Chapter Text
Across the training field, he stood tall and fierce against two recruits. The man defended their weak blows with an effortless lift of the blade.
It was only two weeks ago when you joined the Lannister guard. Your disappointment was immeasurable when you learned that Ser Barristan was relieved of his service, and replaced by Jaime Lannister. Gone was your opportunity to train beneath Lord Commander Barristan Selmy, the greatest fighter to walk the lands of Westeros. Instead, they assigned you to train under Sandor Clegane, the Hound.
On your first day, the other trainees, mostly boys and a few men, informed you that Sandor would not be so bad. Trainees took their meals outside of the White Sword Tower, while Kingsguard and the Lord Commander ate inside. You stuffed your belly with bread and stew as the others shared their woes-- Ilyn Payne, despite his inability to speak, was cruel and unreasonable, Ser Boros unwashed and rank, and the rest just as bad. It seemed the best of the best were unavailable to train new recruits, such as Ser Jaime and Ser Mandon Moore.
“You’ve got it lucky,” one man said, chewing through doughy bread with only seven teeth. “I train with Ser Gregor.”
You shivered a bit at the thought.
At first, you were happy with your assignment. If the other knights and Kingsguard were so wretched, and you wound up with the only tolerable master-at-arms, you thought to keep it that way and train your hardest. But things soured quickly.
Sandor hated you.
When you met, he scrutinized your appearance, stating that you were not tall enough to be a knight. But you were stocky and well-built from the farmwork your father assigned you, and anyway, there were boys amongst your group shorter than you, and he never scrutinized them. This was your first sign that things would not go so well, but he allowed you to train anyway. In fact, he picked you first, putting you up against two others.
“Against two?” you had said, taking a wooden sword from the rack.
The Hound watched you closely. “Yes, against two. Do you think war will be fair?” he scolded as sweat dripped down his forehead. “Go on.”
You knew he wanted to see you fail.
The first man was tall, skinny, and unassuming. His two front teeth stuck out. The other was shorter than you, with thick black eyebrows that made him look perpetually angry. You braced yourself as Sandor counted down.
The goal was to disarm, not to injure. The lanky man approached you first, unsure and shaky on his feet. He served the first swing. You blocked it easily, and managed to disarm him in less than a minute.
The other, whose name you later learned was Randyl, had a different approach. He swung hard and fast, overpowered you in strength, and was difficult to evade. Randyl hit you hard in the chest before disarming you, the wood flying from your palm.
“Accident,” he muttered.
If Sandor cared that the rules were broken, he did not show it. He moved on to the next set of men. You watched his pupils flick between the trainees, sizing them up, gauging their true ability. Then he noticed you and narrowed his eyes.
Watching him now, you could tell that he was no teacher. He gave direct commands and vague comparisons, instead of encouragement and explanation of technique. Sandor went up against two trainees, a boy of thirteen named Jason, and a man whose name you were uncertain of. He made easy work of them, and was quicker on his feet, but never caused them harm. When either made a mistake, he tapped his wooden sword on their shoulder with a disapproving stare.
You began to grow bored of this ordeal. Sandor was no better a fighter than Ser Loras Tyrell, or Ser Barristan Selmy, and you regarded his advice as pointless. Just as your mind started to drift, a white flurry of wings and beak appeared before your eyes. It was an egret, landing only a few feet away, its feathers vibrant against the crusted dirt. It let out a desperate crackling noise.
The bird fascinated you. You rose to your feet to get a closer look, but another trainee stepped before you. He lifted his sword and plunged it downward, into the egret’s soft belly.
The twitching and struggling stopped. Blood pooled from the puncture, staining its beautiful feathers. You looked up at the aggressor, your face aghast, ready to curse him out or question his actions. But he simply turned to the other men and laughed. “Better to put it out of its misery.”
Your stomach twisted into something dreadful, and your throat closed up. Looking back at the bird, it seemed that the egret’s left wing was broken. You glanced back around at the other men, your face burning, when you spotted Sandor.
