Lenna XXXIII
"Good morning, my lady."
Lenna looked up from her desk to see an unfamiliar maid standing in her open door. The woman was about her age though much smaller in stature. Her gaze was forthright in a way Lenna wasn't used to in the nearly invisible maids that served the Red Keep. She had a pretty, rather feline face, framed by locks of surprisingly short black hair. Nothing about her posture spoke of a serving-girl. She held herself like the women who earned their keep by pleasing men, a silky confidence in the cock of her hip, a carefully careless draping of her limbs. Lenna immediately guessed that she wasn't really a maid, and she suspected she knew to whom she belonged.
"Good morning," Lenna replied automatically. The woman smiled, entering the room and shutting the door behind her.
"I'm Shae," she said, setting the basket of laundry she carried on Lenna's bed. "I'm to be your new maid."
"I've never had a maid of my own before," Lenna said, cautious and curious about this woman's sudden appearance. Tyrion alone would have sent her, for a double purpose if what she suspected was correct: to keep an eye on Lenna and to keep the girl safe within the walls of the Red Keep. Cersei would not take kindly to Tyrion's whore living off her coffers.
"Well, not just yours," Shae replied breezily. "I'm to serve Lady Sansa as well."
"Who sent you?" Lenna asked directly. She'd been spied on by maids before. It had been her first, Starla, who had handed all of her letters home over to the queen after her mother had died. She'd never bothered getting to know one again, though she couldn't say she blamed the girl anymore. Years in the Red Keep had taught her that choices were a luxury. If the queen bid you do something, you did it, and best not to have too many feelings about it one way or another. Feelings complicated survival. So, she was always pleasant, but the hurt she still felt when she thought about that betrayal was stinging and fresh. She hoped this girl's answer was honest. She could use a friend. And a go-between.
"Lord Tyrion," the woman replied, her eyes rising to Lenna's. A current of quick understanding passed between them.
"I see," Lenna said, rising. If they were to both carry off such a charade, Lenna would help her learn her part. It was clear the woman had never served a day in her life, not as a handmaid. Lenna didn't care, she'd never had much use for maids, but Sansa would notice immediately. The girl still hadn't learned not to ask too many questions. "You'll want me to show you where everything goes, then."
They passed a quarter of an hour going through Lenna's closets and drawers, her schedule and needs. Lenna was frank. She had very little use for a maid except to draw her a bath and ferry her laundry back and forth. This seemed to please Shae.
"Good. Lady Sansa," she said, emphasizing the girl's name with a roll of her eyes, "requires much more. I don't know how I'd be able to keep up with two such mistresses."
Lenna smiled. "Lady Sansa plays at being a grown-up. I think she still believes the queen is her pattern for behavior. You'll be fine. I'll talk to her if need be," Lenna offered. She looked around the room. "I require nothing, you can go if you wish."
"There is one thing I may be able to help with," Shae said guardedly, still not leaving. She was looking at Lenna with a sympathy that made her uncomfortable.
"What's that?" Lenna said, returning to her desk. She didn't like pity.
The woman crossed the room and reached, touching Lenna's uneven hair.
"I can fix this," she said quietly. "Make it better, at least."
"I don't want it to be better," Lenna replied sullenly, not looking at her. It was the truth. In the days since Joffrey had ordered her shamed, Lenna had come to think of her shorn hair as something to be proud of, bear with dignity. Joffrey had taken nothing from her that day, in fact he had given her a gift. He had made her sympathetic to even the most loyal of his retainers. Sansa had given her full accounts of the courtiers disgust at Joffrey's actions, and Lenna had heard the whispers herself.
"Don't you?" Shae offered. "Lord Tyrion said…"
"Ah, Lord Tyrion wants you to fix it, does he?" Shae looked back at her with her large dark eyes, but she said nothing. "Very well. Do it then."
Shae made quick work of evening the choppy pieces out so they lay in some semblance of order around Lenna's face. While she had thought to wear them as a badge of honor, a visual reminder of what Joffrey was capable of, she decided Tyrion was right. They'd been lopped off because she had stood against the king in first place. It was best not to prod the little lion. He'd been sharpening his claws too much of late.
She didn't like what the maid did, but she didn't hate it either. She felt curiously light without her hair, but also terribly exposed. She was cold, unused to the feeling over air against her skin. Even when she had braided it, coiled it around on her head, it had never left her so bare. Looking at it made her melancholy and angry in turns, and when Shae was done, Lenna let her go.
"Tell Lord Tyrion that I'm fine," she said as the girl was leaving.
