Lenna XXXI
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Ned Stark's severed head. She'd been unable to avert her eyes when Ilyn Payne had done his duty, though she had managed to prevent both Tommen and Myrcella from seeing the grisly sight. It was the one aspect of the whole affair she felt she could be proud of. At least the royal children would not suffer nightmares caused by the unexpected violence perpetrated by their own brother.
It had played out like a poorly acted theatrical, the scene set beautifully. It was the perfect day for a display of royal clemency, almost like the king had ordered it. The sky was a bright blue, not a single cloud to be seen, and the light danced off the brightly dressed courtiers, making it feel almost like a festival day. In a way, it was supposed to be a celebration, at least it was according to Cersei. She'd orchestrated the whole tableau: in act one, Joffrey would pardon Eddard Stark and send the humble lord to the Wall after accepting his confession and apologies. There would be general wringing of hands and expressions of regret. Act two, however, would end the farce on a happier note as the king would renew his resolution to take Sansa Stark as his wife as soon as she reached maturity to signify that though a wrong had been done, the new king was just and merciful.
It was to have concluded with a feast, and from what she heard, it did, though Lenna was not in attendance. She, and many others, were too revolted by the sight of Ned Stark's head dripping blood like garnets onto the pavement to eat or make merry. It was far beyond Lenna's powers to pretend at revelry after bearing unwilling witness to her liege-lord's execution. Janos Slynt, the odious captain of the City Watch, had looked surprised when the crowd did not scream for Stark's head, instead there was an unnerving silence as the magnitude of what had transpired swept over them all. Lenna wondered if the king had supped alone.
Almost immediately afterwards, Lenna felt another cataclysmic shift in the capital. It had started incrementally, like the first rumblings of the mountains of fire she'd read about in Essos: a faint trembling after Jon Arryn's death, and a rattling upon the death of King Robert, but this tremor shook them to the bedrock. The death of Ned Stark was not what anyone had expected that morning when they woke, and the members of the royal court were going to bed with the knowledge that Joffrey Baratheon was ruthless and spiteful, dangerous qualities in a king, especially in times of unrest.
The change was so profound that she she felt that she could now divide her life into three distinct lifetimes: her childhood in White Harbor, her time in King's Landing, and everything that lay ahead. She was unnerved by how grief-stricken she was over his death, shocked by the amount of loss she felt whenever she thought of him on that dais, bending his proud spine and humbling himself before their snivelling king. He reminded her of her own father, her own family, with his gritty determination, his noble posture, his honest speech. Watching him she understand why the North was now in rebellion. A man like that inspired others to follow him, to fight for him, and to die for him.
She wondered how many men were going to die for him, how many lords would bare their necks to Ilyn Payne on the king's command.
The self-loathing took her by surprise, as well. She'd struggled for years with her strange relationship with the Lannisters. She had long accepted the benefits of close association with them, and now she, like everyone else in King's Landing, had stood by and done nothing to aid the man. There was nothing she could do, not without exposing her own neck and those of her kin. All she could manage was to try and be there for Sansa Stark when she could, but she did not know what she would do if such a thing became risky. It shamed her to think she would save her own skin over that of an innocent child.
She felt like a shadow of herself, moving like some wraith around the Keep. The passageways themselves rang hollowly, devoid of the throngs of brightly dressed courtiers that had once been their mainstay. When Lenna went from her rooms to the queen's, even the sunshine slanting through the stone filigree seemed dull, reflecting the mute horror that had fallen over the capital. The queen had been aghast, keeping to her own rooms with the children, barring the door to everyone except Lenna and the small council. Varys and Pycelle seemed just as shaken by the whole ordeal as Cersei was, though Lenna thought Petyr Baelish was strangely unaffected by it. She observed him as his eyes darted from face to face, lizard-like, gauging reactions and moulding his own into what he thought would please the greatest number of them, especially the queen. When he'd looked at her, Lenna didn't have the strength of will to hide her distaste.
She'd gone to Sansa Stark of her own accord once Cersei had released her the next morning. The girl had been moved into the Holdfast, her rooms just down the corridor from Lenna's. When she'd knocked, there had been no response. She knocked again. Then, she tried the door, and it opened easily. Lenna let herself in after only a moment's hesitation.
