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Adrian Lannister (6 Years and One Month)
Adrian stood very straight, hands clasped behind his back, trying his best not to fidget as Father studied the ledger on his massive desk. Father's solar always smelled like leather and parchment and something Adrian couldn't name but thought of as "important grown-up smell." The morning sun through the narrow windows made dust motes dance in the air, which was much more interesting than watching Father write numbers in his book.
Adrian was just about to count how many lions were carved into Father's chair (he'd counted sixteen last time, but wasn't sure if he'd missed any) when the solar door opened.
The second biggest person Adrian had ever seen ducked through the doorway. Well, not the tallest—Uncle Gerion was taller—but the widest, with shoulders like the bulls in the Casterly Rock pens. He wore plain armor with no sigil and had a giant sword strapped to his back. But what really made Adrian's eyes go wide was his face.
Half of it was normal enough—not handsome like Uncle Tygett, but not ugly either. But the other half was a mess of twisted, puckered scars, red and angry-looking. His ear on that side was mostly gone, and he had no hair where the burns stretched across his scalp.
Adrian knew he shouldn't stare. Father said staring was rude, especially at people's... difficulties. So he made himself look at the burned man's eyes instead. They were grey and cold and angry, like storm clouds.
"Clegane," Father said without looking up. "You're late."
"Apologies, my lord," the burned man replied. His voice was rough, like he had rocks in his throat. "Had trouble with my horse."
Father set down his quill and finally looked up. "Adrian, this is Sandor Clegane. Second son of a minor house sworn to Casterly Rock."
Adrian gave his best bow, the one Maester Creylen had taught him for greeting noble visitors. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ser Clegane."
The big man made a sound like an angry dog. "I'm no ser, boy. Not a knight. Just Clegane or Sandor."
Adrian blinked, confused. The man had a sword and armor. In his books, men with swords and armor were always knights.
"Clegane," Father said with a slight edge to his voice, "will be your personal guard from today onward."
"My... guard?" Adrian tilted his head, trying to understand. "Like the men who stand by the doors?"
"No," Father said. "Personal. He will accompany you throughout your day. Where you go, he goes. His duty is to protect you from any threat."
Adrian's eyes widened. "Am I in danger, Father?"
The corner of Father's mouth twitched slightly. "The heir to Casterly Rock is always a potential target. This is simply a precaution, one I should have taken sooner."
Sandor Clegane shifted his weight, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. "Lord Tywin, I'm a fighter, not a nursemaid."
"You are what I say you are," Father replied coldly. "You will guard my son. You will keep him safe. You will obey his reasonable commands."
"And if his commands aren't reasonable?" Sandor asked, looking down at Adrian with something between amusement and annoyance.
"Then you will use your judgment," Father said. "He is six, not sixteen. Though I expect Adrian to behave with the dignity befitting his position." This last part was clearly meant for Adrian, who straightened his back even more.
"Yes, Father."
Father stood and walked around his desk. "Adrian is not like other children. He is heir to the wealthiest house in the Seven Kingdoms. I expect you to remember that at all times."
"Yes, my lord," Sandor grumbled.
Adrian looked from Father to Sandor and back. Having his own guard sounded important, but the burned man didn't seem to like him very much.
"Thank you for guarding me, Sandor," Adrian tried, hoping good manners might help.
Sandor made a noise that might have been a laugh or a cough. "Don't thank me yet, little lord. Haven't done anything worth thanks."
Father's green-gold eyes narrowed. "Adrian, wait outside. I need a private word with Clegane."
Adrian bowed again and walked to the door, feeling Sandor's eyes on his back. Outside, he pressed his ear against the heavy oak door, but could only catch bits of Father's voice, low and threatening.
"...your life will be worth less than a copper star if any harm..."
Adrian moved away quickly as the door suddenly opened. Sandor stepped out, looking even grumpier than before.
"Well, little lord," he said, looking down at Adrian. "Seems I'm your shadow now. Where to first?"
Adrian thought for a moment. "I have lessons with Maester Creylen in the library tower."
"Lead on then," Sandor said with a sigh. "And try not to get into any deathly peril between here and there. Your father has made it very clear what would happen to me."
