Chapter Text
Part 1:
The Children of Ours
A Brother
Power.
It is not a sword, nor a crown, nor a throne—though it often hides behind all three. It is a whisper in the ear of a king. A name spoken with fear. A silence that falls when one enters the room.
Men chase it. Women wield it. Children are born into it, never understanding the weight they inherit.
What is it, truly?
Some say power is strength—the iron in your arm, the steel in your hand. They say the strongest man may cut his way to the top, carve a kingdom from bone and blood.
But what of the clever man? The quiet one who knows where to place a coin, or a word, or a knife?
Others say power is wealth.
With enough gold, a man can raise an army. With more, he can bury his past, buy loyalty, shape law. Yet gold is soft metal. It bends in fire. It melts in ruin.
And still others claim power is birthright. A name. A sigil. A lineage that stretches back to the days of heroes.
But names are forgotten. Sigils burn. And even the greatest houses fall to ash, if the wind changes.
No—power is none of these things.
And all of them.
Power is the freedom to want—and to take.
To speak—and to be heard.
To strike—and to be obeyed.
It is grace, when tempered with wisdom.
It is terror, when wielded without mercy.
It seduces. It corrupts.
It turns good men cruel, and makes cruel men kings.
Power wears a thousand masks.
It can be justice—or vengeance.
It can lift up the meek—or crush them.
So ask yourself, if you would chase it:
What must you become to hold it?
And what must you lose to keep it—
“Brother. What are you reading?”
The voice was too deep for a boy his age, and it dragged Sandor out of the page. He snapped the book shut. “Not history,” he muttered. “Just—something I found.”
Gregor loomed closer. “Is it about knights?” he asked, not because he cared, but because he liked the sound of his own voice when it filled a room.
Before Sandor could answer, Gregor was already moving on. “Let’s play Sword and Shield, brother. Outside.”
“I might. I just—”
“Say none.” Gregor didn’t wait. He seized Sandor by the wrist and hauled him up like a sack of flour.
Sandor stumbled after him, the book left cooling on the windowsill—forgotten, but not by him.
He was already tired. Already losing.
Sword and Shield was meant to be a children’s game. Two boys, pretending to be knights, dueling with wooden swords for honor and play. That was the idea, anyway.
For Sandor, it had always felt like a chore—a way to pass the time, something expected of sons who bore the Clegane name. But for Gregor, it was never a game. It was practice. A test. A chance to prove himself before Father. And more than that, it was an opportunity to hurt someone without consequence.
The first strike landed hard against Sandor’s ribs. The second caught his thigh with enough force to drop him to the ground.
“Ugh—yield! I yield!” he cried out, wincing as he curled inward, clutching the tender spots with both hands.
Gregor only laughed. Not with joy, but with that hollow, humorless sound he made when something entertained him just long enough. He stepped forward and placed a heavy boot on Sandor’s shoulder like some conquering knight posing over a fallen foe. Then, just as quickly, he grew bored and wandered off, as if none of it had meant anything at all.
To anyone else, it might have looked like harmless sparring between brothers.
But Sandor knew better. To him, it was something else entirely—another blow, another lesson, another scar.
Later, when the halls had quieted, he returned to his room, limping slightly, moving slowly so as not to jar the aching spots. He sat by the hearth and peeled off his linen shirt, sucking in a breath as the fabric tugged at the bruised skin along his ribs.
The pain pulsed steadily beneath the surface—sharp in some places, dull in others. It was familiar now. Predictable. Not something he feared anymore. Just something he endured.
He reached for the ointment and dabbed it on with practiced fingers. The sting no longer surprised him.
Father called it brotherly affection. Mother said Gregor didn’t know his own strength—that he got “carried away.” But neither explanation ever felt true. And even if they had, it wouldn’t have mattered.
He didn’t ask questions. Not anymore. Because this was how it always went. And Sandor had learned, early on, that asking “why” changed nothing.
He was used to it. That was what scared him most.
A soft knock on the door. Then the gentle clink of folded linen being set down.
“Sandor?” His mother’s voice, warm and low, slipped into the room like a lullaby.
She stepped inside and caught sight of him—shirt off, bruises blooming along his side like dark flowers. Her smile faltered. Without a word, she crossed the room and sat beside him on the edge of the bed.