The girl was huddled in her bed, still in her gown, her hair a rat's nest instead of the lovely arrangement she usually wore. If Lenna couldn't see her breathing, the barely perceptible hitch of her shoulders, she would have thought the girl died of grief. When she saw the girl's deadened eyes and her hollow cheeks, she wasn't sure that she wouldn't.
Lenna did the only thing she could think of. She climbed in the bed beside her and settled the girl against her breast, tucking her head under her chin like she would have done Wynna. The girl didn't speak, simply cried, but she did eventually allow Lenna to help her undress, listlessly pushing her limp arms through a clean chemise. She sat in the chair before the vanity, not looking at herself in the mirror, and let Lenna take down her hair. Lenna brushed out the snarls in long, slow strokes to avoid yanking her scalp, and she hoped that perhaps it brought her comfort. She doubted Sansa would have felt it even if she did wrench a tangle, the girl was unresponsive save for the tears running in silent streams down her cheeks. When she was done, she trundled the girl back into the bed and tucked her in like a child.
She is. Just a child.
Her own eyes were mysteriously dry as she kissed the girl on the forehead and promised to return the next day, leaving a cup of water on her bed table and pulling the door shut behind her.
When Sandor appeared that evening, she could not yet articulate her feelings about the day's events. He was still wearing the white plate of the Kingsguard, and she wondered where he had come from, in what fashion Joffrey was crowing over his victory. She did not wish to know, and she smelled the ale on him.
She knew he had come in an effort to give comfort, but there was nothing he could say that could allay her sense of dread. It was overpowering, even though it felt strangely dull, like the far-off rumble of a squall at sea. She knew it was coming, could feel the charge in the air, but could not yet determine how terrible it would be.
And she felt guilty. She persisted in thinking that perhaps, if she hadn't told Cersei about Ned Stark's visit to the library, perhaps this whole thing wouldn't have happened.
She was also keenly aware that she was flattering herself. Sandor was right. Ned Stark was a dead man the moment he set foot in the capital.
He'd put her to bed much the same way she had Sansa, only he'd stretched out on her bed in his plate and lay looking at her. She was so tired she couldn't lift her eyes. There would be no caresses, no soft words. She wondered if she would ever feel light enough to enjoy them again. Despite the tension and worry and unhappiness of the previous years, nothing compared with the sense of complete helplessness she felt in the face of the new king's cruelty.
She fell asleep quickly, her hands tucked in his big warm one. Her dreams were dark, Sandor riding away from her into a fog as she held something heavy in her hands, a cold wind in her hair. When she looked down, she saw that she clutched a cloak, a black and yellow swirl of snarling dogs.
The next morning she awoke with anger trembling in her belly. It was mixed with fear, of course, but she felt overcome with wrath for the Stark girl. And herself. She thought of how hard she had tried over the years to play the part they expected of her, and she applauded herself for her success. She had risen from an ignored, obscure Northern maid to become the only other person Cersei Lannister permitted in her private quarters that didn't bear her own last name. She prided herself on faithful service to the crown, though she had long ago acknowledged and accepted that she'd been bought as a Lannister servant. Had she not trained a princess of the realm, preparing her to take on her future role? Had she not unwittingly become a trusted counselor to a queen? Had she not learned, at great personal cost, the rules by which these stupid, dangerous games were played, and had she not kept herself afloat in them? Alive?
She was an unwilling participant, but she'd done her best, and done it well. When she looked at Sansa Stark, she saw herself as she had been when she'd come to court, only instead of being a little nothing, Sansa had a significantly riskier game to play. And no idea how to play it. Lenna cursed the fact that Sansa had been raised much the same way she had, with fairy stories of courtly knights and ladies fair. How she had clung to those stories, and how she clung to them still, wanting so much to believe in the world her parents had promised her.
And perhaps that world would have been hers had she stayed in White Harbor. Perhaps it would have belonged to Sansa Stark if her father had never been called to become Hand of the King. They both could have gone on to become ladies, wives, mothers, leading figures in their beloved North country. But they weren't allowed that destiny. It had been taken from them.
It made her furious, but it wasn't a burning anger. It was a freezing one. It chilled her to her core, down to her toenails. She'd spent nearly the last decade sweating in the heat of King's Landing, and the cold trembling was most welcome.
The maid arrived and helped her dress, then sat her down at her vanity and brushed out her hair. It fell long and thick, and Lenna thought about Sandor's hands in it, the way he growled and twisted it. The maid braided it expertly, the locks twining together as if of their own accord. He hated when she had it coiled around her head. Come to think of it, she hated doing it that way, too.
