking the Hand of the King in the streets of of the capital." His face was alight with some nefarious pleasure, eyes glinting and a smug smile pulling at the corners of his thin lips. He was looking at Lord Stark with an expression that plainly said 'I told you so.'
The Hand briefly flicked his eyes at Baelish, then clenched his jaw. Leaning forward, Lord Eddard cleared his throat gruffly, obviously affected by the man's story.
"I cannot give you back your homes or restore your dead to life but perhaps I can give you justice. Lord Beric Dondarrion?"
The young marcher lord stepped forward. Though slight, Lenna had always thought him handsome with his red-gold hair and serious mien. He looked steadily at the Hand, awaiting his orders, hand on the pommel of his sword.
"You shall have the command. Assemble one hundred men and ride to Ser Gregor's keep." Dondarrion nodded deeply, taking a step back.
With effort, Eddard Stark rose from the Iron Throne, leaning heavily on his cane. He drew himself up as tall as he could given his injury, and when his voice rang out into the hall it was a hammer striking an anvil.
"In the name of our king, Robert of House Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, I charge you to bring the King's justice to the false knight Gregor Clegane and all those who share in his crimes. I denounce him, and attaint him. I strip him of all ranks and titles, all lands and holdings, and sentence him to death."
Lenna let out a breath she didn't know she was holding, her admiration for Ned Stark boundless. Despite the horror of the poor Riverman's story, she felt a sense of elation at the decree, recognizing the Hand's sense of justice. He was nobility personified, standing there in such obvious pain, his face pale against the dark beard but his voice strong and his gaze steady. There was power in him that made her have hope for what lay ahead of them.
"My lord, this is drastic," Pycelle said, leaning over. "It would be better to wait for King Robert's return"
Stark didn't even look at him. "Grand Maester Pycelle, send a raven to Casterly Rock. Inform Tywin Lannister that he has been summoned to court to answer for the crimes of his bannerman. He will arrive within a fortnight or be branded an enemy of the crown and a traitor to the realm."
The little joy Lenna had felt now fled. She felt very sure that Eddard Stark had just made a horrible mistake. The Lannisters would not take kindly to his order of execution against Gregor Clegane, but they would be infuriated by this threat, even if it was deserved. Lenna looked at Ned Stark as if for the first time, seeing him for what he was, for what she had once been: a starry-eyed idealist who believed in honor and justice.
She hoped very much that he was right, that King Robert would stand behind this decision, but her belly was full of dread. He was further provoking the Lannisters, and that clan had been strengthening themselves for many years, their obvious hold over the capital miserly and tight. It would take more than a scolding to bring them in line, and that scolding was more likely to result in outright conflict. Of course, Lord Stark was still newly arrived, and she doubted he had any notion of just how deep the Lannister claws were embedded. She also doubted he had any idea of what he'd just done, how much more difficult and tenuous he had just made his own position.
Lenna turned quickly and fled the room, unable to remain any longer. Sansa trotted after her. A quick glance showed that the girl was confused and disturbed by the proceedings, but Lenna didn't know if she was ready to answer questions for her. She felt sure that they had both just witnessed something momentous, the enormity of which they would not know for some time.
"Awful business," she said lightly when she could stay silent no longer, tamping down the tremors in her belly. "I knew there was a reason I didn't go very often to hear arbitration."
"Isn't Ser Gregor the Hound's brother?" Of course Sansa would ask that immediately. Lenna pursed her mouth and thought before she answered.
"He is," Lenna answered shortly. As different as different can be. "They are not much alike apart from the obvious."
"Why did father do that? Order Lord Tywin to come?"
Lenna closed her eyes briefly to gather strength, then turned her attention to a stray thread on her dress, feigning casualness. The truth was she didn't know what had possessed the Hand to do such a thing, not unless he simply didn't understand how things worked in King's Landing. It was either that or he simply didn't care. From what she could tell, Ned Stark ascribed to an unwavering sense of honor, a belief in the old ways. The ways that she had been raised to admire and uphold. The ways that she had reluctantly come to realize were impractical, idealistic, and, at their heart, foolishly naive.
