Disclaimer: I don't own Game of Thrones TV show nor the book franchise.

Note: Edited on 20/04/19

Enjoy!

A BROTHER

Power.

Everyone in the world wants it, power. And not little this men and women sacrifice their body and soul, that wasn't even theirs. They are willingly losing owned and loved ones, just to get holds of this invisible winning.

So what is a power? Why people are easily blinded by this victory? What is the importance?

Power itself is quite… powerful. A liberty of needs and wants. Of such a great freedom of control on what you need, what you want, and neither, and actually make it happen. Power can be beautiful and dangerous, depends on what shall come out of your rare tongue and what shall resulted. Power can make the ones harnessing it be beautiful and loved by the people who hears blissfully and follows. At a time, power can, too, make the ones consuming it be dangerous and hated by those who listens carefully and decides. Importance, yes. Power is very important. It is a way to gain trust of others and get them stand next to you. Or make them. Just simply, make yourself look taller and bigger in status than everyone else standing below. In a world full of different state of minds, being a threat always helpful.

A second series of questions come out. What exactly have to do to own this incredible society control?

Strength. Use strength to win you a power. Earn the way to the top of the chain by the tip of silver sword. That is if you stand at the right side of the blade. Of course the risk. But win and names shall emerge gloriously.

Wealth, if you have enough gold and other rich to buy King's Landing, which who knows the price attached. Who knows if it works, and no one will know apparently. Even Lannister doesn't seem to put a bet on the choice. Perhaps, if you want to feel heroic, pay someone for killing. Easier win, less risky, same glory.

A third series of questi—

"Brother, what are you reading?" Walking in a deep voice of a big brother, startled him a little bit of guard. "What is that? History reading?"

"N-not history. Just some parchment I found—"

"Do you want to play Sword and Shield with me? Outside?" he cut him off uninterestedly.

"I might want to. I am just to—"

"Say none. Come now!" by a grab, the big brother pulled him up and dragged him to the outside. Sandor sighed, exhausted and defeated.

The game, Sword and Shield, was just a kid's game of two knights with limited weapon duel each other for a win. For Sandor, it was utterly stupid and wasting time. For Gregor, it was more than just a game. It was a way to prove his father that he was strong and capable. That being said, Gregor took the play more seriously, to the point of seriously hurting Sandor. With all muscle contracted, Gregor the Swordsman took a giant swing directly hitting Sandor's body, just connected to the left rib. Another connected to his right thigh.

"Ugh… Yield, I yield!" Sandor fell down, groaning and clutching his body in utter pain. Gregor laughed, stepping his right foot on top of the fallen enemy's shoulder and feast his victory over Sandor the Shielding. Soon after, Gregor felt bored and left him for another entertainment.

A game was more than just a game. A hit was more than just a hit. An ugly purple bruise was more than just a bruise. Bruises had their own story to tell. Alas, Sandor had lots of untold story, each from different games. Sandor found himself limping weakly to his bedroom. Sandor sat down on his bed, slowly taking of his linen shirt. He winched when he felt incredible amount of pain on the bruise when he lifted his arms. He shook his hand and continued to undress carefully. Because of his stories on his body, he had an ointment on sight.

Somehow, young Sandor was used to an aggressive affectionate brother of his. At least that was what he was told by Father. Maybe it was, but he never felt the affection whenever he interacted with Gregor. Mother mentioned a brotherly love, but Sandor neither felt that. At one point Sandor didn't know who lied and who just couldn't see straight. And even if he eventually knew, it would not change anything.

Speaking of a mother, Lady Clegane just walked into his room with some laundry. She smiled at first, but when she noticed a horrible bruise on her son's skin her smile faded slightly. "My, Sandor, what happened to you?" she walked up and sat down next to him. Without any words, Sandor rasied his left arm so his mother could spread the ointment across the purple skin. "Gregor, wasn't it? I saw you two out playing. I didn't see what happened but it was Gregor."

The last part was more of a statement than a question. Sandor reluctantly nodded. "But it doesn't hurt much now—OW mother!"

"Unfortunately it still does," Lady Clegane gently wrapped a soft cloth around his body to pad the bruise and covered it better. She spoke up. "I've talked to Gregor so many times about using his strength while playing. But he is... easily excited. I am sorry, Sandor."