"I will," Shae replied without hesitation, stopping for a moment to look back at her. Their smiles mirrored each other, little sly upturns of the lips. No secrets, then. Lenna liked her a little for her candidness.
Cersei was not as circumspect about the previous days events. She tutted and fussed over her hair, even reaching forward and touching one of the shorn curls, her brows furrowed. Lenna wondered what she was really thinking, never sure if her concern was genuine or not. When Tyrion appeared in the doorway to his sister's study, he, too, had reached out and run a hand over her hair, the look of chagrin and dimly-veiled rage hard in his eyes. Lenna felt more than ever that she was a Lannister pet.
"If you'll excuse us, Lenna, I need to speak with my sister alone."
She surprised herself by going to the Sept. It had been most of a year since she'd regularly gone to pray, and she couldn't put her finger on exactly why she had stopped. She figured it had something to do with the horrible feeling that the gods had turned their backs on her, or, worse, that they didn't exist at all. Sandor had always scoffed a bit at her piety, insisting that the gods couldn't be real, not and allow all the evil in the world. She'd been steadfast in her faith, but now, looking up at the cold, stone statues with their sightless eyes, she wondered if he was right.
She tried to pray anyway. She took her time, starting with the Father and working her way through the Seven as she had always done, lighting her three candles. One for the royal family. One for House Manderly. One for Sandor Clegane.
The first candle was a challenge. It was difficult to pray for the king, but Lenna swallowed the impulse to pray for his death and instead asked for his heart to be changed. She knew it was foolish and unlikely, but she couldn't think of anything else to do, and she was trying so very hard not to let even her thoughts turn traitorous. Praying for her family was easier, but fraught with horrible thoughts of what the delivery of her braid would do to them. She had no idea what message Sandor had been able to send with it, but no matter what, it would bring great distress and heartache.
It was the third candle where she fell apart.
Praying for Sandor Clegane had not begun after the awful episode at Darry. She'd lumped him into her prayers for years, but now, the chill wind on her neck a stark reminder of what he'd been forced to do, how they'd both suffered, she found herself overcome with fear and grief.
She couldn't be angry with him. She'd never been able to stay angry with him for long. She was too painfully aware of his constant agony. She'd never met a man so conflicted before. For all of his physical strength he was powerless in so many ways. He could no more change his fate than she could, stuck in their roles and bound to see them through no matter the outcome. The previous day in the throne room, he'd tried to take control, and it had been wrested from him as easily as a toy from a child's hand, and he'd been presented with a far less desirable alternative.
And hadn't it been the same for her? She'd stepped in to try and help Sansa Stark, and instead had incurred the wrath of the king on herself. Sansa would not be struck again, at least not in public, she was sure of that after Tyrion's appearance, but Lenna had made Joffrey angry. He knew few emotions: greed, rage, and sick pleasure. She knew that he'd find ways to hurt Sansa that weren't so easy to interrupt, ones that did much more lasting harm. She could already see the girl breaking, splintering before her eyes, and she had no idea how to help her bear up.
She didn't regret what he'd done to her, not for herself. She didn't care about her hair. Hair would grow back. But she knew, despite the fact that they hadn't spoken or even looked at each other in weeks, not since that awful day in the hallway, she knew that Sandor would likely blame himself for what had happened. She could practically feel the horror radiating from him, his fingers so tight and tense that she could see every tendon stretching beneath his skin. She'd been cold to him, kneeling there on the floor, but if she hadn't, she might have done something even more rash.
Like tell him it was alright, to do what he had to do, that she forgave him.
She couldn't tell him that, and it was eating away at her slowly, waves lapping at unsteady cliffs that were already threatening to crumble. She knew that she had been treading a very dangerous path for the previous weeks, unable to harness the anger that still burned, cold and sere and perpetual. It had made her reckless in ways she had never been before, and without her intention, she'd risked them both.
None of the anger was for him. It had been at first when he'd taken away the decision, choosing to end things without so much as warning her beforehand. She was glad she hadn't had the opportunity to speak with him after. She was quite sure she would have said despicable things, her mind lobbing the epithets she had always detested at him from the moment she woke until she fitfully fell asleep. Her anger had been spent in a day, turning into what could only be termed bereavement. She mourned for him as if he had died. It felt as if he had, and she had the strangest sensation that she had, too. For years, she had feared she was losing herself, the girl who had come to King's Landing. It had finally happened, that person slipping away like smoke, girlish beliefs replaced with a harsh understanding of reality. The moment he'd ended things between them, that girl was gone, and so was Sandor.