Adrian giggled before he could stop himself. "I'll try my very best not to die before lunch."
Sandor's burnt face twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "See that you don't. Haven't had breakfast yet, and I'd hate to face the Stranger on an empty stomach."
As they walked through the corridors of Casterly Rock, Adrian had to take three steps for every one of Sandor's. He kept sneaking glances up at his new guard, wondering what had happened to his face and why he wasn't a knight when he had such a big sword.
But those were questions for another time. Even at six, Adrian knew some scars went deeper than skin, and some questions weren't meant to be asked right away.
The library tower of Casterly Rock was Adrian's favorite place after the gardens. It smelled of old parchment and leather bindings, and the tall windows let in streams of golden sunlight that made dust sparkle in the air like tiny stars. Adrian sat at a heavy oak table while Maester Creylen droned on about the kings of the Reach before Aegon's Conquest.
Sandor Clegane leaned against a bookshelf nearby, looking as out of place as a bear in a sept. His massive arms were crossed over his chest, and his eyes kept darting to the windows and doors, like he expected enemies to burst in at any moment.
"...and so King Mern IX was the last of the Gardener kings," Maester Creylen continued. "Adrian, can you tell me what happened to King Mern?"
Adrian pulled his attention back to the lesson. "He died at the Field of Fire with all his sons. Aegon and his sisters burned them with their dragons."
The Maester nodded approvingly. "Very good. And who—"
A loud snort interrupted him. Sandor had made a dismissive sound at the mention of dragons.
Maester Creylen frowned, unused to interruptions during his lessons. "Is something amusing, Clegane?"
"Dragons," Sandor muttered. "Boy's better off learning about real threats. Not monsters from stories."
Adrian blinked in surprise. "But dragons were real! They had skulls in the Red Keep before Robert's Rebellion. Tyrion told me!"
"Aye, and now they're dead," Sandor replied flatly. "Like everything else that flies or crawls or swims. Everything dies eventually."
Maester Creylen cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should continue with the lesson. Adrian, after the Gardener line ended, which family was granted lordship over Highgarden?"
The lesson continued, but Adrian found his attention drifting to his new guard. Why didn't Sandor like dragons? Was it because of his burns? Adrian had a hundred questions bubbling up inside him, but he remembered Father's warnings about asking too many questions, especially personal ones.
When the lesson finally ended, Adrian gathered his parchments and followed Sandor into the corridor.
"What now, little lord?" Sandor asked, his voice gruff but not unkind.
"Now I practice my letters with Septa Marilla," Adrian replied. "It's in the solar next to the sept."
They walked in silence through the winding corridors of Casterly Rock. Adrian had to trot to keep up with Sandor's long strides.
"Do you like being a guard?" Adrian finally asked, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.
"It's better than farming," Sandor replied after a moment. "And worse than drinking."
Adrian giggled at that. "I've never had wine except a sip at feasts. It tastes like sour grape juice with fire in it."
The corner of Sandor's mouth that wasn't scarred twitched. "That's about right."
"Have you always been a guard?"
"No."
"What were you before?"
"Younger."
Adrian frowned. Talking to Sandor was like trying to get water from a stone. "Did you fight in the rebellion? Against the dragons?"
Sandor stopped walking and looked down at Adrian. "I was thirteen when your father's men sacked King's Landing. Too young for war."
"Oh." Adrian did the math in his head. "So you're nineteen now?"
"Something like that," Sandor grunted, starting to walk again.
"That's only three years older than Tyrion! He's sixteen. And thirteen years older than me."
"Is that so?" Sandor didn't sound interested.
"Have you met my brother Jaime? Tyrion says he's the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms."
Something dark passed over Sandor's face. "I've seen the Kingslayer fight in tourneys. He's good with that golden sword of his. Too pretty by half, but good."
"Could you beat him?" Adrian asked, eyes wide.
Sandor barked a laugh. "Seven hells, boy. You don't ask a man that sort of question."
"Why not?"
"Because if I said yes, I'd be calling your brother a liar. And if I said no, I'd be admitting I'm not as good as I think I am. Neither makes for good conversation."
Adrian pondered this as they reached the sept solar. Septa Marilla was waiting with quills and parchment laid out neatly on the table.