"I understand. It is never your fault, mother." Sandor smiled to her, though it still hurt.

"Do you feel better now?"

"Much better. Thank you, mother. Although I feel slightly tired."

"Of course. Go get some nap for few hours. I will wake you when it is dinner."

Before mother could reach the door, Sandor was sleeping already.

...

The Clegane's Keep was merely a small patch of land for House Clegane, with a simple stone house to live in, as an honor given from the previous Lannister. It was small compared to the lion's den, but it was big enough to keep a family of four, with enough fields for stables and livestock.

Sandor found himself feeding the chickens, simply throwing grains to the ground as they ran for it eagerly. His bruise was healing quite nicely. But still he wouldn't be allowed to do heavier activities just yet, such as bathing the horses, cutting woods, or playing with Gregor. Mother had talked to Gregor about his current condition and fortunately he listened, for now. Instead, Gregor was now training swords with Ilyn Payne, another vassal boy of Lannister, and a dear friend of Clegane. Good thing, the Payne was visiting at the very moment, enough for distraction.

He had to admit it was weird to stand at the other side of the view. For every day Sandor was beaten, battered, and bruised by Gregor, it was odd to have a few days off about it. It was even odder to see Gregor assaulted Ilyn instead. The look on his face when the wooden sword stung his body was a reminder of what himself would look like. Gods, he looked horribly wronged.

"My body hurts so much!" Ilyn finally leashed out complaints after he entered Sandor's room. He immediately lifted his shirt to see scars and bruises decorated his back. He frowned and flinched at the same time when he pressed a finger to one. "My Gods, help me now."

"Do you want an ointment for it? I have it, here."

"Yes, please?" Ilyn nodded and took off his shirt as Sandor walked to the drawer to take his medical kit. Ilyn sat down facing his back to him. Sandor did the work. "Do you want to be maester, Sandor?"

"No. Never," Sandor answered, "why?"

"I meant, you have prepared this ointment, bandages, and all this remedy," Ilyn grabbed several small bottles containing what looked like medicine syrup. He looked around and spotted more bottles lining up near his desk. "You even have bottles of Milk of a Poppy."

Instead, Sandor laughed and shook his head. "No, you stupid. I don't want to be a maester. I want to be a knight—"

"Ouch Sandor!"

Sandor laughed again when he intentionally poked a fresh red scar to jolt him. Ilyn groaned in pain, but soon laughed as well. "How was your training with Gregor?"

"I know you might take your big brother's side, but please don't spread to him," Ilyn huffed and lumped his body slightly. "But he is just the worst to practice with. He is big and fierce and strong, and unstoppably cruel for his age."

"Unstoppable?"

"Unstoppably. He is a scary kid. Training with him feels like I am a northerner being hunted by a wildling."

"I feel you, Ilyn," Sandor told him, "which is why I have this medical stuff at the first place."

Ilyn didn't realize it at first. When he did, he abruptly turned around to face him. "Gregor hurts you all the time?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I train with him all the time."

"But why? Why not some butcher's boy?"

"There are no butcher's boys nearby, you silly. My father is always needed with the Lannister. And I would never ask my mother to spar with me."

"But why just can't you say no?"

"He is Gregor. He does what he wants," Sandor shrugged and stood up. He lifted his shirt to show him numerous of scars and a mark of a beating all across his body. "This is why I have those medical things."

"Gods, what happened to you, friend?"

"Life. Just life."

...

The Payne had left with something attached. Lord Clegane had come home with something to tell.

The small family had a little of habit to do together. But when it came down for dinner, all members were already seated on their given chairs. Father and Gregor always sat on one side of the table together opposing mother and Sandor on the other side.

"My sons, I want you to listen to me. I got big news!"

"What's the news, Father?" exclaimed Gregor.

"There will be held at Harrenhal, a tourney—"

"A tourney? When?! I want to watch the tourney. Are we going to go there?"

Hearing the enthusiastic future knight, Lord Clegane laughed. "Dear son, how are you supposed to know if you keep cutting me off?" Gregor just shook his head excitedly. "Thus, yes we will attend the tourney. You, Gregor, will be accompanying Lord Tywin as his squire. Remember Gregor, you have to behave like a knight, to impress him."

