# Tywin's Pavilion - Immediately After
The Hound stood in the center of the ring, not celebrating, just... standing. Covered in blood—some his, most others'. His armor was dented, his helm damaged. But he was upright.
"That's your sworn shield," Tywin said, looking at Hadrian and Percy. "If you want him."
"He threw dirt in someone's face," Joffrey said, disgusted. "That's not knightly. That's not honorable."
"That's *winning*," Tywin corrected. "Sandor fought smart. Recognized he was outmatched in raw strength, so he used tactics the Greatjon wouldn't expect. That's exactly the kind of thinking you want in someone protecting your life."
"He's brutal," Percy said quietly.
"He's effective. There's a difference." Tywin stood. "Come with me. Both of you. Let's meet your potential guardian."
They followed Tywin down to the ring, where maesters were already attending to the wounded. The Greatjon was sitting up, laughing despite his injured knee, accepting congratulations from fellow Northmen. Ser Jorah was being carried off on a stretcher, his face pale with pain.
The Hound stood apart from everyone, removing his damaged helm. His face was—
Hadrian felt Percy stiffen beside him.
The left side of Sandor Clegane's face was a mass of burn scars. Melted skin, destroyed ear, the eye socket twisted but the eye itself somehow functional. It looked like someone had held his face in fire and refused to let go.
"Seven hells," Percy breathed.
The Hound's remaining good eye snapped to them. "Something to say, princeling?"
"No, ser," Percy said quickly.
"I'm not a ser. I refused knighthood. I'm just the Hound." His voice was rough, gravelly. "And I know what I look like. No need to pretend otherwise."
"Sandor," Tywin said, his voice cutting through the tension. "Well fought."
"Fought dirty, you mean." The Hound's scarred face twisted into something that might have been a smile. "But I won. That's what matters."
"Indeed." Tywin gestured to Hadrian and Percy. "My grandsons. The royal heirs. They need protection. Proper protection. I'm offering you the position of their sworn shield."
The Hound looked between them, his expression unreadable.
"Why me?"
"Because you're loyal. Capable. And you fight to win, not for glory." Tywin's voice was matter-of-fact. "You'll keep them alive. That's more valuable than any knightly honor."
"They're children."
"They're seven-year-old children who already have enemies." Tywin's expression hardened. "The throne makes them targets. Being my grandsons makes them targets. Being too clever for their own good makes them targets. They need someone who will prioritize their survival over courtesy."
The Hound studied Hadrian and Percy for a long moment.
"You two," he said finally. "You afraid of me?"
Hadrian met his eye directly. "No, ser—Sandor. We're not afraid."
"Should be. I'm a killer. That's what I do. That's what I'm *for*." His scarred face was bitter. "Your grandfather wants me as your guard because I'll do what needs doing. Even the ugly things. Especially the ugly things."
"We understand that," Percy said quietly. "And honestly? We could use someone who does ugly things when necessary. Because we've seen enough to know the world isn't safe, and pretty guards who follow rules don't always keep people alive."
The Hound's good eye widened slightly. "You talk strange for seven-year-olds."
"We are strange seven-year-olds," Hadrian admitted. "That's kind of the problem."
A laugh—short and sharp as broken glass. "Strange princes need strange guards. I can be strange." The Hound looked at Tywin. "What's the pay?"
"Standard sworn shield wages, plus bonuses for exemplary service. Room and board at the Red Keep. And my personal guarantee that you'll be treated with respect by anyone with sense." Tywin's tone suggested that anyone without sense would regret it.
"And I answer to them?" The Hound gestured at the twins. "Not to you?"
"You answer to them. I'm facilitating the arrangement, but once you swear your oath, your loyalty is to my grandsons."
"Hm." The Hound looked back at Hadrian and Percy. "You sure you want me? I'm not some knight in shining armor. I don't do chivalry. I don't sing songs. I just kill people who threaten you and make sure you don't die stupidly."
"That's exactly what we want," Hadrian said firmly. "Someone honest. Someone who'll tell us the truth instead of what we want to hear. Someone who'll actually keep us alive instead of just looking impressive."