"I'll wait outside," Sandor said, clearly relieved to escape more questions.
After an hour of practicing his letters (which Adrian found dreadfully boring, since he already knew how to write better than most grown-ups), it was time for the midday meal. Adrian led Sandor to the family dining hall, where Tyrion was already seated, a book propped open beside his plate.
"Ah, there's my favorite brother," Tyrion said with a smile that faltered slightly when he saw Sandor. "And I see Father has assigned you a shadow."
"This is Sandor Clegane," Adrian said, climbing onto his chair. "He's my guard now."
"So I've heard," Tyrion replied, studying Sandor with mismatched eyes. "The younger Clegane brother. Less enormous than the Mountain, and presumably less prone to fits of murderous rage?"
Sandor's face darkened. "Don't compare me to my brother, Imp."
"Fair enough," Tyrion said easily. "I'm not particularly fond of being compared to my siblings either. Perfect Jaime with his sword, beautiful Cersei with her crown."
Adrian picked at his roast chicken while Tyrion and Sandor sized each other up like two unfamiliar dogs.
"Will you be joining us for a cup of wine, Clegane?" Tyrion finally asked. "Or does guarding require complete sobriety?"
"One cup won't dull my senses," Sandor replied, taking a seat at the far end of the table. "Though I've heard you're fond of drinking until you can't feel your face."
Tyrion grinned. "One of the advantages of having such a small body—it takes less wine to achieve the desired effect."
Adrian watched, fascinated, as the two bantered. It was like watching a duel with words instead of swords.
"Will you be joining us at Lady Marya's establishment later?" Tyrion asked Sandor, with a significant look. "Some of the most, ah, welcoming ladies in Lannisport reside there."
Sandor's eyes flicked to Adrian. "Can't. Babysitting duty."
"What's Lady Marya's?" Adrian asked innocently. "Is it like the inn we stayed at when we visited Lannisport?"
Tyrion nearly choked on his wine. "It's... a place where grown men go to... enjoy conversation with ladies."
"It's a whorehouse," Sandor said bluntly. "Men pay women to—"
"To provide various entertainments," Tyrion cut in quickly. "Which we needn't discuss at the table."
Adrian's forehead wrinkled in confusion. "What's a whorehouse?"
"Ask your father," Sandor suggested with a smirk.
"Please don't," Tyrion groaned. "He'll have both our heads on spikes."
After the meal, Adrian had a free hour before his next lesson. He decided to show Sandor his favorite spot in the gardens, a hidden alcove behind the lion statues where the climbing roses grew thick and wild.
"Aren't you ever afraid?" Adrian asked as they sat on a stone bench. "You know, of fighting and battles and things."
Sandor looked at him with those storm-grey eyes. "Only fools aren't afraid in battle. Fear keeps you alive."
"But knights in stories are never afraid," Adrian argued.
"Knights in stories are shit," Sandor said harshly. "Real knights are just killers with prettier armor."
Adrian was silent for a moment, absorbing this. "Will you teach me to fight? Uncle Tygett has been helping me with my speed, but he's gone back to his lands now."
Sandor studied him critically. "You're small for your age."
"I know," Adrian sighed. "But I'm fast! And Father says I have to learn all weapons because Lannisters must be the best at everything."
"Speed's good," Sandor acknowledged. "But you need strength too, especially if you're small."
"So will you help me?" Adrian pressed. "Please? I'm supposed to train tomorrow morning."
Sandor seemed to consider it for a long moment. "I'll watch your training. See what you know. Then maybe I'll show you a thing or two."
Adrian beamed. "Thank you!"
"Don't thank me yet, little lord. You might not like my teaching methods."
Later, as Adrian prepared for bed, Tyrion came to his chamber to say goodnight.
"I see you've survived your first day with the Hound," Tyrion remarked.
"The Hound?" Adrian asked, confused.
"That's what some call Clegane. Because of his brother's sigil—three dogs—and his, shall we say, temperament."
"He doesn't seem like a dog to me," Adrian said thoughtfully. "More like a bear. Big and grumpy and not wanting to be bothered."
Tyrion laughed. "An apt description. How did you find him?"