"Leave it," she said quietly. The maid looked at her in the glass. "It gives me a headache."
The girl nodded with a purse of her lips, running the gray ribbon through it and laying it across Lenna's shoulder as she had done so often as a girl. Lenna spared the girl a smile before making her way to Cersei's study.
The queen was there, and Lenna was shocked to see that she'd been crying. Her lovely features were blotchy, her eyes red and a brilliant green from tears.
"You're late," she said harshly. She was clutching a sheaf of papers, hugging herself tightly despite the heat of the morning sun through the casement.
"My apologies, your grace," she replied. "I was overtired yesterday and slept longer than I meant to."
"You are lucky," the queen said, and her voice broke.
"Your grace, what is wrong?" Lenna asked. Surely her tears were not for Ned or Sansa Stark.
"Here," the queen said, thrusting a sheaf of letters at her. Her words snaked out through her gritted teeth, the line of her jaw twitching with the effort of not crying. "Read them."
Lenna went to the window and went through the papers carefully, each one dousing the anger in her belly with fear until nothing but cold trepidation remained.
"I don't know what to say, your grace," she said, her own voice thick. Tidings like these might be expected, but certainly never welcomed. "Robb Stark has been driven back, but Ser Jaime is a heavy cost indeed."
"Yes," the queen said quietly, and Lenna knew she could say no more.
"Lord Tyrion should arrive soon," she said, trying desperately to find a bright spot amidst so much grief. "A week or two?"
Cersei nodded absently, then Lenna was horrified to watch as she reached out, seized a goblet, and flung it against the wall with great force. The glass shattered, the wine splashing against the stone and trickling to the floor.
"Tyrion," the queen seethed. "Tyrion is coming and they have taken Jaime. I wish to the gods that they'd killed my imp brother rather than taken-"
"Your grace," Lenna said, reaching out to her. Cersei stilled. "Don't say such things."
"Who would you trade, Lenna? In such a situation-" the queen bit out, her mouth frothing like she was some rabid animal, her eyes wild with pain.
"Neither, your grace. I wouldn't trade them at all," Lenna replied quietly, taking a chance and putting her hands on the queen's shoulders. "I'd have them both back here, safe. Just as I know you would."
To her surprise, Cersei walked into her arms and hid her face in her neck. Lenna did not know what to do other than wrap her arms around the queen and let her weep. She pretended it was Myrcella that she held, running a hand over her golden head, so like the princess', shushing her with soft words as she would the princess when she scraped her knee.
Cersei's grief was short-lived, and Lenna might have liked her for that immense self-control if she didn't know her better. Again, Lenna was struck by how blurred the line between decent and devious often was, how human and fragile Cersei seemed in the face of her brother's capture. It was almost admirable.
But as soon as the flicker of humanity had appeared, it was tucked away again.
"There is some bad news. For you, I'm afraid," Cersei said, wiping her eyes with Lenna's handkerchief. It was Sandor's, and Lenna stupidly wondered what she would think of it if she knew.
"Your grace?" Lenna said, knitting her brow. She already knew what it was. She'd just refused to think too hard on it.
"Manderly banners were seen at the Green Fork. Your father has answered Robb Stark's call."
"I had expected as much, your grace," she replied quietly. She never doubted that her father would answer his liege lord's call to arms, but it didn't make the news any easier to bear. It was like living her mother's death again, that staggering, blinding feeling of grief, feeling acutely that she would never see them again. She was truly alone, cut off entirely from her family, on her own without even the faintest hope.
"You are our loyal servant, Lenna," the queen said, seeing her dismay in her face. Lenna was surprised at how gentle her voice was, how soft her eyes. "You will always be safe among us."
Lenna made herself smile at the queen, but at the earliest opportunity she left, taking to her rooms in a state not at all unlike Sansa Stark. At least the girl had the luxury of publicly expressing her grief, others understanding her desolation. Lenna did not have that, and she knew that she must get a handle on her feelings quickly. It would not do to let the mask slip so entirely.
Sandor XXXI
Joffrey was in fine form, prowling about the throne room and hurling insults at every living creature he met. He was in high dudgeon that the Stark girl had not stirred from her room since her father's execution. Sandor wondered at his callousness. Even he knew that it would be best to let the girl be, to sort out her grieving. She was just a child, and he couldn't imagine how terrified a girl like that, high-born and sheltered, would react to the brutal murder of her father in front of her eyes.