"We've had enough impressive guards," Percy added. "We need effective ones."
Another of those sharp laughs. "You two are going to be interesting charges." The Hound looked at Tywin. "Alright. I'll do it. But I want it understood—I'm sworn to *them*, not the throne. If their father orders something that puts them in danger, I ignore him. If their mother wants them used as political pieces, I ignore her. My only job is keeping these two alive. Everything else is secondary."
"Agreed," Tywin said. "Though I expect you to be diplomatic about ignoring orders. We don't need to create political incidents."
"I'll be as diplomatic as I can manage. Which isn't very." The Hound knelt—awkwardly, his injured knee protesting—before Hadrian and Percy. "I, Sandor Clegane, swear to serve as your sworn shield. To protect your lives above all else. To be honest in my counsel and brutal in your defense. I swear this until you release me from service or death claims me."
"We accept your service," Hadrian said formally, because this felt like it required formality. "And we promise to value your honesty, trust your judgment, and never ask you to compromise your principles for political convenience."
The Hound's scarred face twisted into something that might have been approval. "Good. Then we understand each other." He stood, wincing. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need a maester to look at this knee before it swells shut. And probably about six barrels of ale."
He limped off toward the medical pavilions.
Tyrion appeared at their elbows, somehow having witnessed the entire exchange.
"Well," he said cheerfully. "That's either the best decision you'll ever make or the worst. Time will tell which."
"What's your assessment?" Percy asked.
"Sandor's loyal to two things: his own survival and whatever he decides to care about. If he's decided to care about you—and it seems he has, gods know why—then he'll protect you with everything he has. But he's also damaged, bitter, and has approximately zero patience for bullshit." Tyrion took a drink. "So as long as you're honest with him and he's honest with you, you'll be fine. But the moment either of you starts playing political games with him, he'll tell you to fuck off and walk away."
"We can work with that," Hadrian said.
"Good. Because you just acquired one of the most dangerous men in Westeros as your personal guard. That's going to make a lot of people very nervous." Tyrion's smile was sharp. "Including your father, who's going to have opinions about his heirs being protected by a man who refused knighthood and fights dirty."
"Father will have to deal with it," Percy said firmly.
"That's the spirit." Tyrion clapped them both on the shoulders. "Now come on. The awards ceremony is starting, and you need to be in the royal box when Robert hands out prizes. Try to look appropriately impressed when Ser Jorah gets permission to court that poor Hightower girl."
---
# The Awards Ceremony
The ceremony was elaborate—Robert loved these things when he was drunk enough, and he was definitely drunk enough. He stood on a raised platform, crown slightly crooked, voice booming across the tourney grounds.
"Ser Jorah Mormont!" he called. "Step forward!"
Jorah limped forward, his ribs clearly paining him but his expression determined. He knelt before the King.
"You fought well, Mormont. Took the joust, held your own in the melee until the Greatjon and Hound teamed up on you—which, I'll point out, was multiple knights ganging up on one. Hardly fair."
"War isn't fair, Your Grace," Jorah said. "I understood the risks."
"Aye, you did. And you proved yourself." Robert turned to Lord Leyton Hightower, who stood nearby looking deeply uncomfortable. "Lord Hightower! You set a challenge. The man met it. What say you?"
Lord Leyton looked at his daughter, sitting in the Hightower box with that crown of flowers still on her auburn hair. She looked terrified and thrilled in equal measure.
"Ser Jorah has proven himself... worthy of consideration," Lord Leyton said carefully. "I grant permission for him to court my daughter Lynesse, with all proper chaperones and proprieties observed."
The crowd cheered. Jorah looked like he'd won the throne itself.
Hadrian felt sick.
"They're celebrating," Percy muttered in Greek. "Celebrating a man twice her age getting permission to court a child."
"Because in this world, that's normal," Hadrian replied in the same language. "That's *expected*. We can hate it, but we can't change it yet."
"When we can—"
"When we can, we will. But not today." Hadrian watched as Jorah stood, as he walked to the Hightower box, as he knelt before Lynesse and took her hand with reverent care.