The night before she'd dreamt of her mother. It was strange. She hadn't had such a dream in years, since she was in White Harbor. Those had been happy dreams, no doubt brought on by her stirring memories of being at home. This one was not, she could only term it a nightmare. In it, her mother's shade had chastised her, showing her visions of what would come to pass if she could not regain her self-control: Sandor's head on a spike, her nieces abused and imprisoned, her brothers dead, her father a lord of bones.
Her mother. Adalyn Locke had trod these same halls. Lenna barely ever thought about it, but with the remembrance of her dreams, she imagined her mother kneeling in that very spot, her own eyes cast upward at the gods. Her mother, who never spoke of her time as a lady-in-waiting, as a companion to Joanna Lannister, but who most certainly understood this convoluted and dangerous game they were all playing. She had survived, she had escaped, and Lenna knew that all of her snippets of advice had been born of this experience. Anger did not serve her, patience did. Persistence did. Discipline did.
And what of hope?
She was at the feet of the Mother now, not quite remembering when she'd lit the trios of candles that glinted in the dim Sept. Now she attended them more carefully, needing to believe in the Mother and her mercy more than ever. She lit the first two with intent, her prayers diligent. When she came to the third, she lit it reverently, settling onto the kneeler and letting her thoughts turn on him and praying that he could forgive her, and forgive himself.
"Am I still in your prayers, I wonder?"
Lenna's lips tugged upward at the sound of his voice, but it was a weak smile. She held up a finger to indicate that she would finish her prayers first. She'd been in contemplation for the better part of a half hour, but she was not done sending up her supplications on Sandor Clegane's behalf. Or her own.
She rose when she was finished, not at all surprised to find Tyrion right at her elbow. For such a little person, he made a lot of noise, so unlike Sandor who for all his bulk could walk as stealthily as a cat.
"Of course, my lord," she murmured, her smile strengthening under his affectionate gaze.
"Would you walk with me, my lady?" he asked, sweeping his arm in a courtly fashion she knew to be half playful. "I'd like some fresh air."
She followed him to the side door, dismayed to see his new guard lounging against the wall in wait. He smirked at her, but Lenna said nothing, following Tyrion toward the gardens. Tyrion made passing conversation as they walked, asking about the weather, looking at the blooms, but Lenna knew he did nothing without purpose. There was something he wanted to say to her, and she wished he'd just come out with it.
They paused on the terrace overlooking the sea, and Lenna could see Tyrion's worry in the hunch of his shoulders and the tension in his fingers. His guard, however, leaned back against the stone railing with his thumbs tucked into his trousers, looking more at home in an alehouse or an alley than the royal gardens.
"As pleasant as your company is, my lord," she said, turning to face Tyrion, "I think there are concerns you wish to discuss with me that have nothing to do with the humidity or the trees."
He looked at her askance. "You wound me," he said, then glanced at his guard. "I told you she was clever." The guard rolled his eyes. "Lenna, I don't believe I introduced you, but this is Bronn. He was my champion in the Eyrie."
"Ser Bronn," Lenna said. "I'm sure I speak for all of us when I thank you for bringing Lord Tyrion back to us."
"Not a ser, not yet," he said weightily, "but I'll take your thanks."
"Bronn, this is Lady Helenna Manderly of White Harbor. She's a very old friend."
"Not that old," he smirked, a twinkle in his eye that made the tip of her nose go pink.
Tyrion shot him a glance that spoke more clearly than any words could that she was off limits. Lenna was grateful she hadn't had to do it herself. However, she knew when Tyrion was avoiding his task and fixed him with her best no-nonsense gaze.
"What do you wish to discuss, Tyrion?" she asked.
He looked up at her from under the tawny mop of his curls and sighed.
"As you know, Lenna, we have brokered a marriage for Myrcella in Dorne," he said at last. Lenna's face dropped.
She'd almost forgotten. She felt the stab of pain initially beneath her breastbone, but it seemed to fade into a sharp, spreading ache through all her limbs. First, she'd lost Sandor. Now, the princess.
"A very fine match, I'm sure," she said, casting her gaze downward and feeling long-absent tears pricking her eyes. It surprised her how little she cried now. They used to flow like springs.
"It is for the best," he said carefully, "though I know we shall all miss 'Cella keenly. You especially, I would think." She nodded sharply. Tyrion straightened his shoulders and tilted his chin. "We have every reason to believe that Stannis Baratheon is planning to go to war to seize the throne from King Joffrey. Sending Myrcella to Dorne now will ensure her safety."
