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Adrian Lannister
The rocking came first, before anything else. A gentle side-to-side that became a stomach-turning up-and-down. Adrian's eyes fluttered open to darkness and the sour taste of something bitter in his mouth. His head hurt worse than the time he'd fallen from the apple tree in Casterly Rock's western orchard.
For three heartbeats, Adrian thought he might be in his bed at home, that he'd had a nightmare about the festival. Then the smell hit him—salt and rot and something else that made his nose wrinkle. Not the clean stone-and-polish scent of home. This was damp wood and mildew and the unmistakable tang of the sea, but fouler, like fish left too long in the sun.
He tried to sit up and discovered his hands were bound with rough rope. The scratchy material bit into his wrists, and his fine festival clothes were damp and stiff with dried sweat and... blood? Adrian blinked hard, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the gloom.
The room—no, cabin—swayed again, and his stomach lurched dangerously. Father always said Lannisters did not show weakness, but Adrian doubted even Tywin Lannister could command his stomach not to empty itself when it was determined to do so. He rolled to his side just in time, retching onto the wooden floor. There wasn't much to come up—when had he last eaten? The feast. The feast before the Ironborn came.
Memory rushed back. The burning ships. Sandor dragging him away. The fighting in the hills. The man with the blue lips.
Sandor. Had he survived? What about Tyrion? Father would be alive, certainly—nothing could kill Father. But what about the Banefort twins? Rollam Westerling? His Frey cousins? What about Joy, waiting at Casterly Rock for the present he'd never deliver?
Adrian's hand moved automatically to his pocket, but the silver hair clasp was gone. Someone had taken it.
A lantern hanging from a hook swung with the motion of the ship, casting grotesque shadows across the cramped space. The walls seemed to lean inward, like they might collapse on him if the ship rocked too hard. There was a single narrow bed—more a shelf with a thin mattress—where he now sat, and a small table bolted to the floor. Nothing else.
Think, Adrian commanded himself, trying to push down the fear bubbling in his chest. Father would be making plans, not being afraid.
The sound of footsteps overhead made him stiffen. They were coming closer, accompanied by the creaking of wood. Adrian quickly wiped his mouth on his sleeve, trying to erase the evidence of his sickness. The door—hatch, Tyrion had called it when reading about ships—swung open with a groan.
The man who ducked through the doorway had to bend almost double to enter the cabin. In the dim light, his blue lips seemed black, like a bruise against pale skin. One eye gleamed as it caught the lantern light—a normal eye, if a bit too bright. The other was covered with a leather patch, but something about the visible eye made Adrian think of the way cats' eyes caught torchlight in the darkened hallways of Casterly Rock.
"Our little lion awakens," the man said, his voice smooth as silk despite his fearsome appearance. "I was beginning to think you might sleep through our entire journey."
Adrian sat up as straight as he could, the way Father did when addressing unpleasant visitors. "Where am I? Who are you?" His voice came out smaller than he'd intended, but it didn't shake, and that was something.
The man's lips curved into what might have been a smile on anyone else. On him, it looked like a wound opening.
"You're aboard The Silence, the finest ship in the Iron Fleet. And I am Euron Greyjoy, though some call me Crow's Eye." He moved closer, and Adrian fought the urge to shrink back against the wall. "And you are Adrian Lannister, the golden heir of Casterly Rock."
"My father will pay whatever ransom you demand," Adrian said with all the dignity he could muster. "The Lannisters always pay their debts."
Euron laughed, a sound like waves crashing against rocks. "Oh, I'm not interested in Lannister gold, little lion. I have a different sort of payment in mind." He leaned closer, and in the swinging light, his visible eye seemed to shift color, from blue to something almost purple. "Tell me, do you dream of dragons?"
"I dream of lions," he lied. "I am a Lannister."
"Are you?" Euron's voice dropped to a whisper, conspiratorial and mocking at once. "You don't look much like a lion to me. Your hair is... unusual."
Adrian's hand went instinctively to his hair, the lighter strands that had always made him different from his family. He'd overheard the servants whispering once that he looked more Targaryen than Lannister, before Septa Marilla had boxed their ears for such talk.
