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The cheers from Corleone and Lyn Corbray's fight were still rolling through the Ring of Order like waves that wouldn't quit.
Then a sharp voice cut through the noise from the announcer's platform.
"Everybody listen up!" Rolje shouted into a tin megaphone. The noseless man grinned wide, looking smug as hell while every eye in the arena turned his way.
"Was that last fight good?" he yelled.
"Damn right it was!" the crowd roared back.
"Want something even better?"
"Hell yes!"
"Then you came to the right place, you bastards!"
Rolje's grin stretched wider, showing yellow teeth.
"What you're about to see next… is a real—"
He sucked in a breath and bellowed with everything he had.
"—fated fucking war!"
The arena exploded. People stomped and shouted louder than before.
Rolje let the noise build, then raised his left hand toward one of the tunnel entrances.
"On one side… eight feet tall, three hundred pounds of pure murder. The most hated man in the Seven Kingdoms. His sword's killed enough men to fill Blackwater Bay. Kids cry when they hear his name. He crawled straight out of the deepest pit of hell…"
"Gregor Clegane! The Mountain!"
The crowd went wild.
"Mountain! Mountain! Mountain!"
A massive shape stepped out of the tunnel.
He didn't look human. Thick gray plate armor covered a body twice the size of a normal man. The helmet was fully enclosed, only dark eyes visible through the slit. Every step shook the ground like a war drum. The greatsword in his hand was longer than most men were tall.
He walked to the center of the sand and stopped. Just standing there, silent, he felt like a moving mountain that could crush anything in its path.
The cheers died down fast. A heavy, ugly silence fell over the stands. Even the knights in the VIP seats gripped their sword hilts tighter. A few noblewomen covered their mouths, faces pale.
Rolje soaked it in. He'd helped build this whole place. Seeing it work this well felt damn good.
"Now for the other side—"
He pointed to the opposite tunnel.
"Same blood. Same family. Same hatred that runs deeper than any river. Former Kingsguard. The man who told the king to go fuck himself at the Blackwater. The one who walked through fire and came out the other side looking for revenge…"
"The cursed little brother!"
"Sandor Clegane! The Hound!"
The crowd lost their minds.
"Hound! Hound! Hound!"
"Brother's war! Brother's war!"
Sandor stepped out of the tunnel in battered black plate, the dog-head helmet tucked under one arm. His burned face looked even worse in the sunlight—scarred, twisted, one side of his nose collapsed. But right now his expression wasn't rage or fear.
He looked embarrassed as hell.
Rolje's hype was pure over-the-top bullshit. Sandor could hear every word clear as day. "Cursed little brother"? Fine. "Revenge from the flames"? Whatever. But "the one who told the king to go fuck himself"?
He touched the booklet hidden inside his armor and smirked anyway.
Fuck it. Let them call him whatever they wanted.
He walked onto the sand, eyes locked on the giant standing in the center. Then he grinned—ugly, vicious, and real.
"You actually showed up, big brother," he muttered under his breath.
Gregor's empty eyes turned toward him. Even through the helmet, Sandor could feel the smile.
His own grin widened.
Rolje raised a hand. Music started—fast drums and heavy beats that made the blood pump harder. Ten women walked out of the tunnel behind Sandor, each holding a big sign with the number "1". They wore almost nothing. Different hair, different bodies, but every single one of them was stunning and barely covered.
The entire arena went dead quiet for a second.
Then the cheering started up again, louder and hungrier than before. Even the old knights in the stands were staring. The ring girls circled the sand slow, giving everyone a long look at what they had on display.
Rolje stood on the platform grinning like an idiot. Three days ago Corleone had told him to arrange this. "Men's eyes go straight to pretty things," he'd said. "Get them excited before the fight starts and they'll stay invested."
Worked like a charm.
Sandor didn't look at the women.
Neither did Gregor.
Both brothers stared straight at each other across the sand. One built like a mountain. One built like a dog. Same blood running through both of them.
Rolje lifted the megaphone one last time.
"Now!" he roared. "Kill each other, Cleganes!"
Sandor moved first.
He charged straight in and swung Lady Forlorn at Gregor's neck with everything he had. Years of hate poured into that first strike.
Gregor raised his greatsword and blocked. The clash rang out like thunder. Sparks flew. The impact rattled Sandor's arms all the way to his shoulders.
Bigger. Stronger than before.
Didn't matter.
Sandor pulled back and swung again. Harder. Faster. Same spot every time. The Valyrian steel blade chipped deeper into the greatsword with every hit. Gregor stood there like a wall, blocking, but Sandor could see the crack spreading.
The crowd was screaming now—half for the Hound, half for the Mountain. Nobody cared about the half-naked women anymore.
Sandor kept hammering the same place until the greatsword finally split with a sharp crack. The top half spun through the air and stuck in the sand.
Gregor looked down at the broken blade in his hand.
Sandor laughed—rough and mean.
"No sword now, big brother. If you could talk I'd tell you to beg. Too bad you can't, huh?"
He didn't wait. He drove Lady Forlorn straight into Gregor's left side—first weak point from the booklet. The blade punched through plate and into flesh.
"Got you!" Sandor shouted, half laughing, half furious. "That fucking booklet was right!"
He pulled free and stabbed again—right side this time. Then under the armpit where the armor was weakest. Three clean hits. Blood ran down Gregor's gray plate in dark lines and dripped onto the sand.
Any normal man would've dropped.
Gregor stayed standing.
Sandor's eyes narrowed. "Tough son of a bitch."
He went for the throat.
Gregor moved faster than something that big should be able to. He twisted just enough that the blade only grazed his neck instead of sinking deep.
Then one huge hand shot out and clamped around Sandor's head like an iron vise.
Fingers dug into his skull. Sandor's feet left the ground. He stabbed wildly at Gregor's arm, shoulder, even his face, but the grip didn't loosen.
Gregor lifted him higher. For the first time in years, that ruined voice rasped out—low, broken, like it came from a grave.
"You're… still… weak… little brother."
Sandor's vision went red.
"Fuck you!" he screamed, thrashing harder. "You can barely talk and you're still trying to act tough? Fuck you!"
Gregor's other fist came up and smashed into the side of Sandor's helmet.
Everything went black for a second.
When Sandor's eyes cleared, he was being carried like a sack toward the big brazier at the edge of the sand. Flames danced inside it, throwing heat that made the air shimmer.
Memories slammed into him.
The same fire. The same giant brother laughing while he held him down.
"No…" Sandor's voice came out hoarse. "No…"
Gregor stopped in front of the brazier and held Sandor over the flames. The heat licked at his burned face, bringing back every second of that night when he was seven.
Gregor started lowering him.
Sandor could feel the fire reaching for him again.