Sandor didn’t need to explain. He simply lifted his arm, quietly allowing her to tend to the damage.
“Gregor, wasn’t it?” she asked as she dipped her fingers into the salve, smoothing it over his skin with practiced care. “I saw the two of you playing outside. I didn’t see what happened, but… it was Gregor.”
It wasn’t a question.
He nodded. “It doesn’t hurt much now—OW, Mother!”
“Unfortunately, I think it still does,” she murmured with a small, rueful smile, wrapping a length of soft cloth around his ribs. Her hands were gentle, but her sigh was heavy.
“I’ve spoken to Gregor about this. Many times. But he gets… excited.” Her voice faltered, tired and sad. “I’m sorry, Sandor.”
“It’s not your fault, Mother,” he whispered.
She looked at him then, really looked—at the boy behind the bruises, at the quiet strength trying to survive in the shadow of something monstrous.
“Do you feel better now?” she asked, brushing a bit of hair from his brow.
“Much better. Thank you. But… I’m a bit tired.”
“Then rest,” she said, rising to her feet with a light touch to his shoulder. “I’ll wake you for dinner.”
By the time she reached the door, Sandor was already asleep, his breath slow and even, the pain dulled by the balm of her presence.
***
The Clegane Keep was no castle—just a squat mass of grey stone crouched among the western hills. The walls were thick, the stables drafty, and the hearth smoked when the wind blew wrong. It had been a gift from House Lannister, offered in gratitude for some long-forgotten service. Not grand, but sufficient. It kept the rain out. It raised livestock and two sons. It was enough.
Sandor stood ankle-deep in straw, scattering handfuls of grain from a worn bucket. Chickens clucked and jostled at his feet, feathers ruffled, beaks snapping greedily. He watched them fight over the feed, a quiet intensity in his gaze. His ribs still ached beneath his tunic, but the bruising had faded from deep purple to a sickly yellow. Mother said he’d be chopping wood again soon, but for now, he was spared.
Gregor, thank the gods, was busy elsewhere.
Sandor found it strange, being left alone. Stranger still, watching someone else take the beatings.
Ilyn Payne was no warrior, not yet. A Lannister ward or cousin—or something—that part hadn’t mattered. He was thin, slope-bald-head and pale as skimmed milk. But he listened when spoken to, and that was enough for Gregor. Training, they called it.
Sandor had watched once. Just once. Ilyn had tried to keep up, swinging a wooden sword with stiff, desperate arms. Gregor struck him across the back hard enough to knock the wind out of him. And Ilyn—gods, he had thanked him for the lesson. “I’ll do better,” he’d gasped. “Sorry, Gregor. I’ll be faster next time.”
Soon enough the practice yard was empty. Ilyn sat hunched on a low wall near the stable, clutching his arm. A welt spread from elbow to wrist, already beginning to swell.
“You’re not supposed to sit there,” Sandor said, half-heartedly. “That wall’s for tack.”
Ilyn didn’t move. “Gregor says I’m not supposed to breathe without permission,” he muttered. “I think the wall is the least of my crimes.”
Sandor said nothing. He was used to Ilyn talking like that—sharp, dry, like he was trying to keep the world from swallowing him whole.
“I didn’t mean to drop the blade,” Ilyn went on, examining the bruise like it was someone else’s arm. “But my fingers went numb. I think he hit the bone. It’s not broken, just loud.”
“Loud?”
Ilyn tapped his skull. “In here. Feels like someone shouting inside my head.”
Sandor hovered awkwardly, unsure if he was supposed to laugh or apologize. “You should put something on it,” he said instead. “We’ve got ointment.”
Ilyn gave a crooked smile. “You offering, or just making conversation?”
That made Sandor scowl, but he turned toward the keep. “Come on. Before our mothers see and ask questions neither of us want to answer.”
Ilyn stood slowly. “Thank you,” he said. “You’re… not like him.”
Sandor didn’t reply. He wasn’t sure if it was true.
The Paynes had ridden off before dusk, their young son nursing a purple welt beneath his sleeve. They left behind silence, and a trace of something unspoken.
Later, Lord Clegane returned with something more tangible: news.