"I take after my mother," Adrian said automatically. He had never known the woman, and he knew his father had forbidden him from asking about her.
"Ah yes, your mother." Euron's smile widened. "We're going to meet someone who has been waiting a very long time for you, little dragon. Someone quite special."
"I want to go home." The words slipped out before Adrian could stop them, childish and weak. Father would be disappointed.
"Home?" Euron tilted his head. "But what is home? I've sailed to Asshai-by-the-Shadow, where the stone glows in the dark. I've acquired gifts for special children like you—children with the old blood."
Adrian stared at him, not understanding but sensing danger in every word. This man was madder than the tales Tyrion had told him of the Mad King.
"If you return me to my father, he might spare you," Adrian said, summoning every bit of Lannister arrogance he could. "House Lannister can be merciful."
Euron threw back his head and laughed, the sound echoing in the small cabin. Then, quicker than Adrian could track, his hand shot out and wrapped around the boy's throat, holding him in place, and Adrian felt the sharp nails dig into his skin like knives, and he felt wetness.
"Tywin Lannister knows nothing of mercy, little cub. And neither do I."
Something wild and desperate rose in Adrian then. Without thinking, he lunged forward and bit into the hand at his throat as hard as he could. His teeth sank through flesh, and suddenly his mouth filled with a coppery taste that made him gag. Something thick and solid was between his teeth.
A blinding pain exploded across the side of his face, and the world spun sideways. Adrian fell back onto the bed, spitting something from his mouth, and he saw it land near his face. His face hurt terribly and there was blood everywhere—his and Euron's, mingling on the front of his once-fine doublet.
Adrian was suddenly in the library at Casterly Rock, sunlight streaming through tall windows while Tyrion read to him about the Dance of Dragons. The sound of waves became Tyrion's voice, each rise and fall telling tales of Targaryens and their great beasts. The coppery taste in his mouth transformed into the sweet lemon cakes Cook had made for his last name day, sticky and tart on his tongue.
Adrian was in the training yard with Uncle Tygett, the throbbing in his cheek merely the result of a wooden sword that had gotten past his guard. "Up again, nephew," Uncle Tygett would say. "A lion doesn't stay down." The rocking of the ship became the gentle motion of his pony, Moonbeam, trotting around the paddock on a clear spring morning.
But then, he opened his eyes, seeing the severed finger on the rough blanket beside him, seeing the madman standing over him.
NOOOOO, Please, Return me. I don't Want to be Here. Tyrion. Father. Sandor....Mother...Please SAVE ME...
Strangely, Euron didn't look angry. He looked... delighted. He stared at his maimed hand with something like fascination, then back at Adrian.
"Fire in your blood indeed," he whispered, wrapping a cloth around his bleeding hand. "She'll be pleased."
He backed toward the door, still smiling that terrible smile. "Food and water will be brought to you soon. Don't waste it—we have a long journey ahead."
The door closed with a thud, and Adrian heard a key turn in the lock. When he was certain Euron was gone, he curled into himself, trembling uncontrollably. The rocking of the ship no longer seemed gentle but violent, like being inside the belly of a monster.
His hand found its way to his pocket again, seeking comfort. Though the silver rose clasp for Joy was gone, his fingers brushed against something else—the small wooden lion she had given him as a farewell gift. Somehow, it had survived the kidnapping. Adrian clutched it tightly, its carved edges digging into his palm.
"A Lannister always pays his debts," he whispered to the darkness, tasting blood and salt and fear. "Always."
The door opened once again, and Euron walked inside with a bright blue smile. In his hand, he held a knife with a blue blade. "You will tell me everything you see, little lord."
Father...Tyrion...Mother...Save me...
Tyrion Lannister
The screams had finally stopped. It had taken three days, but the last of the suspected Ironborn collaborators had confessed and died sometime before dawn. The silence that followed seemed heavier than the screams, somehow. Tyrion Lannister sat in the window seat of Adrian's chambers, a cup of wine in his hand as sunlight struggled through clouds the color of a week-old bruise.
