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Chapter 4: The Ogress
For a few heartbeats, Tywin Lannister remained silent and Sandor stared at the burning torch, holding his breath and slowly walking backwards in his cell. The Lord of Casterly Rock noticed his unease, for he looked at the torch, then put it in the metallic support on the wall behind him.
"My Lord," Sandor finally said, eyes downcast. "I disturbed your work, I beg forgiveness."
Tywin gestured as if to prevent him from saying anything else.
"But you don't apologize for beating those squires, do you?" he asked Sandor.
The boy didn't know the correct answer, so he shrugged.
"Your black eye disappeared," Tywin commented, folding his arms. "Good. Cleganes have the merit of healing quickly. Do you know why I'm here?"
Sandor shook his head and watched his overlord as he grabbed a discarded stool the crippled servant kept in a corner and sat on it. Sandor's stomach gurgled noisily and he wondered if Tywin would get mad at him for disturbing the silence of the dungeon.
"It's been a while since I last sent someone here," Tywin went on, lost in his thoughts. His eyes lingered on the walls carved out of the rock, then to the ceiling. "I usually don't need to. People find it easier to obey."
He's pissed off, Sandor mused. That's unfair, I only defended myself.
"Don't scowl at me," Tywin suddenly commanded. "I didn't send you here to punish you. Remember what I told you the other night: I know you didn't attack them."
Why then? He stared at his liege lord while the latter shifted on the stool and crossed his long legs.
"You're an interesting person, Clegane. If this half-witted boy from House Banefort didn't already serve me, I would have chosen you as a squire. Maybe next year, once Banefort is knighted... Kevan wouldn't mind if I steal his own squire, he dislikes you."
Puzzled, Sandor didn't move. The harder he reflected on Tywin's words, the less he understood.
"Do you know why I sent you in the dungeon?" Tywin asked, leaning forward.
"You sent me in the dungeon because you were angry, my lord." In his eyes, it was the only sensible answer, but the man shook his head.
"No, not at all, boy. I sent you to this cell because I'm happy with you."
It doesn't make any sense. Sandor wondered if it was a trick.
"And I let my brother whip the squires because I couldn't care less. Tell me, boy, what will happen to these boys within five or ten years?"
Sandor shook his head again.
"Of course, you don't know," Tywin muttered. "Well, they are both their father's youngest son, which means they'll never inherit their family's lands and titles. They'll do their best to become knights and they'll probably succeed, they'll go from tourney to tourney and dream of being declared champion. A few days ago, I didn't care about them and didn't even think of their future. Thanks to you, I learned what kind of boys they are. In peace time, young arrogant knights like Peckledon and Serrett will be soon take part in tourneys and die because even if they're good at jousting, there's always someone more gifted than them. In war-time, they die because they're not as strong as their opponents. And because they make terrible decisions, like assaulting you in the middle of the night."
He paused and observed Sandor's confused expression.
"I don't know if you're good or bad at jousting, boy. I'd wager you don't care about tourneys, because tourneys are not for real. To be completely honest with you, jousting and mêlée bore me. You're different from Serrett and Peckledon. You take it seriously when you fight and I respect that. That's why you're here: you didn't come to Casterly Rock to be coddled. Your late father would laugh at me if I overprotected you. You're here because I can give you bed and board as long as you fight for me."
"I'll fight for you, my lord," Sandor said, eyes pleading, but standing very straight.
His high-pitched voice brought a half-smile on Tywin's lips.
"How is it possible that a tall and broad-shouldered lad has such a girlish voice?" he exclaimed. "It doesn't matter. You need to train daily to improve your skills. You need to harden yourself. There will be battles soon."
"Is it why you were working so late?" Sandor asked, growing more confident.
Tywin nodded.
"Lords of the Vale, the North and the Stormlands rebelled against King Aerys. Sooner or later, I'll have to engage my host in this war," he said thoughtfully.
"I want to fight with you, my lord, when you rescue the king."
Coming to Aerys' help and taking part in a real war sounded more exciting than anything else; Sandor stepped forward, leaned against the bars of his cell and locked eyes with his visitor.
"Did I say I will fight for the king?" Tywin asked, his green gaze shining. "I didn't make a decision yet. As my ward, you'll fight for the side I choose."
"Of course, my lord."
Tywin arose and planted himself in front of the door, his long fingers brushing the lock. Immediately, Sandor ran to the corner where he had left his boots and tried to tidy his cell. When he was done, he got back to Tywin and waited for him to open the door. Brow furrowed, the Lord of Casterly Rock gazed at him.
"I came to talk to you, not to suspend your punishment," Tywin steadily explained. "I said five days. You have two more days to spend in here."
He ignored Sandor's begging eyes and calmly walked out of the dungeon.
Under Kevan Lannister's watchful gaze, the crippled servant turned the key in the lock and slowly opened the door of his cell. Free, at last. After five days spent in the dark, living on bread and water, Sandor was so weak he didn't know if it was day or night; he only remembered he was asleep when they came. The lame boy who brought food everyday gave him a curious look and he felt like a wild animal out of his cage.
Kevan's frowned and commanded Sandor to follow him; they left the dungeon located in the depths of the castle and began to climb one of the never-ending spiral staircases of Casterly Rock. Sluggishly, they made progress in the chilly and unlit flights of stairs; Sandor was so unsteady on his feet the climb itself looked like an adventure, like exiting the Seven Hells and getting back to the world of the living. Finally, Kevan led him to a corridor poorly lit by candles; outside, a waning crescent moon cast a blueish light. It was later than he thought.