"He doesn't talk much," Adrian admitted. "But he's going to help me with my fighting tomorrow."
"Hmm." Tyrion looked concerned. "Just remember, Adrian, some people are like books with thorns on the cover. You have to be careful how you handle them, but sometimes the story inside is worth the effort."
"Is Sandor like that?"
"I don't know," Tyrion said honestly. "But I'd wager there's more to him than that burned face and growling voice." He ruffled Adrian's hair. "Get some sleep. If you're training with the Hound tomorrow, you'll need all your strength."
As Adrian drifted off to sleep, he wondered what had happened to make Sandor so angry at the world. And he wondered if, maybe, they might become friends someday.
Probably not, he decided sleepily. But maybe Sandor would at least stop calling him "little lord" in that voice that made it sound like a joke.
The Next Day
The morning sun hadn't yet burned away the mist that clung to the stones of Casterly Rock when Adrian arrived at the training yard, wooden practice sword in hand. His stomach felt like it was full of butterflies—not the pretty kind from the gardens, but the nervous kind that made you feel like you might throw up your breakfast.
Sandor walked beside him, yawning occasionally. He didn't seem to like mornings much. His burned face looked even scarier in the pale dawn light, all twisted shadows and rough edges.
"You're up early for a lordling," Sandor remarked as they crossed the empty courtyard. "Most high-born boys your age are still snoring in their feather beds."
"Father says Lannisters should always be the first to rise and the last to rest," Adrian replied, trying to sound grown-up. "Laziness is for lesser houses."
Sandor made a noise that might have been a laugh. "Your father has a saying for everything, doesn't he?"
The training yard was already set up with straw dummies, practice swords, and shields. Uncle Tygett was waiting, his arms crossed over his broad chest. Unlike Father, Uncle Tygett was quick to smile and laugh, though he could be just as demanding during training.
"There's my favorite nephew!" Uncle Tygett called out. Then his eyes fell on Sandor. "And who's this giant shadow you've brought with you?"
"This is Sandor Clegane," Adrian explained. "Father made him my guard. He's going to watch me train today."
Uncle Tygett studied Sandor with an appraising eye. "Clegane... you're Gregor's brother, aren't you?"
Sandor's face darkened. "I am. Though I'd rather not be reminded of it."
Uncle Tygett seemed to sense he'd touched a sore spot and smoothly changed the subject. "Well, Adrian, let's show your new guard what you've learned, shall we? Start with your stance."
Adrian handed his cloak to a waiting servant and took his position in the center of the yard. He held his wooden sword with both hands, feet apart like Uncle Tygett had taught him.
"Good," Uncle Tygett nodded. "Now, the basic positions. First guard!"
Adrian moved his sword up into the starting position.
"Second guard!"
Adrian shifted the sword to defend his right side.
"Third guard!"
A downward position to protect his legs.
"Fourth guard!"
The most difficult one, angled to defend his left side while keeping the point toward an enemy.
Uncle Tygett nodded again, looking pleased. "Much improved. Now let's see your footwork. Remember what I taught you—"
"Like dancing," Adrian finished with a grin. He'd been so excited when Uncle Tygett had compared sword fighting to dancing, because dancing was something Adrian was actually good at. Aunt Genna said he had natural grace.
Adrian moved through the practice steps, focusing hard on keeping his balance. Forward, back, side-step, pivot, thrust. He was doing well until the final turn, when his foot slipped slightly on the damp ground.
"Seven hells, that footwork's all wrong," Sandor suddenly interrupted from the sidelines. "You're putting all your weight on the wrong foot."
Uncle Tygett raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Would you care to demonstrate the proper form, Clegane?"
Adrian expected Sandor to refuse, but to his surprise, the big man stepped forward, drawing his own training sword from the rack.
"Watch," Sandor said gruffly to Adrian. "You're stepping like this." He mimicked Adrian's movement, exaggerating the mistake. "Putting all your weight forward before you've completed the turn. Makes you easy to knock over."
Adrian frowned. "But that's how Uncle Tygett showed me."
"Your uncle's a big man teaching a small boy," Sandor replied. "What works for him won't work for you."
