Lenna XXXII
Her nameday brought only pain, and seeing as no one acknowledged it anyway, Lenna begged Cersei to return to her rooms after breakfast. She lay in bed and read, curled up like a cat, sipping the tea the maids brought her in silence. But instead of solace, she steeped in her own pain.
She wanted to hate him. She wanted to hate him so very badly. He'd left her alone again, refusing the acknowledge that he was the only person she had inside the Red Keep. She may be Cersei's confidant of sorts, and the Stark girl looked to her increasingly for guidance, but she could not lean on them in the same way. Even Tyrion, when he returned, would be a half-friend. She could never be as honest with him as she was with Sandor, she was never completely sure whose side he was on. At least with Sandor she knew where she stood.
He didn't want to do it, but that didn't make it easier to bear. She hated that she thought him cowardly. He could have at least talked to her first, instead putting her through that bizarre and confusing muddle of withdrawn glances and pointed silence. She didn't even think she'd have tried to talk him out of it. That was what angered her most, the fact that he didn't even explain himself, explain what was happening. He simply cut himself off again.
It wasn't the first time he'd done it, and that in itself pained her deeply. She could not help but remember their return from White Harbor, when he'd gone below as Sandor and reemerged as the Hound. There had been no explanation then, either, but that was before they had recognized what it was that lay between them. Before so many words had been exchanged. The day in the Sept when she had told him that she loved him had changed everything.
He had struggled to reply, but she'd heard the depth of feeling and fear in his voice when he'd managed to croak out the only words he could. Just because he didn't say it completely didn't mean he didn't feel it, and Lenna knew, beyond all reasoning, that he loved her. And it was a misguided sense of duty sprung from that love that made him do what he had. It made her angry.
The Red Keep was more dangerous than it had ever been. She was almost nostalgic for the days when she was simply lonely. She'd never been scared before, not in the visceral, nauseating way she was now. She felt constantly on the verge of vomiting, and from the looks on the faces of even the oldest, staunchest courtiers, they were in a similar state. Add to the general sense of unrest Joffrey's direct threat to her person, and she was practically half-mad with anxiety.
In many ways, she knew Sandor was completely right. Sneaking him into her rooms at night was careless and foolish. Joffrey's sudden interest in her would mean nothing went unnoticed. He'd always carried a strange sort of malice toward her, ever since she'd become Myrcella's tutor, but now she was also the daughter of a northern traitor. A rich and powerful northern traitor. It didn't matter how long she'd lived in the capital, she would always be a Manderly.
That's not why she was furious with him. It had nothing to do with the decision to be more cautious, to avoid opening them both up to discovery. Her anger was predicated on the way in which he took all choice away from her. They all did. When she looked back on her life since that fateful nameday ten years before, she realized that she had not made a single decision for herself since. All her agency was stripped from her, ostensibly for her own good, and she had done just as she was told by every last one of them from the queen, to her father, and now, Sandor.
She didn't know she was pacing until she found herself staring at him on the other side of the door. She didn't even hear his footsteps in the hall until the parcel was slid under her door. She didn't bother to think. She knew it was him, and hot insult was brewing in her stomach at his presumption. How dare he slip a present under her door as if nothing had changed between them, as if he had not spent the last weeks studiously ignoring her despite her presenting being the most endangered she'd ever been? He made a vow, damnit. She flung open the door and caught him as he walked away. When she called to him, he turned, and she could tell by the look on his face that he had not expected to see her.
It was the strangest experience. She wasn't herself. She barely registered the harsh words that came out of her own mouth, and certainly didn't recall thinking them. It was like she was hearing them spoken from a distance, and she did not like the cruel woman who made his eyes narrow in hurt. Her conscience was screaming at her to stop, to just let him talk, but her torment had taken over and wouldn't allow sense to reign.
She had craved speaking to him, and now she used the one opportunity she'd been given the drive him even further away. When she was finally in control of herself, numbly horrified at how she'd turned him into a seething mass of pain, his great shoulders heaving with labored breath, eyes glittering and feral, she tried to right the course.
"Why do you do this?" she'd asked. It was something she had always wondered. It seemed like no matter what problem presented itself to them, Sandor always took the most difficult path. "Why do you make everything so difficult? All you had to do was-"
"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 right, she knew he was right, but it still made her pulse rise in indignation. Again, she lost herself. If she was thoughtless, it was because he wouldn't give her the opportunity to speak with him. He'd taken away all of her say in the matter, and this was the only time she'd been given.
"I'm not finished-" she called as he began to walk away from her.