Dinner in Clegane Keep followed a quiet ritual. Father and Gregor seated along one side of the long table, Mother and Sandor on the other. The air always smelled faintly of roasted leeks and boiled grain. Knives scraped against trenchers. No one spoke unless spoken to.
But that night, Father spoke first.
“My sons,” he said, his voice measured, “there is news.”
Gregor straightened at once. “What is it, Father?”
“A tourney,” Lord Clegane replied. “Held at Harrenhal.”
“A tourney?! When? Are we going? Can we go?!”
Lord Clegane chuckled, shaking his head. “If you’d stop interrupting, you might find out.”
Gregor flushed but grinned, undeterred.
“Yes, we’re going,” Father continued. “And Gregor—you’ll squire for Lord Tywin Lannister himself.”
The room held its breath.
“A great honor,” he said. “Behave as a knight should. Serve well. Impress him.”
“I will!” Gregor beamed, full of unspent violence. “I’ll be the strongest knight in Westeros!”
“I believe you will,” Father said, and raised his cup.
Mother gave a small smile, but her eyes slid across the table toward Sandor. “And you, darling?” she asked softly. “Would you like to see the tourney?”
Sandor blinked, caught off guard by the attention. He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, let him come,” Gregor cut in. “He can carry my shield.”
Mother frowned faintly, but said nothing more.
Sandor glanced down at his trencher, quiet. The barley had gone cold.
The rest of dinner passed in a soft murmur of plans and expectations. Gregor glowed in the firelight, already picturing lances and laurels. Father watched him with pride. Mother’s hand lingered on Sandor’s back as she rose to clear the dishes. Just a touch. But it was something.
***
The next day, Sandor wandered near the stables, boots trailing through dry hay and old hoofprints. He wasn’t doing anything in particular—just walking, thinking, avoiding. The sun was out, warm but not kind.
Being the second son meant always standing in a shadow. Gregor was big. Strong. Unstoppable. Already gone to squire for Lord Tywin at Casterly Rock. Twelve years old and half a legend.
How could Sandor ever match that?
He sat down on the edge of a wooden trough, kicking at the dust with his heel, until the soft shuffle of skirts caught his ear.
“There you are,” said a gentle voice. “I’ve been looking all over.”
Lady Clegane stood at the edge of the stable door, a basket of folded linens balanced on one hip. She stepped inside and sat beside him without asking, smoothing her skirt as she did.
“Your father said you’d come out here,” she said. “He thought you might be thinking about the tourney.”
Sandor didn’t answer at first. Then, quietly: “I thought only Gregor was going.”
Lady Clegane tilted her head to look at him. “Is that what you believed? That we’d leave you behind?”
Sandor shrugged. “He’s the one who’s important. He’s already gone. He gets to squire for Lord Tywin.”
“That’s true,” she said softly. “But so what?”
He blinked. “So what?”
“You think being left in a castle makes someone smaller?” she smiled. “No, my Sandor. You see everything your brother misses. That’s your strength.”
Sandor looked away. “It doesn’t feel like a strength.”
She reached out, brushing the hair from his brow. “He’s already gone, you know. Left before dawn. Didn’t even say goodbye to the chickens.”
That coaxed a small smile from Sandor. His mother smiled back.
“You’ll come with us to Harrenhal,” she added, after a moment. “Your father’s already arranging it. You’re not just Gregor’s brother, Sandor. You’re our son.”
He nodded slowly, the knot in his chest loosening, just a little.
“How’s your bruise?” she asked, her fingers drifting down toward his ribs.
“It doesn’t hurt much—OW!”
She raised an eyebrow. “Not much?”
“You always do that.”
“If it stings, it means you’re still alive,” she said with mock-seriousness. “Now, come help me with the kitchen shelf. It’s sagging again.”
“I don’t know how to fix shelves.”
“Well, you’ll learn. Besides, I’m not asking you to cook. Not after what happened to the turnips last week.”
“That was Gregor!”
“And you watched,” she said, laughing.
As they stood and walked back toward the keep, Sandor glanced sideways at her.
“Mother? Do you think I could be a squire someday? Like Gregor?”
“I think you could be anything you want,” she said. “Even a knight. A true one. Not just one in armor—but one with a good heart.”
“Stronger than Gregor?”
She paused, thoughtful. “Stronger where it matters.”
Sandor smiled. That, he could live with.