Dawn.
King's Landing still trembled in the aftershock of ecstasy.
Last night's blood-soaked duel—that savage execution—was like the most potent drug injected into the city's ancient veins.
In Flea Bottom's taverns, gamblers roared over the Hound's impossible comeback.
In noble manors, ladies clutched their pearls while describing the king's brutality—then blushed at the memory of that primal violence.
Blood and fire. Always the city's favorite themes.
They hadn't slept.
The Maester's Tower, Red Keep.
The air reeked of horse piss, poppy milk, and crushed herbs.
Sandor Clegane lay in bed.
Wrapped head to toe in bandages. A mummy.
His left shoulder was shattered by the Mountain. Ribs cracked. Countless wounds. The worst were the burns—where Gregor's thrown flames had seared his flesh.
The maesters had tried every salve. Their conclusion:
Rest. That's all they could offer.
Sandor didn't care.
His body screamed. But his soul had never been quieter.
He'd gotten his revenge.
That feeling eclipsed the pain. Lifted him. Purified him.
Better than fucking a thousand whores.
Sandor closed his eyes. Replayed the duel frame by frame.
He remembered the terror when fire surrounded him. That bone-deep, soul-shaking helplessness.
He remembered the voice—like thunder in his skull—that ripped him from twenty years of nightmares.
He remembered the moment the Mountain's hand crushed his throat. About to snap his neck. Then—cold. Exploding from the base of his skull.
His neck turned harder than frozen iron.
That wasn't the Seven.
Sandor knew better than anyone. Those seven useless gods did nothing but peddle false hope.
Besides, he didn't believe in them.
It was Lord Lynn.
Had to be.
The man who'd sat calmly on the high table. Like he controlled everything.
Sandor's eyes snapped open.
Those gray eyes—usually full of violence and contempt—now held something like pilgrimage clarity.
His whole life, he'd been a dog.
For his father. His brother. The Lannisters. That blond little shit Joffrey.
They fed him. Used him. Made him bite their enemies. Satisfied their pathetic vanity. Made him their fig leaf.
To survive, he'd bullied the weak. Done things that disgusted even himself.
He hated them. Hated himself more.
But Lord Lynn?
He wasn't stupid. Lynn was using him too. But Lynn had given him revenge.
Lynn had given him the courage to face his fear.
Lynn had saved his life at the critical moment.
That debt towers higher than the Wall.
Sandor struggled to sit up.
"Ser, you need rest!"
A maester's apprentice rushed forward.
"Fuck off!"
Sandor shoved him aside.
Ignoring the agony—like his bones were coming apart—he used his good arm to lever himself off the bed.
Grabbed a cloak from a nearby rack. Threw it over his ridiculous bandages.
Then, limping but resolute, Sandor left the tower.
He had to see Lynn.
Now. Immediately.
Tower of the Hand. Ned's Study.
Lynn stood before the massive map of Westeros. His finger traced the Eyrie in the Vale.
When Lysa learned of Littlefinger's death, the foolish woman would go completely mad.
Robert's brutality. Ned's awakening. The Vale's threat.
The board in King's Landing—because of his butterfly wings—was in chaos.
Exactly what he wanted.
Littlefinger used to handle this. Now Lynn had to do it himself.
THUD. THUD.
Heavy, labored knocking.
"Come in."
The door opened. A massive figure filled the doorway.
Sandor Clegane.
Cloaked. Head bowed.
Each step made the floor groan.
He stopped in the center of the room.
"That day... it was you. Wasn't it?"
Lynn turned. Looked at him calmly.
"What was?"
"The fire."
Sandor raised his head. Gray eyes locked on Lynn.
"And my neck."
He needed confirmation.
Lynn didn't answer. Just walked to the cabinet. Poured two cups of wine.
Offered one to Sandor.
Sandor didn't take it.
Under Lynn's steady gaze, the man who'd never truly submitted to anyone slowly bent his knee.
THUD.
Clumsy from his injuries. The sound of knee meeting floor echoed in the quiet room.
"I, Sandor Clegane, have been a dog my whole life."
Sandor kept his head low. His voice had lost its usual violence. Only devotion remained.
"A dog for the Lannisters. A dog for the Baratheons."
"They threw me bones. Made me bite."
"I hated them. Hated the chain around my neck."
"But you're different."
"You gave me revenge. Let me kill my nightmare with my own hands."
"You saved my life."
He looked up.
That grotesque, half-burned face held an expression Lynn had never seen.
Complete, unguarded submission.
"From today, my dog's life is yours."
He took the word that had shamed him his entire life—and made it a sacred oath.
Lynn looked down at the kneeling man.
He'd gained more than Westeros's finest warrior.
He'd gained a beast who'd broken every chain. Who'd fight for him alone.
"Stand up, Sandor."
Lynn helped him rise.
"I didn't save you to keep you a pathetic hound."
"You're a warrior."
"From today, you fight for your honor. Not for their dirty work."
Lynn pressed the wine into his hand.
"Your wounds need rest."
"Yes."
Sandor drained the cup.
First time he'd heard the word "honor" without feeling sick.
Joffrey's Chambers.
Joffrey was happy lately.
Since his father publicly butchered Petyr Baelish at the tourney, the Red Keep's atmosphere had turned oppressive and strange.
Ministers who used to lecture him now avoided him.
His mother Cersei was distracted. Too preoccupied to discipline him.
He felt free. Truly free.
But the best part? Lyana.
This girl—soft as water—was a gift from the Seven.
She never contradicted him. Never argued.
Every word he spoke was gospel to her.
Every action he took was brilliant in her eyes.
He'd bragged about killing a stray cat with his crossbow. She'd gazed at him adoringly:
"Your Highness is a born hunter! Your aim is unmatched!"
He'd whipped a clumsy maid bloody. She'd wiped sweat from his brow and cooed:
"Your Highness was defending the crown's dignity. You did right."
Around her, Joffrey felt like a god.
Omnipotent. Worthy of worship.
Now he sat in his gilded room, Lyana in his arms, recounting the duel with glee.
"...You didn't see it! Sandor stuck his sword in the fire!"
"The blade turned red-hot. Stabbed right through Gregor's arm!"
"SIZZLE! The smell—gods, better than roast pork!"
Joffrey's eyes shone. As if he'd been the one fighting in flames.
"Sandor's my man. His bravery? That's because of me! I made him what he is!"
Lyana nestled against him.
Her blue eyes—brimming with adoration—never left his face. She nodded eagerly.
"Your Highness is absolutely right."
"Only a prince as great as you could command a warrior like the Hound."
Her voice dripped honey.
Joffrey's vanity swelled.
Then—a knock.
Lynn walked in.
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