Uncle Tygett looked like he might object, but then he shrugged. "The Hound has a point. Show us your way, Clegane."
Sandor moved into position. "For someone your size, you need to keep your weight centered longer. Like this."
He demonstrated the turn, his massive body somehow light on its feet. Despite his size, Sandor moved with surprising speed.
"Again, slower," Uncle Tygett instructed, watching carefully.
Sandor repeated the movement while explaining. "The trick is to never commit your weight until you know you're stable. Small fighters can't recover from mistakes like bigger men can."
Adrian watched, fascinated. He'd never seen someone so big move so carefully.
"Let the boy try," Uncle Tygett said.
Adrian attempted to copy Sandor's movements, but his first try was clumsy.
"No," Sandor said, shaking his head. "You're thinking too much about your feet and not enough about your center." He pointed to Adrian's belly. "The power comes from here, not your arms or legs."
"I don't understand," Adrian admitted, feeling stupid.
To his surprise, Sandor came over and knelt down to Adrian's level. "Put your hand here," he said, pointing to his own midsection. "Feel that? Solid, like stone. That's where balance begins."
Adrian hesitantly placed his small hand on Sandor's armor, feeling the firmness beneath.
"Now try again," Sandor instructed, standing back up. "But imagine there's a rope tied to your middle, holding you straight."
Adrian took a deep breath and tried once more. This time, he focused on keeping his center tight and balanced, just like Sandor had said. The movement felt different—more controlled.
"Better," Sandor grunted, which from him seemed like high praise.
For the next hour, Adrian practiced under both Uncle Tygett's and Sandor's watchful eyes. It was the hardest training session he'd ever had. Uncle Tygett taught the proper forms and traditions, while Sandor interrupted with practical adjustments for Adrian's small size.
"Don't hold the sword so far from your body," Sandor would say. Or: "Lower your stance, you're too easy to push over."
By the time they moved on to striking the practice dummy, Adrian's arms felt like cooked noodles, and sweat plastered his pale gold hair to his forehead. But he refused to ask for a rest. He wanted to show Sandor and Uncle Tygett that he wasn't a baby who gave up easily.
"Again," Uncle Tygett commanded after Adrian's slash barely dented the straw dummy. "Put your back into it."
Adrian gritted his teeth and swung again, putting all his strength behind the blow. The wooden sword connected with a satisfying thwack, and bits of straw flew from the dummy.
"That's it!" Uncle Tygett exclaimed. "Now you're finding your strength."
Adrian beamed with pride, turning to see if Sandor had noticed. The burned man gave the slightest nod, which made Adrian feel warm inside despite his exhaustion. It was the same feeling he got when Tyrion complimented his intelligence.
The next set of exercises involved defending against attacks. Uncle Tygett swung his practice sword slowly, and Adrian had to block each strike. This was always the hardest part for Adrian. Uncle Tygett was so strong that even his controlled blows jarred Adrian's arms painfully.
After Adrian failed to properly block a downward strike, staggering backward, Sandor stepped forward again.
"You're trying to meet strength with strength," Sandor said. "That won't work for you. You need to redirect the force, not stop it."
"Show him," Uncle Tygett suggested, stepping back.
Sandor took Uncle Tygett's place, his massive practice sword looking like a real threat even though Adrian knew Sandor wouldn't hurt him.
"I'm going to swing," Sandor explained. "Don't try to block straight on. Angle your sword and let my blade slide past you."
Adrian nodded nervously. Sandor swung his sword in a slow, controlled arc. Instead of meeting it directly, Adrian angled his blade and felt Sandor's sword glide along it, the force flowing past him instead of into him.
"Good!" Uncle Tygett called from the side. "Do it again."
They practiced this new technique for another half hour until Adrian could consistently deflect Sandor's slow strikes. It felt like a dance—a dangerous, exciting dance that made Adrian's heart pound.
Finally, Uncle Tygett called an end to the session. "That's enough for today. You've worked hard, Adrian."
Adrian was both relieved and disappointed. His arms ached and his legs felt wobbly, but he'd been enjoying the training more than usual.
As servants brought water and towels, Adrian gulped down his drink and looked up at Sandor. "Was I any good?" he asked, hoping for praise.
