Morning.
All of King's Landing still trembled in the lingering afterglow of excitement.
Last night's bloody duel, that frenzied slaughter, had been like a potent aphrodisiac injected into the veins of this ancient city.
In the taverns of Flea Bottom, gamblers reveled in the Hound's astonishing reversal.
In noble mansions, ladies described the king's brutality with lingering fear, even as that primal violence brought a flush to their cheeks.
Blood and fire would always be this city's favorite, eternal themes.
They had stayed awake all night for it.
In the Maester's Tower of the Red Keep, the air was thick with the mingled smells of horse piss, milk of the poppy, and herbs.
Sandor Clegane lay in bed.
His entire body was swathed in bandages, like a mummy.
The Mountain had badly injured his left shoulder, broken several of his ribs, and left him with countless wounds, large and small.
Worst of all were the burns from the flames Gregor had hurled at him.
The maesters had tried every kind of salve before finally reaching a conclusion.
All he could do was rest and recover.
But Sandor did not care.
His body was in agony, yet his soul had found a peace unlike anything he had ever known.
He had taken his revenge!
That feeling let him ignore his physical pain and lifted his very soul.
It felt better than fucking ten thousand whores!
Sandor closed his eyes, replaying every detail of the duel in his mind, over and over.
He remembered the terror of being surrounded by flames, that helplessness that sank into his bones and made his soul tremble.
He also remembered the voice that had thundered through his mind.
It was that voice that had dragged him out of a nightmare spanning twenty years.
More than anything,