Chapter 7:

The master-at-arms, unshaven, his paunch popping out of his breeches, looked at them solemnly and cleared his throat.

"This will be our last training day. We're going to King's Landing with all the Lannister Bannermen. At least some of you will come with us."

The news brought enthusiasm among the squires and pages gathered in the yard, under the morning sun. The oldest squires strutted around, sure they would be part of the host, confident in their skills and bravery. They all dreamed of feats of arms, of rewards, of people calling their names, of songs written about them. While they all gloated over the journey, Sandor didn't move and stayed perfectly silent. Fighting meant giving free rein to his violent urges while he tried to control them daily. He was good at only one thing, people usually forbid him to do it and suddenly, the ban had disappeared and he would be praised for beating and hurting his fellow men. It was so disturbing he felt dizzy and hardly avoided Serret who jumped and ran about in excitement.

"Pages are not coming," the master-at-arms announced, after shushing them.

A disappointed clamor spread in the yard.

"No! Master Symon!" a boy protested.

"I said...You'll stay with Ser Kevan. War is not for children."

Ser Kevan stays here! Sandor kept himself from leaping like a mountain goat, then panicked: a squire belonged with his master. What if Tywin had decided that neither Kevan nor him would move from Casterly Rock? And suddenly, he felt like everybody attended a feast of which he was excluded.

"Clegane! Where are you?" the master-at-arms rasped. "Stop hiding yourself behind the pages, you pig-head, you're taller than anyone."

Some squires gave a raucous laughter; the pages were too frustrated by the idea of staying in the Westerlands to appreciate any joke, while everybody packed for the capital. Sandor dragged his feet obediently and positioned himself in front of the master-at-arms. Symon told the squires to take their shield and sword for the training and dismissed the pages.

"You'll train with me, today," he explained, sputtering on Sandor's good cheek. "Want to see how you improved on your sword fight."

It sounded more like an attempt to prevent a brawl, as the other squires kept on provoking Sandor and Sandor kept distrusting them.

"Am I going with you to King's Landing?" he asked, trying to conceal his nervousness.

As usual, his high-pitched voice betrayed him and the master-at-arms snorted, conscious of his wish to accompany the host.

"Of course, we'll take you there! You'll be the youngest member of the host, the one who will bring good luck. No need to say you'll have to prove yourself. It's a great honor."

Some people don't understand why Tywin is so generous with me and they'll let me know I don't belong with the host. Now he could read between the lines.

Sandor nodded eagerly and took the sword he had been given; like the rest of his equipment, it was someone else's. The master-at-arms had liberally offered him everything, from the shield to the mismatched armor, picking up discarded weapons and old plate forgotten by some careless squire. His uncommon size had complicated Master Symon's task and Sandor knew he wore the most pathetic armor of the Seven Kingdoms.

"There are plenty of good armorsmiths in King's Landing," Master Symon taunted him, as if he could read his thoughts. "Fencing position, Clegane!"

When he came in the kitchens, she was having a bad day: she shouted at Willa and one of the boys who had spilled some soup on the tiles who ran away before she could chide him. All of a sudden, Fat Jeyne turned around, her chest heaving and he met her sad eyes. She already knows.

As he frantically searched his brain for something appropriate to say, he stepped forward, then raised his head to look at her: the girls were gone, as if they understood their presence would be intrusive. He stared at the grey-haired woman, standing, hands on her hips in the deserted kitchens and his enthusiasm for their journey to King's Landing immediately vanished.

"So you're leaving," she stated.

Now that his eyes adjusted themselves to the dim light, he could see the wrinkles on her forehead and at the corners of her mouth, and above all, the weariness in her gaze. Whenever a member of his kin died, a feeling of being forsaken had overwhelmed him – soon replaced by a seething rage – and for the first time in his life, he had the impression that he abandoned someone. It was way more disturbing than the prospect of giving free rein to his natural tendency to hit and to hurt.

Somehow, he knew she expected him to talk and he wanted to say something as well, but the words were stuck in his throat, so he simply shrugged.

"Lord Tywin changed his mind overnight," she commented, a bit stiffly. "Didn't think it would be so soon. Are you happy to make war, boy?"

"I don't know."

That was all he was able to say and it was sincere. An uncomfortable silence filled the room as they carefully avoided each other's gaze. Sandor thought of the kitchen maids who were waiting somewhere outside, of Kevan who was most likely looking for him, of how ashamed he would feel if he started to cry, which was likely, but his feet seemed glued to the greasy tiles and he stayed there, silent.

"Promise me to take care of yourself, Sandor," she stuttered, placing a dark lock behind his ear. "You're a big boy, now. I'll give you some food, for the journey: dry sausage, cheese... Things you can keep a week or two. I know you're a big eater, but make it last, if you can."

"We'll be back soon," he said, in a derisory attempt to reassure her.

It didn't work and he felt terribly stupid when her lower lip began to tremble.

"I'm an old woman. Who will carry the heavy logs if you're not here?" she asked, trying to laugh. "Your brother will be there, so you'd better stay with Ser Gerion. He's a good man, Ser Gerion. Be careful, Sandor, and come back to me soon."