The room remained exactly as Adrian had left it—bed neatly made by servants, books stacked on his small desk, a half-finished letter to Joy Hill lying beside an uncapped inkwell that had long since dried out. It looked like the boy might walk in at any moment, demanding to know why Tyrion was sitting in his window, drinking his father's best Arbor gold at this ungodly hour.
But Adrian wouldn't be walking through that door. Not today, perhaps not ever again.
Tyrion took another long swallow of wine. It didn't help. Nothing did, really, but he kept trying anyway.
"The things I do for family," he muttered to the empty room.
He'd been the one to identify most of the bodies after the attack. His father had been too busy organizing the defense of what remained of Lannisport, sending ravens to King's Landing, and generally terrifying everyone in his path. So it had fallen to the Imp to walk among the charred and bloated corpses, putting names to faces he'd known since childhood.
What disturbed him most, though, were the bodies they hadn't found. Sandor Clegane's massive form wasn't among the dead, despite reports that he'd fought to the last defending Adrian. And, of course, there was no small body with silver-gold hair.
Tyrion slid from the window seat, wincing as his stunted legs absorbed the impact. He moved to Adrian's bed and knelt awkwardly, reaching beneath it. His fingers found what he sought almost immediately—a small wooden chest where Adrian kept his most precious possessions. The boy thought it was a great secret, but Tyrion had known about it for years. Had helped him hide things there, sometimes.
The chest wasn't locked—who would dare steal from the heir to Casterly Rock?—and Tyrion lifted the lid carefully. Inside lay the usual treasures of a curious child: interesting stones, a dried starfish from the beach below the Rock, a tiny silver bell that had once adorned one of Aunt Genna's cats. But what Tyrion sought wasn't there.
Frowning, he closed the chest and pushed it back. Where else would Adrian have hidden it?
Tyrion's gaze swept the room until it landed on the large wooden chest at the foot of Adrian's bed. He hobbled over and threw back the lid. Inside were Adrian's clothes, neatly folded—the practical everyday tunics and breeches rather than the finery he'd worn to Lannisport. Tyrion dug deeper, feeling around the edges until his fingers brushed against something hard tucked into the corner.
He pulled it out with a small sound of triumph. The wooden dragon gleamed in the weak sunlight, its scales meticulously carved, wings extended as if in flight. Tyrion had spent weeks working on it, whittling away in the secret hours of the night, wanting it to be perfect. Adrian had been delighted when Tyrion presented it to him on his fifth nameday, though he'd quickly learned to keep it hidden from his father's view.
"Gods, Adrian," Tyrion whispered, running a thumb over the dragon's head. "Where are you?"
"Where a Lannister should never be," came a cold voice from the doorway. "In the hands of our enemies."
Tyrion didn't need to turn to know his father stood there, but he did anyway. Lord Tywin Lannister filled the doorway, his tall frame rigid with fury. Even his magnificent whiskers seemed to bristle with rage.
"Father," Tyrion acknowledged, not bothering to hide the dragon. It was too late for that.
Tywin's gaze fixed on the wooden toy. "What is that doing in my son's possession?"
The possessiveness in the way Tywin said "my son" wasn't lost on Tyrion. A reminder of where Tyrion stood in the hierarchy of Lannister affection.
"I made it for him," Tyrion said simply. "He likes dragons."
"Adrian is a lion," Tywin said, each word sharp as Valyrian steel. "Not a dragon. Dragons are dead. Their bloodline is all but extinguished, save for one girl who'll never leave the Red Keep alive and two beggars across the Narrow Sea." He extended his hand. "Give it to me."
Tyrion hesitated. It was just a toy, a silly wooden dragon that had brought a smile to a little boy's face. But giving it up felt like surrendering something more important.
"Now," Tywin demanded.
Reluctantly, Tyrion placed the dragon in his father's palm. Tywin examined it with cold detachment.