Perhaps they are foolish, but they are noble. Surely there is honor in living by them, even if you know it is folly.
"Ser Gregor is his bannerman," she replied simply, wary of saying too much to the girl. "As his liege lord, Lord Tywin stands responsible for his crimes."
The girl's fair brow knitted together further, her blue eyes narrowed in disbelief. She had so much to learn, and Lenna was no longer sure she'd have enough time. Whatever was coming was approaching quickly, and Sansa would be caught unawares.
"But Lord Tywin didn't order that beast to-" the girl protested.
"Of course not," Lenna said quickly. Sansa was becoming more upset than Lenna would have imagined. "He will come and answer and it will all blow over." Wishful thinking. Or maybe a prayer.
"He's the prince's grandfather. Joffrey will be very cross."
For a moment, all she could feel was the shock of disbelief, then anger rolled over her like a rainstorm. Lenna bit back her retort, wondering if all Sansa cared about was whether or not Joffrey Baratheon was angry with her. The capital could be collapsing around their ears and Sansa would be singing hey-nonnies so long as Joffrey smiled at her. She deposited the girl back with her Septa and made her excuses, keen to be away as quickly as she could, her own mind a flurry of anxiety.
She retreated to the library as soon as she could, taking comfort in the stacks. At first, she'd felt a thrill of hope at the Hand's pronouncement. Stripping Gregor Clegane of his titles and lands would mean they could go to his heir with royal approval, in this case his brother. Sandor Clegane had just received the chance of a Keep and an income from his brother's cruelty, and Lenna could think of no better recipient of such a windfall. He wouldn't be just a bodyguard, even if he continued to refuse to take the vows of knighthood. He would be landed, and if not wealthy, at least sustained by his own peasants. It wouldn't be much, but it was more than he'd had before, and it might give them a fighting chance, however small. It may mean they weren't as doomed as they both believed.
Even this was not enough to comfort the awful tide of foreboding in her gut. She felt that Lord Stark was completely unaware of the significance of what he had just done, how potentially disastrous it was to have made such a show against the Lannisters.
"Lady Helenna."
She froze, forcefully jabbing her quill onto the parchment. She had been copying a long passage, and now a flood of ink had been released across the paper. It looked like the blood that had pooled beneath young Ser Hugh.
She wasn't quite sure how she'd missed Ned Stark's entrance, but she knew his voice at once. He was limping, relying heavily on his cane, and it clicked loudly as he came toward her. She allowed herself the briefest moment of hesitation before girding herself with protocol.
"My lord," she said, rising and bobbing a curtsey. She even managed a faint smile.
"Please," he said, indicating her chair. She sank back into it and he pulled up another, settling into it with a grieved sigh. She'd thought him a handsome man as a girl, distinguished with his strong jaw and prominent nose. His whole face spoke of strength, right down to the determined expression of his dark grey eyes. A face like that was far too easy to read, as open to her as the book before her.
"I had heard you are quite a scholar," he said, his voice kindly as he pointed to her work.
"I have that reputation," she said quietly.
"And what are you reading?"
She hid her disquiet with a faint smile, sure that he knew that she was wondering why the Hand of the King had come to make small talk. She turned the book and slid it toward him. It was a dry and dusty account of the Ninepenny Kings.
"A historian," he said with a low rumble. "Tell me, do we learn anything from our past?"
"Not that I can see, my lord. I fear we are doomed to repeat it." Castamere, a voice whispered. It might as well have said Riverrun or Winterfell. Or White Harbor.
A long silence fell and Lenna could feel his eyes upon her.
"I am going to send Sansa back to Winterfell," he said at last. Lenna looked at him sharply. "And Arya. I do not think this is a place suitable for young girls."
