Chapter 2: Squires
His opponent was the youngest squire Casterly Rock housed, a boy of four-and-ten, the fifth son of Lord Serrett. A despising look on his face, the young Harry Serrett of Silverhill hid his dull blond hair under a helm looking too big for him.
Fighting Sandor in the dusty yard of Casterly Rock irritated him: first of all, the orphan of Clegane's Keep was not a squire, not even a page ; he was a child, compared to the young Serrett who had learned swordplay with a master-at-arms in his lord father's castle. Worse still, Sandor was the second son of a minor house, while the Serretts boasted about being one of the principal houses sworn to the Lannisters.
When Sandor went past him to fetch his weapons, he heard Serrett barking and howling. In the Westerlands, everyone knew how the Cleganes had become landed knights, how the kennelmaster of Casterly Rock once saved Tywin's father from being killed by a lionness, losing three dogs and a leg in the effort. It was a tale people whispered when they saw the sigil of House Clegane, three black dogs on a yellow field reminding the dry autumnal grass where the hounds gave their lives for Tytos Lannister. Sandor's grand-father was a kennelmaster overnight raised to nobility; among the noble houses of the Westerlands, the Cleganes would always be low-born. A boy of two-and-ten belonging to such a minor house was not worthy of Harry Serrett of Silverhill. Serrett made no mystery about it but he couldn't disobey Gerion who was his master.
Peacock, Sandor thought, glaring at the young Serrett. It was not even an insult, since Harry waved a wooden shield adorned with a peacock in his pride. House Serrett's words were 'I have no rival'. We'll see.
Tywin Lannister had almost forgotten Sandor after his visit to the maester's tower. Someone had told Sandor that he could sleep in the same room with Kevan's page, a sickly boy of ten, and a maid had tossed a pallet on the floor for him. Things changed the day Gregor send a raven to Casterly Rock; Gregor said he wanted his brother back and Tywin suddenly remembered a boy hiding his scars under black hair wandered in his castle.
If he didn't wake up before sunrise – he got into the habit in Clegane's Keep, because Gregor was still asleep at dawn and he could come and go in the towerhouse – he wouldn't have met Gerion in the corridor next to the kitchens, nor learn that Tywin wanted him to prove his skills. He suspected he would be better than his opponent, but what if he failed?
A knot in his stomach – the cabbage soup Fat Jeyne had given him didn't help – he got back to the room where he slept and sat on his pallet. Kevan's page mumbled something in his sleep and Sandor shook his head. He had to collect himself and remember all the things his father had taught him. For hours, he didn't move and mentally got back to Clegane's Keep's yard, where he used to practice swordplay. The impending fight brought to his mind the smallest hole in the uneven ground of the yard, every piece of advice his father had given him, every move he had done while facing Gregor.
The lazy page rubbed his eyes, got dressed and left their room long before he decided to go downstairs. Once in the large ocher yard, Sandor realized how his opponent despised him and it only gave him another reason to fight.
Thus, he was waiting in the midday sun for Tywin to come. Under Kevan's command, an older squire helped him with a padded armor and a hauberk. The damn chain-mail shirt was a bit short for him, but he kept his mouth shut and took the lumpy visor-less helmet the squire hold out to him.
People began to gather around them, more than happy to entertain themselves; Symon, the master-at-arms was there of course, with the pages and the squires, a dozen serving men in addition to them; some of the maids escaped Fat Jeyne's watchfulness and sneaked out of the kitchens. The crowd started to talk about the fight's outcome and some bet copper coins on the young Serrett. Gerion and Kevan as well waited for the Lord of Casterly Rock. Each one took sides; while Kevan whispered to Serrett's ear and patted his shoulder in a paternalistic way, Gerion stood behind Sandor, silent, yet scowling at his brother.
Finally, as he was wondering if this fight would take place, Tywin arrived. Sandor didn't see him at first, but he noticed something had changed in the eyes of the bystanders and a hasty retreat of the kitchen maids warned him the Great Lion of the Rock was there. Tywin forced himself through the crowd and glared at a squire who was tossing a few coins to the master-at-arms.
"I wager that Serrett will make the pup cry for his mother," the squire said, unaware of Tywin's gaze. Someone nudged at the squire and he bit his lip. With his hands folded in his back, Tywin turned to Sandor.
"You told me you could be useful and you knew how to fight. Very well. Are you ready to fight Serrett in loyal combat?"
"Aye, my lord," he replied.
Some of the men burst of laughing.
"Did you hear this grating voice?" the master-at-arms exclaimed. "He's a babe! Rather tall for his age, maybe... Serrett, you're fighting a babe!"
Tywin's sharp look stopped the man immediately; he motioned his hand and the fight began. Emboldened by the shouting men, Serrett threw himself on him but dropped his guard; Sandor easily struck back and made the squire retreat. He looked at the peacock boy's eyes and saw nervousness, but around them, the watchers still bellowed Serrett's name and not his. What do I want? Having them supporting me or just winning the fight and see this rat squeaking in the dust?