For a moment, he seemed like he would tell a guard to burn it, but then he looked at Tyrion, and then said. "Destroy it," he commanded, handing it back. "Then join me in the Great Hall. The lords of the Westerlands await us."
"Destroy it?" Tyrion repeated. "It's just a toy, Father. When we get Adrian back—"
"When Adrian returns," Tywin cut him off, "he will have outgrown childish things. This fascination with dragons ends now. It is... inappropriate."
There was something in his father's tone that gave Tyrion pause. Not just the usual disapproval, but something deeper. Almost like fear, if Tywin Lannister were capable of such an emotion.
"As you command," Tyrion said carefully.
Tywin gave a curt nod and turned to leave, then paused. "The Clegane boy's body wasn't found."
"No," Tyrion confirmed. "Perhaps he was taken as well."
"Unlikely. The Ironborn don't take grown men captive unless they're worth ransoming, and Sandor Clegane is worth nothing to them." Tywin's mouth tightened. "If he lives and abandoned his duty to protect Adrian, I'll have his head."
"And if he lives and continues to fulfill that duty?" Tyrion asked. "If he's pursuing Adrian's captors even now?"
"Then he'll be rewarded appropriately," Tywin said dismissively. "The Great Hall. Ten minutes."
With that, he was gone, leaving Tyrion alone with the wooden dragon.
Tyrion looked down at the carving, tracing its features with his fingertip. Then, with deliberate care, he tucked it into his doublet instead of the fireplace. What his father didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Besides, Adrian would want it back when he returned.
If he returned.
Stop that, Tyrion told himself firmly. He's a Lannister. He'll survive.
Ten minutes later, Tyrion waddled into the Great Hall to find it packed with the lords of the Westerlands. The chamber buzzed with angry voices and the clatter of armor as knights shifted restlessly. His father sat at the high table, his face a mask of cold fury as Lord Banefort droned on about coastal defenses.
"—must strengthen our shoreline keeps immediately, my lord," Banefort was saying. "The Ironborn could strike anywhere."
"They won't strike again," Tywin said with deadly certainty. "Not when the full might of Casterly Rock descends upon their miserable islands."
"Lord Tywin," called Lord Westerling, rising to his feet, "what word from King's Landing? Will the king answer our call?"
"Robert Baratheon will come," Tywin replied. "As will every lord in the Seven Kingdoms who wishes to keep his head. This was not merely an attack on House Lannister. It was an attack on the peace of the realm."
"And the boy?" Lady Marbrand asked, her voice gentler than the men's. "What of young Adrian?"
Something dangerous flickered in Tywin's eyes. "My son will be recovered. And every man who had a hand in his taking will die screaming. House Greyjoy will drown and reunite with their drowned god, every single one of them."
Tyrion eased himself onto a bench near the back of the hall, reaching for a flagon of wine. As he poured, he heard many of them wanting to help, many wanting to help the Heir of Casterly Rock.
"How dare they kidnap a child?"
"The kid will be returned safely,"
"We will return Lord Adrian home."
Tyrion knew they did not care about Adrian; they cared who he was. He was the son of Tyrwin Lannister, the Heir of Tywin Lannister. They would not care if it was me, Tyrion found himself thinking, then a thought came to him.
If Adrian never returns, I am heir to Casterly Rock again.
The thought made him dizzy, and he wanted to puke the wine he had just drunk, followed immediately by a wave of shame so intense he nearly retched. Adrian was his brother, and he and Jaime were the only ones of his siblings who showed him genuine affection. The boy who laughed at his jokes and begged for stories and looked at him with admiration rather than disgust.
Tyrion drained his cup in one long swallow, trying to wash away the thought.
"Any ironborn captives," Tywin was saying, his voice carrying effortlessly across the hall, "will be questioned thoroughly, then have their entrails fed to the crows while they watch. Any ship bearing the kraken will be burned. Any island flying Greyjoy colors will be put to the sword." He paused, his gaze sweeping the room. "This is not vengeance. This is justice. House Lannister remembers its debts—especially those paid in blood."
The lords pounded their tables in approval, shouting oaths of loyalty and promises of retribution. Tyrion watched his father, seeing not grief for a missing child, but rage at an insult to Lannister pride.