"Take care," he replied. "Take care and-"

He couldn't finish his sentence and embraced her, the way he would have embraced his mother. She clutched to him, her fingers tangling in his hair, repressing a sob. She smelt of lemons and green peas, that day, a smell that disgusted Kevan and infuriated him whenever Sandor had spent too much time in the kitchens. I'll miss this smell.

She finally pulled away and told him to go, wiping her tears with the back of her plump hands, almost chiding him. When he left her, he felt different. There was a persistent sadness, which made him sigh from time to time, and the intuition that he could never see her again. However, a sort of pride budded inside him: it had nothing to do with his impending departure for King's Landing: it was the thought, very simple yet unfamiliar, that somebody would be waiting for his return.

If someone sings 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair' once more, I swear I'll rip out his tongue.

They had been on the road for five days, now, and everybody kept on telling him how much he would learn during their journey, how many lessons he would receive in such a short amount of time. They thought of lessons about warfare and swordplay and camp life. However, as far as camp life was concerned, Sandor had learned one single lesson he would undoubtedly remember for the rest of his life: he hated groups and couldn't stand the over-closeness with squires, knights and the rest of the Lannister host. He craved for solitude. He missed the thick wooden doors and the bolts which allowed him not to be disturbed. Under the canvass tents, one could never be alone for a long time; there were always men shouting and laughing somewhere.

During the day, as they rode on the River Road, he had ingenuously thought it would be exhilarating to be on a horse and to discover unfamiliar landscapes: and it was admittedly pleasing, but his pleasure vanished every time a squire or a knight began to bellow 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair'.

"Oh I'm a maid,""

And I'm pure and fair,"

"I'll never dance,"

"With a hairy bear,"

"A bear! A bear!"

"I'll never dance,"

"With a hairy bear!"

Sandor couldn't say he had something against that song before; he knew it by heart, even sang it – before becoming aware he had the most twangy voice of the Westerlands – but when Peckledon decided that it would be fun to bawl it whenever they meet someone on the road, Sandor quickly understood why his father always say that silence was golden. Can't someone tell him to shut up? His companions beamed senselessly and sang along. When they all sang together, Bannermen, squires and foot soldiers, the sound was deafening; it was like Tywin's host wanted to be heard leagues away. To threaten our enemies? Don't we have the drum for that purpose?

Sandor had made one friend during the first days of their journey, despite the usual taunting of the squires, and Kevan would have disapproved, for sure: the drummer who accompanied the host, a miner's son from Nunn's Deep. Talbert was four-and-ten, had freckles all over his face and was too scared of the other boys to refuse Sandor's help, the day Banefort and his friends planned to throw him in the nearest river, to make sure the boy couldn't swim. Somehow, the dry sausages offered by Fat Jeyne helped as well their nascent friendship. They used to chew bits of dry meat at night, by the fire, while men sang and drank away the tiredness of the day. They barely talked, Sandor being too shy and Talbert not wishing to put his new friend's patience to the test; Talbert seemed in awe of his height, his strength and his taciturn behavior.

Sandor was silently enjoying the salty taste of dry sausage and watching the flames when a shrill laughter made him turn his head; there were two women chatting and laughing with a bunch of archers nearby.

"Why are those women here?" he asked Talbert with a suspicious tone.

In his mind, things were quite simple: men worked and fought while a woman's place was in the kitchens. A feminine presence within the camp, among the soldiers, was incongruous.

"They're washerwomen," Talbert replied, pleased to notice he could impress Sandor with his knowledge.

"Washerwomen? This is nonsense; I can take care of my clothes."

That was probably another reason why Kevan wrinkled his nose every time he met him in Casterly Rock. Talbert chuckled, until Sandor's gaze darkened with anger.

"We call them washerwomen, but they don't really wash clothes," he explained. They're just camp followers. Whores, if you prefer. I'd wager you've never been with a woman."

Sandor stared at his new friend and decided he was getting too bold.

"'Cause you've been with a woman? You don't even have a beard! I bet the last time you saw tits was when your mother still breastfed you."

With that, he sat back and cut another slice of dry sausage; as remorse crept in a corner of his mind, he offered some to Talbert. I should talk to these women and tell them to stay away from Gregor, he thought. He got on his feet so abruptly the drummer looked at him in astonishment and he walked towards the group formed by the archers and the so-called washerwomen.

Feeling terribly awkward, he cleared his throat. One of the two women was already wriggling and laughing in the oldest archer's arms, a plump redhead who seemed to draw every man's attention, so he chose to tug the other woman's sleeve. She turned around to face him, took in his height and broad shoulders but her smile vanished when she saw the unburnt half of his face – thanks to the darkness, she couldn't see the scars hidden by his hair: a child, he read in her surprised look. She was a mere child, as well: a lanky girl with dark brown hair, dark eyes and a flat bosom.

"What is it you want, cutie?" she asked him with a hint of impatience. "I don't do children. Come back in a few years. Please."

He went red bright, at the thought of what she had imagined and tried to ignore her sarcasm.