But Joffrey was determined that his betrothed was going to attend him that afternoon.
"If she's to be my wife, she might as well get over it," he said callously, stalking down the corridors toward the girl's rooms. She'd been moved into Maegor's Holdfast, just down the hall from Lenna herself. He had been unable to go to her since the night of the execution, the king wishing his guards to carouse with him until the early morning hours. They were all exhausted and ill-tempered.
Sandor followed carefully, along with Meryn Trant and Arys Oakheart, staying behind Joffrey until they reached the poor girl's rooms. Without preamble, the king threw the door wide and barged in.
The girl was still abed, the curtains drawn to hide her.
"Get up," Joffrey barked. There was no response.
The king strode to the bed and threw the curtains open, revealing a cowering Sansa Stark, her eyes red from crying and her bright hair in disarray.
"You'll attend me in court this afternoon," he said forcefully, thrusting a finger in the girl's face. "See that you bathe and dress as befits my betrothed."
"No," the girl whimpered, "Please, leave me be."
"If you don't rise and dress yourself," Joffrey said, his eyes dark with violence. "My Hound will do it for you."
Sandor felt his temper flare, but he said nothing. He looked at the girl and hoped she had enough good sense to know he would not harm her. She looked back at him with her cornflower eyes and he thought he saw a flicker of understanding in them.
"I beg of you, my prince," she pleaded.
"I am king now," he said, a tinge of mad anger in his voice. "Dog, get her out of bed."
Poor child.
Sandor looked at the girl, who had covered herself with her blanket. He wondered why she would not do as she was told, wondered if she was truly simple. He crossed to her in two steps, but he didn't have to seize her as he was afraid he would. The girl leapt to her feet, holding up her coverlet.
"Do as you're bid, child. Dress," he said quietly, gentling his tone as much as he could, reaching out and pushing her toward her wardrobe.
"I did as I was told, I wrote the letters, I wrote what Lady Helenna and queen told me," she said quickly. Sandor felt his hackles rise at the mention of Lenna. Keep her name out of his ears, he thought wildly.
"Please, let me go home," she begged. "I promise, I'll be good. I won't do any treason, I don't have traitor's blood. Please, I just want to go home. As it please you."
Joffrey cocked his head, his jaw working.
"It does not please me," he replied, his voice soft again, a Lannister tactic that put Sandor on edge. "You are to marry me. Mother insists. So you'll stay here, and you'll obey."
"I don't want to marry you," the girl cried. "You chopped off my father's head!"
Sandor felt powerless before these two children, both of them playing a game they were too young to understand, one wielding a power so destructive and the other an innocence so dangerous.
"He was a traitor," Joffrey shouted. "I never promised to spare him. I promised to be merciful, which I was. I could have torn or flayed him, but because he was your father I gave him a clean death."
Sansa froze, her eyes narrowing in the way only an adolescent girl's could as she looked at Joffrey. The king stood with his golden head thrown back, his eyes hard.
"I hate you," the girl whispered.
You idiot child, Sandor wanted to bellow.
"My mother tells me that it isn't right for a man to strike is wife. Ser Meryn?"
Sandor gritted his teeth when the Kingsguard stepped forward and backhanded the girl across the face. It sent her sprawling to the floor, a trickle of blood at her lip, her knees skinned against the stone floor.
"Will you obey me now?" Joffrey demanded, a smirk on his lips.
The girl looked up at him with a hatred Sandor didn't think her capable of. Hold on to it.
She touched the corner of her lip gingerly, looking down at the red on her fingertips with a mixture of disbelief and confusion.
"As you command, my lord," she said softly.
"Your grace," Joffrey hissed. "I'll see you at court."
The king and Trant stalked out, soon followed by a dumbstruck Oakheart. The younger guard looked at Sandor with clear dismay in his eyes, glancing regretfully back at the girl still sprawled on the floor.
Sandor took a deep breath and approached her slowly.
"I'll not hurt you, child," he murmured, reaching out tentatively to take her elbow. She looked up at him with wide eyes.
"I know," she said quietly with a slight inclination of her head.
He helped her gently to her feet. His chest was tight. He felt sorry for the girl, but all he could think about was what would have happened if it had been Lenna the king had targeted, and him instead of Trant ordered to carry out the humiliation.