That was the difference between them, Tyrion realized. Tywin wanted Adrian back because he was the future of House Lannister. Tyrion wanted him back because he was Adrian.
The wooden dragon pressed against Tyrion's chest, hidden beneath his doublet. A secret promise to a boy with unusual hair and green eyes. I'll keep it safe until you return, little brother. However long it takes.
Jaime Lannister
Jaime Lannister stood in the White Sword Tower's armory, half-listening as Ser Barristan outlined preparations for the march north. Maps were spread across the round table, weighted at the corners with daggers. Red ink marked the proposed route—King's Landing to Riverrun, then north to Seagard where ships would carry them to the Iron Islands. Barristan's finger traced the path, his voice a steady drone in Jaime's ears.
"Lord Stannis will blockade Pyke with the Royal Fleet while we land here, at Lordsport," Barristan was saying. "The Redwyne ships will close the southern route, preventing escape to the Summer Sea."
Jaime nodded, though his mind was elsewhere. The image of Cersei's face—tears streaming down her perfect cheeks, her green eyes wild with a desperation he'd never seen before—haunted him. Even now, three days later, he couldn't make sense of it.
' "Why?" he had asked her as she clutched at his white cloak, her nails leaving half-moon indentations in his wrists. "Why do you care so much about Adrian? You've never even mentioned him before."
She had recoiled as if struck, her eyes darting to the door as though afraid someone might be listening. "Don't ask me that, Jaime. Just save him. Promise me you'll save him."
"Of course I'll try to save him, but Cersei—"
"And don't tell Father," she had whispered urgently. "Don't ever tell Father I reacted this way."
"Why would I tell Father anything?" The question had genuinely confused him. "What does Father have to do with this?"
"Promise me," she had insisted, ignoring his question. "Promise me you'll save Adrian and never, ever mention this to Father." '
He had promised, of course. He always did what Cersei asked, even when he didn't understand why. But this time felt different. This wasn't one of her plots for advancement or revenge. This was raw, visceral fear. He had never seen her like that before, not even when they were children facing their father's wrath.
"Ser Jaime?" Barristan's voice cut through his thoughts. "Do you have any questions about your role in the campaign?"
Jaime glanced up to find all the Kingsguard staring at him. "No, Lord Commander. Your plan is sound."
Barristan raised an eyebrow but continued. "As I was saying, His Grace will lead the main force, with Lord Stark commanding the northern contingent. The king specifically requested that you ride with him in the vanguard."
"An honor," Jaime murmured, though the thought of spending weeks on the road listening to Robert's drunken boasting made his stomach turn.
His mind drifted again, this time to the only occasion he had seen Adrian in person. Six years ago, in the Red Keep's throne room, Tywin had presented the infant to the court—a golden haired babe wrapped in Lannister crimson, officially acknowledged as Tywin's natural son and newly legitimized by royal decree.
But the hair hadn't been Lannister gold, not exactly. It had been lighter, with an almost silvery sheen in certain light. At the time, Jaime had barely noted it, too shocked by his father's unprecedented action. Tywin Lannister, who was always seen as above whores, suddenly presenting a bastard as his heir? It had made no sense.
And then there was the mother—a woman from Lys, supposedly, though Tywin had never named her. When questioned, he had merely said she had been well compensated and returned to her homeland. A convenient explanation for a woman who would never be seen at court.
Adrian was two months old when he was presented to the King. Which meant he had been conceived...
Jaime froze, his blood suddenly running cold in his veins. Adrian would have been conceived around the time of the Tourney at Harrenhal.
There had been rumors, of course. Whispers of secret meetings, of a dragon prince enchanted by golden hair and emerald eyes. Jaime had dismissed them at the time, consumed by his own troubles—his appointment to the Kingsguard, his separation from Cersei. But what if...
"Ser Jaime?" Barristan was looking at him with concern. "Are you unwell?"
Jaime straightened, forcing his face into a neutral expression. "Forgive me, Lord Commander. I was considering our strategy."
