No.
This wasn't the same.
When Sandor came to, he was lying in a bed. The room was dark, curtains drawn, only a few candles burning. His body hurt like hell, especially his face. It felt like a thousand ants were chewing through his skin.
He wanted to cry, but nothing came out.
He lifted his head. His father, old Lord Clegane, sat in a chair by the bed, head down, face hidden in shadow.
"Father…" Sandor's voice was rough as sandpaper.
The old man looked up. His eyes were bloodshot.
"Sandor," he said quietly. "You're awake."
Sandor tried to speak again, but his father raised a hand to stop him. He got up, walked to the door, checked the hallway, then came back and sat down.
"Tell me what happened," he said.
"Gregor…" Sandor's voice shook. He gripped the sheets. "Gregor shoved my head into the brazier."
Lord Clegane was quiet for a long time.
"You can't tell anyone," he finally said.
Sandor stared at him. "What?"
"You can't tell anyone," his father repeated, voice low. "Not a single soul."
Sandor's eyes went wide. "But he—he burned me on purpose! Because I touched his toy!"
"Enough." His father's voice turned hard. "If anyone asks, you say the bedsheets caught fire. You knocked over a candle by accident. That's what happened."
Sandor opened his mouth, but no words came out. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.
His father—the quiet, decent man who spent his life feeding and grooming the Lannisters' hunting dogs—was telling him to lie. To protect the monster who had just tried to burn his face off.
"Father," Sandor said, voice small. "You're not going to punish him?"
"He's still your brother," Lord Clegane said. "He's the heir. When I'm gone, he'll take my title and lands. We're one family. We stick together."
Sandor felt something crack inside his chest.
His father kept talking. He told him about their mother—how she almost died giving birth to Gregor, how she didn't survive Sandor's birth. Her last wish was that her sons would stay united, that they would look after each other.
"I promised her," Lord Clegane said, voice breaking. "I promised her we'd be a family. No matter what."
He reached out and touched Sandor's bandaged head. His hand was rough from years of working with dogs, but it was warm.
"Remember this, Sandor. The old gods and the new both curse kinslayers. Anyone who raises a hand against their own blood is damned. Forever."
Sandor lay there in silence.
He didn't understand. He really didn't. Why was the one who got burned the one being warned? Why did the one who did the burning get protected?
But he nodded anyway.
"I understand, Father."
The days passed. Sandor's burns healed, but his face was ruined forever. He avoided mirrors. He avoided Gregor even more. He ate after his brother finished. He locked his door at night and pushed a chest against it.
He thought that would be enough.
It wasn't.
One day the castle was loud with shouting and crying. Sandor was in the kennels feeding the dogs when he heard the noise. He stepped outside and saw a crowd in the courtyard. The steward stood in the middle, holding a blood-covered body.
His father.
Sandor pushed through the people. When he saw the wound in his father's chest—torn open like something had ripped straight through him—his legs gave out.
He dropped to his knees.
"Father…"
Lord Clegane was already gone. His eyes were closed. He looked peaceful, like he was just resting after a long day with the hounds.
The steward was saying something about a brown bear during the hunt. Tywin Lannister had been there. Lord Clegane had stepped in front of him.
Sandor didn't hear most of it.
Then he heard it.
A small, ugly laugh from somewhere in the crowd.
He looked up.
Gregor was standing there, watching their father's body with a wide, satisfied grin on his face. The same grin he'd worn when he held Sandor's head over the fire all those years ago.
Sandor knew.
He knew it in his bones.
It wasn't a bear.
But he said nothing.
Because he remembered his father's words.
We're one family. We stick together. Kinslayers are cursed by the gods.
So he stayed quiet.
And the years passed.
Now, in the middle of the Ring of Order, the past and present slammed together.
Sandor was hanging in the air, Gregor's massive hand crushing his skull. The brazier burned beneath him. Flames licked at his ruined face, bringing back every second of that night when he was seven.
The pain was the same.
But this time, something was different.
Sandor's right hand was still locked around Lady Forlorn.
He started laughing—rough, broken, and real.
The flames were already burning his chin when he moved.
With every bit of strength he had left, he swung the Valyrian steel sword—not at Gregor, but straight into the side of the iron brazier.
The blade sliced through the metal like it was butter. Sandor heaved upward.
The brazier flipped into the air. Burning coals and fire exploded everywhere. People in the stands screamed and ducked.
Sandor reached out with his left hand and grabbed a huge chunk of burning coal as it fell.
The flesh on his palm sizzled and blackened instantly. Smoke rose from between his fingers. The pain was blinding.
He didn't let go.
He slammed the burning coal straight into the eye slit of Gregor's helmet.
It shattered and spilled inside.
Gregor roared—a broken, animal sound—and finally let go. He clawed at his own face, trying to dig the coal out, but it was too late. His eyes were gone.
Sandor hit the sand hard. Something cracked in his ribs. His left hand was ruined. But he forced himself up anyway.
Gregor was still standing, swinging his arms blindly, screaming.
Sandor gripped Lady Forlorn with both hands, ignoring the agony, and charged.
He jumped.
For one moment he was flying—higher than he'd ever jumped in his life. He landed on Gregor's shoulders the same way his father used to carry him when he was small.
Gregor tried to grab him, but he was too slow.
Sandor raised the sword high.
"Go fuck yourself…" he snarled, voice raw. "You kinslayer!"
He drove Lady Forlorn straight down through the top of Gregor's helmet.
The blade sank deep. The tip burst out under Gregor's chin in a spray of blood.
Gregor went rigid. A wet, gurgling sound came from his throat. Then he toppled backward like a felled tree.
Sandor rode him down. His back hit the sand again, knocking the air from his lungs.
He lay there on top of his brother's body, staring up at the orange-red sky.
The sun was setting. The light looked like fire.
Sandor smiled.
After almost thirty years, he wasn't afraid anymore.
No more fire. No more monster waiting in the dark.
He remembered his father's voice one last time.
The gods curse kinslayers. Both the old and the new.
Sandor let out a short, tired laugh.
If the gods were real, they'd had thirty years to curse Gregor and never bothered. So why the fuck should he care what they thought of him now?
"Fuck the gods," he muttered. "Fuck their curses."
His eyes drifted shut.
"And fuck being a kinslayer too."