The girl looked overwhelmed. Awed. Possibly infatuated with the idea of a tournament champion courting her.
But she was thirteen. She had no idea what she was agreeing to.
"I hate this world sometimes," Percy said quietly.
"Me too," Hadrian agreed.
The ceremony continued. The Hound was awarded prize money for winning the melee but refused to come forward, sending word that he was "too injured and too drunk to make a proper acceptance." Robert laughed and had the money sent to the medical pavilion.
The Greatjon got a special commendation for "being the most entertaining fighter Robert had ever watched," which the Northman accepted with a bow and a promise to drink Robert under the table at the feast.
Finally, mercifully, it was over.
---
# That Evening - Private Dinner with Tywin
Dinner that night was just the immediate family—Tywin, Cersei, Robert (barely present, mostly focused on his wine), Kevan, Genna, and the five children. Even baby Tommen was there, being fed by his wet nurse in the corner.
"So," Tywin said, cutting his meat with precise movements. "You've acquired a sworn shield. Sandor Clegane."
"The Hound," Robert slurred slightly. "That killer. Why'd you give him to the boys, Tywin?"
"Because they need protection that doesn't rely on courts and courtesy." Tywin's voice was calm. "Sandor is loyal, effective, and has no political ambitions. He'll keep them alive."
"He's a brute."
"He's competent. There's a difference." Tywin looked at Hadrian and Percy. "You understand what you've accepted? Sandor is not a gentle guardian. He won't coddle you. He won't tell you comforting lies. He'll be honest to the point of cruelty if that's what you need."
"We understand," Hadrian said. "And honestly, we prefer honesty to comfortable lies."
"Good." Tywin turned to Cersei. "You disapprove."
"I think my sons deserve better than a scarred killer who throws dirt in opponents' faces," Cersei said tightly.
"They deserve someone who'll keep them breathing. Everything else is secondary." Tywin's voice was final. "Sandor Clegane is one of the most dangerous men in Westeros. Having him sworn to protect your sons makes them significantly safer."
"Or significantly more exposed to violence," Cersei countered.
"They're princes of the realm. They're already exposed to violence." Tywin took a precise sip of wine. "At least now they have someone who excels at violence protecting them."
"I like the Hound," Joffrey announced suddenly. Everyone turned to look at him. "He fights smart. Uses tricks. Wins however he needs to. That's what Mother always says—Lannisters do what needs doing."
"The Hound isn't a Lannister," Cersei said.
"But he serves House Lannister," Joffrey insisted. "Uncle Kevan said so. And now he serves Hadrian and Perseus, so he's protecting the family." He looked at his brothers. "You should let me train with him too. I could learn how to fight like that."
"No," Tywin said flatly.
"But—"
"Sandor Clegane's fighting style is not appropriate for your age or temperament. When you're older, if you show aptitude, perhaps. But not now."
Joffrey's face went red, but he subsided into sullen silence.
"The Hound does raise an interesting question," Genna said, looking at Hadrian and Percy. "You're seven years old with a sworn shield who's sworn to keep you alive above all else. That's... unusual. Most princes don't get personal guards until they're older, more involved in politics, more likely to be targeted."
"My grandsons are already targeted," Tywin said. "Their intelligence makes them targets. Their position as heirs makes them targets. Better to protect them early."
"Or you're making a statement," Genna said shrewdly. "Showing the realm that House Lannister protects its own. Even the Baratheon grandchildren."
"That too," Tywin admitted. "Politics is about perception as much as reality. The perception that my grandsons are well-protected discourages attempts on their lives."
"Unless it encourages attempts," Kevan said quietly. "Some might see the protection as a challenge."
"Then those people will learn what happens when they threaten House Lannister's interests." Tywin's voice was cold. "Sandor can make lessons... memorable."
Dinner continued. Conversation shifted to other topics—the tourney, political alliances being formed between the various houses present, trade discussions.
Hadrian barely paid attention. He was thinking about the Hound. About what it meant to have someone sworn to protect them who fought without honor, who'd do "ugly things" when necessary.
