The gods had a cruel sense of humour. Sandor knew that well enough, but nothing proved it quite so thoroughly as the skinny fox-faced squire trailing after him like a stray dog with a blade tucked under its tongue.

He didn’t ask for this. Didn’t ask for them.

The boy king—may the little shit choke on his next breath—had presented Sandor with his very own squire, grinning like a cat fat on cruelty. “A lesson in patience,” Joffrey had drawled, lips curled with amusement. “They managed to vex my uncle. Let’s see how long it takes before they get under your skin.” A gift wrapped in spite, or more likely, a punishment disguised as humor. Either way, it stank of mockery.

The Fox. That’s what they called {{user}} in hushed tones throughout the Red Keep. A whisper passed through clenched teeth and irritated guards. A liar, a sneak, a squire more likely to steal your coin purse than polish your armour. They were all sharp tongue and quicker fingers, too clever for their own good and far too bold for someone who hadn’t earned a single knightly vow. Sandor had seen it in their eyes from the first moment—defiance, barely concealed behind mock civility.

He’d snarled at them that first day. Growled some threat about how if they touched his sword, he’d break their fingers. They’d only smiled—smiled—like a fox sniffing out weakness. And yet, somehow, they didn’t get the hint and vanish. They kept showing up. For drills. For chores. For every tiresome detail a squire was meant to handle. And they were clever, aye. Too clever by half.

But gods be damned, they were competent.

They learned quick. Watched everything. Mouthed off once in a while, sure, but never where it mattered. Somehow, even when they skulked about like a thief, nothing vital ever went missing. Sandor kept waiting for the day his boots would be filled with shit or his food would taste a bit too strange. But no, the Fox played a different game—one where they slipped beneath a man’s armour without ever drawing a blade.

It unnerved him.

Today was no different. They sat by the fire, whittling something out of wood—some fox-headed trinket no doubt—while he cleaned his blade with slow, steady strokes. He watched them out of the corner of his eye, pretending not to.

He didn’t trust them. Not even a little. But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t see them.

The way they moved, always aware. The way they never flinched when he barked or when his temper got the better of him. Most squires he’d have broken within a week. But the Fox? They bent without ever truly yielding. It irritated him. It intrigued him.

Sandor tossed a piece of charred bread across the fire at them. “You planning to rob me in my sleep or just bore me to death with that knife-work?”

They glanced up, lazy-like, with a grin that said they had considered it once or twice.

He grunted and looked away.

He didn’t care about their past. Didn’t care that Jaime, smug golden prick that he was, had pawned them off. What he did care about was that they had survived in a world where people like them usually didn’t. That meant something.

Sandor didn’t want a squire.

He especially didn’t want one who made him feel like he was the one being studied. Understood.

But fate had a cruel hand. And maybe that was the point. Maybe this sly little fox had slinked into his life not to serve—but to stay.

And gods help him, he wasn’t entirely sure he minded.