His attention was on you, eyes full of an emotion you could not discern.
~
The Hound allowed trainees to use shields in the second week.
Naturally, the unfair treatment continued. He criticized you more than any other trainee, and after you made a few triumphs in the matchups that week, he instructed you to fight without a shield. “You will not always have one,” he reminded you when you protested.
Your arms and legs ached from the week’s farmwork, and you wanted more than anything to curl up in a bale of hay and let the heat lull you to sleep. But you knew he would not allow this. You dueled five different men that day; on any other day, you only fought two or three.
The fifth time, you went up against the same man from your first day, the tall, lanky one who resembled a rat. His skill improved, but so did yours. The man was quicker on his feet now, harder to strike-- you were permitted to strike now, instead of disarm. The exhaustion and heat seeped in, and soon thereafter, you found yourself atop the dry Earth, coughing up dust as sweat poured down your back.
“Get up,” he spoke, waving you away with his arm. “What all of you lack is speed. Not quick enough on your feet, and no match for Stannis’s army.”
You positioned yourself on your hands and knees, still coughing. Sandor grumbled to himself and slid his arm around your midriff, hoisting you to your feet. “I said to get up. If you grow tired after four men, how do you expect to be a knight?”
“I--” you began, then broke into another coughing fit. “Why must I fight man after man, with no shield, but--”
“The world is not fair. Someone fetch wine.”
Your anger intensified. “You say the world is not fair, and maybe it isn’t, but you’re singling me out. Targeting me,” you told him. “Why?”
“Where do you think your complaints will get you?” he asked, his eyebrows raising.
You stepped closer to him, wiping the sweat from your face. “You’re an excuse of a master-at-arms, not even a knight. Ser Loras could outmatch you, and so could Barristan Selmy with one arm!” You were aware that your outburst was childish, but you did not care for Sandor, and suddenly, did not care to be a knight at all. Coughing again, you turned and began to walk away, dropping your wooden sword behind you.
The Hound caught up to you, his strides much larger than yours, a flask of wine in his hand. “You cunt,” he snarled, grasping your arm. He forced you into the White Sword Tower, empty at this time of day, and pushed you against the wall. He pressed the opening to your lips, essentially forcing the wine down your throat. You swallowed the liquid as he spoke. “You are foolish to think there is any honor in being a knight, even more so to walk away from training. You wished to learn, did you not?” He pulled the flask away and drank the rest.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “I do not wish to learn anymore. You’ve taught me nothing.”
“What makes you think those great knights and swordsmen know a damn thing about teaching? Barristan Selmy would have no time for it. Barely do I. And Ser Loras, you would not look up to him if you knew his true nature.” Sandor capped the empty flask.
“His true nature? He is kinder than you, by far.”
“He likes to bugger other men. Or rather, let men bugger him.”
Your jaw slacked, astonished. “You made that up.”
“I don’t care for the whispers that pass through the Red Keep. But I hear them. I hear of the food that poor Tommen spewed onto his bedsheets, and of the letters that arrive and depart.”
“So you believe in rumors?” you asked, though you were partially convinced that it was true. “Why would Ser Loras do that, anyway?”
The Hound laughed again. “Because he can.” He lowered himself to your height. “You’re stronger than some of those men. But not all of them. And not me. You are dull-witted and foolish, just like the other men out there. Dull-witted and violent.”
The burnt mass of flesh around his eye was clearer now, and you observed it in great detail. It was hideous.
“I have every right to beat you bloody for insulting me. For walking away from the Lannister army. War looms over us, threatens itself at every moment. We have enemies to the east and to the north. Do you think I care if you walk away? Not a bit.” He stood taller, straightening his shoulders. Sandor unleashed his grip on you. “I’d rather be drinking or fucking whores than teaching that sorry lot of men. So walk away and stay out of my damned sight, or come back tomorrow and straighten up.”
He still did not answer your question. “But why have you targeted me? You must hate me.”
“I wanted to see if you could fight,” he replied, stepping out of the White Sword Tower.