"A word of advice," he said lowly, taking her chin between his finger and thumb, forcing her to look at him in the eye, willing her to see a friend there. "Save yourself some pain and give him what he wants."
Her eyes narrowed.
"I can't-"
"Yes, you can," he replied. "No one here is themselves, you see. He wants you to smile and smell sweet and to be his lady love. He wants you to recite all your pretty words your septa taught you, like a little bird. He wants you to love him, and fear him."
"He killed my father-"
"Aye," he replied. "And he'll not stop until he's killed everyone he ever thought did him wrong, little bird. Do you want to be among them?"
She shook her head, color in her cheeks.
"Then best learn to act your part, like everyone else," he said finally. "Don't keep him waiting too long."
Sandor left quickly, his long strides allowing him to catch up with the king quickly. He hadn't noticed his delay, though Arys Oakheart did look at him quizzically. He shook his head.
The girl appeared that afternoon, and to his dismay Lenna was at her side. Meryn Trant escorted them both into the throne room, Sansa's arm wrapped tightly into Lenna's. Sandor inhaled heavily in apprehension.
Lenna was dressed in blue, but it was her hair that threw him. He'd grown used to it being coiled on the back of her head, even though he did not like it. Now it was simply braided and thrown over one shoulder as it had been in her youth, before she'd put away the Northern girl and put on the capital lady.
Now, she looked like the almost-wild maid that had walked into Cersei's solar in her everyday woolen with her chin set like a queen's. No wonder Sansa Stark clung to her like a lifeline. Side by side, Sandor could see the same proud set of the shoulders. Sansa was tall, already Lenna's equal and due to surpass her, still growing. However, Sansa's face was still strained and blotchy, where Lenna's was carefully schooled into that false pleasantness the Sandor knew so well.
He wondered what in the seven hells she thought she was doing.
He watched her as Joffrey concluded his business, wondering what she was thinking. Each time he caught her eye, she looked back at him with the softest upturn of her lips. It didn't reach her eyes.
He followed Joffrey when he approached them, flanking him with Meryn Trant on the king's right. As they drew near, Lenna dropped a graceful curtsy, pulling a hesitating Sansa Stark along with her.
"You're looking much better," the king said, bending over Sansa's hand. Though his lips smiled, his eyes were hard.
"Thank you, your grace," the girl replied, managing her own smile.
Recite, little bird.
"Walk with me," he commanded, extending an arm. Sansa took it, and they began on their way. Lenna hung back, turning to leave. "Lady Helenna, do join us. My lady Sansa is so fond of your company. A king should be pleased to walk with two such Northern beauties. Though perhaps Lady Helenna is a little old for the word."
Sandor kept his temper as Lenna curtseyed again and fell into step behind the couple.
"My name day is coming," Joffrey said pleasantly. It turned Sandor's stomach. "There will be a great feast. And gifts. What will you give me?"
"I had not thought, my lord-"
"Your grace," he corrected, none too gently. "You are a truly stupid girl, aren't you? My mother says so."
Sandor saw Lenna press her lips together from the corner of his eye. She said nothing.
"She does?" Sansa said, her voice querulous and trembling.
"Oh yes, she worries about our children. If they'll be stupid like you, but I told her not to worry. We'll have Lady Helenna to make them clever, won't we?"
"Of course, your grace," Lenna replied pleasantly. "It has been an honor to serve in such a way."
"I'll get you with child as soon as I am able," the king continued, turning his attention back to Sansa. Lenna glanced at Sandor and he could read her disquiet in her eyes. "If the first one is stupid, I'll chop of your head and get a smarter wife," he cackled. "When do you think you'll be able to have children?"
"Most girls flower at twelve or thirteen, your grace," Lenna offered, her voice as bland as a septa's.
Joffrey nodded. "This way. Both of you."
They were at the gatehouse, at the base of the battlements.
Sansa Stark froze, appearing to realize where they were going. He saw Lenna take a deep breath and square her shoulders. He wondered why Joffrey would make them come here, but then remembered who they were dealing with. Of course he would make Sansa Stark look at her dead father's head.
"No," Sansa murmured desperately. "Please, no. Don't make me. I beg you."
"I want to show you both what happens to traitors," Joffrey said levelly.
"I won't, I won't," Sansa replied, her voice high with rising hysteria.