Sandor wiped his face with a towel, careful around his burns. "You've got quick feet and good instincts. But you've got a lot to learn if you want to stay alive in a real fight."
"But this is just practice," Adrian said. "For tourneys and things."
Sandor's grey eyes turned serious. "Listen well, boy. The world isn't like your books and songs. In a real battle, being small means being dead unless you're twice as smart and three times as quick as everyone else."
Uncle Tygett frowned. "That's a bit harsh for a child, Clegane."
"Better harsh words now than a harsh death later," Sandor replied. "No one ever told me the truth when I was his age. Everyone was too busy filling my head with tales of knights and honor."
Adrian looked up at Sandor's burned face and suddenly wondered if that was how he got his scars—believing in knights and honor, only to learn the hard way that the world was more dangerous than the stories said.
"I want to learn," Adrian said firmly. "I want to be quick. Will you teach me, Sandor? Not just watching, but really teach me?"
"If your uncle allows it," he said gruffly.
Uncle Tygett studied them both for a moment, then nodded. "I think that could be arranged. Clegane knows things about fighting that aren't in any master-at-arms' teaching. Especially for someone of your... stature."
Adrian grinned, forgetting his aching muscles and the bruises he'd surely have tomorrow. "Thank you!"
As they walked back toward the keep, Adrian trotting to keep up with Sandor's long strides, he felt different somehow. Prouder. Stronger. Not because he'd become a great warrior in one morning, but because for the first time, he had gotten the approval of someone like Sandor.
"Sandor?" Adrian asked as they reached the main courtyard.
"What?"
"Did you really mean what you said? About me having good instincts?"
Sandor looked down at him, his burned face unreadable. "I don't say things I don't mean, boy. That's another truth you'd do well to remember."
Adrian nodded solemnly, tucking this new knowledge away like a precious coin. Sandor didn't lie to make people feel better. Which meant when he did say something good, it was real.
And that, Adrian decided, was worth all the bruises in the world.
One Week Later
The Great Hall of Casterly Rock buzzed with voices as Adrian slipped into his seat at the high table. Father had summoned all the important people who lived in the castle—lords and ladies, knights, stewards, the master-at-arms, and even the cooks. The room smelled like beeswax candles and the rose water that Aunt Genna always wore too much of.
Adrian's chair had three cushions stacked on it so he could see over the massive oak table. Beside him, Tyrion was reading a small leather book, ignoring the commotion around them. Behind Adrian's chair stood Sandor, looking bored and uncomfortable in his new Lannister armor. After a week as Adrian's guard, he still scowled most of the time, but he'd stopped calling Adrian "little lord" quite so often.
"What's happening?" Adrian whispered to Tyrion. "Why did Father call everyone?"
Tyrion looked up from his book. "An announcement of some sort. Something that requires an audience, obviously."
"Is it about me?" Adrian asked, suddenly worried. What if Father had discovered he'd been sneaking lemon cakes from the kitchen with Joy?
"Not everything is about you, brother," Tyrion replied with a small smile. "Though I suspect you'll be involved somehow."
Before Adrian could ask more questions, the side door opened and Father strode in. Everyone immediately stood (except Tyrion, who couldn't jump up quickly with his short legs). Adrian scrambled to his feet, nearly toppling his cushions.
Father took his place at the center of the high table, not sitting but standing tall with his hands resting on the back of his chair. His face was stern as always, but there was something different in his eyes. Something almost... pleased?
"I have received a raven from King's Landing," Father announced without preamble, his voice filling the hall without him having to shout. Adrian always wondered how he did that. "King Robert has declared a celebration to mark the fifth anniversary of his coronation. Each of the Great Houses is expected to hold festivities in their principal city."
A murmur went through the crowd. Celebrations meant tourneys and feasts and minstrels.
"In three weeks' time," Father continued, silencing the whispers with a look, "Lannisport will host a festival to honor His Grace. There will be a tourney, a feast for the nobility, and celebrations for the common folk."
Adrian's eyes widened. A real tourney! With knights and horses and maybe even a melee! He'd only read about such things in books or heard about them from Tyrion.
