The Hound woke to pain.
After he'd finished the Mountain, he'd blacked out. Now he was finally awake, but his eyelids felt like they'd been filled with lead.
Then he heard a voice—light, almost lazy.
"You're awake."
"Congratulations. You're a girl now."
The Hound's eyes snapped open.
Sunlight stabbed into his pupils. He squinted against it but didn't care. He turned his head fast, staring at the man sitting by the bed.
A man in a plain black coat, a red rose pinned to his chest. He looked like any farmer who'd just walked in from the orchard. A long-haired black cat was curled on his lap, purring while Corleone stroked its back with slow, lazy fingers.
The Hound didn't look at the cat.
He stared at Corleone, throat dry as sand, and forced the words out.
"You… what the fuck did you say?"
Corleone looked up, clearly enjoying the look on the Hound's face.
"Your wounds were bad. I had to remove your reproductive system. Don't worry, though—my hands are steady. I gave you a woman's instead. Who knows? You might even be able to have kids someday…"
The Hound didn't wait for him to finish. He shot upright, ignoring the white-hot pain that tore through his body. He reached down between his legs in a panic.
He felt it.
Still there.
Still fucking there.
He let out a long breath and collapsed back onto the bed, his back slamming against the wooden frame and sending another wave of agony through him.
But he was grinning.
"Fuck you, Corleone," he rasped.
Corleone laughed, watching the twisted mix of rage and panic on that burned face. His hand never stopped petting the cat, which had rolled over to show its belly, purring loud enough to fill the room.
"Just a joke. Relax."
"That wasn't funny," the Hound growled, turning his head to glare at him.
"I thought it was pretty funny," Corleone said, raising an eyebrow. "That look on your face? I'll be laughing about it for a year."
The Hound wanted to keep cursing but couldn't find the words fast enough. He tried to sit up again, this time using his right elbow, careful not to put weight on his bandaged left hand.
"Shit!" He hissed as pain flared.
He looked at his left hand—thick white bandages wrapped around it, dark blood seeping through in spots that had already dried to brown scabs.
He remembered the burning coal in his palm before everything went black.
It had hurt like hell.
But thinking about driving his sword into the Mountain's skull made him grin anyway.
Pain, but worth it.
"If I were you," Corleone said from beside him, "I wouldn't use that hand for at least a month."
The Hound looked over at him.
Corleone's hand was still moving slowly over the black cat's fur. The animal had gone completely limp across his lap, belly up, eyes half-closed in pure contentment.
"My medical skills are good, but some injuries just need time. I can't rush it."
"But I promise—no scars. Though I doubt you care about that kind of thing…"
He glanced at the Hound's ruined face. "…considering your face is already like that."
The Hound was quiet for a second. Then he laughed again, rough and real.
"Fuck scars."
The room went quiet except for the cat's steady purring.
Sunlight streamed through the window, dust motes floating in the beams like tiny golden sparks. From outside came the usual noise of Flea Bottom—vendors shouting, kids yelling, the occasional sharp whistle.
"Though, speaking of which," Corleone said after a moment, "I didn't expect you to have such a hard time with the Mountain. Even with Lady Forlorn and my instructions."
"Watching it made me nervous. If you'd lost, I would've had to pay out a fortune."
He smiled, teasing. "You know, the bets on you winning were less than a fifth of the ones on the Mountain. People were too impressed by that bastard's reputation. They didn't even trust the tourney champion."
The Hound didn't argue. He shifted carefully, using his right elbow to prop himself up against the headboard so he could look at Corleone properly.
"Anyway, I won," he said. He held out his good hand. "My money. Hand it over."
"You don't waste time."
"Why should I?" the Hound shot back. "I killed the Mountain for you and made you at least a hundred thousand dragons. Where's my cut?"
Corleone chuckled and let the cat jump down. It meowed in protest and went to the windowsill.
"According to our agreement, your payment is fifteen thousand dragons."
The Hound's eyes lit up.
Last time he'd won the tourney, forty thousand had felt like more money than existed in the world—until Dontos stole it.
Well, "stole." The Hound still thought of it that way. Getting robbed would've been too humiliating.
"Give it here," he said, palm up.
But Corleone didn't hand over the money right away. He looked at the Hound seriously.
"About that money—I have two options for you."
"What options?" The Hound's brow furrowed.
"First: Take the money and walk away. Fifteen thousand dragons, cash. Spend it however you want."
"Second: Invest it in my fighting pits. You don't put up any cash yourself—this fifteen thousand counts as your stake. I'll give you a share of the profits every month based on how the pits do."
The Hound stared at him, then his expression hardened.
"You trying to stiff me, you son of a bitch?"
Corleone rolled his eyes, clearly tired of the Hound's thought process, but kept explaining.
"I'm short a head of security."
"Rorge's too single-minded. You were in the Kingsguard, and you personally killed the Mountain. The men here will respect you."
He leaned forward slightly. "In short, I need someone to watch over Flea Bottom for me. Someone strong enough that nobody dares cause trouble, and smart enough to know when to act and when to talk."
"I think you're a good fit."
"Of course, I'm not forcing you. If you say no, you can take the money and blow it however you like—wine, women, whatever."
"Live it up for a few months or a year, then end up broke again."
"Someone like you isn't suited for a big lump sum."
"You don't know how to spend it or how to keep it. Money in your hands is like water in a sieve—it won't stay."
He leaned back in his chair, speaking honestly.
"But with my fighting pits, it's different. You'll get a monthly cut without having to worry about how to spend it. The money will just keep coming in."