"I can have Ser Meryn drag you up," the king threatened. "You won't like that. You had better do what I say."
"Come, Sansa," Lenna said quietly, taking the girl's hand. Sansa backed away, bumping backward into Sandor in a terrible echo of the day she'd first seen Ilyn Payne at Darry.
"Do it, girl," he said, pushing her gently back toward the king.
Joffrey extended his hand, and Sansa took it with great effort.
Lenna was in step beside Sandor as they scaled the steep stairway to the battlements. Under other circumstances, he might have been put to mind of the night in White Harbor when they had stood looking out over the sea. From the top of the ramparts it was if the whole of King's Landing had been rolled out beneath their feet, a vast, breathing map.
It was impressive to watch the Stark girl as she straightened herself, and again he was put in mind of a younger Lenna, cataloguing and forcing herself to appear calmer and more self-assured than she was. He wondered if she had struggled so, and he knew that she had, though with far less cause than this poor girl.
Was it really less cause?
"What are you looking at?" Joffrey demanded, seeing Sansa's gaze as it scanned the horizon. "This is what I wanted you to see."
He nodded to the crenels, between which were mounted the heads of the executed traitors.
"This one is your father," he said, glee in his voice. "Dog, turn it so she can see it."
Sandor did as he was asked, seizing Ned Stark's head by the hair and twisting it so that it faced them. It was starting to deteriorate already in the hot King's Landing sun despite the tar bath it had been dipped in shortly after its removal from the lord's shoulders. All Sandor could think about was Lenna's head on a similar spike. He didn't know why the king had brought her with them to this awful place, but it didn't bode well.
Sandor watched the girl, her face unbelievably calm, then turned his gaze to Lenna. She had the same expression of benign tolerance slathered across her features. Her eyes, though, were troubled.
"How long do I have to look?" Sansa asked, her voice surprisingly strong.
"Do you want to see the rest?" Joffrey asked. He was trying to goad her, trying to make her collapse in hysteria as she had the day he'd cleaved the head from her father's body. Sandor felt a fresh wave of hate lapping at his innards.
"If it please your grace," she said, her voice almost dreamy.
Sandor breathed a sigh of relief at her newly acquired good sense. The party walked down the ramparts, passing a half dozen empty spikes.
"This one is your septa," the king said, pointing to a badly decomposed head. It had been there far longer than Ned Stark's had been, since the day of the raid on the Tower of the Hand.
"Why did you kill her?" Sansa asked, genuine confusion in her voice. "She was god-sworn."
"She was a traitor," the king replied simply. "She forgot who she really served."
Sandor's blood went icy when the king turned and leveled his simper at Lenna. To her credit she didn't bat an eye.
He continued to walk on, leading Sansa along beside him. "You still haven't told me what you'll give me for my nameday. Perhaps I should get you something instead. Would that please you?"
"If it please your grace," Sansa replied warily. She's learning.
"Your brother is a traitor, too, you know," he said calmly, as if he was discussing the weather. "I remember your brother in Winterfell. My dog called him the lord of the wooden sword, didn't you dog?"
"Did I?" Sandor replied. "I don't recall."
He did recall. He'd said it the night after the banquet, still green to the gills from watching her dance with the lad, from tearing himself away from her and her bed of furs.
"Your brother defeated my Uncle Jaime," Joffrey continued. "My mother says it's treason. She wept when she heart. Women are so weak, even her. She pretends she isn't. And now my other uncles are thinking to attack, to take the throne from me. It is your father's fault, you see, calling into question my right to rule. And your brother has only made it worse."
From the look on the girl's face, Sansa had no idea of any of what had transpired in the days since her father's execution.
"After my nameday, I'm going to raise an army and kill your brother myself. That's what I'll give you, Lady Sansa, your brother's head."
"Maybe my brother will give me your head," Sansa said quietly.
Shut up. Just fucking shut up.
Joffrey turned to her, his face grave. "You must never mock me like that, my lady. Ser Meryn, teach her."
He saw Lenna flinch when Trant backhanded the girl again. She reached for Sansa as soon as it was done, worry in her gaze. The king did not miss her concern, curling his lip.
"And you, Lady Helenna, my mother insists that you are loyal. You have certainly been here a long time, fussing over my sister and brother. But you're the daughter of a traitor now, too, aren't you? And your brothers are traitors just like my Lady Sansa's."