"Yes, we are," he replied. It felt like a physical blow, and she knew he wasn't talking about the conversation. From the look on his face, he did, too. He looked like he might weep. She fought hard against her own tears, and would have welcomed them. It had been weeks since she'd been able to cry, and they would have brought some measure of relief.
When he'd left her, nodding deeply and calling her "my lady," Lenna had almost gone after him. He might have pushed her away again, but she couldn't bear the thought that she didn't remember the last time she had kissed him, had touched him. Surely, he would give her one last moment.
It would have been cruel to both of them, so feeling like her heart had vanished from her chest she went into her room and closed the door. It was then that she remembered the parcel, his words about burning it. She knew she couldn't do that, and frustrated that she couldn't cry, she grabbed the pitcher from the basin and hurled it against the wall. It made a satisfying crash, but she felt no better than she had before. There was nothing to do but crawl into her bed and try to sleep, the parcel thrust unopened beneath her pillow.
She woke the next morning, uncertainty governing every breath. Uncertainty and anger. She was so very, very angry. Angry at him, angry at the king, angry at Cersei. Angry at her father for sending her south as girl, for joining against Robb Stark and leaving her alone in the capital to ride out a war on her own. Angry at Sansa Stark for being so young and naive that she didn't know how risky it was to defy the king, even when everyone else saw how quickly he'd move against you. But most of all, she was angry at herself.
She was angry that she had allowed herself to be manipulated and used and pigeon-holed into an impossible position, trapped between her name and the crown. She did not know what she could have done differently, and she suspected that there was nothing that would have changed the direction of her fate. It had been decided long before, by someone else and for no reason whatsoever. She had no agency, no choice, and it made her feel like some wild animal in a cage. She did not like who they had made her become, but there was no other option. It was either keep on pretending to be who they wanted her to be, or throw herself out the window and into the sea.
So she did as she was told, playing her part with the same alacrity as she always had. She smiled at the queen, gave Myrcella her lessons, and kept an eye on the Stark girl whenever she had the chance. Even surrounded by people, though, she felt terribly alone.
Sandor never lied to you about that, she thought dispassionately, he always knew we were just playthings. She was watching him as he batted a woefully unfit opponent about on the ramparts. This was the third man he'd killed that morning, and she'd forced herself to sit and watch like he was swatting flies instead of people. No, he never lied. He'd told her once that killing was the sweetest thing, and sitting there under the tent with the princess as they watched him nimbly and effortlessly snuff out a trio of doomed knights with his teeth bared in what could almost be a grin, she believed him.
How much has changed in a year.
It was difficult to believe that a year had passed since the last tourney for Joffrey's nameday. Under other circumstances, Lenna might have enjoyed the memories that it stirred, bittersweet as they were. She remembered the way she and Sandor had quarreled, the browned roses scattered on the floor, her tongue curling around that terrible word as she flung it at him. It was the moment she'd known that she could no longer ignore how she felt about him. And he had loved her then, she was sure of it, in that consuming way that he did. Just as he probably loved her now. She didn't think him so faithless as to stop, knew it wasn't a choice. She had tried to stop loving him, to hate him, but it was impossible.
So much waste, she thought, watching him forlornly from her spot beside Myrcella. The queen had ordered her to stay with the princess for the duration of the event, not wanting the children left with Joffrey on their own. The king had curled his lip, but he'd said nothing. In the weeks since the Green Fork, she'd noticed the king's eyes on her more and more frequently. She did not like the way he looked at her, though she did not know what she'd done to earn his contempt. Granted, she did not know what anyone did, and he reviled them all.
Sandor was flailing away at the smaller knight, his helm glinting dangerously in the midday sun. The other man wouldn't come out of this fight alive, and both of the combatants knew it. Lenna didn't know why he didn't just end it.
He's enjoying it too much.
He knocked the man's shield from his grasp, and with one last blow he knocked the knight over the crenels and into the courtyard twenty yards below. He looked over briefly, his mace dropping to his side. His eyes flickered to hers and she saw the war of pleasure and remorse there. She felt his glance like a dagger in her breast. He'd resolutely avoided her scrutiny for weeks. This was perhaps the first time he'd slipped since she closed her door to him on her nameday. His eyes slid from hers as quickly as was possible, but she saw color rise in his cheek. He was breathing heavily, his teeth bared from the exertion, a hitch in his shoulders that was perhaps from shock or chagrin.
"Well struck, dog," Joffrey cried. His eyes were aflame, as if it had been him who had struck the final blow, and not his guard. He turned to Sansa, grinning. "Did you like that?"