"As is fitting," Father went on, "House Lannister will demonstrate its prosperity and power. The gold of Casterly Rock will flow, and all will see that the Westerlands remain the crown jewel of the Seven Kingdoms."
Adrian noticed how Father didn't actually sound happy about the festival, even though his words were about celebration. He sounded like he was talking about a battle plan.
"Preparations will begin immediately," Father declared. "My son, Adrian Lannister will attend as heir to Casterly Rock."
Adrian's stomach did a flip like he'd swallowed a live fish. Him? At a public festival? With people looking at him and judging him and expecting him to be perfect like Father?
"My son will represent our house with the dignity befitting a Lannister," Father said, his eyes finding Adrian's.
Adrian tried to look dignified and not terrified. Beside him, Tyrion gave his hand a quick, reassuring squeeze under the table.
Father continued assigning duties—Kevan would oversee security, Lady Genna would plan the feast, Maester Creylen would handle correspondence with noble houses. Adrian tried to listen, but his mind was spinning with thoughts of what it would be like to sit in the high seats with everyone watching him.
After the announcements, servants brought out wine and food, and the hall filled with excited chatter about the upcoming festival. People kept glancing at Adrian with new interest, which made him want to hide under the table.
"Nervous?" Tyrion asked quietly.
Adrian nodded. "What if I do something wrong? What if I fall asleep during the tourney or spill food on my clothes at the feast?"
"Then the sun will still rise the next day," Tyrion replied with a wry smile. "Though Father might spontaneously combust from disappointment."
That made Adrian giggle despite his worries. The image of Father suddenly bursting into flames because Adrian used the wrong fork was too funny.
"You'll do fine," Tyrion assured him. "Just remember to sit straight, speak clearly, and try not to pick your nose in public."
"I don't pick my nose!" Adrian protested, a bit too loudly. Several nearby lords glanced their way, and Adrian felt his face grow hot.
"Of course not," Tyrion said, eyes twinkling with mischief. "A proper Lannister would never. He'd have a servant do it for him."
Adrian giggled again, feeling a little better.
"Besides," Tyrion added, "you'll have your faithful Hound to growl at anyone who looks at you wrong."
Sandor, overhearing, made a noise somewhere between a snort and a growl. "I'm to keep the boy alive, not make him popular."
"Will you be in the tourney, Sandor?" Adrian asked, twisting around to look up at his guard.
"No," Sandor said flatly. "Can't protect you if I'm jousting, can I?"
"My brother Jaime will probably compete," Tyrion mused. "He seldom misses a chance to show off in shiny armor."
"The Kingslayer," Sandor muttered. "All flash and golden hair."
Adrian wanted to ask more about Jaime—he'd never met his oldest brother and was intensely curious—but Father approached their end of the table, and Adrian quickly sat up straight.
"Adrian," Father said, "you will begin preparations immediately. I want you ready, and I want you to make House Lannister proud."
"Yes, Father," Adrian replied dutifully.
"Genna will oversee your festival attire. You will have new clothes befitting your station."
Adrian nodded again, thinking of the hours of standing still while the tailors poked and measured.
"And Clegane," Father turned his cool gaze to Sandor, "you will remain at Adrian's side throughout. I expect you to be vigilant. Crowds present opportunities for those with ill intent."
"Yes, my lord," Sandor replied stiffly.
After Father moved on, Adrian slipped away from the high table. He knew Joy would be waiting to hear what the announcement was about. They had a secret meeting place in the garden where they often played when Joy wasn't having lessons with her septa.
Sure enough, Joy was sitting on their hidden bench, her golden curls catching the afternoon sunlight. At almost five, she was still small and delicate-looking, but her green eyes were sharp and curious. She jumped up when she saw Adrian.
"What happened? Why did Lord Tywin call everyone to the hall?"
Adrian plopped down beside her, Sandor taking up position a few yards away with a long-suffering expression.
"There's going to be a festival in Lannisport!" Adrian announced. "With a tourney and a feast and everything! And I get to go and sit in the high seats because I'm the heir." He couldn't keep the mix of excitement and terror from his voice.
Joy's face lit up, then fell just as quickly. "That sounds wonderful."