"Is it certain? Will he attack King's Landing?" Lenna asked, her eyes narrowing. She knew little about what was happening outside the walls of King's Landing that Cersei didn't tell her directly. News of the Oxcross had been a shock to them all.
"He is at Dragonstone," Tyrion replied, "and he is amassing a fleet. Not as large as ours, but it means war on two fronts. The capital is significantly weaker than it should be in such a situation. Even Cersei agrees that Myrcella should leave as soon as she is readied."
"Of course," Lenna said, thinking that very moment would not be soon enough.
"I wish to send you with her."
Lenna felt his words like an icy gush through her gut. Tyrion was looking at her solemnly, his hands tucked behind his back. He had an odd way of looking at her that made her feel like he already knew what she would say. His eyes were already full of pained disappointment.
"No," she said plainly, shaking her head. "No, my lord."
"Not so clever then," Bronn quipped, cocking his brow. Lenna had quite forgotten he was there. The sellsword was looking at her appraisingly, but this time she could see a keen intelligence in his expression that proved he wasn't just Tyrion's muscle. The man was shrewd. She felt her lips quirk against her will, but he pursed his lips and looked away.
"Lenna," Tyrion said, his tone placating and infuriating. He came to her and reached out, taking her hand in both of his. "Your father and brother are branded as traitors. You are, of course, loyal and we know that. We wish to protect you, and Dorne would be the safest place for you. You'd be far away from all of this...deceitful mess. Think of it, living among all that sunshine, the lemon trees…"
Lenna shook her head indulgently, trying to find a better way to explain that there was nothing he could do or say that would convince her.
"Lenna, please, think on it. It wouldn't be forever-"
"You don't know that," she said quickly. "If I go, I may never return. If Stannis Baratheon does attack King's Landing, it may be years before it is safe to come back. No, I'll not leave."
"I gave you credit for better sense," Tyrion said, pumping his hand emphatically. "After what happened, I would expect you to know better than to try and continue to ride it out."
"It's just hair, Tyrion," she said dully.
"He'd have taken your head, Lenna. You angered him-"
"I did nothing wrong-"
"You don't have to," Tyrion exclaimed. "Joffrey doesn't have a code of right or wrong, he just knows when he doesn't like something, and his first response is to rid himself of whatever it is. Yesterday afternoon it was you."
"I was protecting Sansa Stark," she said heatedly. "No one else would. Were we supposed to continue to watch Meryn Trant beat her. Tyrion, she is a child-"
"Yes, and you are a lady, but it didn't stop him, did it? You may have been protecting Sansa, dear Lenna, but who will protect you?"
She looked back at him stonily. They both knew that in the past they'd had a satisfactory answer. He would have, but on that afternoon in the throne room he had been utterly powerless.
"He can't protect you anymore, Lenna. You both know that. Would you have him be used against you again?"
"I do not blame him," she said brokenly. "He did what he had to do."
"Yes," Tyrion said, "but you must know that if the king had ordered your head, he couldn't have done it. He couldn't have done it, Lenna, and you'd both be dead. At least in Dorne you'll be alive." He took her hand again squeezing it ardently, his eyes somber. "I can do nothing for the Stark girl, but I can for you."
"Alive," she said bitterly. "As alive as I've been for the past, what, ten years now?
"The alternative is far worse," he said lowly. "It will not be quick. You know that."
"My lord, I will not go to Dorne," she said icily, drawing back her hand. "Ransom me home if you must."
"No," he nearly shouted. "You know that is impossible." He sighed heavily, raking stubby fingers through his hair. "There is one other possibility, but it is not my preference."
"What then?"
"Marriage," he said flatly, his nostrils flaring.
Lenna's heart stuttered. She already knew the answer.
"To?" she asked tightly.
"Isn't it obvious?" he asked, laughing mirthlessly. Lenna couldn't move, couldn't think. She should be grateful, but all she felt was pain. "Well?" he asked, his eyes stony. She loved him for knowing how difficult this would be for her. "Will my lady do me the honor of accepting my hand, my titles, and my lands in matrimony?"
"Aye," she replied woodenly. He nodded as if a verdict had just been read. "On one condition."
"Yes?"
"A long betrothal. I do not wish to be wed until after this business with Stannis Baratheon is at over."
"I can agree to that," he replied. "I know it is not I who you wish to wed, Lenna. I am sorry for it."
Lenna nodded, noticing Bronn was watching them with increasing fascination. He had folded his arms across his chest, leaning against the wall, his eyes darting between them. She blushed, wondering how much he had figured out.
"Cersei-" she whispered harshly.
"Will not oppose it."