"It was well struck, your grace," Sansa replied, her voice a tremor. The girl was pale. Lenna understood completely. It was one thing, a year ago, to watch knights knock each other about in a tourney, knowing that the chances of them being seriously hurt were low. Ser Hugh had been an awful exception. But the king had been explicit in his instructions for this tournament. Contests were to be to the death.
"I already said it was well struck," Joffrey said, his voice dripping with mockery.
"Yes, your grace," Sansa replied listlessly. Her eyes darted to Lenna, but she dared not smile back.
Sandor returned to them. He'd removed his helm and his hair was sweaty, sticking to the scars. His expression was dark, his jaw tight, and she knew he felt ashamed.
Shame didn't spare the knight laying in the blackpool on the flagstones below. There was no room for remorse or conscience in front of Joffrey.
"Who's this?" Joffrey demanded, his attention seized by the appearance of another knight on the little spit of rampart he'd designated as his tourney ground.
"Lothor Brune, free rider in the service of Lord Baelish," the herald announced, and the knight bowed. "Ser Dontos the Red of House Hollard." No other man appeared, and the herald looked around confused. "Ser Dontos the Red of House Hollard?"
Lenna's eyes flew wide at the name. From the recesses of her brain she pulled the record: House Hollard, of the crownlands, extinct save one, a boy who had been saved by Barristan Selmy whilst the rest of his family was slaughtered.
"Here I am, here I am," a voice called. Out ran a pudgy knight in ill-fitting armor. He didn't look at all like the last scion of an ancient house. He was ruddy faced with thick whiskers trimmed into chops, messy hair, and doleful eyes. "Sorry, your grace, my deepest apologies," he said, bumbling as he made his bow.
"Are you drunk?" Joffrey's voice had taken on that dangerous softness that indicated he was thinking up something unpleasant.
"What, no? No, your grace," Hollard said, looking as though he hoped that was the right answer. "I've had two cups of wine."
"Two cups?" Again, Joffrey's tone made Lenna's skin crawl and her stomach tighten in horrified anticipation. "That's not much wine at all. Please, have another cup."
"You sure, your grace?" Hollard asked, shifting from foot to foot nervously.
"Yes," Joffrey said with a joviality that turned Lenna's stomach. "To celebrate my nameday, have two. Have as much as you like."
The king's face was sporting that little smirk that was the harbinger of trouble. Hollard, in his innocence, took the king's apparent goodwill at face value.
"I'll be honored your grace," he said with another little bow.
"Ser Meryn," Joffrey called. The Kingsguard stepped forward, his own smirk settled meanly across his features. His eyes had beaded in anticipation, and Lenna hated him. "Help Ser Dontos celebrate my nameday. See that he drinks his fill."
Trant approached the knight with gusto, seizing him by the elbow and forcing him to his knees. A horn was brought, and while two others held his arms, wine was poured through it and into the poor man's mouth, forcing him to drink would he could and choke on what he couldn't.
"You can't." Lenna looked at Sansa, surprised at the girl's gumption. Surprised and horrified. When did we become accustomed to watching men be tortured for entertainment?
"What did you say? Did you say I can't?" Joffrey asked, his voice sibilant as a snake.
Sansa hesitated only a moment. "I only mean, it would be bad luck to kill a man on your nameday."
"What?" the king demanded. "What kind of stupid, peasant superstition-"
"The girl is right," Sandor rasped. He was looking at no one in particular, and Lenna was shocked that he would take Sansa's part. "What a man sows on his nameday he reaps all year."
Joffrey looked disturbed by Sandor's words, the cocky smile dimmed. He sighed as if torturing a man was a dull chore. Lenna caught his eye, but he quickly looked away.
"Take him away. I'll have him killed tomorrow, the fool."
"He is a fool, you are so clever to see it," Sansa said. She looked amazed at her own daring, but she didn't stop. "He'd make a much better fool than a knight. He doesn't deserve the mercy of a quick death."
Lenna felt a bolt of something like pride at the girl's quick thinking, and her mercy.
"Did you hear my lady, Ser Dontos?" the king called. "From this day you'll be my new fool."
Dontos Hollard was visibly relieved.
"Thank you, your grace," he said, and Lenna saw a trace of gallantry in him. "And you, my lady."
"Beloved nephew," cried a voice, and Lenna felt a trill of real pleasure. She'd recognize his voice anywhere, and she had to force herself not to stand and greet him. Tyrion Lannister came striding toward their party, still clad in armor and surrounded by a fierce group of guards. At the front swaggered a rough looking man of middle years whose eyes immediately met hers. He winked at her, and she couldn't help but cock her brow back at him archly. To her consternation, it made him grin.