"You are wise, my lord," she replied carefully, having thought the same many times since their arrival in the capital. Little Arya she hardly ever saw, but getting Sansa as far away from the queen's claws as possible would be for the best. The girl was too green, too sweet, and too foolish, especially now that affairs were growing more complicated by the moment.
"You came here as a young girl yourself, if I remember rightly," Stark said. Lenna didn't know why he was pretending not to know the whole story. She was sure that he did.
"Yes, my lord," she answered placidly.
"And you've done well." He looked at her askance, question in his gaze. She felt her cheeks heat and couldn't tell if it was from pleasure or shame.
"I have managed, my lord."
"Do you miss your home?"
"Of course I do," she replied, furrowing her brow.
"Do you wish to go back?"
"My lord?" she asked quickly. A quick flash of white hope batted against her breast. One that was quickly extinguished by the onset of reality.
"Lady Helenna," he asked slowly. "Would you like go back to White Harbor?"
"Of course I want to," she said quietly. "It is my home."
"There is room on the ship I have hired for my girls. You can go to your father."
She gawked at him for a long moment. He regarded her evenly, his grey eyes calm.
"I'm afraid that's impossible, my lord," she said softly. "My duty is here with the princess. I cannot just leave my post."
"You wouldn't ask for her permission."
They both knew he didn't mean the princess.
"I understand what you're suggesting, my lord," she said carefully. "I am simply saying that it cannot be."
"Lady Helenna, as your liege lord I can offer you protection enough to make your way safely home."
"And Lord Stark, I truly appreciate what you are trying to do for me. But again, as much as it pains me," her voice failed for a moment, her throat thick, "I cannot accept this offer."
The expression in his eyes went steely.
"You understand that once you refuse that I will not renew it again."
She closed her eyes, feeling the place where she had so carefully mended her heart after last leaving her family tear again. To turn her back on Cersei would do them no favors, not to mention against the direct orders of her father. But some other craven part of her knew her hesitation wasn't just a desire to do her duty, to protect them. It would mean leaving him, and she couldn't even entertain the thought.
"I do, my lord. And I believe you are doing the right thing in sending your girls away. Their place is not here, not now. Mine, however, is."
He nodded curtly. "I do not pretend to understand, my lady, but I respect your decision, of course."
"Thank you, my lord."
He rose to leave, but he stopped, again leaning heavily on his cane.
"Perhaps you could help me with one last thing," he said, turning back to her.
"Of course, my lord."
"There is a book I'm looking for. A lineage."
She thought for a moment her heart had stopped in her breast, but in short order it rose to her throat and began to thunder violently.
"They are here, my lord," she said quietly, rising and going to the shelves, feeling like a shadow.
"One begun by Maegor," he clarified.
She'd already begun looking, knowing which one he wanted without him naming it. She also knew that it wasn't there. Lenna took a deep breath and swallowed as she went to her knees, making a pantomime of looking for the volume.
"It is not here, my lord. It should go in this space," she replied. In an eerie reenactment of her meeting with Jon Arryn the year before, she laid her fingers in the spot where the book should have been.
"Have you seen it? Has anyone asked for it lately?"
She turned to him. "They are very dry, the lineages," she said by way of explanation. "As to someone asking for it, well, I'm not the librarian."
"Who might know then?"
"Grand Maester Pycelle would be the best person to ask. This is technically his domain. But..."
"But what, my lady?" he asked, his brow contracting.
"It is thick with dust, my lord," she replied, swiping through it and showing him her smudged fingertip. Two years' worth of grime. She could still see where her fingers had disturbed it then, the accumulation lighter where she'd touched her fingers there what felt like a lifetime before.
Eddard Stark sighed.
"I gather the Grand Maester is seldom here," he said, nodding to her table.
"You're correct, my lord. Still, if anyone knows where that book is, it would be him."
"Thank you, my lady. If you should reconsider my offer, I can wait-"
"I won't, my lord, but I thank you all the same." She couldn't look at him as she said it, refusing her chance to flee home a final time. If he asked again, she might not remain strong enough to say no.