"How are you so sure?" Lenna asked.
"Easy," he replied. "She was the one who suggested it to begin with." Lenna's stomach fell to her feet. "I don't know how, and I don't know why, but you've made my sister love you. As much as she loves anyone except the children. When I suggested sending you to Dorne, I think she would have struck my head from my shoulders if she could have."
Lenna nodded slowly. "Tyrion, what will become of Sansa Stark?"
"She is Joffrey's betrothed. For now."
She cleared her throat, her mind a muddle. "When will we...announce it."
"As soon as we have the king's permission. I would prefer it to be tomorrow."
No time, Lenna thought. No time for amends. No time for explanations.
Sandor XXXIII
Small council meetings were usually terribly boring. He found no pleasure in listening to the collection fat lords bicker with each other and the cunt-king. Granted, he found little pleasure in anything anymore. Not even knocking heads together in the alehouses brought him satisfaction. Ale didn't, either. There was no peace in his bunk at night, no true sleep but he did dream. When they came, they started out well enough. He had all of the old visions, her in his bed, with their children, on their ramparts. Then her laughing face would be replaced with the stony visage of her dead mother, and he'd look down to see his knife in his hand again, her braid laid across his other palm, but now the knife was bloody and the rope of hair felt heavier than it should. He'd wake in a cold sweat, the chasm of helplessness opening like an old wound anew each time.
He was exhausted, but he kept himself upright and moving forward. He was prepared for another mind-numbing morning for in-fighting, so when he entered the council chamber and saw Lenna there at the table, he was completely unprepared. She refused to look at him, and he felt as if his chest was caving in on itself.
He had not seen her since he'd taken her back to her rooms, her hair in his hand. He had not wanted to see her, and he arranged it so he wouldn't be guarding at dinner banquets, asking for that time to be in the training yards. The king had protested, but he reminded the boy that he'd be no good if he didn't keep up his physical stamina. Joffrey didn't seem to understand that there was a correlation between discipline and prowess, and many of his guards weren't training nearly enough. The cunt-king finally relented, much to Sandor's relief. He couldn't bear to look at her, and he was desperate to avoid her.
It was shocking for him to see her with her hair shorn and wild about her face, his heart rattling against his ribs. You did that, he thought sullenly, you made her look like that. Her face, still lovely, had gone hard. All he could think was that she had the same look as Cersei Lannister.
"Good morning, your grace," Tyrion Lannister said, stepping away from a side table. Sandor hadn't even noticed him, too focused on Lenna to have properly taken in his surroundings.
"Why is she here?" Joffrey sneered, throwing himself into his seat at the head of the council table. Cersei sat to his right, her hands folded ceremoniously in her lap.
"We have something to discuss with you, regarding Lady Helenna," Cersei replied.
"Get on with it then," the king replied. "I'm sure we have more important matters to attend to." He looked around the table at Varys and Pycelle, but they kept their faces carefully blank. Only Baelish smirked.
"Lady Helenna has been with us in King's Landing for nigh ten years," Cersei began. "She has served this family faithfully as Myrcella's tutor, but now the princess is to be sent to Dorne. We had thought perhaps it time to allow Lady Helenna to wed, to have a family of her own."
"She's a bit old, don't you think? Who would want her?" Joffrey said, cocking an eyebrow. Sandor wanted to strangle him. It would be so satisfying to watch the vicious gleam fade from his eyes.
"I would," Tyrion said cheerfully. Sandor stopped breathing, feeling for all the world like he'd been struck by the bolt from a crossbow. He wanted to be anywhere else, anywhere but there having to listen to everything he'd feared come to pass. "Lady Helenna has always been a friend to me," Tyrion continued, "and I am not getting any younger myself. She is lovely, intelligent, and high-born."
"Her father and brothers are traitors," Joffrey replied, spit flying from his lips.
"But she is not," Tyrion replied. "And when we win this war, she would be the legitimate heir to White Harbor. Once your vengeance is exacted."
Sandor's eye was drawn toward her against his will, and he was ferociously glad to see misery written in her features, noting the strain on her face as she fought against letting her distress show on her face. Her eyes, even in profile, were hard and feral even as the rest of her face was smooth with repose. He knew he well enough to see how unwelcome the conversation was to her, and it gave him a small measure of relief.
"She's not even from a Great House," the king said.
"No," Tyrion replied slowly, "but she is from a wealthy one. Lady of one of the five great cities of the Seven Kingdoms. Our marriage will unite two of our great ports. She will be Lady of Casterly Rock and Lady of White Harbor. A very powerful combination, indeed."