Lenna's eyes were averted from the king, and Sandor knew it was because she could not control them. Her face, however, was neutral. Sandor's heart was beating like a drum in his chest, so hard he thought it might dent his plate.
"I am ever loyal to the crown, your grace," she said quietly. "I know you are the rightful king."
"If you forget," he said lowly, "there's plenty of space here for new additions."
"My lord-" Sansa started hotly. Sandor seldom called on the gods, didn't believe they even existed, but he prayed in that instant that the Stark girl would just fucking be quiet.
"Ser Meryn, she begs for instruction," Joffrey thundered.
Trant struck her again, once on each cheek with his gauntleted hand. Sandor couldn't even muster that much rancor. If she kept babbling, she'd get them both killed. Or worse.
Sansa's eyes brimmed over with tears. He saw them in Lenna's eyes, too.
"You shouldn't be crying all the time. You are to be queen," Joffrey said, smiling. "You look better when you smile and laugh."
Sansa made herself smile, and it was a hideous thing, her chin dripping with blood from her split lip.
"Wipe off the blood, you look a fright," the king said.
Sansa went terribly still, her eyes darting behind the king. She's a complete idiot. Sandor saw what she saw in a moment. The king was standing close to the edge of the parapet, a sheer fall of seventy feet at his back. Her thin body was taut, and he thought he saw determination in her face.
"Here, girl," he said gruffly, dabbing her chin with his own handkerchief, drawing her eyes away from the king.
She looked at him for a long moment, and over her shoulder Sandor caught Lenna's eye.
"Thank you," the girl murmured, moving past them both like a shadow. When Lenna passed him, she laid her hand ever so briefly against the skin of his wrist.
The place where her fingers had grazed him burned as hot as any brand. He fell into step behind her, shepherding the women down the stairs, his mind inevitably straying to the first time she had ever laid her skin against his. It had burned then, too, because it was the first time. Now, it stung because he was almost certain it would be the last.
He'd reached a decision there on the ramparts. It wasn't a choice he wanted to make, and he was sure that he would come to regret it, but it felt as if it was the only option available. The way he saw things, there were two paths he could walk. He could continue to indulge his own desires like a dog, sneaking into her rooms at night to slake his thirst, or he could act like the damn knight she persisted in believing him to be. He chose the latter, though it pained him as deeply as a dagger thrust. He almost grunted at the force of it, but kept the Hound in place.
He did not go to her that night, though she looked so sad and pale at the dinner banquet that he almost lost his resolve. Instead, he followed the other men to the alehouses, staying out until it was far too late to make an appearance at her door. Being drunk was a poor consolation, but it dulled the pain and made the time pass more quickly until he could throw himself into his bunk in such a stupor that he didn't wake until the sun slanted through the little window at the top of his wall.
She continued to try and catch his eye just as she had always done, and even though he refused to meet her gaze, he was torturously aware of her confusion. By the seventh day, the confusion had changed to distress, and by the end of a fortnight to icy anger.
He tried not to let it bother him, reassuring himself that it was for the best. He even rejoiced in her anger, the sadness being replaced by ill-concealed annoyance and displeasure every time she saw him. He had disappointed her, he knew, not because he no longer came to her, but because he abandoned her without explanation. He knew he should have spoken with her, but he simply couldn't. He'd tried to think of what he'd say, but he'd been unable to generate anything even remotely satisfactory. Better to slink away like a cur with his tail between his legs.
Craven cunt.
Her anger didn't help him sleep, even on the nights when he stumbled in from the alehouses just before dawn, so bone-weary and drunk that he should have passed out on the way to his pillow. Instead, the look of disdain on her face kept him awake, torturing himself because he knew exactly why she had taken to looking at him that way, her eyes narrowed to mask the remaining flicker of hurt.
Her anger was justified, and he accepted that. It would have been one thing to explain himself, to give his reasons and perhaps offer some reassurance, but he was a coward. He was afraid that she would look at him with soft eyes, try to extract some compromise, and he would crumble like a sea-cliff before that gentle onslaught.
You're a fucking cunt, he thought, never could tell her no.
She might have even understood, but Sandor couldn't do it, he didn't have the words to tell her why he had to leave her alone. He was certain that his throat would close up as soon as he saw her, his tongue would become thick and clumsy, and he would end up doing exactly what could get her killed.