His gaze flicked over her then, sizing her up, and he saw disappointment in his eyes. Whether in her answer or in her person she did not know. She comforted herself with the fact that despite her deception, she had not lied.
Sandor XXVI
He could see the flicker of the lamplight as soon as he came through the library doors. He hadn't been able to steal away for a week, and it was later than he usually got there. He was a little surprised that she would still be there, thinking for a moment that perhaps she had simply left the lamp burning and gone to bed. He permitted himself a long moment to just look at her, at her hair in a long braid over her shoulder in a style he hadn't seen in years, the contrast of her dark brows against her pale skin, her rosy mouth. It made his chest burn.
She was sitting on the window ledge with her legs drawn up to her chest like a child, her arms wrapped tightly around her body as she looked into the darkness beyond the glass. Her face was pale and drawn, and he knew immediately that she'd been crying. Cries at fucking everything, he thought affectionately.
He had much to tell her. He had not been present when Ned Stark had sent Beric Dondarrion after his fuck of a brother, and he wished with all his might he could have heard that decree. He wished he was one of the party, even if the Hand's action would anger the queen and her family. He may be a Lannister guard, but he rejoiced in the thought of Gregor Clegane's head on a spike. He hoped they brought it back to the capital instead of sending it to Clegane's Keep. Little could make him happier than the opportunity to spit on it.
The Keep. Odd as it was, it could be his now. It would take a decree and the agreement of Tywin, but he had little doubt that it would pass to him now that Gregor was marked. That would piss his brother off, too, the thought of the runt getting the family lands. It wasn't much, a drafty pile of stones in the rocky foothills of the Westerlands, but the land was rich, good for tilling and grazing. There were always the kennels. You could glimpse the Sunset Sea from the ramparts on a clear day, and he'd had a flash of standing there with her beside him almost as soon as he'd heard the news. It was a foolish idea, taking her there. Taking her anywhere. But he was the heir now, and the Keep and its income were his, not his brother's. It wasn't much, but it was something, so much more than he'd had to offer before.
"Crying for my brother?" he asked, trying to smirk. She turned her head and without any preamble rose and came to him, wrapping her arms around his chest and burying her face against him. The urgency of her embrace set him a little off balance. He brought his arms around her, resting a hand on the back of her head. Something about her manner dulled his pleasure at seeing her after so long. She held him tightly, desperation in her grasp. He could feel her faintly trembling.
"I'm sorry," she muttered, pulling away after several moments. "I suppose you should be congratulated. Holdings of your own." She smiled wanly and he returned it, feeling in his gut that something was very wrong. He waited patiently for her to tell him what was going on. He knew better than the push, and knew she wouldn't be able to keep it from him for long.
"Lord Stark was here," she murmured, her lashes fluttering darkly against her cheek.
"What?" he growled.
His mood instantly darkened. It would do Lenna no favors if she was seen talking to the Hand, if there was perceived to be any kind of alliance between them. As far as he could tell, Ned Stark was a doomed man, and Lenna needed to stay out of his dealings, even if he was her liege lord.
"He's sending his girls back to Winterfell," she said. "He's not going to tell anyone, just put them on a ship in three days time." That was not all too surprising. If he was a father, he'd get his children out of this viper's nest, too, if he could.
"He asked me to go with them," she whispered, looking up at him with such great sadness in her eyes.
"And what did you say?" Terror gripped him at the thought that she'd agreed, that she was leaving him. Not only that, it would be the gravest mistake to turn her back on the queen like that, especially given-
"No," she gasped, and it had the same ring as clashing swords. "I told him no. I can't. It's impossible."
"You're right," he said lowly, raising a hand so he could brush her cheek with his thumb.
"He...he thinks that I'm on their side now, doesn't he."
"You are," Sandor replied shortly.
She looked at him with the strangest expression, like a lost child looking frantically for her mother. She searched his face as if he had some important secret to tell, or perhaps to see if he was being serious. He knew she had never been able to think of herself like that, as one of them, but she was as sure as she was breathing. And to stay that way, indefinitely, she had to act like one.