"But-"
"You are to wed Lady Sansa," Tyrion continued quickly, pretending not to hear the king's interjection. "In an effort to restore unity to the Seven Kingdoms, you are going to take to wife Robb Stark's sister. What difference is there in me marrying Lady Helenna? It will be to the same end, will it not? An increased unity of our kingdom, peace in the realm?"
"My son," Cersei said, laying her hand on Joffrey's wrist. "Lady Helenna is loyal. She has always been true, and she would be a fine Lady of Casterly Rock."
Joffrey paused for a moment as if turning the idea over, but Sandor felt like someone had taken grip of his entrails when the boy emphatically shook his head.
"No," the king said firmly. "I do not like her and I will allow traitor's blood to taint our family."
"Lady Helenna is not a traitor," Tyrion said, his tone taking on that cajoling quality that irked Sandor on good days. Now he heard desperation in it, the little lord's plan not going the way he expected.
"I'm the king, am I not?" Joffrey demanded. "I said no. There will be no more discussion on the matter. If you are so insistent that Lady Helenna be married, perhaps we can find another more suitable candidate."
"I wish to keep her near," Cersei started, but even the queen looked taken aback by the rancor on Joffrey's face.
"I don't care what you want, mother," Joffrey replied. "But all this talk of marriage has given me an idea. You insist that Lady Helenna is a woman of quality. Her house is wealthy, and should she become its heir, it would do for her to be married to a strong man. A certain one of our bannermen, a knight even, has distinguished himself in our service in the Riverlands. I am of a mind to give him Harrenhal as a reward, seeing as how my father attainted him. Why not a noble wife, as well?"
Sandor's blood ran cold, and he had the strangest feeling that he was falling. He momentarily lost his composure, feeling all of the wind rush out of him in one great breath, sagging against the wall at his back. Everyone else in the room had gone still, their eyes darting between Lenna and the king like lizards.
"You speak of Ser Gregor Clegane," Tyrion said numbly. "Surely, Lady Helenna has done nothing to warrant such a fate."
"It should be an honor for her to join with such a knight. A servant of the realm," Joffrey replied, his eyes glittering dangerously. "She'll be the mistress of a fine Keep, the largest in all the Seven Kingdoms."
"You do honor me, your grace."
All eyes returned to Lenna. She sat serene and fair-faced, keeping her regard steady on the king.
"You consent, then, my lady?" the king asked, the tilt of his eyebrow as devilish as it was jaunty.
"If it is your will, your grace."
Sandor felt like his insides had filled with ash. It filled his lungs, stung his eyes, choked his mouth and throat. He no longer worried about her head on a spike. Now he thought about her in the cold ground, bloody and bruised, surrounded by silence and mouldering. Gregor had taken two wives before and they had both ended that way. They'd both gone into the ground unmourned and unexplained, their deaths mysterious and unmarked.
"Good," the king said, slapping his thigh. "I'll write to grandfather directly. He will take charge of the matter. He has been ever so complimentary of Ser Gregor. Won't she make your brother a fine wife, dog?"
Sandor looked at the king through the lank fall of his hair and made no reply, merely grunted. The king could take it however he chose.
"You may go, my lady," the king said, his entire demeanor ringing of false kindness. His eyes had taken on reptilian glint of his grandfather as he twisted a ring on his finger.
"Your grace," she murmured, her lips white, dipping a curtsey and quickly leaving the room.
The rest of the council sat in stunned silence, almost as if afraid to breathe.
There was nothing he could do. When he was released from duty, he thought to train, but he found himself walking aimlessly around the Keep until well after the evening banquet had ended. On another pass through the Holdfast a strong arm stopped him with a jab to the shoulder.
"Where've you been?" Bronn asked, stepping out of an alcove. "I've been trying to hunt you down for ages."
"Leave me the fuck alone," he replied harshly, the words more growls in this throat than language.
"Lord Tyrion wants to see you. Immediately."
Sandor's scowl deepened further and he followed the sell-sword toward the Tower of the Hand. The little he'd seen of the man had proven him a cocky, no-bullshit sort. He smirked and mocked and badgered, his self-assuredness irksome. His thumbs were still looped through his belt, but Sandor noted the droop in his shoulders, the downcast eyes and the dark expression on his rugged face. He figured he looked much the same.
Tyrion Lannister was pacing before his hearth, an empty glass of wine in his hand. He took a deep breath when Sandor entered behind Bronn, placing the glass on a side table and clasping his hands behind him.
"There you are, Clegane."
"Aye, my lord," he replied shortly. "What do you want."
