The prep room door was thick oak reinforced with iron. Corleone had ordered it built that way. Every fighter about to step onto the sand needed a quiet place to breathe, check his gear, and face what was coming.
Sandor Clegane sat on a plain bench, running a scrap of deerskin along his sword blade. The sword was nothing special—no fancy maker's mark, no jewels, just honest steel with a few nicks earned over twenty years of hard use. The leather wrap on the hilt was worn smooth from his grip. It had been with him longer than most people. That little Stark wolf bitch had stolen his gold and his dagger, but she hadn't taken this.
Sunlight cut through the high window and hit the steel. Sandor kept polishing, slow and steady. Every stroke showed him his own ruined face in the reflection—burn scars pulling from forehead to jaw, one side of his nose collapsed, lips twisted. He didn't look away. He never had.
He was thirty-something now. He'd killed plenty, protected a few, and hated one man more than anyone alive. The Mountain. That monster had taken everything from him when he was seven years old. Sandor had spent decades imagining what it would feel like to drive steel through Gregor's chest and watch him choke on his own blood. But the Mountain was Tywin Lannister's dog, and Sandor had only ever been a hound himself.
He knew Corleone was using him. The man needed a warm body to replace Oberyn, keep the crowd hot, protect those hundreds of thousands of gold dragons in bets. Sandor fit the bill perfectly—broke, wanted for murder, and carrying a lifetime of hate for the Mountain. So what? Sandor didn't care anymore. This was the first real chance he'd ever had to get paid and get even at the same time.
Win and he walked away rich with the Mountain's blood on his hands. Lose and… well. He was already a dead man walking. What was one more fight?
He sheathed the sword, rolled his shoulders, and stood. Black plate, dented and patched over the years. The dog-head helm sat on the bench beside him, empty eye sockets staring back. He picked it up and tucked it under his arm.
The roar outside was getting louder. Sandor frowned. That didn't sound like the usual pre-fight noise. It sounded like the whole damn arena had lost its mind.
He pushed the door open. The corridor was empty. No squire, no guards, nobody waiting to escort him out like the rules said. Just the sound of thousands of voices screaming at once.
He started walking toward the stands.
A few squires ran past him, faces flushed with excitement. Sandor grabbed the last one by the back of the neck and hauled him around.
"What the fuck is going on out there?"
The kid swallowed hard when he saw who had hold of him. "Ser… you haven't heard?"
"Heard what?"
"Ser Lyn Corbray! The Vale's best knight! He challenged Ser Corleone right in front of everyone. And Ser Corleone accepted!"
Sandor let go. The squire bolted.
Lyn Corbray. Sandor knew the name. Famous for putting a Valyrian steel blade through a Kingsguard at the Trident. A real fighter, not some tourney pretty boy.
And Corleone had said yes.
Sandor stood there in the empty corridor, sword in one hand, helm under his arm. If Corleone died out there, the whole pit went with him. The bets, the order, the money Sandor was counting on—gone. And Sandor himself? A wanted man with no reason to stay once the man who was paying him was dead.
He started moving again, faster now. He wanted to see this for himself.
He shoved through the door to the stands. Sunlight hit him hard. The noise was deafening—two thousand five hundred voices all screaming at once.
"Corleone!"
"Corbray!"
"Fight! Fight!"
Sandor pushed forward until he could see the sand.
Two men stood in the center.
One wore plain black plate with the black hand sigil on the cloak. Corleone. The other was in deep blue armor, fancy etchings, the three black ravens of House Corbray on his chest. Lyn Corbray. In his hand was a sword that didn't belong in any normal fight—black steel with that unmistakable rippling pattern catching the light.
Valyrian steel. Lady Forlorn.
Sandor leaned against the wall, crossed his arms, and watched.
On the sand, Lyn Corbray raised his sword and pointed it at Corleone.
"You're really going to fight me with that piece of shit?" he called out, voice loud enough for the stands to hear. "This is Valyrian steel. Your blade's going to snap the first time it meets mine. Then what? You going to block with your arm?"
He smiled, cold and sure. "You've got no chance, Vito Corleone. None."
The crowd went quiet, waiting.
Corleone didn't answer right away. He looked at the black sword in Lyn's hand, then at his own plain steel. When he spoke, his voice carried clear across the pit.
"I know exactly what Valyrian steel can do. That's why I bet a hundred thousand dragons on this fight."
He turned the ordinary sword in his hand once, watching the light run along the edge.
"It's a fine weapon. But here's the thing about swords, Ser Lyn. They don't fight on their own. It's the man who swings it that matters. Not the other way around."
He looked straight at Lyn Corbray.
"So let's see who's really holding the blade today."