"And have you reached any conclusions?" There was a hint of impatience in the old knight's voice.
"Yes," Jaime said, making his decision in that moment. "I should ride for Casterly Rock immediately, ahead of the main force."
Barristan frowned. "His Grace expects you to accompany him."
"My father will need every sword, especially experienced commanders. I can better serve by organizing our western forces while the king gathers his army." Jaime met Barristan's skeptical gaze steadily. "This is my family's war as much as the crown's. My father's heir has been taken."
"Your half-brother," Barristan corrected mildly, what Jaime had said three days ago.
"Yes," Jaime said, the word suddenly tasting strange on his tongue. "My half-brother."
Barristan considered him for a long moment. "I'll inform His Grace of your request. But I make no promises. Robert may insist you remain with the royal party."
"Then he will have another reason to call me Kingslayer after I kill our dear Balon Greyjoy," Jaime replied with a smile that did not reach his eyes. He rose to his feet, the white scales of his armor catching the light. "A lion may wear a white cloak, Ser Barristan, but his claws remain sharp. My lord father's heir is in the hands of reavers and pirates. Not even King Robert can command me to sit idle while Ironborn decide the fate of my blood."
As the others filed out to attend the king, Jaime remained at the table, staring at the map. His eyes traced the distance from King's Landing to Casterly Rock, then to the Iron Islands. So many leagues of land and sea between him and answers.
He thought again of Cersei's tears. Of an infant with silver-gold hair.
"Gods be good," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. If what he suspected was true... but no, it couldn't be. Even Cersei wouldn't have been so reckless. And yet, her reaction to Adrian's kidnapping suggested a connection far deeper than concern for a half-brother she'd never acknowledged.
Jaime gathered his white cloak and strode from the room, his decision made. He would leave for Casterly Rock tonight, with or without royal permission. He would find this boy—this child who might be far more than Tywin Lannister's legitimized bastard—and in doing so, perhaps find answers to questions he hadn't known to ask until now.
As he descended the tower steps, Jaime's thoughts turned westward, to a castle of stone perched above the sea, and to the secrets it might hold. Adrian Lannister. A boy with hair the color of old silver and new gold. A boy whose existence had made his twin sister weep as Jaime had never seen her weep before.
I'm coming, Adrian, he thought. Whoever you truly are.
Sandor Clegane
The pain came first, then the stink. Fish guts and salt and piss, all mixing together in a stench that could only mean he wasn't dead yet. Dead men didn't smell anything. Sandor Clegane opened his good eye, the burned side of his face throbbing like a second heart. A low ceiling of rough-hewn planks swam into focus above him, cobwebs thick in the corners.
He tried to sit up. A mistake. Pain lanced through his side where an Ironborn axe had caught him between the plates of his armor. The wound was bandaged now with what looked like boiled rags, stained dark with his blood.
"Lie still, big man," said a voice rough as a grindstone. "Them squids nearly gutted you proper."
Sandor turned his head to see an old man with skin like weathered leather, sitting on a stool and mending a fishing net with gnarled fingers.
"Where am I?" Sandor rasped, his throat dry as old bones.
"Fishfoot Point," the old man answered. "Found you washed up on the rocks, half-dead and cursing like a shipful of sailors. You're lucky the tide was coming in, not out, or you'd have drowned sure as sunrise."
Memories crashed back like waves against the shore. The Ironborn attack. The burning ships. Escorting the boy into the hills above Lannisport. The ambush. Sandor had killed three of the squids before a fourth buried an axe in his side. He remembered falling, rolling down a rocky slope toward the water, the sounds of fighting growing distant above him.
And the boy. The little lordling with his silver-gold hair and sharp tongue.
"The boy," Sandor croaked. "The Lannister boy. Did you find him too?"
The old man shook his head. "Just you. Word is the Iron rats took Lord Tywin's pup. Some say it was Euron Crow's Eye himself who snatched him."