"Apparently it doesn't matter what I want," Tyrion replied lightly. Sandor wasn't in the mood for humor.
"You said you'd protect her," Sandor barked. The simmering anger and festering torment were fomenting.
"I tried," Tyrion replied. "I had no idea Joffrey would be so opposed, that he would-"
"Send her like a damn lamb to slaughter as my brother's bride? He will kill her."
"I know," said Tyrion hollowly. "My sister and I have been discussing the matter at length this afternoon."
"And what have you and your sister decided?" Sandor demanded derisively.
"We have both written to our father to voice our staunch opposition for the proposal. ANd to put forth another candidate, one we both feel would be better suited to the lady, and would keep her safe."
Sandor felt every hair on his back and neck stand up, like needles across his skin.
"Who?"
"Why, you, of course," Tyrion replied. "We simply suggested the exchange of one brother for the next."
"I'm Kingsguard," he ground out.
"You've take no vows."
"I have no lands."
"Your brother is still attainted, and he will receive Harrenhal at the war's conclusion. Your pile of rocks is still your own."
"What do you think he will say?"
"I wish I knew," Tyrion replied. "Father was always fond of Lenna. I don't think he'd like to harm her, but I know he will see it as...an opportunity."
"To do what?"
"Put the screws to Wyman Manderly."
"How?"
"We need more ships if we are to fight Stannis Baratheon. Father may try to use her as a bargaining chip. Only time will tell."
"And in the meantime?"
"We wait," Tyrion replied dolefully.
"Who is with her?" he asked, suddenly fearful that she was alone. He hadn't liked her stillness in the council rooms, the unearthly calm she'd managed to maintain.
"She won't answer her door. Shae and Lady Sansa have both tried."
"Can I try?" he asked. Under other circumstances, he knew it would be out of the question. But perhaps in light of the afternoon's events, Tyrion would relent.
Tyrion looked at him flatly. "Take Bronn. He can stand guard."
Sandor nodded, and together the two men made their way through the darkened Keep.
Arriving at her door, Sandor knocked once. To his relief, he heard the latch release and the door creaked open. With a glance at Bronn, he went in.
She had already returned to her window, looking down on the sea. The casement was open, the wind stirring the little curls around her face. She wasn't facing him, but her body thrummed with awareness of him. They hadn't been alone together in months. It was as if something was pulling him toward her, a winch winding that cord he'd always felt was strung between them, and without thinking he made his way toward her until she was only an arm-length away.
"Lenna," he said softly, and she turned to look at him. He'd never seen her look so empty, her agile features still, her skin ashen. Her eyes were large and liquid, utterly vacant. He wondered if she actually saw him. "Lenna, are you alright?"
He was barely able to catch her as her knees gave out. He slowed her descent to the floor by catching her around the waist. She was limp in his arms, only her eyes moving, resting on his. They were still blank, and they frightened him.
"Lenna," he said quietly, moving to prop himself against the wall beneath the window, bringing her between his legs and settling her against him. "Lenna, Tyrion and the queen, they have a plan. They won't let it happen. I promise."
"No promises," she whispered. "I want no vows."
"I swear to you," he said, hoping what little of her was with him could hear his sincerity, "I will do anything I have to in order to keep him from you. If it means I kill him myself."
"No vows," she said, her voice stronger. "I can't bear it, Sandor."
"You can," he said, resting his hand along her jaw, turning her face to his. "They have a plan. They've written to Tywin. He'll put a stop to it."
"For what price?" she asked.
"I don't know," Sandor replied in a trembling whisper. "But Lenna, you're not on your own. Surely you know that you're not on your own."
She looked up into his face, a tiny flicker of something in her eyes. She exhaled sharply, her breath like an arrow, and without blinking she cried. She stared at him, her whole body shaking as if with fever, the tears pouring down her face, her mouth strained open in silent screaming. Her shoulders were rigid with tension as he carefully pulled her toward him, his great hand spanning the curve of her skull. She stayed stiff against him, but when he pressed his mouth to the top of her head, her little fists came up and bunched in his tunic. Each sob wracked her, reverberating through him with surprising force. He could feel her desolation in his bones, as if they were hollow.
She was usually the one comforting him, she was the one who reached out to him first when they quarreled. But they hadn't quarreled. When he had ended things between them, he had never imagined that things could get worse than they were. Joffrey's threat had then been made real, Sandor still able to recall precisely how it had felt to cut of her hair in the throne room, the locks splitting under the sharp edge of his knife feeling the threads of his control as they were severed. He'd always felt strong, able to dictate his own terms, but where she was involved there was no semblance of determination. His former frustration, the way he felt she was batted about like a cat's favorite toy by the Lannisters, that all paled now in the face of Joffrey's cruelty.