"We looked for you on the battlefield and you were nowhere to be found," Tyrion said, making his way immediately to the pitcher of wine that was on the table beneath the tent. Lenna did not miss the mocking in his tone.
"I've been here ruling the kingdoms," Joffrey replied with grandiosity, looking to Sansa. The girl nodded vaguely.
"And what a fine job you've done," Tyrion said over the rim of his goblet. He downed it in one gulp and went immediately to Myrcella. "Look at you, more beautiful than ever," he said, kissing her hand soundly like she was a grown lady. "And you," he said to Tommen, the boy glowing with pleasure, "you're going to be bigger than the Hound, but much better looking." He caught Lenna's eye and there was mischief in his glance. "This one doesn't like me," he continued, looking straight at Sandor.
To his credit, Sandor didn't react in the slightest.
"Can't imagine why," his rough companion replied. He had not yet taken his eyes off of Lenna. To her frustration, she blushed.
"And my dear Lady Helenna," Tyrion said quietly, taking her hand in his. "You are looking as well as ever."
"I am happy to see you, my lord," she replied. "I have been praying for your safe return."
"You do me more kindness than I deserve," he said, his voice tender. She smiled at him, the first true smile she'd found in ages.
"We heard you were dead," Joffrey interrupted.
"I'm glad you're not dead," Myrcella said.
"Me too, dear," Tyrion replied, pouring another measure of wine. "Death is so boring. Especially now when there is so much excitement in the world." His mien became somber as soon as he saw Sansa. "My lady, I'm sorry for your loss."
"Her loss?" Joffrey spat. "Her father was a confessed traitor."
"But still her father," Tyrion said, using that tone he reserved just for Joffrey. "Surely having so recently lost your own beloved father you can sympathize."
Sansa leveled him with that disconcertingly blank expression she had perfected since she'd had to look at her own father's severed head presented to her on a spike. "My father was traitor. My mother and brother are traitors, too. I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey."
"Of course you are," Tyrion replied lowly, all sympathy and indulgence. "Well, enjoy your name day, your grace. I wish I could stay and celebrate but there is work to be done."
"Work?" Joffrey called after his retreating figure. "Why are you here?"
Tyrion flicked his hand dismissively, walking away, his men following behind him. Lenna accidentally looked at the rough man again. He was leering at her, raising his brow in a way that told her he planned on ogling her again later.
The king's banquet was to be that evening, but Lenna was grateful for the stolen hours in her room between tedious events. She barred the door, pulling out the red book of tales she'd brought with her as a girl. It was the only book she'd wanted since learning that her father had answered Robb Stark's call. It was the only thing she had left of White Harbor save the too-small woolen gowns at the bottom of her chest and the dark cloak in her wardrobe.
She sat on her bed with her knees drawn up to her chest like she was a much younger girl. She didn't know why she persisted in reading those stories, they brought only heartsickness. They were lies, beautiful lies, and they stung her deeply.
Sandor XXXII
The little grace was to be sent to Dorne. Sandor heard the news from Joffrey himself, the king unmoved at the prospect of his little sister sold off as a bride to the Martells of Sunspear. The announcement hit Sandor like a morningstar to the breast, jarring him out of his usual impassivity. He turned his head when the king told his court, eyes instinctively searching for Lenna.
She was there with the princess, her face smooth and unreadable, a smile playing about her lips as she congratulated the girl. He wondered if she was as serene on the inside. He doubted it very much. Lenna loved the child as if she were her own, and he was sure she would grieve her departure deeply. It pained him that he would be unable to comfort her. It was a pain that they would each have to bear it alone.
His melancholy at the news of the princess quickly changed to dread. The Kingsguard was assembled when news of the Oxcross loss reached the king as he sat in the throne room. He spent a great deal of time there, but he did nothing but sit and run his damn mouth, his Kingsguard arrayed around him like he was in mortal danger.
Sandor had taken to wearing his own armor again. No one had said a word. He had felt that the other Kingsguard were rather pleased when he stopped. They all knew he wasn't one of them, not really. He kept the white cloak, though, simply because he liked it. The way he looked at it, he deserved to wear it at least as much as Meryn fucking Trant.
Joffrey's face went scarlet when the messenger arrived with the news.
"Dog," he spat. "Bring Lady Sansa to me. And Lady Helenna."