Sandor closed his eyes, his massive hands clenching into fists. He'd failed. The one fucking job Tywin Lannister had given him—protect the boy—and he'd failed. The old lion would have his head for this, if he didn't bleed out first in this stinking fisherman's hut.
But it wasn't just fear of Tywin that twisted in his gut like a knife. It was the boy's face he saw when he closed his eyes. Adrian, looking at him without the fear or disgust most children showed when they saw his burns. The way the little lordling would pepper him with questions about swordsmanship, actually listening to the answers instead of just waiting for his turn to speak. How he'd bitten his lip, trying not to cry that time he'd taken a hard fall in the training yard, getting back up with stubborn Lannister pride.
Fuck that, Sandor thought angrily. He's just a job. A rich man's whelp. He didn't care about the boy. Couldn't care. Caring was for bloody knights in their shining armor, with their false vows and falser smiles. Not for dogs like him.
With a growl that was half pain and half determination, Sandor pushed himself upright. Black spots danced before his eyes, and for a moment he thought he might vomit. He gritted his teeth and waited for the spinning to stop.
"Seven hells, man, lie down!" the old fisherman protested. "You'll tear them stitches and bleed out on my floor."
"I need a horse," Sandor said, ignoring him. "And a sword."
The old man gaped at him. "You're in no fit state to—"
"Didn't ask for your fucking opinion," Sandor cut him off. "Asked for a horse." He looked around the small hut, his gaze landing on a rusted longsword hanging on the wall. "That'll do."
"Now see here," the fisherman started, rising from his stool. "That was my father's sword from—"
Sandor fixed him with a look that stopped the words in his throat. Even wounded, the Hound was a terrifying sight—six and a half feet of muscle and scar tissue, his burned face twisted in a permanent snarl.
"I need to get back to Lannisport," Sandor growled. "Lord Tywin will be gathering forces to strike back at the Ironborn."
The old man's expression softened slightly. "Aye, word is they're marshaling at Lannisport already. King Robert's called his banners too. They say there's to be war."
"Good," Sandor said, testing his weight as he stood fully. His side screamed in protest, but he kept his face impassive. "The sooner we gut these squid fuckers, the better."
He limped to the wall and took down the sword. It was poorly balanced and dull as a butter knife, but it would serve until he found better.
"You've a horse?" he asked again.
The fisherman nodded reluctantly. "Old nag I use for hauling nets. Stabled out back."
"She'll do."
The fisherman scratched his sparse beard. "There's a chest under the bed. Clothes there might fit you, more or less."
Sandor didn't thank him, just knelt painfully and dragged out the chest. The clothes inside stank of fish and sea salt, but they were whole, which was more than could be said for his own bloodied garments.
As he dressed, the fisherman watched him. "You're going after them, aren't you? After the boy?"
Sandor grunted, not bothering to answer. What was there to say? That he'd failed at the one task he'd been given?
Just trying to save my own skin, he told himself. Tywin Lannister will have my head if I don't bring back his heir.
An hour later, he was mounted on the fisherman's nag—a swaybacked brown mare that looked as old as the fisherman himself. She protested his weight with an indignant whicker but held steady as he settled in the saddle, his side a mass of fire.
The fisherman stood in the doorway of his hut, watching. Sandor reached into his boot where he kept an emergency coin, pulling out a gold dragon.
"For the horse," he said, tossing the coin. "And for not letting me die."
The old man caught it with surprising dexterity, his eyes widening at the sight of Lannister gold. He bit it once, then tucked it away with a nod of satisfaction. "Good luck to you, big man."
Sandor snorted. "Luck's for fools and green boys. I'll make my own way."
He turned the horse west, toward Lannisport, where Tywin Lannister would be assembling his forces. Where the fleet would be gathering to sail against the Iron Islands. Where he might find a way to reach the boy before the Ironborn did whatever they meant to do with him.
As he rode, Sandor kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, where sea met sky in a line as sharp as a blade. Somewhere out there was a boy who had no business being in the hands of the Ironborn. A boy who, against all odds, had made the Hound feel something he hadn't felt in years—the need to protect something smaller and weaker than himself.
I am a fucking fool...
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