"All you have to do is your job—protect my territory and the order I've built here."
The Hound stared at Corleone's eyes for a long time.
Long enough for the black cat on the windowsill to wake up, stretch, jump down, and rub against Corleone's leg.
Corleone bent down and picked it up, placing it back on his lap.
The cat started purring again.
"Don't forget, I'm still a wanted man," the Hound said suddenly.
"When I ran from the Blackwater, Joffrey's little shit put a bounty on me. Joffrey's dead now, but the warrant's still out."
"I was planning to leave King's Landing after this job. If I stick around after killing the Mountain and play security chief at your pits, Tywin sure as hell won't let it slide."
Corleone smiled. "You haven't heard?"
"Heard what?"
"Two days ago, while you were still out, the Hand sent over a pardon."
"What?" The Hound was stunned.
"Tywin Lannister signed it himself. From now on, you're not a wanted man anymore, Sandor Clegane."
The Hound opened his mouth but nothing came out.
Tywin Lannister?
Pardoning him?
"Why?" His voice was full of disbelief.
"Isn't it obvious? He doesn't want you getting too close to me."
Corleone gave a short laugh. "When you were a wanted man, you had to rely on me in King's Landing. Without me, you couldn't take a step. You'd be loyal to me because I was the only one who could protect you."
"But now Tywin's given you a pardon. You're free. You can live openly without hiding. Which means…"
"You don't need me anymore."
"Sounds exactly like something Tywin Lannister would do."
The Hound leaned back against the headboard, his bandaged left hand resting carefully on the blanket. His right hand absently traced the wood grain on the bed frame.
His voice was still hoarse, but clearer now.
Corleone watched him, a small smile on his face.
The Hound wasn't stupid. In some ways, he was smart enough.
He'd just spent years being treated like a dog by so-called "great men," and somewhere along the way, he'd started acting like one.
But dogs aren't stupid. They're loyal. Or at least, they didn't have a choice before.
The Hound looked down at his bandaged hand.
The burning coal in his palm before he blacked out.
It had hurt like hell.
But driving the sword into the Mountain's skull made it worth it.
Now the Mountain was dead. By his hand.
And the warrant was gone.
For the first time in a long while, Sandor Clegane felt… adrift.
He looked out the window at the sunlight.
It was a good day. Light fell on the crooked rooftops of Flea Bottom, turning the chimneys, the laundry lines, and the moss-covered tiles gold.
"Hey, Corleone," he said after a moment.
"Just so we're clear," the Hound's voice was still rough, but serious. "I've never run any kind of security team before. I don't know how to manage people."
"But killing them, beating them, teaching cocky bastards a lesson? I'm real good at that."
Corleone looked at him and smiled. "You can learn experience."
"A few months ago," Corleone continued, "I was just a farmer picking apples in the Riverlands."
"Now? I run a district with tens of thousands of people. I've got fighting pits, clinics, relief stations, and a whole crew of wardens. And I'm doing just fine."
The Hound thought back to the first time he'd met this man.
Back then, Corleone really had looked like just another farmer. Ordinary. Unremarkable. The kind of guy you wouldn't notice in a crowd.
"And besides…" Corleone's voice pulled him out of his thoughts. "Who says all you're good for is fighting and killing?"
"Aren't you good with dogs too?"
The Hound blinked, confused.
Dogs?
He did know how to handle dogs.
It was the Clegane family trade. His great-grandfather had started raising hounds for the Lannisters. His father had done it his whole life. The Hound had learned as a boy.
But how long had it been since he'd touched a dog?
Since the day he picked up a sword and started cutting people down.
"Sometimes dogs are more useful than people," Corleone said.
He stroked the black cat on his lap. It purred louder.
He paused, then explained. "As it happens, I need a professional hound team."
"Flea Bottom has forty thousand people now, and it'll keep growing. My territory won't stay this small forever."
"More people means more scum. I've already had several serious cases of missing children and women."
"These bastards are professionals. Their organization is tight. Catch one and the trail goes cold. But dogs can find what people can't."
The Hound looked down at his hand. The pain was still there. It would be at least a month before he could hold a sword properly again.
Raising dogs?
Might be interesting.
He nodded. "Alright."
"But one thing first—my cut of the profits doesn't get shorted. Not a single coin."
"Of course."
Corleone stood up. The black cat jumped off his lap with an annoyed meow and went back to the windowsill.
Sunlight streamed in, catching on Corleone as he walked to the door and opened it.
He took a few steps, then stopped as if remembering something.
"Oh, right."
He turned back, a teasing smile on his face.
"Next time we're in front of other people, remember to call me 'Lord Corleone.'"
The Hound stared at him, not understanding.
But Corleone explained.
"After all, standing in front of you now… is the King's Master of Coin."
He laughed and walked out.
The door closed.
The Hound leaned back against the headboard, staring at the closed door.
Then he chuckled too, the sound rough on his burned face.
"Lord Corleone?"
He muttered to himself. "Fuck Lord Corleone."
The black cat on the windowsill seemed offended by his tone and hissed at him.
The Hound turned his head. "Shut up, you little shit. That's just how I talk."
The cat rolled its eyes (or at least looked like it) and went back to grooming itself.
The Hound looked at its black fur. On impulse, he reached out with his good hand and gently stroked it.
Soft.
He closed his eyes. Sunlight fell on his scarred, grotesque face, and for once it looked almost peaceful.
Like a stray dog that had finally found a home.
Warm.
The sunlight.