"All I ever wanted was to go home, and I just told the person who could take me there no. I could be away from all of this-" she gestured wildly to the room, rising hysteria in her voice. Sandor felt like she'd run him through the chest with a boar spear.
"That's not what I meant," she said in a rush, grabbing his hands when he stepped away. She must have seen the look on his face. "Sandor, whatever is happening, it's just the beginning, isn't it?"
"Aye." He nodded, moving away from her to sit down on the ledge. He stretched his legs out and sat with his elbows on his knees, looking at her as she paced.
"What's going to happen?"
"Don't know. Nothing good," he said truthfully.
"What do I do?" she demanded, her voice almost a hiss. Her eyes were large and fevered, and he could see the strain in her face, a flicker of tension in her temple.
"What you've always done," he replied. "Keep your head down, do what you're asked to do. I'll take care of the rest."
"If Cersei asks me-"
"Then you fucking tell her. I have half a mind to make you go to her now, to tell her everything you know. When was Stark here?"
"This afternoon. After the judgement."
"Did he say anything else?"
She nodded again, casting her eyes down. What had already been alarm now grew into full-blown panic in his belly. She had gone very still, standing with her hands by her sides, balled into fists.
"Lenna, just fucking tell me," he pleaded. "I can't help unless you tell me."
Her eyes were wide with fright. "That book. He wanted that book."
Sandor was on his feet in no time. He strode to her and grasped her by the shoulders.
"Tell me you didn't give it to him. Please," he said urgently, bringing his face down to hers. He was gripping her tightly, overcome with foreboding. Surely she knew better than to give Ned Stark anything, especially that bloody book.
"No," she whispered. "I don't have it. It's not here. I looked."
"For him? Was he here when you looked?"
"Yes, I pretended to look for it, but I knew it wasn't there."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him that I hadn't seen it. I told him that I wasn't the librarian, if anyone would know where it was, it would be the Grand Maester."
Sandor growled deep in his throat.
"We're going to the queen."
"What?"
"You are going to go to the queen and tell her that Ned Stark was looking for that book. That Jon Arryn had looked for the same. And you're going to lie and tell her that you personally never laid eyes on it, but that it is certainly curious that they both wanted it."
"I...I can't do that, Sandor."
He walked toward her slowly, taking both hands in hers.
"Lenna," he said lowly. "I don't think you quite understand what I'm telling you."
"You're asking me to betray Lord Stark," she said hotly, her eyes narrowed in anger. "You're telling me to go to the queen and tell her-"
"I'm telling you to save yourself," he whispered harshly. "Do you want to go home one day?"
She looked up at him wildeyed. "Yes."
"Then you will go to Cersei now and you will tell her."
"It's late. Perhaps in the morning."
"Now."
Tears welled up in Lenna's eyes. "What if-"
"There are no what ifs. You'll do it. If Ned Stark lets on that he's spoken to you, alone, in private, about that bloody book, to the king or anyone else and it gets back to Cersei- Lenna, you must be who they want you to be. This isn't a question of doing what is right or wrong. You have to protect yourself. That book could mean nothing, but if Cersei gets wind that you've been talking with Ned Stark - alone- you are putting yourself at great risk whenever it comes."
"When what comes?"
"Can't you feel it, Lenna? War. War is coming."
"I understand," she whispered harshly. "Sandor, what have they made of us?"
"Survivors," he replied.
She swiped at the tears on her face, looking dejected and pitiful. He drew her into him, resting his chin on her head and closing his eyes in pain when he felt her convulse against him, sobs racking her body. He hadn't heard her cry like that since the day she learned of her mother's death. Great gulping sobs like she was being torn in half from the inside out. He tried to hush her, but it only made her keen louder. This time though, instead of being trapped on the other side of a door, he could at least hold her. He stooped to pick her up from behind her knees and pulling her into his chest.
