Petyr looked at nobles who'd once called him brother, shared secrets and profits. Now they avoided him like plague. Eyes downcast. Studying floor tiles.
When the wall falls, everyone pushes. This was King's Landing. Brutal reality.
Petyr's heart sank into the abyss. He knew: he was politically dead. No one would risk their life for a corpse.
In desperation, his gaze landed on a corner figure. A mountain of a man. Gregor Clegane. "The Mountain." House Lannister's most vicious, brutal, loyal mad dog. Combat prowess unquestionable.
Gregor stood there, arms crossed over his chest. Heavy steel armor gleaming coldly in firelight. His expression shadowed by his helmet. But everyone felt the pure, suffocating violence radiating from him.
Hope rekindled in Petyr's eyes. He knew: the Mountain obeyed only Tywin Lannister. Cared only for gold and killing. And he had both.
Even if he'd lost his King's Landing assets to Lynn, he still had cards to play! A qualified politician always prepared escape routes. Clearly, Petyr qualified.
"I choose—" Petyr's voice carried desperate madness. "I choose the Mountain, Ser Gregor Clegane, as my champion!"
The hall fell deathly silent. Everyone gasped. The Mountain! He dared choose the Mountain! That monster who could tear men in half barehanded!
Ned Stark's face darkened. He knew the Mountain's horror better than anyone. Elia Martell and her children died at this beast's hands. But the Mountain was Lannister's man—would he fight for Littlefinger?
Jaime Lannister frowned. Glanced at Cersei. Eyes questioning. Cersei's face turned ugly hearing the Mountain's name. She instinctively looked at Lynn.
Lynn stood calmly. Not even a ripple on his face. But Cersei read something more terrifying than rage in that calm. She remembered Lynn's warning. Her daughter Myrcella in the North. She couldn't anger this ice wolf who'd bared his fangs!
"Ser Gregor." Petyr gave Cersei no chance to speak. Wheeled himself before the Mountain with all his strength. Looked up at the giant two heads taller. Voice full of temptation.
"I know you serve the Lannisters. But even loyal knights need gold dragons. Ten thousand gold dragons. Win this duel for me, I'll give you ten thousand!"
Ten thousand! Suppressed exclamations rippled through the hall. Enough to buy an entire street of shops in King's Landing. Arm five hundred elite mercenaries with fine equipment!
Even the Mountain's helmet-shadowed eyes seemed to flash with greed. His low voice rumbled: "I serve House Lannister."
Simple. Clear. He was the Lannisters' dog. Without his master's word, he wouldn't move.
"Your Grace." Petyr immediately turned to Cersei. His pale face squeezed out an ingratiating smile. "This is just a fair duel. Nothing to do with Lannister honor. I merely wish to borrow Ser Gregor's strength to prove my innocence to the gods."
"Your innocence?" Cersei's cold voice rang out. She laughed mockingly. "Your innocence is worthless before the gods."
Cersei stepped before the Mountain. Tone brooking no argument: "Ser Gregor is a Lannister vassal. His sword swings only for Casterly Rock and King Robert."
Her gaze swept Petyr's stunned face. Voice full of contempt: "Not for a gutter rat who manipulates hearts!"
Cersei's refusal was decisive. Humiliating. She didn't look at Lynn while speaking. But everyone understood who she was addressing. She was courting Lynn's favor! Desperately distancing herself from Petyr!
Those who grasped this looked at Lynn differently now. Petyr's face turned liver-colored. Humiliation! Ultimate humiliation! He was Master of Coin! Who didn't speak softly to him? Now powerless, this bitch Cersei dared humiliate him?
Petyr gripped his wheelchair. It was over. He'd lost even his last chance.
Just as everyone thought this farce would end in Petyr's despair—"Twenty thousand gold dragons!" Petyr nearly screamed the number. "Plus all my Essos shops and fleets' profits for ten years!"
He'd gone mad! Completely mad! Varys's sleeve-hidden hands trembled slightly. He had Essos informants. Knew better than anyone how vast Petyr's holdings were. A true gold mine!
The Mountain's massive body visibly shifted. His breathing grew heavy. Cersei's face darkened further. She hadn't expected Petyr to stake so much!
