Lenna XXX

His scent clung to her sheets. When she woke, he was gone but she smiled to catch a whiff of him on her pillow. Steel and sweat and plain soap. She expected him to have left, but she was surprised to see the sunlight pouring through her windows. She hadn't slept so well or so long in weeks. She was sprawled across her bed, her hair a snarled mess and her chemise tangled around her. Despite her attempts, he had not let her take it off the night before. She supposed it was the last thing that stopped him from doing what he so clearly wanted to do. Even if it disappointed her, it still sent a hot thrill through her innards and a flush to her cheeks to think of his restraint. And to ponder what might happen if he let it go.

She was late when she finally made it to Cersei's solar, her hair not in its usual coil but draped across her shoulder in a braid she'd done when she was a girl. She had not been able to find a maid and didn't have enough time to try and sort it out herself. Her breath was coming short when she walked into the room. The first thing she noticed was how eerily quiet it was. Though it was true that the court had become more subdued since Joffrey had taken the throne, there was always some measure of noise as the lords and ladies waited on the queen. The lack of sound was inexplicable, especially seeing as the room was filled to the gills with somber courtiers, all looking furtively in the same direction.

It took her just a few seconds to spot the source of their fascination. Sansa Stark sat stoically near the dais on a cushion working on her embroidery, her cheeks flaming red as she tried to ignore their stares. The space around her was so empty it looked like she was on exhibit, the little lords and ladies of the court not daring to go near her lest their skirts brush hers. She had become a pariah, keeping mostly to her rooms, and Lenna felt the urge to applaud her bravery at coming by herself. Many other girls would have continued to hide.

Lenna took a deep breath and walked directly to her, refusing to abandon a thirteen year old girl to fend for herself against such cowards and upstarts. If no one else would speak to her, she would.

"Good morning," she said softly, taking a pillow next to the poor girl.

"Good morning," Sansa replied weakly, her smile a watery little thing that barely reached her eyes.

Lenna returned it with as much brightness as she could muster. Cersei was conspicuously absent, so she reached for her book. She had taken to keeping one or two in the solar for these dull mornings when she was expected to sit and simper. She refused to be completely idle, and Cersei had always liked her for her scholarly habits.

She'd barely even cracked the spine when a door was flung open with a clatter as it collided with the wall.

"Lady Helenna," Cersei said, entering swiftly from her chambers. "I would take a turn through the gardens."

Cersei stalked through the room like a hurricane, and Lenna could almost feel the queen's agitation whipping about like gales of wind. She replaced her bookmark with trepidation and rose to follow the queen, flashing a weak smile in an effort to give Sansa courage.

Cersei strode ahead of her with her arms wrapped protectively around her torso. She was angry, and Lenna hated to admit that she was frightened, worried it was directed at her. She wondered if someone had spotted Sandor leaving her chambers that morning, had passed him in the hall on his way back to the barracks. Or worse, had heard them through her door. Neither of them had exactly been quiet. The memory brought an embarrassed flush to her cheeks.

She was fighting against the urge to vomit when Cersei finally decided to turn and face her. With a quick flick of her wrist, the guards were dismissed. She stood looking at Lenna with her beryl-bright eyes, her chin lifted imperiously.

"Robb Stark has called his banners," she said flatly. "The raven came this morning."

It wasn't news that Lenna ever dreamed would bring relief, but she felt her chest loosen to hear it. She made herself furrow her brow, conscious of the queen's intent regard, careful to give her the reaction she no doubt wanted.

"Oh gods," she murmured.

Then, the force of the news hit her, her heart stuttering in her chest as the full import crested upon her like a breaker. Calling his banners against the Crown was treason, treason to which her own family was honor-bound to respond. It was no longer a Lannister army he was facing, but one that had the full backing of the queen regent and the new king. The squabble was becoming a storm.

"You are quite pale, Lenna," the queen observed, her eyes discerning.

"Such an act of open defiance," she whispered with dismay.

"You disagree with him, then?"

"Of course, your grace," she burst out in reply. "It's-"

"Treason."