He sat cross-legged on the window ledge, angling himself as far into the corner as possible. She wrapped her arms around his neck like a child, her body trembling as he ran his hands over her back to quiet her. He felt useless and foolish and terribly, horrifically guilty.
They'd been approaching this precipice for years, incrementally in a way he knew she hadn't realized. He had. It had started with her arrival, isolated and alone in King's Landing. He'd seen it for what it was even then, the Lannisters making a play against a powerful Northern house, couching a threat in an honor. And she, sweet and naive, she had borne the brunt of it, ignored and forgotten for so many years. He wanted to blame her, to curse her for drawing attention to herself. If the queen had never lighted on her, perhaps she could have been bound for home with the Stark girls, away from this horrible mess, never missed. But no, the Lannisters had spotted her and found a use for her, had glimpsed the light in her he'd always seen. That damn belief in virtue and honor and knowledge drawing her dangerously close to them.
It's the same in her fairy stories, he thought darkly. The dragons always want the virtuous maidens for their own.
It was the same thing that had first attracted him to her, such a contrast to his darkness. Good, innocent, and optimistic, seeing the best even as her world was destroyed around her, each little hurt making her cling to those beliefs even harder. He'd mocked her for it for years, to himself and to her face, but it wasn't because he thought she was silly. He coveted her faith in justice and right simply because he could not remember a time when those things had been true for him. She made him see beauty.
And wisdom. And honor. But they'd seen it in her, too, starting with that damned Tyrion. He should have told the queen that she was meeting with her brother in library at the beginning. Perhaps they would have sent the girl home in shame. Or married them. But he hadn't, he'd festered and moiled, and he knew it didn't really fucking matter. Either way, she was theirs now, much more than she was his.
And now, even though the chance to escape was in her reach, she was more trapped than she ever had been before. He hadn't thought it possible when he'd spoken with her father years before, listening to them discussing hurricanes and eyes and winds, that they would be teetering on this ledge. A point where she would have to choose between protecting herself and protecting others, and it would wreak havoc on her.
He had mourned the loss of her innocence before, the transformation she undertook when they returned from White Harbor, the change in her hair and her bearing. It had been nothing in comparison to what she was about to do. She had been able to maintain her integrity all of these years, and he knew that going to the queen and reporting on Ned Stark could break her. This task she would have to complete, it could be her undoing, and he wished with all of his heart he could do it for her. He wished he could go with her to the queen and tell Cersei himself, but there was no way he could bear that responsibility. She had to do it herself, and she had to do it without hesitation.
She had stopped crying, sitting up and looking into his face. He traced a finger along her cheek, brushing her hair back from her forehead.
"How? How can I do this?"
"You needn't say what you think," he said lowly. "Only tell her what happened."
"That he offered to take me away?"
"No, leave that out of it. Just tell her about the book. Tell her that it struck you as odd that both Stark and Arryn would be looking for the same thing. That you'd never seen that book."
"Did anyone see you take it to Arryn?"
"No," he replied. "They saw me go to the Hand, but I've been sent on errands for him before."
"It was a big book," she said doubtfully.
"I'm a big man," he replied with a hint of humor. "They didn't see what I had under my cloak. Besides, it was two years ago."
She nodded, bringing a hand up to his face and running her fingers along his cheek. Her eyes welled up again.
"No more of that," he said firmly, gruffly, using his thumb to wipe them away.
"I can't stop-" He shushed her with a kiss, his mouth on hers.
"You must," he said, cupping her face in his hands and swiping at the fresh tears. "Think about what your mother would say. She'd tell you to bear up, wouldn't she?"
Lenna nodded.
"She'd be so ashamed of me."
Sandor firmly grasped her by the shoulders. She looked so defeated, refusing to look him in the eye.
"No," Sandor said emphatically. Any companion of Joanna Lannister's wouldn't have been so sheltered or naive. "She understood the game. She knew the costs."
