A few days later, the quiet of a secluded courtyard inside the Red Keep was shattered by the sharp clash of steel and shouted commands.
"Step forward! Guard left! Thrust! Cut!"
"You're dead."
Sandor Clegane always chose moments like this to sneer.
Sweat rolled down the burned half of his face, making the scarred flesh look even more brutal.
Joffrey rubbed his aching shoulder and sucked in a sharp breath. He had been busy for days and had only just found the time to drag the Hound out for proper training.
Unfortunately, the man had no idea what the word restraint meant.
Even with blunted swords and thick leather padding, every impact felt like it went straight into his bones.
"Again!" Joffrey barked, shaking off the pain.
Steel flashed as they exchanged another flurry of blows.
Sandor's attacks came like a storm, heavy and relentless. Each clash left Joffrey's arms tingling.
He barely managed to block a powerful horizontal slash.
His eyes narrowed. Seizing the opening, he stepped in and thrust straight at Sandor's chest.
The Hound's wrist flicked.
The blade twisted like a striking snake and knocked Joffrey's sword aside with ease.
A heartbeat later, a heavy blow smashed into his right arm.
"You think too much when you fight," Sandor said mockingly. He spun smoothly, and the tip of his sword rested lightly against Joffrey's throat.
The unburned side of his mouth curled in satisfaction. "Too busy calculating. You show all your openings."
Joffrey knocked the blade away and wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
He walked to the wall and dropped down with a grunt.
"That's enough. Break." He grabbed the wineskin from the ground, took a long gulp, then tossed it over.
Sandor caught it and drank deeply. Dark red wine spilled down the corner of his mouth. "Summerwine. Damn good stuff. You lot drink it like water."
"Watch your mouth. My brother's here."
In the corner of the yard, a chubby little boy was furiously attacking a straw dummy tied to a wooden post.
Joffrey had technically skipped his lessons today.
Listening to Pycelle drone on about the laws of the Seven Kingdoms was unbearable. He would rather read the books himself.
Unfortunately, Tommen had followed him, insisting on training too.
So Joffrey had no choice but to make Sandor drag out a training dummy to keep the boy busy.
As crown prince, Joffrey's schedule should have been packed. History, politics, warfare, strategy, economics, finance.
He was supposed to be molded into a perfect ruler.
And yet, in the vast Red Keep, there wasn't a truly competent teacher to be found.
His father was either drunk or hunting.
Sometimes Robert would have a rare burst of fatherly affection, only to shove him right back toward Jon Arryn.
As for his mother? Well. The less said, the better.
"Little lion, it's fine. Do whatever you want."
"Because you're a Lannister."
He had heard that line since childhood.
Joffrey sometimes wondered—if he hadn't been inherently decent and disciplined at heart, growing up in this environment would have turned him into a true monster.
Originally, he had chosen a far better martial instructor than the Hound.
Ser Barristan, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The Bold.
A legendary knight. A man of honor. Someone from whom he could learn real skill—and perhaps build goodwill for the future.
But that plan had collapsed.
Because Cersei found out.
"That old relic? What could he possibly teach you?" With a casual wave of her hand, she made a small adjustment.
And Joffrey was handed over to Jaime instead.
The Kingslayer.
On the surface, it wasn't a bad choice.
Jaime was widely acknowledged as one of the greatest swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms. He had fought real battles.
But over the past few years, if Joffrey hadn't taken the initiative to train with Sandor on the side, he would have learned almost nothing.
Jaime's hand was still intact. He was still that arrogant knight who had long abandoned his ideals, drifting through life without care.
He preferred wandering the castle, indulging in questionable hobbies, and avoiding responsibility.
Teaching his 'nephew' was at the very bottom of his priorities.
Worse, because Jaime held the official title of the prince's instructor, other masters-at-arms didn't dare interfere.
So Joffrey practiced crossbow work alone in his spare time.
"My turn! My turn!"
After hacking at the straw dummy for a while, Tommen was suddenly smacked by its swinging cloth mace and knocked flat on his back.
He lay there dazed for a moment before spotting his brother and Sandor chatting by the wall.
He scrambled up and ran over excitedly.
"You go," Joffrey said, jerking his chin.
Sandor's face fell instantly.
"I swear, I must've wronged your family in a past life," he muttered, swallowing the curse halfway when he glanced at Tommen. "Always babysitting."
Still, he stood up and grabbed a wooden sword.
He carefully engaged the eager little boy.
Watching them, Joffrey laughed. "You know, Dog, you could try being gentle with me too."
"If you had half your brother's manners," Sandor said, blocking Tommen's soft swing and lightly tapping the boy's backside with the flat of his blade, "I might."
After being knocked down a few times, Tommen didn't get upset. His round green eyes blinked curiously.
"Ser Sandor, when will I be as strong as you?"
"At least when you're as tall as me."
"And don't call me ser."
That would never happen, Joffrey thought, pinching the bridge of his nose.
He had just checked his Providence Value earlier. It hadn't increased much.
And even if Sandor wasn't as massive as his brother Gregor, he was still a giant—six foot six, nearly two meters tall.
"What about my brother?" Tommen insisted. "He lasted a long time against you."
"Him?" Sandor glanced back.
Joffrey stared very intently at a crack in the wall.
"His strength and accuracy are decent," Sandor said loudly on purpose. "Good enough to bully a few soldiers. But to reach my level?"
He snorted. "Train hard for another six or seven years."
Then he suddenly paused and turned toward Joffrey. "Wait. How old are you again?"
"Twelve?" Joffrey blinked innocently.
Sandor stared at him for two seconds.
Then he hurled the wooden sword to the ground in frustration, "I joined the army at twelve... Nearly died a dozen times to get where I am."
He glared. "How the hell does someone like you exist? It's not fair."
Joffrey pushed himself to his feet.
Life wasn't fair in many ways.
At least Sandor didn't have to deal with a king for a father.
As the last person in the Red Keep to hear about the rumors spreading through the streets, Robert had already smashed several cups that morning.
"Damn the Tullys!"
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