In his previous life, he'd had friends who protected him. Ron and Hermione, who'd stood by him through everything. In Percy's previous life, he'd had Annabeth, Grover, the whole Camp Half-Blood crew.
But this was different. This was someone whose entire purpose was keeping them alive. Someone who'd kill for them without hesitation.
It should have been comforting.
Instead, it felt like another weight. Another responsibility. Another person whose life would be tied to theirs, who'd be in danger because of them.
"Hadrian," Tywin's voice cut through his thoughts. "Are you listening?"
"Sorry, Grandfather. I was thinking."
"About?"
"About the Hound. About what it means to have someone sworn to us." Hadrian chose his words carefully. "It's a responsibility. If he's hurt protecting us, that's our fault. If he has to do something terrible to keep us safe, we bear that burden."
Tywin's expression shifted—something that might have been approval.
"You understand," he said quietly. "Most nobles don't think about that. They see guards as tools, disposable assets. You see them as people who make sacrifices on your behalf." He paused. "Good. That kind of thinking will make you a better king than your father."
"Tywin—" Cersei started.
"It's true, daughter. Robert sees his guards as furniture. These boys—" He gestured at Hadrian and Percy. "—they understand that power comes with obligations. That commanding loyalty means earning it and honoring those who give it."
He stood, signaling the end of dinner.
"Tomorrow we return to King's Landing. You've learned much these past days. About politics, about fighting, about the games nobility play. Remember these lessons. And remember that House Lannister stands with you—not because you're Baratheons, but because you're family."
It was the closest Tywin Lannister would ever come to saying he cared.
---
# That Night - The Twins' Chambers
Hadrian and Percy prepared for bed in silence, both processing the day's events.
"We have a sworn shield," Percy said finally, staring at the ceiling from his bed. "An actual sworn shield who's going to follow us around and kill people who threaten us."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It's a *weird* thing. We're seven, Harry. Seven-year-olds don't have personal bodyguards who throw dirt in people's faces and win melees."
"Normal seven-year-olds don't. We stopped being normal a long time ago." Hadrian turned onto his side. "The Hound is... practical. Tywin's right about that. He'll keep us alive without worrying about honor or propriety. That's useful."
"It's also dangerous. What if he decides something's a threat that isn't? What if he's too brutal?"
"Then we tell him to stand down. He swore to us, not to his own judgment. We're in charge." Hadrian paused. "But I think... I think he'll be honest with us. That's what he seemed to promise. Brutal honesty over comfortable lies."
"I can work with brutal honesty," Percy admitted. "It's the comfortable lies that always got us killed before."
They fell silent again.
"Percy?"
"Yeah?"
"Did you see Lynesse Hightower's face? When Jorah won permission to court her?"
"Yeah." Percy's voice was grim. "She looked thrilled. Like a little girl getting a pony for her nameday. She has no idea what she's agreeing to."
"We can't fix it. Not now. Not directly."
"I know." Percy's fists clenched. "But someday. When we have real power. We fix this. We change the laws so thirteen-year-olds can't be contracted to marry men twice their age. We make it illegal."
"It'll be political suicide. Every noble house relies on marriage alliances. Restricting them threatens their power."
"I don't care. It's wrong. And if being king means anything, it means being able to fix things that are wrong."
Hadrian smiled in the darkness. This was why he loved his brother. Percy saw injustice and wanted to fix it, consequences be damned. It was reckless and idealistic and exactly what this world needed.
"Okay," Hadrian said. "When we're king and lord. When we have power. We fix it."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Good." Percy yawned. "Now let's sleep. Tomorrow we have to travel back to King's Landing with the Hound following us around, looking terrifying and probably scaring all the servants."
"Could be worse."
"How?"
"He could be boring."
Percy laughed despite himself. "Yeah. At least we won't be bored."
They fell asleep to the sound of Lannisport celebrating outside—music and laughter and the noise of a tourney winding down.
Tomorrow they'd begin the journey home.
With a new sworn shield.
With new lessons learned.
With new promises made.
And with the weight of the future pressing ever heavier on shoulders too young to bear it.
But they'd carry it anyway.
Because that's what they did.