She had quieted against him, gradually sitting up and wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands. Her face was red and blotchy, her nose shiny and swollen, her eyes a bright green and rimmed with red. He couldn't resist dragging his fingers along her jaw.
"I won't let him have you," he said lowly.
"No," she replied stonily. "I won't either." He looked at her quizzically and she laughed. "I couldn't bring myself to do it," she explained, nodding to the casement. "But I will if I have to."
"Don't you fucking dare talk like that," he growled. "Never say that again."
"Fine," she replied tiredly. "I won't say it."
He took her meaning immediately, grasping her head between both of her hands.
"You're not to even think it," he said lowly. "Lenna, you can't give up hope. You can't leave me."
She looked at him and to his surprise she let out laugh that could have been a sob. "Gods, you know things can't get any worse when you're the one telling me to have hope."
His own mouth quirked for an instant, and he was relieved to see Lenna again, not the broken, hollowed-out shell he'd found when he walked in the door.
"Bed," he said, nudging her to stand.
She didn't bother to take off her gown, sliding under the quilt and turning to lie on her stomach.
"Stay with me," she murmured.
He passed his hand over her curls. They twined around his fingers. "I can't," he choked. "I want to, Lenna, but I can't."
She closed her eyes, a tear running over the curve of her cheek, absorbed into her pillow.
He ran his fingers over her cheek, swiping the wetness away with the pads of his fingers. He was hesitant as he bent forward, ghosting his lips over the path they had run, leaving the briefest kiss on her cheek.
She sighed and closed her eyes.
He felt like he'd just trained for an afternoon when he closed the door behind him, finding Bronn slumped against the wall outside.
"I need a drink," Sandor said. The sell-sword nodded, and the two men made their way out of the Keep and in the direction of Flea Bottom.
Sandor hadn't really expected the man to accompany him, but he found he didn't hate the idea. In any other situation, he would probably hate the man. That was the trouble with encountering people too like yourself in some ways. The hard-bitten man had that same lust for survival he'd always suffered from, the intent drive to wake just one more morning. Bronn seemed to have accepted it. Sandor had always resented it. He certainly resented it now.
"How's the lady?" Bronn asked, looking at Sandor over the rim of his tankard. His bravado was put away, and Sandor couldn't detect the smallest hint of mockery in his face. He might have liked him for it.
Sandor shook his head. He couldn't put into words what he'd found in Lenna's rooms.
"How are you?"
The question repelled him. He sat back, stretching his hands out along the table.
"Don't fucking pretend like you've no stake in it," Bronn said in exasperation. "Lord Tyrion told me everything."
"He did, did he?" Sandor asked calmly. He was feeling anything but calm.
"And even if he didn't, think I'd stand watch while you of all people went to see a woman in the middle of the night and not figure out what was going on?" Sandor grunted, drinking deeply. "I have to ask, though."
"What?'
"How did you manage to convince that lady that she's in love with you?"
"I don't know," he replied without thinking. "Never figured that one out."
"She won't even look at me," Bronn said, sounding miffed. Sandor felt his gut clench with satisfaction at the same time that his blood boiled at the insinuation that the sell-sword had even tried to get her attention. He didn't want the other man sniffing around her. "And I'm much better looking, if I do say so myself."
Sandor grunted, wishing he'd shut up. He wanted to murder him. He planned it in a trice. He'd grab him by the throat and haul him across the table. He'd use the base of the tankard to bash his skull in, and he'd break his neck for good measure.
"Does she know what you are?" Bronn asked, interrupting his imaginings.
"What?"
"What you are. Does she know that you're the same as me?"
"And what exactly is that?"
"A killer," Bronn said, without even a trace of feeling. He said it like it was any other profession, a smith or a farrier or a carpenter. Sandor looked back at him woodenly.
"She knows." She knows but she doesn't understand.
"What are you going to do?"
"Nothing for now. But when the time comes, I'm going to fucking kill him."
A/N: Yeah, yeah, I didn't think things could get worse either. It's so strange to me how plans change. I had this bit all worked out, endgame in sight and everything, but it just didn't feel right. I even reached out to some of you to walk through it, and it STILL morphed into this. Reminder: carrot coming. Promise.
Special shout out to Fukuro Senju and MisFitCarter for their input on this chapter. I'm sorry it happened this way.
Please read and review! I love them, so, so much.