"Yes, your grace," she agreed numbly. If they answered Robb, her father and brothers would be branded traitors along with Ned Stark. She had a difficult time believing Robb would make such a stand. All she could do was remember the blushing, bashful boy she'd seen in Winterfell just months before. That boy now threatened war.

"Treason." The word felt so hollow and heavy in her mouth.

"The king wishes to go to war," Cersei continued. "Of course, he does not remember what war was like, it was over before he was born. These same men that rose up in support of my husband now rise up against his son. How do you explain that?"

"Selfishness, ambition, damnable pride," Lenna replied without hesitation, her new-found anger rising again in her stomach.

"Despite your birth, you have always been a loyal servant of the Crown, and I trust you. My father trusts you," Cersei said as Lenna looked at her in mute shock. "I find myself in need of counsel."

"I'm sure there are better-" she babbled.

"No, Lenna," the queen said forcefully. "I would know what you would do in my situation."

Lenna balled her fists at her sides and took a deep breath. In her situation? Lenna was not a queen, she wasn't even a daughter of a Great House. She felt like she was standing at a cliff's edge.

Cersei must have noted her confusion and alarm at the question.

"There is no one in this Keep as well-read as you," she said. "Or as sound a judge of character, if my father is to be believed. Surely, there is something you have studied, histories perhaps, that could shed some little light on what to do in such a conundrum."

Lenna nodded, still wary of being asked her opinion on so important a matter.

"Yes, your grace. The histories would teach us the cost of such insurrections. We should avoid war if at all possible, your grace," she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

"Why?"

"We have been at peace since King Robert took the Iron Throne. The realm has prospered since. A war would throw us into chaos, would work against every advance we have made."

"The advances were not all Robert's," Cersei murmured.

"No, your grace, they weren't. They were Jon Arryn's. And Lord Tywin's."

"I am surprised you lump my father into your praise," she replied with a cocked eyebrow.

"Why would I not? He was Hand to King Aerys, and even the Mad King started his reign with great promise. In fact, the realm prospered under him while Lord Tywin was his Hand. It wasn't until the madness began, when he stopped listening to his advisors, especially your father, that he began to actively work against the best interests of the people."

"The people," Cersei said sardonically.

"Yes, the smallfolk," Lenna replied insistently. "You cannot discount their importance in this. Our prosperity is bought with their labor. They came to Robert in droves to fight. You didn't see them flocking to Aerys."

"You didn't see them flocking at all," Cersei said derisively, and Lenna wondered why the queen had asked her such questions if she didn't want to hear her answers.

"No, but I have read about it. At length. Though I know it is no substitution for experience," Lenna conceded, pressing her lips together in exasperation.

"My father was not convinced the smallfolk were necessary."

Lannisters don't believe anyone else is necessary, save themselves..

"Nevertheless, he did understand that the people must eat," she pointed out. "Aerys did not care. It only went further in fracturing the kingdom.

"Go on."

"If Aerys had been sane, if your father had been allowed to continue to administer the realm, perhaps-"

"The rebellion would not have happened," the queen replied.

Lenna nodded slowly.

"Warring lords are never good for a realm, your grace. It allows for no prosperity, at least not lasting prosperity as we saw with King Robert. And it weakens the claim of the monarch. A peace must be brokered."

"But surely we cannot ignore-"

"Of course not," Lenna replied, remembering her own father's talk of the Reynes, his insistence that Tywin had been right in wanted the heads of the Lords of Castamere for their insurrection. "But here, mercy may speak more strongly than vengeance."

"What do you suggest?"

"The North is vast and rich, your grace. Send Lord Eddard to the Wall with his brother. Marry the King to Lady Sansa as a sign of good faith and to bring her brother back in line by acknowledging him as the Warden of the North."

Cersei pondered this idea for a long moment.

"The Wall would humble Stark, but spare his life. He'd have to repudiate his power, set young Robb up as Warden of the North. This young man, do you think he could possibly fall back in line?"

"Robb Stark is very young, your grace, and inexperienced. I cannot imagine who has counseled him to take this course of action, but his family is in such upheaval."