—-
# The Road from Lannisport - 290 AC
The royal caravan stretched along the Gold Road like a massive serpent—dozens of carriages, hundreds of guards, supply wagons, and enough pageantry to make Percy's teeth ache.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered, watching servants load the twentieth trunk of Cersei's wardrobe onto a wagon. "We're traveling, not relocating the entire keep."
"We're traveling *royally*," Hadrian corrected, equally unimpressed. "Which apparently means bringing enough luggage to supply a small army."
"Your Graces."
The voice came from behind them—rough as gravel, unmistakable. They turned to find Sandor Clegane standing in the morning sun, looking somehow more intimidating in traveling clothes than he had in full armor.
The burns were more visible in daylight. The left side of his face was a twisted landscape of melted flesh, the ear mostly gone, the eye socket warped but functional. He'd made no attempt to hide it—no hood, no strategic positioning. Just... there. Unapologetic.
"Sandor," Hadrian said, deliberately using his name instead of his nickname. They'd discussed this last night—the Hound was what others called him. They'd use his actual name unless he specifically requested otherwise.
Something flickered in the man's scarred face. Surprise, maybe. Or approval.
"We need to discuss arrangements," Sandor said bluntly. "Your mother wants me in a carriage. Says it's 'inappropriate' for a sworn shield to ride alongside like a common guard. I told her to go fuck herself—politely—and now she's making it your problem."
Percy choked on a laugh. "You told the Queen to—"
"Politely," Sandor repeated. "I said 'with respect, Your Grace, I'll be riding alongside the princes where I can actually protect them, not trapped in a wheeled coffin where I'm useless.' She didn't take it well."
"Mother doesn't take much well," Hadrian said diplomatically. "But you're right. You need to be positioned where you can actually respond to threats. Riding alongside makes sense."
"Good. Glad we agree." Sandor jerked his head toward the horses. "Can you two actually ride, or are you carriage princes?"
"We can ride," Percy said, a bit defensively. "We've been training for—"
"Then you'll ride with me. Not in that gilded cage." Sandor's tone brooked no argument. "Open air, clear sightlines, ability to move quickly if needed. That's how you travel when you actually care about staying alive."
"Mother's going to hate that," Hadrian observed.
"Your mother can hate whatever she wants. I'm sworn to keep you breathing, not comfortable." Sandor turned toward the horse lines. "Come on. Let's get you mounted before she figures out what we're planning."
They followed him, exchanging glances.
*He's not wrong*, Percy's expression said.
*Doesn't mean Mother won't explode*, Hadrian's eyes replied.
*Worth it.*
The horses Sandor had selected for them were solid, well-trained destriers—not as massive as war horses, but far from the ponies they'd been riding in King's Landing. Percy's was a gray stallion who immediately nuzzled him for treats. Hadrian's was a black mare who eyed him with intelligent wariness.
"These are actual horses," Percy said, surprised.
"You're actual princes traveling through territory where bandits exist." Sandor checked their saddles with practiced efficiency. "You need mounts that can run if we need to run, fight if we need to fight, and won't throw you at the first sign of trouble."
He moved to his own horse—a massive destrier the color of old iron, with scars on its flanks suggesting it had seen combat. The horse's name, Hadrian learned, was Stranger.
"Fitting," Hadrian muttered.
"He's an asshole," Sandor said, almost fondly. "Bites anyone who isn't me. Kicks squires for fun. But he's fast, mean, and loyal. Exactly what I need."
"HADRIAN! PERSEUS!"
Cersei's voice cut across the caravan like a knife. She approached with Jaime at her side, her expression thunderous.
"What," she said with dangerous calm, "do you think you're doing?"
"Riding with our sworn shield," Hadrian replied, keeping his voice respectful but firm. "Like we should."
"You're seven years old—"
"We're seven years old who've been training to ride for two years," Percy interrupted. "We're competent. And Sandor's right—we're safer on horseback where we can move than trapped in a carriage."
Cersei's eyes flashed. She looked at Jaime. "Tell them."
Jaime studied the horses, then the twins, then Sandor—who stood with arms crossed, clearly not backing down.