Sandor nodded, trepidation stirring in his gut, but he turned and did as he was bid. Sansa he understood, but if Lenna was called it meant her family had been involved. Ever since the incident on the ramparts, Joffrey had been casting his eye on Lenna with more and more frequency. Sandor didn't like it and felt completely helpless to do anything about it.
The walk to Lady Sansa's chambers seemed to grow longer with each step. Lenna would be with her, most likely. At least he wouldn't have to hunt her down, see her alone. He didn't know how he would face her after so many weeks. Truthfully, he was terrified at the prospect. Their last parting had felt like a severing.
He was relieved that when he knocked on Sansa's door she answered it. She opened the door just wide enough to look out, her eyes meeting his cooly. Neither of them spoke, but after a long moment of staring at each other, Lenna moved back toward the Stark girl, leaving the door open behind her so he could enter.
"His Grace requires Lady Sansa," he growled, stopping as he chewed over the rest of his charge. "And you, Lady Helenna."
Lenna looked at Sansa. The girl had gone white, her blue eyes wide and her face frozen in fear. Lenna closed her eyes briefly, and he knew she was preparing herself. She rose and held a hand toward the girl. Sansa slipped her little white hand into hers and stood, Lenna tucking her fingers into her elbow like they were old friends. Sansa was as tall as she was, likely to grow taller, but all Sandor could see was a frightened child looking to her friend for comfort. Lenna smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes, and patted her hand. The girl still did not move.
"They longer you keep him waiting, the worse it will go for you," Sandor said quietly. This made the girl move, and they walked out the door. Sandor put himself on their right, not trying to antagonize the child with the sight of his face and keeping her between Lenna and himself.
"What have I done?" Sansa asked, more to the floor than to either of her companions.
"Not you. Your kingly brother."
"Robb's a traitor," she said automatically. "I had no part in whatever he did."
"My father and brothers are as well, Sansa, but we will be made to answer," Lenna said bravely.
"They trained you well, little bird," Sandor snorted. He could almost swear that Lenna scowled at him.
They followed behind him, the gold-cloaks surrounding them outside the door. Cold trepidation ensnared his gut again, like a bear trap around his innards. The most unholy yowls were emanating from the throne room, and he saw Sansa Stark hesitate.
Joffrey sat on the Iron Throne, his crown of golden antlers almost jaunty except for the fact it sat above his hard little face. His sharp features were predatory as he watched their approach. A yellow cat lay dying on the floor, the bolt of a crossbow skewering it through the ribs.
"Ladies," he said, a sick grin spreading across his face. Sandor nearly winced, keeping his face stony to prevent the king from reading his disapproval.
"Your Grace," Sansa murmured, her voice a tremor. She fell to her knees.
"Your Grace," Lenna said, much more loudly. He watched as she held the king's gaze except for the moment it took her to make her own curtsey, rising with her shoulders lifted and her chin upraised. He hoped she wasn't going to do or say something stupid.
"Kneeling won't save you now, Lady Sansa. Stand up. You're here to answer for your brother's latest treasons. Both your brothers, in fact. I have received news that congratulations are in order," Joffrey said silkily. He sat up, drawing his leg back from over the arm where it was casually tossed. He didn't bother to stand, but he did lean forward, his hands gripping the arms of the throne, his body taut with glee.
"Your Grace, whatever my traitor brother has done, I had no part, you know that. I beg you, please-" Sansa said. She had remained kneeling on the floor, which Lenna knew would anger Joffrey. He had told her to rise and she had disobeyed. Her pretty face was drawn together, deep furrows across her brow. Furrows a child of thirteen shouldn't have, Sandor thought.
"Your brother, the traitor Robb Stark, has defeated my army at Oxcross. He has killed my grandfather's brother and taken many of his officers prisoner. Congratulations on your victory, my lady."
"Your Grace, it isn't my victory," Sansa said, her voice high and desperate, much as it had been the day she had pled for her father's life.
"And your brother, Lady Helenna, acquitted himself very well, so I'm told. I had not thought House Manderly was a particularly martial family, but apparently I was wrong."
"We are a knightly house, Your Grace, but I fail to see how this is my victory," she said flatly. Her voice sounded like she was just observing the weather.
"You are a Manderly, Lady Sansa is a Stark. This victory falls at your feet, the men of your houses have delivered it to you."
"We are your grace's faithful servants."
"Then you understand that you must account for your treason."
"It is not my treason, your grace," Lenna said. "Not any more than it is Lady Sansa's."
"You both have traitor's blood," the king said sweetly. "Don't you, Lady Sansa?"