"What would your father say, do you think?"

Lenna closed her eyes. "My father abhors war, your grace. He saw too much of it in his youth."

"Would he speak to Robb?"

Lenna felt the breath leave her lungs.

"I do not know, your grace."

Cersei looked vaguely disappointed, but she did not ask any additional questions. She reached out and laid a hand on Lenna's shoulder.

"Thank you, Lenna. I know that was not easy for you," the queen replied, her tone almost comforting. "I will write my father."

Lenna tried to smile and failed.

"I only speak as I feel will benefit you, your grace. You said something recently I have taken to heart. I do not believe you would have said it if you did not believe it."

"What was that?" the queen asked, genuinely curious.

"We women must be the weavers of peace. As daughters, wives, mothers, it is our duty to preserve life, not destroy it," Lenna said, feeling the truth of it in her bones. Men would take them to war over an insult in an alehouse. She knew she was appealing to Cersei's maternal feelings. For all of her many faults, the queen loved her children, her instinct to protect them almost as strong as, if not stronger than, her Lannister obsession with power and control.

"It is a pity I cannot put you on the small council," the queen responded. "You would be such a diplomat."

Lenna tried to smile again. The thought made her feel ill, to be in such a constant state of cold terror as she was forced to dispense such counsel with those green eyes fixed on her in such a way.

The queen's mood was considerably lightened and she rose, strolling along the terrace that looked out over the sea. Lenna walked with her, her own mind roiling as she plastered that look of bland pleasantness across her face.

When they returned to Cersei's solar, Lenna was able to spare a real smile for Sansa. The girl looked vaguely startled for a moment, then returned it. Lenna felt a sharp stab of pity for the girl, but made a resolution to herself as she watched her calmly return to her work. Lenna felt keenly that she had been unfair in her assessment of the child, and reminded herself that a child is what she was. Sansa Stark was just as isolated and cut-off from her family as ever she had been, but Lenna's father had never stood in open defiance of the crown. She wondered if Sansa knew that her brother had called his banners, but she guessed from the girl's placid demeanor that she did not. It was for the best. She deserved a little respite before she had to face the lions again.

Sandor knocked just after midnight again, and Lenna opened the door to him. He'd left off his plate and he was freshly shaven. Not that she cared, she'd come to relish the scrape of his cheeks. She closed the door behind him, and was caught off guard when he seized her around the waist and pulled her to him roughly. Her hands were trapped between them as he ran his own along her face and into her hair. She'd left it loose for him, having long ago noticed his fascination with it, the way his fingers kept themselves busy in it when it hung around her shoulders.

His mouth was hungry and he pressed her against the door, the long lines of his body hard as he pushed against her. She could do little but reciprocate as much as her position allowed, waiting for him to relinquish his hold. It was a long time coming, his hands grasping at her as he held her like a dying man, clinging and almost desperate. It made her quake, but not in the way that she liked, in a fashion that made her fearful.

The fervor abated and he rested his forehead against hers, catching his breath.

"Sandor," she ventured. "Is everything alright?"

He kissed her forehead, but when he nodded, his eyes were grim.

"Aye," he whispered. "It is now."

Sandor XXX

He could not stop himself from going to her chambers, even though he knew he risked them both each time he did it. The pull to be near her was too strong. He ached for her by the end of the day. There were too many images of her in his mind: the way her chemise clung to her figure, how she gasped when he touched her, her hands against him with an eagerness he'd never dreamed of. They made his blood thrum. He also spent considerable time thinking of the many little moments that almost convinced him that she loved him as she said she did, those times when she would look up at him with her eyes full, the myriad smiles and flushes, the fluttering of her eyelashes on her cheek when she whispered to him, those words spoken so softly but cutting so deeply.

The same words turned to sawdust in his own mouth, and he couldn't bear to say them fully. They froze on his tongue and lodged in his throat, but he searched for ways around saying them, not yet brave enough to speak even though he meant them. Dear gods, how he meant them, and always had.