"They're not wrong," Jaime said finally. "Strategically, they're more vulnerable in a carriage. On horseback, with Sandor, they can maneuver."
"They're *children*—"
"They're princes," Jaime corrected gently. "Your Grace, I know you want them safe. But safe doesn't always mean comfortable. Sometimes it means adaptable."
Cersei looked like she wanted to argue further. Then she turned to Sandor, her voice dropping to something cold and sharp.
"If anything happens to them—if they're so much as *bruised* because of this decision—"
"Then I've failed my oath and you can do whatever you want to me," Sandor interrupted. "But it won't happen. I'm better at keeping people alive than anyone else you'll find."
The confidence wasn't arrogance. It was just... fact. Stated plainly.
Cersei looked at her sons. "You're certain about this?"
"We're certain," Hadrian said. "We trust Sandor's judgment. And we trust ourselves to ride safely."
For a long moment, Cersei just looked at them. Then she sighed—exhausted, resigned.
"Fine. But you ride in the middle of the column. Surrounded by guards. And if I see either of you doing anything remotely dangerous—"
"We'll be careful," Percy promised.
She studied them a moment longer, then swept away, Jaime trailing with an apologetic shrug.
"Your mother's terrifying," Sandor observed.
"You have no idea," both twins said in unison.
---
They rode out an hour later, positioned in the center of the column as Cersei had demanded. But instead of trapped in a carriage, they were on horseback—Percy's gray stallion responding to his unspoken commands with uncanny precision, Hadrian's black mare settling into an easy gait.
Sandor rode slightly ahead and to the side, positioned to intercept threats from either direction. He didn't chat. Didn't make small talk. Just... watched. Eyes constantly scanning the road, the trees, the other travelers they passed.
"He's very good at this," Percy murmured to Hadrian after an hour of silent riding.
"Professional," Hadrian agreed. "Look how he positions himself—always between us and potential threats. Always maintaining sightlines to the guards. Always—"
"You two realize I can hear you, right?" Sandor's rough voice carried back without him turning. "Not deaf. Just quiet."
"Sorry," Hadrian said, not particularly sorry.
"Don't apologize. Ask questions. That's how you learn." Sandor finally glanced back. "You're wondering why I'm positioned like this?"
"Yes," Percy admitted.
"Because assassins are cowards. They don't attack from the front where they can be seen. They attack from the sides, from behind, from unexpected angles." He gestured to his positioning. "I'm placed where I can intercept from any direction that matters. The guards handle frontal threats. I handle everything else."
"Has anyone ever actually tried to assassinate you?" Hadrian asked. "While you were guarding someone?"
"Twice. Both times when I was protecting Lord Tywin." Sandor's voice was matter-of-fact. "First time was a poisoner. Caught him tampering with wine before it reached the table. Second was a crossbowman—stupider plan, but he got one shot off before I put a blade through his throat."
"You killed him?" Percy's voice was careful. Not judging. Just... clarifying.
"He was pointing a loaded crossbow at my charge. What did you expect me to do, ask him politely to surrender?" Sandor's scarred face turned slightly toward them. "That's what I meant when I said I do ugly things. I kill people. That's my job. If you're not comfortable with that, release me from service now."
Hadrian and Percy exchanged glances.
"We're comfortable with it," Hadrian said firmly. "We're not naive. We know the world is dangerous. We know protection sometimes means violence."
"We've seen violence before," Percy added. Then, carefully: "In our... dreams. The ones we've mentioned to some people."
Sandor was quiet for a moment. Then: "Your mother thinks you're mad. Your grandfather thinks you're gifted. Your father doesn't think about you at all, mostly." He paused. "What do *you* think you are?"
"Complicated," Hadrian said honestly. "We have knowledge we shouldn't have. Skills that don't make sense at our age. Memories of things that never happened to us in this life."
"Reincarnation," Sandor said flatly.
"Maybe. We don't actually know. But something like that." Percy guided his horse around a rut in the road. "Does that bother you?"
"Why would it bother me? I'm a burned killer who throws dirt in people's faces during fights. You're weird seven-year-olds who think like adults. We're all fucked up in our own ways." Sandor's tone was almost amused. "At least your particular brand of fucked up makes you smart enough to survive. That's better than most princes."