Adrian recognized that look. It was the same one Joy got whenever there were visitors to the Rock and she had to eat in her room instead of the hall.
"You're not coming, are you?" Adrian asked, already knowing the answer.
Joy shook her head, golden curls bouncing. "Father says I'm not old enough for such a long journey."
But Adrian knew that wasn't the real reason. Joy was a Hill, not a Lannister. Bastards didn't sit in high seats at tourneys.
"I could talk to Father," Adrian said suddenly, the idea bursting out of him. "I could convince him to let you come with us. You could sit next to me at the tourney and we could watch the knights together."
Joy's eyes widened, then quickly dimmed. "No, Adrian. Please don't."
"But why not? It wouldn't be any trouble. There's plenty of room in the carriage, and—"
"Your father wouldn't allow it," Joy said softly. "And I don't want you to get in trouble because of me."
"But it's not fair," Adrian insisted, feeling a hot tightness in his throat. "You're family too. You're my cousin."
Joy reached out and took his hand. Her small fingers were warm against his. "I'm a Hill, Adrian. This is how the rules are."
"It's a stupid rule," Adrian muttered, feeling tears pricking behind his eyes. He blinked hard, looking away so Joy wouldn't see. A Lannister never cries in public. Father had taught him that.
"Maybe," Joy agreed, "but it's still a rule. Besides, Father promised to take me to see the tide pools while you're gone. He says there are crabs and tiny fish that live in them."
Adrian could tell she was trying to sound happy about it, but her voice wobbled a little. He swallowed the lump in his throat, still not looking at her.
"I'll tell you everything when I come back," Adrian promised. "Every single thing that happens. And I'll bring you a present."
"You don't have to," Joy said, but her eyes brightened a little.
"I want to," Adrian insisted. "Maybe a doll or some sweets or... or a kitten!"
Joy giggled. "Uncle Tywin would never allow a kitten."
"Then something else," Adrian declared. "Something special."
They spent the next hour imagining all the wonderful things Adrian might see at the festival. Joy seemed more excited about it than Adrian was, painting vivid pictures of knights in gleaming armor and ladies in beautiful gowns.
"You'll have to look your very best," Joy told him seriously. "So everyone knows you're the heir to Casterly Rock."
Adrian made a face. "I hate fancy clothes. They're always too stiff and itchy."
"But you'll look so handsome," Joy insisted. "Like a true lion."
From his post nearby, Sandor made a sound that might have been a laugh. "The boy could wear sackcloth, and they'd still bow and scrape. That's what the Lannister name does."
Joy glanced at Sandor nervously. She was still afraid of his burned face, though Adrian had told her Sandor wasn't as scary as he looked. Well, not much, anyway.
"Is it true knights fight to the death in tourneys?" Adrian asked Sandor.
"No, that's only in the songs," Sandor replied. "Real tourneys are for preening peacocks to show off their pretty feathers. Most dangerous thing that happens is a broken arm or getting knocked on your arse."
"Sandor says knights are just killers with fancy armor," Adrian told Joy importantly, proud to be sharing grown-up knowledge.
Joy's eyes went wide. "Really?"
"Don't go filling her head with that," Sandor growled. "She's young enough to still believe in songs and stories. Let her keep that a while longer."
Adrian was surprised. He hadn't expected Sandor to care what Joy believed. Maybe there was more to his guard than the burned face and angry eyes.
As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the garden, Adrian realized he should get back to the hall before Father noticed his absence.
"I have to go," he told Joy reluctantly. "But I promise I'll remember everything about the festival to tell you."
Joy hugged him tightly. "Be careful in Lannisport. Father says cities are dangerous."
"He has me," Sandor reminded her. "Nothing's going to happen to your cousin while I'm watching him."
As they walked back to the hall, Adrian's mind swirled with thoughts of the festival—the excitement of seeing his first tourney, the fear of disappointing Father, and the sadness that Joy couldn't come with him. But most of all, he wondered if this festival might be when he'd finally meet his mysterious brother Jaime and his sister Cersei, the queen. The thought made his heart beat faster with nervous anticipation.
Behind him, Sandor walked silently, his hand never far from his sword hilt, eyes constantly scanning for threats that Adrian couldn't even imagine.
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