Instead that feeling poured out of his fingers, tracing hot lines across her body as she panted and gasped beneath him, the thin chemise of her gown concealing nothing. The only reason he kept her from removing it lay in his own misbegotten sense of honor. Without it, skin to skin, there was no guarantee that he would be able to keep himself away from her, to prevent himself from taking her virtue in her own bed, the only witness the sputtering candle at her bedside.

The current of love was strongest after he'd brought her to pleasure, when she was in his arms resting against him. She would tuck her head beneath his chin, her hair loose for him to run his hands through, her fingers toying with the bramble on his chest or running down the sinews of his arms. She would talk about nothing in particular, a steady stream of words that lulled him like water over river rocks, his own fingers lazily making circles on her shoulders until her yawns became too frequent to be ignored. He didn't speak then because he couldn't, too wrapped up in feeling like something was binding all of his innards and squeezing. He had the strange notion that if he said the words, the pressure would relent, but he couldn't. So, instead he'd wait until she slept, fascinated by seeing her face in a state of peace as she nestled against him, wondering why in the seven hells she wanted him, but not stupid enough to question it. He hated the moment when he'd disentangle himself from her, but he was always gone long before daybreak.

Thinking of her got him through the endless days of Joffrey, of being a fucking Kingsguard. He hated the white plate, the straps new and stiff, the metal disturbingly bright. He figured he looked like a fool in it, a dangerous fool, but no different than a lumbering jester.

The boy kept him close, and Sandor's early misgivings about the new king's potential as a ruler were proved true again and again. Joffrey was cruel and lazy, disrespectful of his ministers. The only person he seemed to listen to was his mother, and even then it was because the boy clearly feared her.

Their arguments were violent, the king throwing around his new title with annoying regularity. He was still not an adult, the queen his regent, yet he talked and acted as if he wielded the power of the crown alone.

"I want his head," Joffrey spat. He was pacing up and down his mother's study. She'd requested him to discuss the fate of Lord Stark, and Joffrey had dismissed the rest of his guards save Sandor. As far as Sandor knew, the Northman was still languishing in the Black Cells, his daughter alone save for the queen and Lenna. The whole Keep was abuzz with speculation about what might happen to Lord Eddard, the vast majority of the courtiers believing he'd be beheaded within the fortnight. It seemed the king was in agreement.

"Mercy," the queen said insistently, "will go further than vengeance in this matter."

They'd been arguing back and forth for the better part of an hour. Sandor kept his back to the wall, his head tilted forward as he always did so his hair obscured his face. He doubted either would pay him any attention as it was, but he wanted to make sure they didn't mark how closely he watched them.

"I am the king and he has betrayed me. Plotted against me. It would look weak of me to let him go." Joffrey's voice rose higher with each word, spittle flecking from his lips.

"You wouldn't be letting him go," the queen replied, her tone carefully modulated and soothing. "A life on the Wall is no life at all for a man like him. He'll suffer far longer than he would if you called for Ser Ilyn. And you will solidify the realm by keeping the kingdoms united."

"Let Robb Stark try me," he crowed brashly. Sandor fought down a grunt of annoyance. The boy had never seen combat, had no field experience to fall back on. If they went to war, Joffrey would not be his father. He would not ride in the vanguard. He'd be the kind of king who watched from a distance as men better than him died in the mud on his behalf.

"Lady Sansa is your intended," Cersei said quietly, trying a different tactic. "It would not be wise to engage her House in such a way. Marriage is intended to strengthen, not to fracture."

"Then break the engagement," he replied with a curl of his lip. "I don't like her anyway."

"What is not to like?" the queen demanded. "She is from an ancient family, she is beautiful, sweet, and amiable. She will be a fine queen when the time comes, and she will give you plenty of little princes and princesses to preserve your legacy. No, we will not break the engagement."

"Why?"

"Because your father wished it," she hissed. "He brokered the terms and arranged it himself. It is the best course for the realm that you take Sansa Stark to wife as soon as she flowers."

Sandor suspected it had more to do with the wealth of the North than with Robert Baratheon. That, and some longer game that she and her father had been playing for years.

"Disgusting," Joffrey smirked. "Women-"

"Are not what we are discussing. We are talking about Lord Stark."