"No, your grace," the girl began. She was still on her knees, her face blotchy with crying. "I don't have traitor's blood."
"Are you calling me a liar?" he demanded, sitting on the edge of the throne and leaning forward. "Trant, I believe she called me a liar. She begs for instruction, but leave her face. I like her pretty."
Meryn Trant made his way toward Sansa, pushing Lenna roughly out of his way. He wrenched her up from the floor, leveling his fist at the girl's stomach before kicking her viciously and sending her sprawling. As the girl was trying to pick herself back up, he withdrew his sword and struck her with the flat of the blade, making the girl cry out in pain and surprise.
"Strip her," the king ordered, and Trant did as he was told with feral pleasure in his beady eyes. He ripped Sansa's gown down the back, cruelly tearing the fabric and pulling it down over Sansa's stays. Sandor winced as the knight struck her again, unbalancing Sansa and pushing her to the floor again for another vicious kick.
"Stop!" Lenna cried. Sandor's heart fell to the floor, anger and fear seizing him and propelling him forward a step. His breathing became labored as he watched in mute horror as she went to Sansa, dashing forth and putting herself between girl and the knight. The girl was sobbing, trying to cover herself with her hands, the cloth of her gown in tatters.
What are you doing? What have you done?
"So you volunteer yourself in her place, my lady? How heroic. I told you I'd teach you a lesson once you proved disloyal, which you have. I told Trant to keep her pretty, but I don't care about that with you. No, I want everyone to know that you defied your king. Dog!"
All of the hairs on the back of Sandor's neck pricked up.
No, not me. Please don't make me-
"Your grace?" he asked, slowly turning his head. He felt like he was underwater, being dragged slowly down into the darkness of the deep sea. Nothing felt real.
"She persists in wearing that ugly Northern braid. It displeases me. Cut it off."
Sandor didn't move, looking at the king dumbly, his jaw slack.
"If you don't do as I've ordered, dog, I'll have you bring me her head."
Sandor turned to look at her. For the first time in nearly two months, Sandor and Lenna looked at each other openly. What he found in her gaze brought him no comfort. They were the same eyes, of course, green and gray and flecked with amber, but there was no expression, it was as if something in her had died.
The light. The light is gone.
He made himself walk toward her, each step like wading through mud or quicksand. As he did so, he threw his cloak over Sansa's shoulders. If he was about to commit something so heinous, he could spare that small kindness. The girl wouldn't meet his eyes. He didn't blame her.
When he turned to Lenna, he froze in mute surprise to see that she had knelt before him. Joffrey was watching the spectacle unconcealed relish.
"Well, Clegane?" she asked placidly. Her mask was in place, but this one was different. This one was unnervingly cool and composed, like she was bored instead of about to be publicly shamed. He couldn't breathe, couldn't look away from her face. It didn't even look like hers anymore, unfamiliar and waxen. "Best get it done with. Don't keep His Grace waiting."
He wasn't sure how he removed the dagger from his boot. It seemed to appear in his hand. She flipped the long plait over her back and he took it in hand. He pulled it out taut, sliding his knife gently underneath, almost like a caress. He steeled himself, thinking of her head on a spike. His eyes clenched shut briefly. He severed her hair in sharp, upward slice, the strands splitting beneath the blade like rope fraying. When it was done he was left with her braid in his hand, near-black and glossy, still warm from where it had lain against her breast.
He wanted to weep. She wasn't looking at him but at Joffrey where he sat on the throne with an expression of peevish satisfaction on his face. Her hair seemed to have come alive, as if his knife had set it free. The curls rose of their own accord around her face, brushing her jaw as if buffeted by some intangible wind. No, like she was a mermaid, her hair spread about her as if she were underwater. It leant her face a strange grace, her features sharper than they had been just a moment before. Stronger.
"Have it sent to her father, Hound," Joffrey smiled. Sandor didn't respond, looking down at the rope of hair in his hand. It lay across his palm like a dead snake, limp and lusterless.
"What is going on here?"
Too late, Sandor thought forlornly. If Tyrion Lannister had arrived a minute earlier, he might have prevented it.
"Uncle," Joffrey replied. "As you can see, I am dealing with a pair of traitors."
"This lady is to be your queen," Tyrion thundered, pointing at Sansa as he spat at the king. Sandor had completely forgotten the girl. She was looking up at Joffrey in terror, her eyes wide and blue and skittish as a colts. She was wrapped in his cloak, huddled on the floor. Lenna waited a moment before she knelt down by the child, helping to draw her to her feet.