"That's... remarkably accepting," Hadrian observed.
"I don't care where your knowledge comes from. I care that you use it intelligently and don't get yourselves killed doing stupid shit." Sandor's eyes tracked a merchant caravan passing in the opposite direction, assessing threats, finding none. "You want me to treat you like normal children, or like what you actually are?"
"What we actually are," both twins said immediately.
"Good. Because I'm shit at coddling." Sandor's scarred mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile. "I'll be honest with you. I'll teach you what I can. I'll keep you alive. But I won't lie to you, I won't pretend the world is nicer than it is, and I won't let you make stupid decisions without calling you on it."
"That's what we want," Percy said. "Exactly what we want."
"Then we'll get along fine." Sandor gestured ahead where the road curved. "First lesson: see how the road bends there? Good ambush spot. Trees on both sides, natural chokepoint. If I were planning to hit a caravan, that's where I'd do it."
Hadrian studied the curve. "How do you defend against it?"
"Scouts ahead. Guards on the flanks. Archers ready. And most importantly—you don't bunch up in the kill zone. Maintain spacing so one attack can't take out multiple targets." Sandor's voice was professional now, teaching. "Right now, this caravan is doing it wrong. Too bunched, too relaxed. If bandits hit us in that curve, we'd lose ten people before we could respond."
"Should we warn someone?" Percy asked.
"Your father's guard captain should already know. If he doesn't, he's incompetent." Sandor shrugged. "But we'll be ready regardless. If something happens, you two do exactly what I say, when I say it. No questions. No hesitation. Understood?"
"Understood," they said in unison.
They rode through the curve without incident. But Hadrian noticed how Sandor's hand never left his sword hilt, how his eyes constantly scanned the trees, how he positioned himself even more defensively until they were through the danger zone.
Professional. Paranoid. Exactly what they needed.
---
They stopped for a midday meal at a small clearing off the road. The royal family ate in a pavilion hastily erected by servants. The guards ate standing. And Sandor, Hadrian, and Percy ate sitting on a fallen log, sharing road bread and salt pork.
"This is weird," Percy said, watching Joffrey throw a tantrum in the pavilion because his food wasn't warm enough. "We're princes. We should be in there."
"You're princes who chose to ride with your guard," Sandor said around a mouthful of bread. "Can't have it both ways. You want to be treated like warriors, you eat like warriors."
"I'm fine with that," Hadrian said. "The pavilion looks exhausting."
"Your brother's a little shit," Sandor observed, watching Joffrey. "No offense."
"None taken," Percy said. "He is a little shit. We're working on it."
"Good luck with that. I've seen his type before—cruel for the sake of it, takes pleasure in others' pain. Usually it doesn't improve with age." Sandor took a drink from his waterskin. "You two are different though. Why?"
"Different how?" Hadrian asked.
"You're clever but not cruel. You understand violence but don't enjoy it. You respect people who aren't useful to you." Sandor's scarred face was thoughtful. "Most princes your age are either stupid or vicious or both. You're neither."
"We've learned that cruelty doesn't serve anyone," Percy said carefully. "That power without compassion just breeds resentment. That—"
"That you've read too many books and actually understood them," Sandor finished. "Like I said. Different."
"Is that good or bad?" Hadrian asked.
"Good for the realm. Maybe bad for you personally." Sandor's expression was serious now. "Kind rulers get used. Clever rulers get feared. Clever *and* kind? You'll have people trying to manipulate you your whole lives. Trying to use your decency against you."
"Then we'll have to be clever enough to see it coming," Percy said.
"That's why you have me." Sandor's smile was sharp. "I'm not decent. I'm not kind. I see threats you won't, because I think like threats think. You be the good kings your realm needs. I'll be the bastard who keeps you alive to rule."
"Division of labor," Hadrian said. "We can work with that."
They finished eating in comfortable silence—something Hadrian appreciated. Sandor didn't feel the need to fill every moment with conversation. He was content to just... exist. Watch. Be present without being performative.