The king wrinkled his nose like a toddler.

"Fine," he replied. "Send him to the Wall. Let him rot there."

Cersei's face shifted from that of an avenging harpy to something much softer and maternal.

"I knew you would make the right decision, your grace," she said quietly. Joffrey merely snorted.

"What should I do, just send him?"

"A public confession," Cersei suggested. Sandor almost groaned. It was cruel and unjust to submit a man like that to such humiliation. "Lord Stark will admit to his treason and you will grant him mercy. It will be a show of benevolence. It will win the people to you."

"I don't care if they like me," he replied shortly. "I'm their king."

He saw the flicker of irritation in Cersei's jaw.

"It is always best to have the backing of the people. Your father knew that. It was one of his greatest strengths."

"Didn't keep him from dying," the boy bit back.

"A public confession and a public pardon," she insisted, ignoring his attempts at diverting the conversation. "Followed by the renewal of your promise to marry Sansa Stark."

This clearly displeased the boy. He strode toward his mother's door.

"This talk bores me," he responded. "Arrange it, then. Come, dog."

Sandor followed him back to his chambers with trepidation in his breast. The boy proceeded to drink and mouth off for the rest of the afternoon and evening, and his banter with the other Kingsguards didn't make Sandor feel any easier.

Though it was Sandor that Joffrey wanted with him most of the time, it was Meryn Trant and Preston Greenfield that he caroused with. Two worse role models Sandor couldn't fathom, but he forced himself to stand by and listen. From what he could tell, Arys Oakheart's feelings were not too far from his own. The other Kingsguard was quiet like Sandor was, but he was courteous and good-natured. He didn't like Joffrey's shit any more than Sandor did, his face tight whenever the young Stark girl was spoken of in lewd terms. Sandor could have liked him for it.

He was finally relieved after the banquet, having spent most of the evening ignoring Joffrey's stupidity and watching Lenna from the corner of his eye. She looked a little rosier. He knew she'd been sleeping better, the dark circles gone from beneath her eyes as she laughed and talked with the princess and Sansa Stark. He noted how she frequently laid her fingers on the girl's wrist, which made Sansa's mouth quirk up and her eyes brighten.

Too fucking kind for her own good.

By the time he'd bathed and dressed again in plain clothes, it was well after midnight. He knocked once and the door swung open almost immediately, Lenna smiling up at him. He took two steps into her room, barely letting her close it behind them when he wrapped an arm around her waist and hauled her against him.

His hands were greedy and he pushed her up against the door, his fingers at work relearned the lines of her sides and back as he pressed himself to her, never minding the way her own were trapped between them.

Worry poured out of him, worry and despondence. If anything, this business about Ned Stark had extinguished the tentative hope he'd allowed the grow at the thought of Wyman Manderly possibly honoring his promise. Even to himself, Sandor could not manifest the words of what it was he wanted, those terms never possibly intended to link his name and hers. Even if he wanted it more than anything, he refused to even think it lest he find himself bloodlessly gutted when it all came to nothing.

It felt inevitable. Hope was folly.

He had the most terrible feeling that the world was about to be upended again. He remembered what that had felt like before, during the rebellion. Then it had been exciting. Perhaps he was becoming an old dog, but he wasn't thrilled with the prospect of war this time, and he was sure it was coming no matter what the king said. He no more believed that Joffrey would let Ned Stark off with his head still on his shoulders than he believed dragons still existed. The king was agreeing now, but he would be surprised if Cersei's plan was honored.

Lenna must have sensed his disquiet, going still against him and letting him do as he wished, his hands on her body and his mouth against hers. He felt like he was trying to draw a breath from her lungs, like it would be the only thing that could save him. But he gentled, calmed, growing reassured by the soft sounds she made and the way she let herself go pliant against him.

He pulled away, pleased to see how he'd reddened her mouth, resting his forehead against hers as he caught his breath.

"Sandor," she said quietly, "is everything alright?"

He could feel her brow furrow against his, right below his eyebrow. He leaned back and kissed it, having started to count the number of times he did so. Only twice now, but he knew it would multiply, and quickly.