"Yes, of course Father. I'll be a knight. I'll be the strongest knight in Westeros!"

"Good, good. I believe in you, dear son."

And the dinner ended.

The next day, Sandor found himself at the stables, just wandered and wondered.

As a second son, Sandor was expected to match his big brother, good grief if he did more. Gregor was big for his age. That alone was already an advantage for his future career to be a knight he always dreamed of. He was good with big swords and shields. His strength was dangerously amazing. His emotion was dangerously unstable. Even by now at the age of eleven he was signed as a squire to Lord Tywin Lannister, of his choosing. And so a question wondered along, just how to match all of those unpredicted values? So far, Sandor hadn't found the answer. He was just starting to doubt if there was any.

"Sandor, my son," Father appeared at the entrance of the building, "what are you doing here all by yourself?"

"Bathing the horses."

"Bathing the horses?"

"Yes."

"Without water and brush? What are you bathing them with?"

"I-uh," Sandor blinked and looked at his mother, "no, I am not bathing the horses. Sorry, Father."

Lord Clegane walked towards him, brushing his short brown hair almost resemblance to black. He took another hand on his cheek and lifted his face, only to meet a set of deep and confused brown eyes. "What's on your mind, my son?"

"I don't—know. I don't even know what is on my mind," then he asked unsure of himself, "the tourney, maybe?"

"What is it about the tourney that you may think of?"

"I've always wanted to go to a tourney."

"Tourney of Harrenhal said to be huge and extravagant. For months, Lord Whent has it all prepared in every detail possible. This shall be your first experience attending a tourney, Sandor. You should be excited."

"So I can come to the tourney?"

Hearing that made Lord Clegane frowned. "Did you think you are left behind?" he frowned even more so when he didn't answer. He kneeled down, with his young sweet face on the palm of her hands. "Answer me, boy; did you think you are not allowed to go to the tourney?"

"Y-yes, Father. I thought…," Sandor paused, "I thought you would only take Gregor because he is a squire to Lord Tywin. It is an important occasion for Gregor and for you, Father, and I don't want to ruin the moment."

"Oh Sandor," Lord Clegane cupped his cheek, caressing firmly and lovingly, "having you with us at the tourney will never ruin anyone's moment, Sandor."

"Not even Gregor's and yours?"

"Not even his. Not even mine. Not even yours."

Sandor blinked and found the tip of his shoes to be quite amusing. Somehow he felt embarrassed, having a short-minded thought in front of his clever father. But he gave him piece and relief to know he wouldn't be anyone's burden and actually can come to the tourney. He looked up to see Father smiling towards him and that alone made him blushed even more.

"I am sorry I made you feel left out. But I promise you, we are not leaving you. I am not," Father sighed and leaned his elbow his knee. "It's just, Gregor. He is a complicated boy. Which reminds me, how was your bruise? Is it a pain still?"

"Oh, no. I am healing. It doesn't hurt as much now—OW!"

"I think it still does, my son." Father laughed a little when he intentionally pressed the bruise with his thumb.

"Why are you and mother like to do that to me?" Sandor realized the same unpleasant action he received, but more curious about it.

"If you still feel an 'ouch' that means you are alright."

"But who taught you that?"

"I got the trick from my old friend," He shrugged and glanced at his innocent son. He couldn't help but load a chuckles seeing just how innocent he was. "Now. If you are not bathing anything, could you help me with the kitchen?"

Sandor raised both eyebrows in disbelieve. "You want me to cook?"

Seeing the expression of her little boy, he laughed and walked with him to the house. "Of course not, Sandor. I don't trust you with fire yet. The cabinet in there needs to be fixed."

"Oh I see," Sandor smiled and followed Lord Clegane out of the building, hand in hand. "Oh Father?"

"Yes Sandor?"

"Do you think I have a chance to be a squire? Like one Gregor has now? I've always wanted to be a knight, Father."

"Boy! Of course! Be a knight is everyone's opportunity. Although only some who is determined enough to stand still and make a good use of it, is considered worthy," Father added. "And I think my Sandor will be a great knight that protects anyone and keeps them safe."

"You think so, father?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Stronger than Gregor, perhaps?"

"Ye—err, don't need the rush, Sandor. Just practice for a bit more."

Oh how Sandor could agree on that part.