It was refreshing after years of adults who always wanted something from them.
"Sandor," Percy said finally. "Can I ask about your face?"
Hadrian tensed. That seemed like dangerous territory.
But Sandor just looked at Percy with his ruined eye. "You want to know if my brother did it?"
"Everyone says he did. But we wanted to hear it from you."
"He did." Sandor's voice was flat. "I was six. Maybe seven—around your age. Gregor caught me playing with one of his toys. Held my face in a brazier full of hot coals until the flesh melted." He paused. "Father said it was an accident. Made up some story about bedding mishap. Everyone pretended to believe it because who accuses a lord's heir of burning his own brother?"
"That's—" Percy stopped, searching for words. "That's monstrous."
"That's Gregor." Sandor's tone was conversational, like he was discussing the weather. "He's always been monstrous. Killing puppies. Torturing servants. Hurting people because he can. The burns were just the first time he tried it on family."
"And your father covered it up," Hadrian said quietly.
"My father valued House Clegane's reputation more than justice. Or than his younger son's face." Sandor took another drink. "That's nobility for you. Appearances matter more than truth."
"That won't happen with us," Percy said fiercely. "If someone hurts people under our protection, we'll—"
"You'll do what you can within the system you have to work in," Sandor interrupted. "You're good boys. But you're also princes. There are limits to what you can change, what you can fix, what you can punish. Don't make promises you can't keep."
"We can promise to try," Hadrian said. "That's within our power."
"Fair enough." Sandor stood, brushing crumbs from his clothes. "We're moving out in ten minutes. Mount up."
---
The afternoon ride was quieter. They passed other travelers—merchants, pilgrims, a group of septons heading toward Oldtown. Sandor assessed each one, watching for threats, finding none.
"Why do you think Grandfather gave you to us?" Hadrian asked after an hour of silence. "Really?"
"Control," Sandor said immediately. "Lord Tywin doesn't do things from kindness. He gave me to you because it serves his interests."
"How?"
"One, it puts a Lannister man in position to protect—and monitor—the royal heirs. Two, it demonstrates Lannister power and influence. Three, it creates loyalty—you're grateful for the protection, which makes you more amenable to Lannister interests." Sandor glanced back. "Don't take it personally. It's just how he thinks. Every move serves multiple purposes."
"You're remarkably honest about being used as a political tool," Percy observed.
"I know what I am. I've always known." Sandor's voice was matter-of-fact. "I'm a killer in service to House Lannister. Lord Tywin uses me how he sees fit. At least with you, I'll be doing something worthwhile—keeping decent boys alive instead of intimidating merchants who owe money."
"You did that?" Hadrian asked. "Intimidated people for debts?"
"I've done worse. Much worse." Sandor's scarred face was grim. "I've killed men for Lord Tywin. Not in battle. Just... killed them. People who threatened Lannister interests. People who knew too much. People who were simply inconvenient."
"Does that bother you?" Percy asked quietly.
"Every day." Sandor's honesty was brutal. "I'm not a good man. I do bad things for people with power. But at least I'm honest about it. At least I don't pretend it's honorable or righteous or anything but what it is—murder for coin and position."
They rode in silence for a moment.
"We're not going to ask you to do that," Hadrian said finally. "Murder for convenience. We might ask you to kill to protect us, to protect others. But not for politics. Not for power."
"We'll see," Sandor said. "You say that now. But when you're older, when you're ruling, when someone threatens everything you've built—you might think differently."
"We won't," Percy said firmly.
"Hope you're right, boy. I really do." Sandor's voice was soft. "Because I'm tired of being the monster. Be nice to work for someone who doesn't require it."
Ahead, the sun was beginning to set, painting the Gold Road in shades of amber and crimson. The caravan would camp soon—another elaborate production of pavilions and guards and royal comfort.
But for now, for these few hours, Hadrian and Percy rode with their sworn shield, learning about violence and honesty and the complicated reality of protection in a world where kindness was often a weakness.
They'd survived worse.
They'd survive this too.
With a burned, honest killer watching their backs.
Which was, somehow, exactly what they needed.
---
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