She was wretched as they made their way through the Keep toward the queen's chambers. Despite the risk, relying on the hour, he grasped her little hand in his as they walked, not missing the way she clung to it or the way her fingers shook. He relished the feeling in spite of his dismay, reluctant to release her when they approached the queen's rooms.
He was right, the queen was awake, sitting alone in her study. The guards stepped aside as soon as they saw Sandor and Lenna approach.
Cersei looked up from her glass of wine in confusion.
"What's this? Clegane? Lenna?"
"I ran into Lady Helenna in the passageway and she asked me to escort her to you, your grace," Sandor said, stepping aside to let Lenna by.
"Come in, of course," Cersei said. Her brow was furrowed with concern, taking in Lenna's slight dishevelment and downcast eyes. "What ever is the matter?"
"Your grace," Lenna said quietly. He was proud that her voice didn't falter. "Lord Eddard came to the library this afternoon. Looking for a book."
Cersei cocked her head, sliding her eyes to Sandor as if he could help her understand.
"And?"
"It wouldn't be that irregular, your grace," Lenna continued, "except last year Lord Arryn came looking for the same book."
He could see Cersei turning the information over in her head, determining whether or not it was important.
"Did you help him find it?"
"No, your grace, I couldn't."
"Why?"
"Because it's always been missing."
Cersei's brows shot up to her hair in surprise.
"What book was this?"
"That's the peculiar thing, your grace. It's a book of lineages. Not exactly riveting reading." Gods bless her for trying to imbue humor into this report. "Your grace, it probably means nothing, but it was so odd that it has bothered me all day. I'm sorry to disturb you with it, especially so late."
"Don't be, dear Lenna," the queen said, putting a hand on Lenna's shoulder. "I'm sure you are right, that it's just a coincidence. But I'm glad that you've told me, and I'm sure you feel better for it. Would you take a glass of wine?"
"No, your grace, I think I'm for bed if I have your leave."
"Of course," Cersei said, smiling. "Sleep well. Clegane will see you back."
She was halfway back to the door when Cersei called out to him.
"Clegane," she said dryly. "You may have gained lands and a keep, it would seem."
"By your grace," he replied solemnly.
"There will be no contest from me. I doubt my father will protest, though he will not be happy about this unfortunate affair with your brother."
"Thank you, your grace."
She nodded, that furrow again on her forehead.
Lenna walked ahead of him by a pace, her hands pressed together in front of her so tightly her knuckles were white in the moonlight. She didn't speak a word until they reached her door. To his surprise and disappointment, she didn't let him kiss her, turning her head when he bent to do so, his lips landing on her smooth cheek instead. It felt like she'd slapped him, and when she had silently gone into her rooms and closed the door without even a word, hurt twisted in his gut like a knife.
He stood facing her door for a long time, until he heard boots coming down the corridor. He turned and made his way slowly toward the barracks before his feet changed his direction and led him to an alehouse in Flea Bottom.
It was late, and the place was more or less deserted. It was for the best. He selected a bench in the nearly empty establishment and a tankard was brought, filled and refilled again as he silently drank to the memory of Helenna Manderly's innocence until he stumbled back to his bunk .
A/N: I hated making her do this. I really, truly did. But we know that things can't be easy, don't we? We know where all of this is going. Besides, there's no story in simplicity.
I did lift much of the judgement dialogue from the show. Just being honest, it wasn't my work.
Thank you for the encouragement on Chapter 25. I'm still working on it, and the next chapter should have some fluff in a similar vein if you need the enticement to continue.
Please read and review! I am a little obsessed with checking for notifications...and I might also watch my story stats...so for the dozen of you that always review, THANK YOU. For the other...let me see...188 of you who read Chapter 25...it only takes three seconds. No pressure. ;-) Remember, I take your ideas into account when I'm plotting. To be honest, when I originally mapped this sucker out, they didn't hook-up until after Blackwater. So, you got your carrot a lot earlier because I listen to what you want! Let me know! Can't guarantee that I'll use it, but I definitely take it into account.