"Her brother-"
"She is not her brother, your grace," Tyrion thundered. "And this lady," he said, looking at Lenna. Sandor could see pain and fury in the little lords face. "This lady has been our faithful friend for so many years. What have you done?"
"They needed to be reminded of who was king," Joffrey replied.
"So you have humiliated them in front of your court? The lady who is to be your wife, and a lady who has known you since childhood, who has always cared for you? Is this your idea of kingship?" he demanded.
Joffrey's eyes went dark with rage.
Get them out, Sandor thought madly.
"Are you questioning the king, my lord?" Trant asked, his hand on his pommel.
"The king is my nephew, I am his Hand. I am instructing him, Trant," Tyrion bit out.
"I don't want instruction, uncle," Joffrey spat back. "Dog, I gave you an order. While you're at it, get them out of my sight."
Sandor thrust his shoulders back, his fist closing tightly around Lenna's plait. He glared at the king as Lenna gathered the girl to her, pulling the white cloak he'd thrown around her shoulders tightly closed. There were silent tears still coursing down the girl's face. Lenna wiped them away with the flats of her palms as she spoke to her softly, nonsense words like she'd use to quiet Myrcella. No one in the throne room made a sound as Lenna slipped her arm around the girl's shoulders and led her up the stairs.
No one followed them except for him, even Tyrion remained. Sandor was vaguely aware that the Imp was standing his ground, staring down the boy on the throne. In other circumstances, he would have wanted to watch the exchange, but now all he could think of was getting Lenna out of the king's crosshairs. The other guards kept their positions, Sandor glaring at them darkly, every muscle in his body challenging them to try and follow. He stalked behind the women through the Keep, keeping his eyes on their backs. Lenna had wrapped both her arms around the girl, one around her back and the other hand pressing the girl's head to her shoulder. Sandor could see the hitch in the girl's back. She was crying.
At Sansa's door, Lenna made to go in with her, but Sandor stopped her with a hand on her elbow. They both looked down at his fingers against her arm, and he snatched it away quickly, his cheeks heating and his throat thickening.
"She shouldn't be left alone," Lenna said. There was no rancor in her voice, but he couldn't meet her eyes.
"Not now, my lady," he rasped, wanting to say her name so badly, knowing he had lost all possibility of calling her by it again.
"She needs me."
I need you.
"And you need your head," he replied hotly, his fingers tightening around the hair still clutched in his hand. She sniffed, but laid a kiss on the girl's forehead and shut the door.
Her own room was a short walk away, and she didn't look at or speak to him as he escorted her. He was careful to stay behind her shoulder, not wanting to see her face. Her shorn hair fell like a tangle of weeds, thick and unruly and somehow angry.
At her door, she paused and looked at him. He shrank six inches under her gaze. It was stony and cool, but beneath he could detect so much pain. He hoped she could see the same in his.
"What will you do with it?" she asked.
"Send it to your father."
"He will think-"
"I will make sure he doesn't," he said. It was a small risk, but he'd gladly take it. He did not want to grieve Wyman Manderly more than he had to. He would undoubtedly think she was dead if the damned thing came without explanation.
"Thank you," she said levelly. He winced. He didn't deserve her thanks.
He might have said something else, but he didn't. She went into her room and closed the door behind her. He heard the bolt fall into place.
It all fell on him like an avalanche as he walked to the stables to find a messenger. The nauseating revulsion he'd felt turned into boiling anger. Setting Meryn Trant on Sansa Stark had always been despicable, but to do as Joffrey had just done, to violate the girl in that way in front of all those people was a step too far. And then, to have turned that cruelty on Lenna, the only one of them good or brave enough to protest, and to have made him do that to her. He looked down at her hair, in part grateful that it was all Joffrey had taken, but mostly mourning his role in her humiliation. It had felt like he was taking an irreplaceable part of her, something that was now dead and limp, just like the rope that hung from his fist.
He thrust the braid into a bag and handed it to the runner. It was no longer something beautiful to him. He'd spent years obsessed with it, with running his fingers through it, and now it was macabre, a disturbing thing that he wanted to be rid of. It also looked like his failure. Being tasked with sending it to Wyman Manderly was salt in a very old wound. He remembered the old man's words, how they had given him hope, how he had vowed to protect her.
You always said you took no vows. The truth is you can't keep them.
He hadn't protected her. He'd left her.
How? How can you protect her when it would spell death to be found with her?
The messenger was mounting, preparing to begin the long journey to White Harbor.
"Wait," Sandor rasped. "Tell the old lord something."
"What would you say?"