"Aye," he rumbled. "It is now."

She smiled at him again, a soft upturn of her mouth, leading him toward her hearth. He sat on the edge of her bed as she fetched two goblets of wine, returning to him and settling back against her pillows to look at him.

"Tell me what is wrong," she said lowly.

He blew out a breath harshly. He never knew how much to tell her, remembering their early days when he had refused to give her any information whatsoever. That was a long time ago, though, and she was deeper in it than even he was. The thought gave him no comfort.

"The queen wants to pardon Lord Stark."

"I know," she replied.

He looked at her sharply, cocking his head. The queen and the king had argued just before dinner, and he doubted seriously that Cersei had talked about such openly. He also knew he'd been with both of them all night, and Lenna had not attended them. There was no opportunity for her to find out such news.

"How?" he asked.

"Because I counseled her to do it."

There was a flash of chill through his blood, his stomach freezing solid and his heart plummeting to his boots. All was quickly melted by hot anger, a furnace of worry in his gut.

"You're counseling her now?" he demanded. "Gods, Lenna, you might as well wear a target on your back."

"She asked for my advice and I gave it," she replied gravely. "I am well aware-"

"Like fuck you are," he bit out, moving away. "You don't have to stand around and listen to him all day. He's as bad as-"

"I know," she replied quickly. "And so does the queen."

He took a long breath before looking at her. He knew she had no control over the queen's taste for her company, knew she could not refuse even if she wanted to. Of course she fucking wants to. Angering the queen was not an option.

"She won't be able to protect you forever," he said lowly. "You must be careful."

She nodded, taking a sip of her wine. Her temple tightened and he felt remorseful. Of course she knew that.

"I am as careful as I am able to be."

"Stay away from Sansa Stark," he said lowly, stepping back to her. "The queen doesn't ask you to sit with her any more, so stay away from her."

If only she could distance herself from the Northern girl, perhaps Joffrey would forget that she was a Manderly, that her family was bound to support Robb Stark.

Not fucking likely.

"She's to be the queen-" Lenna said matter-of-factly.

"That girl will never sit the throne," he replied with finality. Lenna narrowed her eyes and cocked her head at him.

"The betrothal is to be honored, is it not?"

"For now," he replied, "but it will be broken. Mark my words, and be glad of it for the girl's sake."

"Sandor-"

"I don't want to speak of it anymore," he said roughly, downing the contents of his glass and pouring another. "It's not why I came."

He felt her creep toward him, closing his eyes as her warmth seeped into him.

He turned his head when she put her hand on his cheek, concentrating on the feel of her palm against him, then her lips when her mouth found his. He exhaled a long breath, leaning into her, fingers digging gratefully into the fleshy curve of her hips.

"Ah," she said teasingly, pulling back a little bit. "I see now, Sandor Clegane. Is that what you came for?"

She had backed away from him coyly, and despite the shadow of worry he smirked. She giggled when he did, propelling herself backward as he lunged for her, pushing her down into the softness of her bedding with his body, her wrists trapped above her head.

"No," he said lowly, "but this is."

She stopped giggling, her laughter turning to gasps and sighs.

He was thinking of such the following afternoon when they all made their way out to the square in front of the Sept of Baelor. He probably should have kept his mind on the matter at hand, but it was too easy to let it wander to more pleasant things. If he had, he might have noticed Ser Ilyn Payne in their company. As it was, he took his place on the platform that had been erected, a stage for the farce that was to be the king's mercy.

From his vantage point behind the king, he could see Lenna seated with the princess and the prince in the gallery that had been constructed for the nobles of the court. Cersei was standing with the king, with the Stark girl beside her, there to play the role of the dutiful daughter who had successfully pleaded for her father's life.

It was a bright day, a capital day, the sky almost white in the glare of the sun. The crowds were loud, getting noisier when the guards appeared, Lord Eddard bound and stumbling in their midst.

