"My dog?" An excited voice shattered the throne room's silence.
Joffrey Baratheon. He pushed through the crowd. His handsome face—tinged with sickly pallor—blazed with a child's fervor finding a new toy.
He worshipped Lynn. Since Lynn unhorsed the Knight of Flowers with his lance at the tourney, then blocked that lethal arrow on King's Landing's streets—Lynn had become his idol. A war god.
Now, this idol wanted to borrow his dog for a fratricidal duel! Could anything be more thrilling? More magnificent?
"You want my dog to fight for you, Lynn?" Joffrey ran to Lynn. Looked up. His blue eyes blazing with zeal. "Of course! Absolutely!"
He didn't even consult his mother or the king. Just spun around. Shouted at the hall's corner: "Hound! You hear that?! Go! Kill that monster brother of yours for Lord Lynn! This'll be King's Landing's finest duel in a century!"
If Lynn fighting personally was madness, choosing the Hound was absurdity. All eyes turned to the man in the throne room's corner.
Sandor Clegane. Plain chainmail. His signature dog helm tucked under his arm. Exposing that half-face—fire-scarred, hideously twisted.
Just the prince's guard. A loyal, vicious dog. Here, he was lowborn. Voiceless. He was strong—no question. But his opponent was the Mountain. His brother, Gregor Clegane! The demon who'd made him this way!
Everyone knew their hatred. But no one thought Sandor had even a sliver of chance. Gregor was a giant. A monster. Sandor just did Joffrey's dirty work. Couldn't compare to the infamous Gregor.
Sandor facing his brother was like a common hound facing a raging bear.
"Haha... HAHAHA!" Sharp, grating laughter pierced the silence. Petyr Baelish. Slumped in his wheelchair, laughing so hard tears streamed. "The Hound? You chose the Hound?"
He pointed at Lynn. His twisted face showed ecstatic relief and undisguised mockery. "Lord Lynn, you're truly... surprising. I thought you'd choose a real warrior, but instead..." He shook his head. Like watching the world's greatest joke. "Have you given up?"
He'd won! Completely won! Lynn, that fool! Abandoned the only possible variable. Chose a doomed dead dog!
Ned Stark's heart sank. He couldn't understand why Lynn would do this. How was this different from making Sandor commit suicide?
"Sandor!" Joffrey ignored Littlefinger. Pointed at the Hound. Commanded with princely authority: "Accept! Lord Lynn chose you—it's your honor!"
Joffrey's words turned Cersei's face livid. She wanted to stop him. Found no words. Her son, using his prince's status, was pushing House Lannister's two strongest dogs into mutual slaughter! All for that man she hated most—and feared most!
From start to finish, Sandor Clegane said nothing. Just stood there. When Lynn linked his name with "champion knight," his deep-set eyes flickered imperceptibly.
When Prince Joffrey commanded, he just slowly raised his head. His gaze passed everyone. Passed sympathetic, mocking, gleeful stares. Finally landed on that mountain-like massive figure.
His brother. Gregor Clegane.
The Mountain felt his stare. Slowly turned. His helmet-shadowed face showed no expression, but his throat rumbled with low laughter. Full of contempt. Disdain. Like watching a hyena foolishly challenging a lion.
Time seemed to freeze. Everyone held their breath. Watching these brothers about to enact their fated duel. The air nearly solidified.
Finally, Sandor moved. He ignored Joffrey's command. Didn't look at his arrogant brother. Just turned. Heavy steps. Walked to Lynn. His height nearly seven feet—a giant among men. But not jarring before Lynn.
His hideously scarred face less than a foot from Lynn's. He stared into Lynn's eyes. Those grey eyes no longer held their usual numbness and rage. But emotion so complex—doubt, scrutiny, wariness. And deepest within: a longing even he wouldn't admit.
"Why me?" His voice rasped—his first words tonight.
"Sandor, you're not helping me. I'm helping you." Lynn's answer: simple, direct. Lynn's gaze like a sharp Valyrian dagger. Easily slicing through the shell Sandor had worn for decades—numbness and violence—reaching the deepest scar.
Sandor's body trembled imperceptibly. He'd lived thirty years. Everyone saw him as a dog. King Robert's dog. Lannister's dog. Prince Joffrey's dog. A vicious, obedient dog who'd never rise above his station.
No one had ever looked at him like this. As if he naturally belonged on this stage. To accomplish what he'd dreamed of but never dared hope for.
"I'm not a knight." Sandor's voice still dry, low.
"I know." Lynn nodded. "Knights have too much hypocrisy and constraint. You just need to do one thing: Under the gods' watch, before the whole city and heaven—rip out your brother's heart with your own hands. Use his blood to wash away your childhood nightmare. Your shame."
Childhood nightmare... The burning coal pressed to his face. Searing pain. Flesh burning. And his brother's face—twisted, laughing at his agony!
This wound—never healing—festered in his soul. Tormented him twenty years! He dreamed of revenge! Day and night, he studied his brother's every move. Half a lifetime!
Every Gregor battle—Sandor knew his weaknesses better than anyone! But he'd never had the chance. He was a dog. His brother was the Lannisters' favored champion. Between them: an uncrossable chasm.
Taking revenge on his own would disrespect the Lannisters. Make him vulnerable. But now—Lynn, this new northern earl, had effortlessly placed this opportunity before him. An honorable, legitimate revenge chance—witnessed by king and gods!
Sandor's breathing grew heavy. He said nothing. Just looked deeply at Lynn. Then spun around. Drew the greatsword from his waist—wider, heavier than normal blades. Pointed the tip at the throne room ceiling.
"I, Sandor Clegane. Will fight for Lord Lynn!"
He'd accepted!
"HAHAHA! Good! Good!" On the Iron Throne, Robert Baratheon slammed his fist on the armrest. The sword-forged armrest rang with harsh resonance. "Now that's a duel! Lannister's two mad dogs finally tearing into each other!"
He had no love for the Lannisters. Loved watching them self-destruct. He couldn't wait!
"I declare! Seven days hence! In King's Landing, before all lords and commons! Petyr Baelish's guilt will be witnessed by swords, judged by the gods!"
The king's decree: final. Everyone's expressions varied. Ned Stark: still worried. Cersei Lannister: face like stone. Petyr Baelish: his usual enigmatic smile returned.
Lynn didn't spare him another glance. His gaze fell on Sandor's broad, lonely back. He'd given Sandor not just revenge. But a reason to shed his "dog" identity. Live again as a "man."
After the duel, Sandor Clegane would be his most loyal subordinate. And the Mountain's death would win Dorne's favor. After all, the Dornish dreamed of the Mountain's death!
Lynn turned. Under complex stares, walked slowly from the Iron Throne room. At the door, he saw that stubborn figure.
Arya Stark. She'd waited here. Her eyes still red-rimmed. But those grey eyes shone with relief. She looked at Lynn. Opened her mouth. Wanted to speak. Didn't know where to start.
Lynn smiled at her. Like before, ruffled her hair. "Come on. I'm hungry. Take me to eat something."
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