Dawn.
The entire city of King's Landing was still trembling in the aftershocks of excitement.
The bloody duel and the mad slaughter of the night before were like the most potent stimulant injected into the veins of this ancient city.
In the taverns of Flea Bottom, gamblers reveled in the Hound's shocking reversal.
In the mansions of the nobles, ladies described the King's brutality with lingering fear, yet blushed at the primal violence.
Blood and fire were forever this city's most beloved and eternal themes.
They had stayed up all night for it.
In the Maester's Tower of the Red Keep, the air was thick with the smell of horse urine, milk of the poppy, and mixed herbs.
Sandor Clegane lay on a bed.
He was wrapped in bandages like a mummy.
His left shoulder had been heavily damaged by the Mountain, several ribs were broken, and countless smaller wounds covered his body.
The most severe were the burns caused by Gregor throwing the fire.
The Maesters used every ointment they had, but the conclusion was the same.
Only rest could heal him.
But Sandor didn't care.
His body was in agony, but his soul had found unprecedented peace.
He had taken his revenge!
This feeling made him ignore the physical pain completely, elevating his entire soul.
This feeling was better than bedding ten thousand whores!
Sandor closed his eyes, replaying every detail of the duel in his mind over and over.
He remembered the terror when surrounded by the sea of fire, the powerlessness that penetrated deep into his marrow and made his soul tremble.
And he remembered the voice that exploded in his mind like thunder.
It was that voice that forcibly dragged him out of the twenty-year-long nightmare.
He remembered even more clearly, in the final moment when the Mountain's hand gripped his throat, about to snap his neck, an extreme chill exploded from the back of his neck.
It made his neck harder than cold iron.
That was definitely not the Seven.
Sandor knew better than anyone.
Those seven high-and-mighty things did nothing but give people false hope.
Besides, he didn't believe in that stuff.
It was Lord Lynn.
It must have been Lynn.
The man who sat calmly on the high platform from beginning to end, as if everything was under control.
Sandor opened his eyes abruptly.
In those grey eyes, usually full of violence and disdain, only a near-pilgrimage clarity remained.
All his life, he had been treated like a dog.
His father, his brother, the Lannisters, and that golden-haired little bastard Joffrey...
They fed him, drove him, used him to tear at enemies, used him to satisfy their pitiful vanity, and acted as a fig leaf for those nobles.
But for survival, he had to do things that bullied the weak.
He hated them, and hated himself even more.
He couldn't even accept the lousy things he did.
As for Lord Lynn.
He wasn't stupid; Lynn was using him too, but Lynn gave him the chance for revenge.
He gave him the courage to face his fear.
He saved his life at the most critical moment.
This grace was higher than the Wall!
Sandor struggled, trying to sit up.
"Ser, you need to rest!"
An acolyte nearby rushed forward to stop him.
"Get lost!"
Sandor shoved him away.
Enduring the pain as if his whole skeleton was falling apart, he used his good arm to prop himself up on the edge of the bed and moved off it inch by inch.
He pulled a cloak from a nearby rack, throwing it haphazardly over himself to cover the ridiculous bandages.
Then, limping but incredibly resolute, Sandor walked out of the Maester's Tower.
He was going to see Lynn.
Now, immediately, right now.
---
The Hand's Solar.
Lynn stood in front of the huge map of Westeros, his fingers gently tracing over the Eyrie in the Vale.
After Lysa learned of Littlefinger's death, that foolish woman would surely go completely mad.
Robert's tyranny, Ned's awakening, the Vale's threat...
The chessboard of King's Landing was in complete chaos because of the flapping of his butterfly wings.
And this was exactly what he wanted.
Originally, this was Littlefinger's "job," but now, he had to do these things himself.
Thud, thud.
A heavy, suppressed knock sounded.
"Come in."
The door opened, and a tall figure appeared in the doorway.
Sandor Clegane.
He wore a cloak, head bowed.
With every step he took, the floor groaned slightly.
He walked to the center of the study and stopped.
"That day... it was you, right?"
Lynn turned around, looking at him calmly.
"What was?"
"The fire."
Sandor looked up, his grey eyes staring fixedly at Lynn.
"And my neck."
He was confirming.
Lynn didn't answer, just walked to the cabinet and poured two cups of wine.
He handed one to Sandor.
Sandor didn't take it.
Under Lynn's calm gaze, this man, who had never truly submitted to anyone in his life, slowly bent his knees.
Thud.
Because of his leg injury, his movement was clumsy and heavy, the collision of knee and floor exceptionally clear in the quiet study.
"I, Sandor Clegane, have spent my life as a dog."
Sandor lowered his head, his voice devoid of its usual violence, leaving only an unprecedented reverence.
"Being a dog for Lannisters, a dog for Baratheons."
"They gave me bones and told me to bite people."
"I hated them, and hated that chain."
"But you are different."
"You gave me the chance for revenge, you let me kill the nightmare of my life with my own hands."
"You saved my life."
He looked up.
On that hideously burned half-face was an expression Lynn had never seen before.
It was unreserved submission.
"From today on, my dog life is yours."
He offered the word that had humiliated him all his life as the highest oath to Lynn before him.
Lynn looked at Sandor kneeling before him.
He knew he had gained not just one of the top warriors in Westeros.
He had gained a warrior who had broken all shackles and would fight only for him.
"Get up, Sandor."
Lynn helped him up.
"I didn't save you to let you continue being a pathetic hound."
"You are a warrior."
"From today on, you will fight for your honor, and no longer do those filthy, unsightly deeds."
Lynn pressed the wine cup into his hand.
"Your wounds need rest."
"Yes."
Sandor took the cup and downed it in one gulp.
This was the first time he heard the word "honor" from someone else's mouth without feeling disgusted.
---
Joffrey was very happy recently.
Ever since his father publicly tortured Petyr Baelish to death in the arena that day, the atmosphere in the entire Red Keep had become suppressed and strange.
Those ministers who used to dare point fingers at him now walked around him when they saw him.
His mother, Cersei, was also preoccupied lately, with no time to discipline him.
He felt as if he had gained unprecedented freedom.
Of course, what made him happiest was Liana.
This girl, gentle as water, was simply a gift from the Seven to him.
She never disobeyed him, never contradicted him.
Every word he said was a golden rule to her.
Everything he did was wise and decisive in her eyes.
He bragged about shooting a stray cat with a crossbow, and she would say with adoration:
"Your Grace is truly a born hunter; your archery is unmatched!"
He whipped a maid who accidentally bumped into him until her flesh was torn, and she would distressingly wipe the sweat from his forehead, saying softly:
"Your Grace did it to maintain the dignity of the royal family; you did the right thing."
In front of her, Joffrey felt he was a god.
An omnipotent god deserving of worship.
At this moment, he was hugging Liana, sitting in his luxurious room, excitedly recounting the duel.
"...You didn't see it, Sandor, that guy, finally stuck his sword into the fire!"
"The sword was red-hot, and it pierced Gregor's arm in one go!"
"With a sizzle, that smell, tsk tsk..."
"Simply more fragrant than the fattest pork!"
Joffrey spoke with gusto, as if the person fighting in the fire was himself.
"Sandor is my guard; he is so brave all because of me, his master!"
Liana leaned in his arms.
She looked at him with those blue eyes filled with worship, nodding incessantly.
"Your Grace is right."
"Only a great Prince like you can command a fierce warrior like the Hound."
Her voice was cloyingly sweet.
This satisfied Joffrey's vanity greatly.
Just then, there was a knock on the door.
Lynn walked in.