He looked disheveled, his clothes the same he'd been wearing the day of his arrest, and his long hair was filthy. They obviously hadn't done him the dignity of a bath before his humiliation was complete. The man looked around, his eyes squinting. Sandor reckoned it was fairly painful after so many days in the pits of the Black Cells.

The bells of the Sept rang out as he made his way onto the platform, and even Sandor could admire how straight and tall he stood as he faced a crowd that was not there to support him. The smallfolk were confused, he knew, not knowing who to believe, but their first impulse was to trust the king. Consistency was better than a possible upheaval. The rumors that had been circulating the alehouses were not met with favor, the people more than happy to believe that Joffrey was Robert's heir, to want the relative prosperity they'd known under the old king's rule to continue unchallenged. Sandor doubted they truly cared one way or another, but it was good fun to have someone to hate, the ridicule, and despite his nobility, that person was, for the moment, Ned Stark.

"I am Eddard Stark," he said without preamble. The crowd immediately fell silent. "Lord of Winterfell, and Hand of the King."

He turned to look at his daughter, and the girl smiled at him in encouragement. Sandor wondered how she was able to watch such a travesty with such hope in her face.

"I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of gods and men. I betrayed the faith of my king and the trust of my friend, Robert. I swore to protect and defend his children, but before his blood was cold, I plotted to kill his son and seize the throne for myself."

A loud cry went up from the crowd, and someone lobbed a stone at him, hitting him in the temple. He staggered for a moment, Sandor taking a step forward and catching him before he fell. With a push from him, Stark regained his feet and turned back to the crowd, squaring his shoulders.

"Let the High Septon and Baelor the Blessed bear witness to what I say. Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne by the grace of all the gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

Another cry went up from the mob, and Sandor was confused as to whether it was in support of what he'd said, or in opposition.

"As we sin, so do we suffer," Pycelle said, stepping forward with his hands raised to calm the crowd. "This man has confessed his crimes in sight of gods and men. The gods are just, but beloved Baelor taught us that they can also be merciful. What is to be done with this traitor, your grace?"

The crowd, again, dissolved into shouting, but Sandor could not tell what they wanted. Joffrey raised his hand, a smirk on his face, and they once against went silent.

"My mother wishes me to allow Lord Eddard to join the Night's Watch, stripped of all titles and powers he would serve the realm in permanent exile, and my lady, Sansa, has begged mercy for her father," he said, his voice almost tender as he spoke of the Stark girl. It turned Sandor's stomach, knowing how little he thought of her. Its all for show.

"But they have the soft hearts of women," Joffrey continued, disdain seeping into his voice. "So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head."

The queen reached out urgently to the boy, grabbing him by the elbow, hissing something Sandor could not hear. Sansa Stark had gotten white, her face crumpling as she, too, pleaded with the young king. She moved toward Joffrey only to be seized around the waist by Arys Oakheart.

"Please stop...stop him," she begged, fighting against the Kingsguard's grasp.

"My son, this is madness," the queen said, just loud enough for Sandor to hear.

"Put him down," Pycelle cried, and Greenfield and Trant stepped forward, seizing Stark by the arms and forcing him to his knees. Against his will, Sandor took a step backward, looking for Lenna above the crowd.

Even from a distance, he could see that she'd gone white again, frozen in that sea of chaos, the two royal children looking up at her in dismay and confusion.

Cover their eyes, he thought wildly. And your own.

Sansa Stark continued to scream, her face red with crying, the queen looking on with horror.

"Stop him, Joffrey, stop! Stop him, please!"

He looked back to Lenna, who had buried both the children's heads against her breast, but refused to tear her own eyes from the scene before her.

Payne drew out his sword and did his work swiftly, the crowd going silent when the deed was done.

Stark's head was presented to the crowd, but they remained eerily quiet. Sansa was in hysterics, collapsed on the ground, the queen bending over her. Cersei helped her up, speaking quickly and quietly to her, Oakheart helping to lead the sobbing girl off the platform and back to the Keep.

He didn't know what to expect when he knocked on her door that night. He'd fought with himself as to whether or not he even should go, finally deciding that it would be worse if he didn't. Better for her to send him away than think he'd avoided facing her.