"Gregor!" Cersei's voice carried warning. But Petyr's eyes blazed with a gambler's madness—one who'd bet everything, even his life. Well, he had no choice. Lose, he'd die. No fortune could follow him to hell.
"Not enough?" Petyr stared at the Mountain. "Then I'll add everything! My castle! All my lands on the Fingers! Win, and you're no longer just Ser Gregor Clegane! You're the new Lord of the Fingers! You'll serve His Grace. Whether you remain a Lannister vassal—your choice!"
BOOM! If gold was temptation, a lordship could shatter any loyalty! A knight might accumulate wealth through service and rewards. But becoming a landed lord with a castle, hereditary title—nearly impossible! Only anomalies like Lynn could achieve it!
Now, this chance sat before the Mountain. Win the duel, it was all his!
The Mountain slowly turned. His helmet-shadowed eyes looked at Cersei. His voice lost its former deference. Gained undeniable pressure: "Your Grace. I need an answer."
Cersei's heart sank. She knew: the Mountain was tempted. No—he'd already decided. He wasn't requesting. He was notifying. Refuse again, this mad dog might turn on her!
Tywin wasn't here. She had no real power now. Cersei's gaze drifted uncontrollably to Lynn. She hoped to see anger, threats. But saw nothing. Lynn just stood there. A faint smile on his lips. Like watching a farce that didn't concern him.
Cersei understood. Lynn didn't care! Didn't care who Petyr's champion was! Mountain or anyone else—no difference to him!
"Fine." Cersei ground out the word. She felt her dignity trampled by Lynn, the Mountain, Petyr, Robert... ground to dust.
"If Ser Gregor wishes, I have nothing to say." Cersei finished, face livid, stormed back to her seat without looking back. As if another second would suffocate her.
The Mountain rumbled with satisfaction. Turned. His massive body like a wall, blocking Petyr's wheelchair. He'd accepted.
Petyr's twisted face finally showed ecstatic relief. He'd won. Bought his survival with everything! With the Mountain, who could oppose him? In all Westeros, who dared face this human beast?
His gaze challenged Lynn. Come on! Your turn! Choose who'll die for you!
The Iron Throne room's attention focused on Lynn again. The Mountain. That name pressed on every heart like a mountain.
Ned's heart leapt to his throat. He was ready—if Lynn asked, he'd fight himself. Even staking House Stark's honor, his old life, he'd win this duel for Lynn! Though older now, he was still a powerful knight!
Robert's massive body leaned forward from the throne. His eyes flashed excitement and worry. "Lynn." Robert's voice echoed. "Who do you choose as your champion? I can have Barristan or Jaime fight for you!"
Lynn smiled. He surveyed the hall. Saw nervous, worried, gleeful faces. Finally, his gaze landed on the mountain-like Gregor Clegane.
"Your Grace." Lynn's voice: calm, clear. "I don't actually need a champion."
What? Everyone froze. Even the Mountain rumbled in confusion.
Lynn stepped forward. Walked to the hall's center. Faced the Mountain's massive form. Lynn reached out. Slowly drew the wolf-pommeled Valyrian steel sword from his waist.
Longclaw's blade rippled with watery light in the firelight. Jaime stared enviously. The Lannisters dreamed of owning Valyrian steel as their ancestral sword. But even the most destitute houses wouldn't sell to them...
Lynn's voice rang out: "This trial began because of me. Naturally, I should end it."
"Mad... he must be mad!" A Reach noble muttered unconsciously.
Ned Stark's heart nearly burst from his chest. He wanted to rush forward. Grab Lynn's shoulders. Shake him awake. He knew Lynn was strong. In the Seven Kingdoms, Lynn's horsemanship and lance were acknowledged first, nearly unbeatable.
But this tested comprehensive ability. A death match! His opponent was the Mountain! That monster who could wear hundred-pound full plate and still swing a six-foot greatsword one-handed! That demon who could crush a man's head like a grape barehanded! Not power a mortal could defeat!
Contrary to Ned's horror, Robert Baratheon on the Iron Throne—his clouded eyes exploded with near-manic light! "HAHAHA!" Robert roared with laughter. His fat belly shook violently.
"That's right! That's more like it! That's the northerner I know! Speaking with swords, not like these southern women, all talk!" He stood excitedly. His massive hand pointed at Lynn, then the Mountain. His flushed face full of bloodlust and desire.