"I don't ask for anything, I just want to warn you. See the big man on your left, taller than anyone else? Ser Gregor. Stay away from him, don't talk to him, don't... don't lay with him." He realized he was out of breath, mostly because of his uneasiness, and waited for the girl's reaction. "You should tell your friend, too. He's dangerous. I mean it," he added.

She crossed her arms tightly, in a desperate attempt to bring attention on her small breasts.

"Why should I trust you about him?" she asked, cocking her head to the side. "Mayhap you're just a nasty boy who wants to ruin this young man's night?"

"He's a killer," he whispered, hoping the archers wouldn't hear him. "He's got blood on his hands."

She burst out laughing, throwing back her head, and it sounded quite artificial; he wondered if cheap wine caused this fit of laughter or if she was just exaggerating her self-confidence.

"Look around you, boy. This is a host. They are killers. All of them."

The girl shrugged to show how little she cared about his opinion, and gave him a condescending smile, hoping he would understand and leave her with her new friends. Sandor shook his head in helplessness and saw her expression changing; her eyes were now wide open and disgust made her cringe. She saw my scars. He wanted to run away but he resisted the urge, eager to give the girl one reason to stay away from his brother.

"See my scars?" he told her with as much casualness as possible, "Want to know who did that to me?" He gestured towards Gregor. "Now, believe me or not, I don't give a damn. If you or the likes of you want to get killed, that's your business. I was just saying."

In front of him, the girl hesitated between absolute panic and annoyance; in the end, irritation prevailed.

"I told you to come back in a few years but don't," she said with a malevolent smile."I don't do cripples either."

He clenched his fists and dug his nails deep in his palms not to slap her face. Fortunately, the archers had finally noticed his presence and one of them decided he was old enough to get drunk.

"We're going to see if a big boy like you is able to hold his drink!" the oldest archer exclaimed.

He had left the fair-headed woman with one of his friends and he grabbed Sandor's shoulders unceremoniously. He made him sit by the fire and forced him to drink out of his wineskin. That's how Sandor got drunk for the first time, sharing wine with men he barely knew and sitting across an infuriated girl who had rejected him.

He felt terrible. Terrible and betrayed; nobody had ever told him one could feel so bad, so miserable after drinking. Drinking was supposed to be fun and it had been somehow: after a while – after the first wineskin, precisely – he had completely forgotten the stupid girl who didn't want to believe him, forgotten his brother, as well. He had even thought that the archers were the better companions one could dream of, and told himself it was good to be surrounded by people shouting and singing.

The first rays of light dissipated the well-being he had felt a few hours ago and made his thoughts of the night before seem foolish. Kneeling by the stream, he sprayed himself with some fresh water. Disappointing. He needed something more drastic to get rid of his queasiness so he plunged his head under the water, then shook himself like the dog he was in the eyes of the other squires. He grabbed the bucket he had taken before leaving the place where he had ended up the night before, collected some water and got back to Tywin's tent.

If Tywin wanted to make his relationship with the squires more difficult, he couldn't take a better decision: Sandor had lost his master with Kevan staying in Casterly Rock, so Tywin had settled on having the boy serving him, even if Banefort had been his squire for four years. Thus, Tywin had two squires constantly fighting each other to obey his orders. And that morning, Sandor wanted to take advantage on Banefort who was probably still sleeping it off somewhere. A smug smile creeping on his twisted lips, he slalomed between the tents, the soldiers who had fallen asleep outside and the remains of last night's bender – empty wineskins and suspect puddles smelling of vomit – until he reached his lord's tent.

Tywin was already awoken and asked Sandor to bring him fresh clothes, not before questioning his damp hair and ungroomed looks. All of a sudden, Banefort stormed in the tent, as disheveled as his young rival. He woke up with a start and thought he would be the first one in Tywin's tent. But I won. Sandor rewarded him with a scowl, then noticed a sparkle of amusement in Tywin's eyes. Maybe he did it on purpose and wanted to see if we would tear each other to pieces.

"Clegane, I need to talk to Ser Gerion. Please find him," Tywin commanded. "Banefort, go fetch some more water."

Even Tywin's orders seemed to acknowledge his morning victory over Banefort and this certitude wiped away the last memories of his hangover; he rushed out of the tent and ran to the opposite side of the camp, where Gerion had settled for the night. Tywin's younger brother was almost ready and welcomed him with a frown.

"Did you try to drown yourself or something? And what's that smell? Seven hells, you've been drinking!"

Eyes downcast, Sandor didn't dare to look at him. Gerion chuckled.

"Was it your first night of bender?" he asked, hardly concealing his curiosity. Sandor nodded and Gerion patted his shoulder. "Tell me, boy, what was it like?"

"Good," he decided abruptly. "It was good."

"Talkative as ever," Gerion commented. "At least, you won't boast yourself about your feats. What is it that my brother wants?"

As Sandor explained he didn't have the slightest idea, Gerion stretched his arms over his head and stared at the meadow where the Lannister host had spent the night; his gaze embraced the tents, the heaps of ashes where soldiers had made camp fires, the lazy forms still curled under a blanket.

"I don't like camp life either," he confessed suddenly, before heading to his brother's tent.