"What time is it, Ser?" Sandor asked.
"The hour of the wolf. The same hour I locked you in the dungeon when you fought with the squires. Five days are five days."
Did Tywin command him to free me exactly five days after I stepped in the dungeon? He didn't dare to ask, but Kevan seemed furious, as if he had been disturbed in his sleep. They walked through the corridors, climbed more stairways and arrived in front of the room he shared with Tybolt. Without ever looking back, Kevan left him and headed to his apartments.
When he entered his room and sat on the pallet, Tybolt snored, head backwards and mouth agape. In the dungeon, at least, everything was quiet. Lying curled up in a ball, he felt tired but couldn't get to sleep. He was ravenous and knew he couldn't get some rest before eating. It was not gluttony: he needed some food. Silently, he left his pallet and opened the door: the corridor seemed empty. He walked on tiptoe on the wooden floor, reached the staircase and made his way to the kitchens.
During the five days he spent in the dungeon, Sandor had become obsessed with the larder: he dreamed of ham and sausages, let his mind wander around the shelves full of bacon, pâtés and legs of lamb. The kitchens were perfectly silent and by chance, no kitchen maid slept there. Thanks to the meager light provided by the fire, he found the larder's door and slowly opened it. The smell was so rich, with fragrances of salt and smoked meat tickling his nostrils, he nearly fainted and had to lean back on the door. Careful now: nobody needs to know I was here. If I got locked in the dungeon five days for defending myself, I'll spend the next moons in a cell for stealing food.
All of a sudden, before he could decide what he would pick, a muffled noise startled him and he hid himself in the darkest corner of the tiny room, hitting a large ham hanging from the ceiling. The intruder, whoever it was, headed directly to the larder: underneath the door, he could see the light of a lantern dancing on the red tiles and coming closer. He swallowed hard, ruing his decision of sneaking in the kitchens and thinking of the black bread he would eat for days in the dungeon, when the door creaked open.
Fat Jeyne's pot-bellied figure appeared, holding a candle lantern; in her nightgown and woolen shawl, she seemed heavier than the last time they met.
"Seven save us, what are you doing here?" she hissed, her chest heaving, and she put the lantern on the nearest shelf.
Sandor thought of running away, but standing on the threshold, she blocked his path; he nevertheless decided to force his way out, guessing he would leave her behind easily. He threw himself on the cook, convinced she would step aside and let him go. To his great surprise, she put up resistance and clung on to him, preventing him from leaving the larder. Using all her weight, she stood in his way and crushed Sandor to her big breasts; soon he couldn't kick her and when she tightened her grip on him, he couldn't move anymore.
After a few heartbeats, he stopped struggling with her and stood up straight as soon as she released her hold on him. She wasn't so impressive this way; he was taller than Fat Jeyne and her face seemed tired.
"There," she cawed. "You little monster. Thought you could sneak in the larder and eat whatever you want? Say you're sorry."
Looking down and observing his bare feet black with filth, he complied.
"Are you going to tell Ser Kevan I stole food?" he added, anxious.
"No, 'cause you didn't. You only awoke me and tried to escape. And kicked my old legs."
"I'm sorry," he repeated, glancing at her.
Hands on her hips, she gave him a long disapproving look.
"What am I going to do with you, Sandor?"
She remembers my name. Nobody called him 'Sandor' in Casterly Rock. He knew he should be moved, however, her familiarity disturbed him and he felt the urge to run away, like some young wild animal.
"I'd better go to bed," he said, avoiding her gaze.
"Where have you been? I didn't see you in days."
Someone wondering where he was and caring for him seemed completely unnatural. He shifted from foot to foot.
"I... was in the dungeon. I hit squires. But they hit me first," he explained, ashamed.
"The dungeon, huh? I'd wager they barely gave you something to eat. Is it why-"
She gestured at the shelves heavy with smoked sausages and hams and he nodded in acquiescence. Her lips twisted in a motherly smile.
"Well, since we're both awake..." she sighed, extending her pudgy hand to reach a plate of smoked bacon. "Go sit down, boy."
Sandor watched her as she prepared eggs with bacon. For fear he was starving, she added some gruel and put the food in front of him, with a gap-toothed smile. She looks like an ogress, an ogress who remembers my name.
"Can I have some wine?" he asked, knowing gruel would make him thirsty.
"Only watered wine for you, boy!" she exclaimed, ruffling his hair.
She stood up behind him while he ate, keeping an eye on Sandor. With every gulp of food, he felt better but began to wonder what she had in mind and why she was good to him. Is it because my burns move her to pity or does she want something in exchange for her help, like Tywin? Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he turned to Fat Jeyne.
"I once had a son," she muttered, as if answering to his silent question. "Big eater, he was. Like you. He died, years ago. A fever."
Sandor wanted to say something, but words were stuck in his throat.
"But you don't care, do you?" Fat Jeyne added, taking hastily the empty bowl of gruel. "I'm pretty sure you're a decent lad, Sandor. There will always be something for you in the kitchens as long as you promise not to steal food. Just ask Fat Jeyne."
She sighed heavily and he saw unshed tears in her small eyes.
"Go to bed, now. When this codger who calls himself a master-at-arms is done with you, come here and I'll give you some more gruel. With jam, if you're a good boy."