"Tell him he failed. Just those two words. He failed. Not you. He. He failed. Tell him who bid you say it. Manderly will know what I mean."
The young man looked at him strangely, but he nodded and dug his heels into the horse's flanks, starting up the long road to White Harbor.
He made his way back to the Keep feeling heavy and low. His next post was by the king's chambers, and as he arrived, Tyrion Lannister was leaving the room, followed by the rough guard he'd brought with him from the Riverlands.
"Ah, Clegane," he said, he voice full of restrained anger. "Do be a good dog and watch the door. I've delivered my nephew's nameday presents and I wouldn't want them to get lost."
"Whores," the guard said.
"Bronn, don't be so vulgar," Tyrion replied. "Go ahead, I'll follow. I have business with Clegane."
Bronn looked at Sandor skeptically, but he lifted his eyebrow and went on his way, whistling as he sauntered up the passageway.
"What the fuck has been going on, Clegane?" Tyrion demanded. "Tell me that was the first time my nephew has had Sansa Stark beaten."
"No, my lord," he replied dully.
"And no one has put a stop to it?"
"How, my lord? How can you stop a king?"
"Lenna did," he said tightly.
"And she paid for it," he replied thickly. "And she'll likely pay for it again. And again."
He shuddered to think of what punishments Joffrey would think of to torment her with. He still could not think about what he'd done. It seemed like it had happened in a nightmare, not the waking world.
"And she has no champion now, it seems," Tyrion said, his eyes narrowed. "I admit that I have never liked you, Clegane, and I know that you do not like me, but I never thought you so craven that you would do...would do what you did."
"Better me than Meryn fucking Trant," Sandor replied sullenly.
"What do you mean?"
"The only thing I could do was lessen the pain," he rumbled.
"Physically perhaps, but Clegane, surely you know-"
"Won't speak of that, my lord. Not with you."
"So you have come to an...understanding."
"I wouldn't call it that, my lord," he replied flatly.
"What would you call it, then?"
"I'd call it none of your fucking business," Sandor growled.
Tyrion wiped his hand over his face, looking up at Sandor with an uncomfortable mixture of understanding and disappointment in his eyes.
"She has no one," Tyrion said. "Save you, and now me."
"What would you have me do, my lord?" he asked. It was a true supplication. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. "If I stand between her and Joffrey, he'll make me take her head."
"And you'd do it," Tyrion replied flatly.
"No," he protested immediately, "but what would happen if I didn't? He'd kill me, and then her. What would he think of to torture her before? What the fuck am I supposed to do, my lord? Yes, I hacked off her damn hair, and it was like to kill me, is that what you want to hear? You can stand there looking at me like I'm some pitiful beast all you like, but what in the seven hells was I supposed to fucking do?"
Sandor was breathing heavily, every tendon and bone filled with agitation. His hands had curled into fists and without another thought he brought flesh into collision with stone. The pain ricocheted through his sinews and he was savagely glad to see the blood smeared across his busted knuckles.
"Nothing," Tyrion said, his voice almost apologetic. "I don't know what else you could have done, Clegane. I know it was difficult for you. I have always felt at ease leaving her here, knowing she has you to watch her."
Clegane looked sharply at the little lord.
"I've always known, Hound. From the minute I saw you together, I knew how you cared for her. I can't imagine the agony you must feel right now. It is clear to me that there is nothing you can do to protect her. You are right, you cannot stand between her and Joffrey."
"Then who will?" he demanded, his blood pounding hotly in his head.
"I will," Tyrion said. "And you will not like it. But I ask that you not hate her for it, don't blame her."
The little lord walked away without another word of explanation, leaving a distressed Sandor to ponder what exactly the Imp had meant.
A/N: I know, I know. I just posted on Friday. I had some unexpected time this weekend and I want to get through this part of the story as quickly as possible. I hope the writing doesn't seem too rushed, I'm just as keen as you all are to get them out of this mess. I am, however, offering a carrot. I'm just not going to tell you what kind. Give me another 1-2 chapters and you'll get a little something to keep you going.
I am not prepared to scrap canon entirely, and seeing as how that is the case, I hope everyone understands that this isn't over, not by a long, long shot. There are many tribulations to come. And some joys, as well. After all, we've still got nearly a year before Season 8.
As always, thank you for reading and reviewing! I know I lost some folks last chapter...that made me sad. For those of you in it for the long haul, thank you! I live for your reviews, and I want to hear your feedback. There are a staunch handful of you that leave words every blessed chapter, and I want to make sure you know how much that means to me!