He attacked Serrett and all of a sudden, the watchers' screaming changed. Some shouted their head off in disappointment, because they had bet on the peacock squire, others gave advice to Serrett. No one cried his name. Far from disheartening him, the situation infuriated Sandor: holding tight the pommel of his sword, he began to destroy the painted shield and soon there was nothing left but the offended head of the peacock, still protecting the squire's hand. Panic-stricken, Serret stepped back and stumbled. On all fours, then on his back, the squire waved his hand until he got rid of the ridiculous shield Sandor had pulverized and lost his sword in the effort. However, a disarmed enemy wouldn't be enough by Sandor's father's standards; he pushed aside the squire's sword and drove his to the panting boy's throat. Unable to speak, his armored chest heaving, the proud Serrett begged Sandor with his eyes and looked at the blade. Around them, the men went silent.
Sandor turned slightly to face Tywin and what he saw elated him. The Lord of Casterly Rock was not smiling, nor anxious about the terrified squire who had lost both the fight and his pride. He seemed impressed and the sparkle of interest Sandor caught in his eye was the sweetest thing he had seen for a while.
"Let go with him," Tywin commanded. "We'll see if we can find you a worthy opponent."
Sandor stepped back and sheathed his sword, but froze when a man pointed at Serrett.
"Seven Hells! Serrett pissed his pants!"
On the brownish sand of the yard, a darker puddle widened between the squire's legs.
"Serrett pissed his pants, Serrett pissed his pants!" the men exclaimed.
They said it over and over, as the wretched squire pushed himself from the ground and ran away. The sentence, repeated, chanted, sounded like a nursery rhyme. Tywin shushed the assembly, then looked around, trying to find who would be Sandor's next opponent.
"You," he finally said to the squire who had helped Sandor with his equipment. "Find a padded armor and a hauberk."
This one was older than Serrett, probably almost seventeen. Gregor's age. He was a bit taller than Sandor, and far more experienced.
"This is a cruel game," Gerion protested, walking briskly toward Tywin. "Peckledon will be knighted soon and-"
"I disagree. We need to know if the lad has the guts," Kevan retorted. "After all, he said he wanted to fight. Who will he fight, once in the battlefield? Knights, most likely. Let's have some fun."
Sandor intended to have fun, too. As Peckledon put on his padded armor and a chain-mail shirt which seemed his, not something borrowed from the master-at-arms, he observed him. Peckledon glanced back at him from time to time without showing his apprehension if he ever was ill-at-ease. Gerion came back to Sandor and brushed his arm thickened by the padded armor.
"You're quick," he told Sandor. "You're quick, but sometimes you need to have a good look at your opponent. Agility is good, but only once you've taken your time and understood his weaknesses. You did well, though."
"Thank you, Ser."
Twenty feet separated him from Peckledon, who was fastening his helmet.
"Left shoulder," Gerion whispered.
He said it without looking at him, careful not to be heard by the other ones. Sandor barely nodded, wondering why Gerion Lannister himself would help him this way.
Among the men watching the fight, he saw a very young boy, with golden hair framing his strange little face. He knew Tywin Lannister's youngest son was a dwarf and his father rejected him. The dwarf boy limped along toward Gerion, who frowned at him and told him he shouldn't be there. Ignoring his remark, the boy shrugged and positioned himself next to his uncle, seeking the best spot to attend the impending fight. The vision of this child so small, so frail with his twisted legs struck Sandor. He would never have survived in Clegane's Keep. I may be burnt, but at least I'm tall and strong. He noticed that the viewers curious gaze focused on the dwarf boy instead of him. I guess I'm not the only monster in this castle.
Tywin gestured once again and the fight began. This time, his opponent seemed cautious and observed him for a while before feinting. Sandor knew the Lannisters watched every thrust he made and appreciated it; the atmosphere was different from the first fight, because nobody dared to bet on either of the boys and because the outcome was uncertain. Tension filled the corner of the dusty yard where they were challenging each other.
"He's gifted," Tywin commented, after Sandor's counterattack. "Very agile."
"He's more than that," Gerion added. And for once, Kevan didn't find anything wrong with it.
After a few minutes, Sandor struck Peckledon on his left shoulder; he had hesitated, but finally realized Gerion had given him this advice so that he could take advantage of it. The older boy winced in pain. A few more blows and his opponent was on his knees. There were no shouts, no cheers. What did I expect? Instead of praising him, squires and grown men looked at him with distrust.
"You stay, for the time being," Tywin eventually said. "You'll be Ser Kevan's squire. You already share his page's room." And that was all.
As he took off the hauberk and the padded armor, he heard men talking about him.
"He's Gregor Clegane's brother. The one Prince Rhaegar knighted a while ago."
"Clegane's brother? Seven save us! Now I understand why he defeated the two older boys. He's a monster. Cleganes are monsters."