"This is the duel a king should see! These are true warriors!" Robert couldn't wait to see blood. A bloody slaughter worthy of epic!
Even if Lynn lost, he had ten thousand ways to ensure Petyr didn't survive!
But just as Robert prepared to finalize the duel's start, a voice laced with despair and madness shattered the fervent atmosphere.
"Your Grace! I have the right to refuse!" Petyr Baelish! He struggled violently. Half his body leaning from the wheelchair. His fear-twisted face pale as a corpse.
He stared at Lynn. Others didn't know—but he knew! He knew Lynn's terror better than anyone! This man from the North—every enemy he faced, every seemingly unsolvable deadlock, ultimately became his stepping stone upward!
He'd investigated everything! The wildling king, White Walkers, Astapor's Good Masters, Targaryen remnants... He was like a gambler who never lost! Every time everyone thought he'd lose everything, he'd smile and reveal his cards. Sweep all the table's chips!
Petyr didn't believe in gods. Only himself. Didn't believe in luck. Only profit and calculation. He'd spent half his life climbing to this position. He couldn't die! He'd finally traded his life's wealth and future for the Mountain—this ace to save his life!
He'd thought Lynn would choose a skilled knight as champion like any normal noble. Whether Loras Tyrell the Knight of Flowers, any Kingsguard, even Ned Stark himself! Petyr had absolute confidence: the Mountain would tear them to shreds!
But he'd miscalculated everything—Lynn didn't play by the rules! He'd fight himself!
That instant, Petyr's conspiracy-filled brain raced frantically. He couldn't let Lynn fight! Absolutely not! Lynn must have unknown means!
"Your Grace! Trial by combat is sacred judgment witnessed by the gods! It has ancient laws and traditions!" Petyr forced himself calm. Organized words at top speed.
"Lord Lynn is the plaintiff! I'm the defendant! By tradition, plaintiff and defendant each choose a champion knight. Under the gods' gaze, swords decide right from wrong! If the defendant has no willing knight, the defendant may fight personally. But Lord Lynn... he can't be both plaintiff and his own champion! This... breaks the rules! Disrespects the gods!"
Petyr's words silenced the fevered hall. People exchanged glances. Even Grand Maester Pycelle nodded thoughtfully. "Lord Baelish seems... to have a point."
Ned's eyes flashed struggle. He wanted to tear Petyr apart, but reason said Petyr was right. This was the only chance to save Lynn from this death match!
"Your Grace!" Ned stepped forward. Voice heavy. "Petyr is heinous, but his words follow Seven Kingdoms tradition. Lynn truly cannot fight personally."
No joke—if Lynn died, how would he face Arya? Lynn must not die!
"Bullshit!" Robert's roar echoed. He kicked over a nearby wine cup. "I'm the king! My word is the rule! The tradition! I just want a satisfying duel! Anyone else talks, I'll twist their head off first!"
Robert's tyranny silenced Ned and Pycelle. Petyr's heart sank into the abyss completely. It was over. Even his last struggle seemed laughable, pathetically weak.
He slumped in his wheelchair. Eyes hollow. As if already dead.
Then Lynn spoke. "Your Grace. Lord Petyr is right."
What?! Everyone froze. Even Petyr jerked his head up. Stared at Lynn in disbelief. He... he was helping him?!
"Judgment should indeed follow tradition. Can't break precedent because of me." Lynn's gaze swept Petyr's stunned face. Lips curved playfully. "In that case, I'll choose a new champion."
Those words—Petyr's dead heart instantly revived! Ecstasy! Boundless ecstasy! He wouldn't die! As long as Lynn didn't fight, no one could match the Mountain! He'd won! Clawed back a lifeline from despair!
Ned also relaxed. Looked at Lynn with relief. Robert pouted dissatisfied, like roasted meat snatched from his mouth, but said nothing more.
"Good, very good!" Petyr trembled with excitement. Urged impatiently: "Lord Lynn, please choose your champion! Is it Lord Stark? Or which Kingsguard warrior?"
His gaze swept the hall challengingly. As if already seeing victory's dawn. Because he knew: except for the inscrutable Lynn, no one here could match the Mountain.
Lynn smiled. He turned. His gaze passed everyone. Landed on the hall's entrance.
"I choose the Hound. Sandor Clegane!"
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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