And at night he agonized in his bunk. If he'd thought it had been bad before when he'd only been able to imagine what it might be like to have Helenna Manderly wrapped around him, her hands on his skin, her mouth beneath his. He had no idea how torturous it would be to have real knowledge of it. To have experienced that with her, the gasping and the keening, the way she would cling to him, the way she would touch him. The way she loved him. It destroyed his equilibrium and left him panting and nearly insane, sweating in his bed, completely unable to find relief.
He threw himself back into training, finding that he had let himself go a little soft in the months since the Hand's Tourney. It was harder to splinter a pell, and there were a few moments when he was genuinely worried he might not beat one of his sparring partners. It was a rude awakening, and he applied himself to his regimen with previously unknown fervor. It was so effective that he began having difficulty finding anyone to fight with. He'd gone from vicious to mad.
On her nameday, though, he found himself slipping a parcel under her door before he even realized what he was doing. He vaguely remembered going to the marketplace and purchasing ribbons, one for this year, one for her previous nameday. He'd missed it, though now he couldn't remember why. One was a dark blue, the other burgundy, colors that she wore with frequency.
He slid them under her door on his way through the Keep. Her door unexpectedly flew open as he walked away. He couldn't stop himself from turning, it was reflexive.
She had stepped into the hallway, her shoulders thrown back, the parcel extended in her trembling hand.
"I cannot accept this," she said.
"Lenna," he said tiredly. He had come midday to avoid a confrontation and he was not equipped to speak with her. "It's your nameday." It sounded lame in his own ears.
"Aye," she replied tightly. "It has always brought me pain, and this is no exception. I don't want it, Clegane."
If she'd have stabbed him it would have hurt less.
"I'm sorry-"
"I don't want to hear your apologies. They aren't worth the breath to speak them or the effort to hear them."
"I can explain-" he attempted, moving a step forward, suddenly desperate for her to understand. He'd been avoiding her eye for weeks, and now he felt pinioned by her gaze.
"I know what you'd say. And I even agree with you. But I won't forgive you for the way you've done it, not this time."
"I didn't know how-" he protested. She knows I don't have words, he thought wildly.
"I don't care. Take it back."
His heart was thudding painfully in his chest, and he felt his anger rise. She wouldn't hear him. She had always at least tried to hear him.
"No," he growled. "They're yours. Burn them if you like."
She looked back at him cooly, almost like she was completely unaffected. He was furious that he was seething with hurt and anger and she was standing there as if she was chastising a child.
"Why do you do this? Why do you make everything so difficult? All you had to do was-"
He didn't hear the offer of peace until it was too late.
"Argue with you in the middle of the hallway where everyone can hear you? I know i'm a coward, Lenna, but at least I'm not thoughtless."
He was fuming, his breath heavy and his chest feeling like it was filled with lead. He turned and began away from her. He'd seen her eyes widen in indignation, but he had to get away.
"I'm not finished-"
"Yes, we are," he replied, only half turning back to her. They both knew he wasn't talking about the argument. "You may think me a dog, but I won't be the reason your head ends on a spike. That's all there is to it. If that happens, it will be your own doing."
He knew his voice was thick, every second he stood there costing him more pain than he thought imaginable. She looked back at him with the same kind of feral hurt in her face, the normally smooth forehead knotted, that furrow between her brows deep. If he stayed longer he'd do something rash.
"Good day, my lady," he said, inclining his head. It felt like goodbye.
She didn't speak, he could see the strain in her face, the working of her throat, the frantic flutter of her pulse beneath her jaw. His parcel was clutched in her hand, and without another word she went into her rooms and shut the door behind her.
He was startled to hear a crash from the other side of the door. He flinched, recognizing the sound of smashing pottery. A bolt of sick satisfaction flooded him was he walked toward the training yards, the scowl on his face sending the squires scattering. A match with another human being would go poorly, at least for the other man, so he made for the pells instead, hefting his long sword and fitting it into his grip.
He felt like destroying something himself.
A/N: I didn't want to do it. I didn't. I had to. I tried this scene about fifteen different ways, and this is the only option. Ugh.
Read and review. I live for them. The next couple of chapters will be difficult, so I'm begging for encouragement. Thanks to everyone who faithfully leaves kind words! I love you all! And thanks in particular to our guest, Abbey! I, too, was not a reviewer. Writing one of these has certainly changed that, and I so appreciate your words!