It was early morning.
The entire King's Landing was still trembling in the afterglow of excitement.
Last night's bloody duel, that insane massacre, was like the most potent aphrodisiac injected into the veins of this ancient city.
In the taverns of Flea Bottom, gamblers reveled in The Hound's astonishing comeback.
In the mansions of the nobles, ladies, while still shaken, described the King's brutality, yet their faces flushed with the thrill of that primal violence.
Blood and fire would forever be the city's most cherished and eternal themes.
They had not slept all night because of it.
In the Maester's Tower of the The Red Keep, the air was thick with the heavy scent of horse urine, poppy milk, and herbal concoctions.
Sandor Clegane lay on the bed.
He was covered in bandages, like a mummy.
His left shoulder had been severely injured by Gregor, several ribs were broken, and he had countless large and small wounds all over his body.
The most severe were the burns from the flames Gregor had thrown.
The Maesters had used every ointment available, but ultimately concluded that he could only rest and recover.
But Sandor didn't care.
His body was in agony, yet his soul had found an unprecedented peace.
He had his revenge!
This feeling made him disregard all physical pain, elevating his very soul.
It felt better than sleeping with ten thousand whores!
Sandor closed his eyes, replaying every detail of the duel in his mind over and over again.
He remembered the fear when he was surrounded by fire, that bone-deep sense of powerlessness that made his soul tremble.
He also remembered the voice that exploded in his mind like thunder.
It was that voice that had dragged him out of a twenty-year nightmare.
He remembered even more, in the final moment when Gregor had one hand on his throat, about to snap his neck, an extreme chill erupted from the back of his neck.
This made his neck harder than cold iron.
That was definitely not the Seven Gods.
Sandor knew better than anyone.
Those seven lofty beings could do nothing but give people false hope.
Besides, he didn't believe in them anyway.
It was Lord Lynn.
It must have been Lynn.
The man who had sat calmly on the high platform from beginning to end, as if everything was under his control.
Sandor suddenly opened his eyes.
Those grey eyes, always filled with violence and disdain, now held only a clarity akin to pilgrimage.
His entire life, he had been treated like a dog.
His father, his brother, the Lannister family, and that golden-haired bastard Joffrey... they fed him, drove him, then used him to bite enemies, to satisfy their pathetic vanity, and to serve as a fig leaf for those nobles.
But to survive, he had to do some bullying things.
He hated them, and he hated himself even more.
He couldn't even accept the terrible things he had done.
As for Lord Lynn.
He wasn't a fool; Lynn was also using him, but Lynn had given him a chance for revenge.
He had given him the courage to face his fear.
He had saved his life at the most critical moment.
This kindness was higher than The Wall!
Sandor struggled, trying to sit up from the bed.
"Ser, you need to rest!"
The Maester's apprentice rushed forward to stop him.
"Get out!"
Sandor pushed him away.
Enduring the excruciating pain that made his bones feel like they were falling apart, he propped himself up with his good arm on the bed frame, slowly inching off the bed.
He pulled a cloak from a nearby hanger, haphazardly draped it over himself, covering the ridiculous bandages.
Then, Sandor limped, yet walked with unwavering determination, out of the Maester's Tower.
He had to see Lynn.
Now, immediately, right away... In the study of the Tower of the Hand.
Lynn stood before the massive map of Westeros, his finger gently tracing 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 threat of the Vale... The chessboard of King's Landing, stirred by the flapping wings of his butterfly, was now in complete disarray.
And this was exactly what he wanted.
Originally, this was Littlefinger's "job," but now, he had to do these things himself.
"Thump, thump."
A heavy and subdued knock sounded.
"Come in."
The door opened, and a tall figure appeared in the doorway.
Sandor Clegane.
He wore a cloak, his head bowed.
With every step he took, the floor let out a faint groan.
He walked to the center of the study and stopped.
"That day... it was you, wasn't it?"
Lynn turned around, looking at him calmly.
"What was?"
"The fire."
Sandor looked up, his grey eyes fixed on Lynn.
"And my neck."
He was confirming.
Lynn didn't answer, simply walked to the wine cabinet and poured two glasses 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 sound of his knees hitting the floor was exceptionally clear in the quiet study.
"I, Sandor Clegane, have been a dog my entire life."
Sandor kept his head down, his voice devoid of its usual violence, replaced by an unprecedented reverence.
"A dog for House Lannister, a dog for House Baratheon."
"They gave me bones, and told me to bite people."
"I hated them, and I hated those chains."
"But you are different."
"You gave me a chance for revenge, you allowed me to personally kill the nightmare of my life."
"You saved my life."
He looked up.
On his disfigured, terrifying half-face was an expression Lynn had never seen before.
It was unreserved submission.
"From today on, my dog's life is yours."
He offered this word, which had shamed him his entire life, as the most sacred oath to Lynn before him.
Lynn looked at Sandor kneeling before him.
He knew that he had gained not just one of Westeros's top warriors.
He had gained a warrior who had broken free from all shackles, fighting only for him.
"Get up, Sandor."
Lynn helped him up.
"I didn't save you to have you continue being a pathetic Hound."
"You are a warrior."
"From today on, you will fight for your honor, and no longer do those dirty and unsightly things."
Lynn placed the wine glass in his hand.
"Your wounds need rest."
"Yes."
Sandor took the glass and drank it in one gulp.
It was the first time he had heard the word "honor" from someone else's mouth without feeling disgusted... Joffrey had been very happy lately.
Ever since his father publicly massacred Petyr Baelish in the arena that day, the atmosphere throughout the The Red Keep had become oppressive and eerie.
The ministers who once dared to criticize him now avoided him.
His mother, Cersei, had also been preoccupied lately, with no time to discipline him.
He felt as if he had gained an unprecedented freedom.
Of course, what made him happiest was Liana.
This gentle girl, like water, was simply a gift from the Seven Gods.
She never defied him, never contradicted him.
Every word he spoke was profound wisdom to her.
Every action he took was wise and decisive in her eyes.
When he boasted about shooting a stray cat with a crossbow, she would say with eyes full of adoration, "Your Royal Highness is a born hunter, your archery is unmatched!"
When he whipped a maid, who had accidentally bumped into him, until her skin was raw, she would tenderly wipe the sweat from his forehead and softly say, "Your Royal Highness is upholding the dignity of the royal family; you did the right thing."
In her presence, Joffrey felt like a god.
An omnipotent god who should be worshipped.
At this moment, he was embracing Liana, sitting in his magnificent room, enthusiastically recounting the duel.
"...You should have seen it, Sandor, that guy, finally plunged his sword into the fire!"
"The sword glowed red-hot, and with one strike, it pierced Gregor's arm!"
"Sizzle, that smell, tsk tsk..."
"It was even more fragrant than the fattest pork!"
Joffrey spoke with great excitement, as if he himself was the one who had fought in the flames.
"Sandor is my sworn shield; his bravery is all thanks to me, his master!"
Liana leaned in his arms.
She looked at him with her blue eyes full of admiration, nodding continuously.
"Your Royal Highness is right."
"Only a great Prince like you can control a fierce warrior like The Hound."
Her voice was sickeningly sweet.
This greatly satisfied Joffrey's vanity.
Just then, there was a knock at the door.
Lynn walked in.
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