She opened the door, but drifted back to her window, leaving him to close the door behind him.

He was still armored, his broadsword strapped to his back, and he felt huge and oafish and wrong as he looked at her standing in the window, looking soft and sad in her dressing gown, her hair loose around her shoulders. She was hugging herself with one arm, resting her fingertips across her lips as she stared into the blackness beyond the casement.

"Lenna," he said softly.

She shook her head, turning to face him but not meeting his eyes.

"No, Sandor," she replied, her voice low and thick. "There is nothing to say that will change anything."

He stood silent for a long while, then took two steps toward her. She didn't retreat, but neither did she move to him.

"There was nothing anyone could have done," he said lowly. "The girl?"

Her eyes flicked to his and he saw scorn in them.

"How do you think she is, Sandor? She thought he was going to be pardoned, we all did-"

"No," he replied. "You did. The queen did. Sansa did. Perhaps even Pycelle or Varys, but not everyone."

"He's a monster," she said lowly.

"Aye," Sandor replied. "And this is just the beginning."

"I wish to all the gods I had gone to White Harbor," she hissed. "I have blood on my hands."

"No, you don't," he said with as much gentleness as he could muster. Gods, he was tired. "You did nothing wrong."

"If I hadn't-"

"Lenna," he said, grasping her by the shoulders. "Lord Stark would have committed his treason with or without the bloody book. With or without the queen's knowledge that he was looking for it. The book means nothing, not to anyone but you. Wasn't it you who convinced the queen to spare him? And you'll never convince me that the queen expected Joffrey to take his head."

"No," Lenna said, turning her face to hide her tears. "She didn't. She thought he'd be pardoned. I've never seen her like that, Sandor."

"Like what?"

"Afraid," she whispered. "Afraid of her own son."

Shit.

It hit him like an anvil, the notion that the queen might come to fear her son. She was indulgent, sure, but so far she had held firm against the boy. But if she was now afraid…

He shook his head to chase away the thoughts that threatened to consume him. It would do neither of them any good to dwell on them. The furrow was back, her face was strained, and more than anything, she needed rest. So did he.

"There's nothing to be done, not now," he said, kissing her brow. "Go to bed."

He began to turn to go, but she stopped him with a hand on his elbow.

"Stay. Until I'm asleep," she said, looking up at him from beneath lowered lashes. His lip quirked and he grunted.

He watched as she finished her evening rituals, washing her face in the basin, braiding her hair and draping it over her shoulders. She shrugged off her chemise and climbed beneath the covers. It transfixed him, watching her in such a moment, so at ease with him. Even with all of the things they'd done together, it was startlingly intimate to see her as herself, no pretense at all. It felt like an honor, one he wasn't sure he didn't deserve.

He stretched out on the other half of the bed, not bothering to take of his armor. It would take to long to put back on later. Rolling to his side, he found her watching him. She looked so unhappy, her face even paler than usual, her eyes tired as they searched his.

He pulled off his gauntlet and ran his fingers along the side of her face.

"Sleep," he said gruffly, darting forward and planting a kiss against her lips. It was short and chaste, but it was the best he could give in terms of offering comfort.

She nodded, closing her eyes and slipping her hand into his between them.

He lay and watched her as she struggled to find rest, at last rising when he was sure she was asleep. Grabbing his gauntlet, he blew out her candle, stepping back into the passageway with a heavy grief in his gut and an unremitting weariness that no amount of rest would chase away.

A/N: Everyone is so unhappy. I miss the old days!

As always, thank you to everyone who is leaving reviews, following, and favoriting! I take your input to heart, and I appreciate everyone who stopped to give feedback this week. Especially about the POV question.

Should be about another week until the next installment- I'm having to really focus on getting through this bit. I keep getting distracted by scenes from 10, 15, 20 chapters in the future. They just pop up and have to be written down so I don't forget them. Plus, I HATE what happens next, but it must be done. I did, however, really enjoy spending a much larger chunk of time with Sandor in this chapter. It's taken quite a while to really get a feel for his head, but planning to give him a broader platform going forward.

Read and review!