Lynn looked at this bristling little girl before him. For a moment, felt somewhat headache-inducing. He reached out. Ignoring Arya's wary gaze. Ruffled her neatly combed hair.
"What's going on in that head?" Lynn's tone carried helpless indulgence. Easily dissolved Arya's tense momentum. "Your sister just experienced such terrible things. She's upset. Coming to talk to me—isn't that normal? And you—instead of comforting her, you made her cry. See how Lord Ned deals with you when he returns."
Lynn's few words transformed an awkward scene into a family drama of a thoughtless sister upsetting her heartbroken sibling.
Arya pursed her lips. Though she felt Lynn made sense, that inexplicable displeasure still lingered. "Go check on your sister." Lynn pushed her shoulder. "Between sisters—what can't be talked through?"
Arya hesitated. Finally nodded. Left with three backward glances. Of course, Lynn confiscated her Needle. He didn't want this impulsive girl doing something foolish. After all, the sisters' relationship was always strained. Though Lynn knew Arya only wanted to scare Sansa with her sword, he still felt uneasy.
Watching Arya disappear at the corridor's end, Lynn finally closed the study door. These two Stark daughters—each more difficult than the last.
When Arya found Sansa, Sansa lay face-down on her bed. Shoulders shaking. Obviously still crying. Hearing the door open, Sansa sat up abruptly. Glared at Arya with red eyes. "What are you doing here? Come to laugh at me?"
"I didn't!" Arya—startled by her shout—instinctively retorted. Seeing her sister's tear-stained appearance, Arya felt some guilt. She seemed to... really mess things up.
"I... I just..." Arya clenched her fists. Didn't know what to say. The room fell into awkward silence.
Finally, Sansa spoke first. She wiped her tears. Seemed to exhaust all weakness in that brief crying. She sat cross-legged on the bed. Looked at her sister. Those blue eyes held calm and complexity Arya had never seen.
"Arya, sit down." Sansa's voice no longer distressed. Instead carried strange calmness. Arya hesitantly sat on the bed's edge.
"Do you think I like Lord Lynn?" Sansa got straight to the point. Arya's cheeks flushed slightly. But stubbornly nodded.
"Then what kind of woman do you think Lord Lynn should like?" Sansa asked again. Arya froze. In her view, Lord Lynn was so powerful, so gentle—he deserved the world's best woman. But specifically what kind, she couldn't say. Sometimes she even felt she wasn't worthy...
"Arya, you only see Lord Lynn's current glory." Sansa's voice was light. Yet struck Arya's heart. "Have you thought about how he got here? He's not like us—born Stark, Duke's daughters of Winterfell. He has no ancient surname, no rich lands, not even a family to rely on. When he first met us, he was just an ordinary Night's Watchman."
Sansa's gaze turned toward the window. As if penetrating the Red Keep's walls. Seeing that vast, barren North. "Everything he has—he earned himself. With his sword, with his life. Piece by piece from mountains of corpses and seas of blood. You think he wanted to be King-Beyond-the-Wall? That's hundreds of thousands of wildling mouths to feed. A burden on his shoulders alone! You think he wants to marry Princess Myrcella?"
Sansa's gaze returned to Arya. Those blue eyes held pity Arya couldn't understand. "He's not that fool Joffrey! Lynn knows better than anyone what House Lannister is. But he must marry Myrcella. Because Lord Lynn came from nothing. In this man-eating place called King's Landing, every step he takes is on thin ice. He needs a powerful ally. An identity to stand firm. Marrying the king's daughter is the fastest, most effective way to elevate his status. This isn't love, Arya."
Sansa spoke word by word. Like teaching a naive child. Also like convincing herself. "This is politics. A transaction. He's using his marriage—for himself, for the hundreds of thousands behind him—to exchange for a chance to breathe and develop."
Arya was completely stunned. She'd never thought from this angle. In her black-and-white world, like was like, dislike was dislike. Lannisters were bad—so marrying them was bad. Starks and Lynn had good relations. She liked Lynn because he told stories, always supported her. So she liked Lynn—must marry Lynn. Therefore Stark-Lynn marriage was good.
But Sansa's words were like a key. Opened a more cruel world's door for her. Arya suddenly remembered Lynn's always-slightly-tired eyes. Remembered his solitary figure on the balcony gazing north. So beneath that powerful, reliable exterior, he bore such heavy shackles? These were things she truly never considered.
"I..." Arya opened her mouth. Felt her throat dry. "I didn't know..."
"Of course you didn't know." Sansa's tone held no mockery. Only faint sorrow. "You only know swordplay. Running around like a wild boy. When have you truly cared what others think?"
Sansa stood. Walked before Arya. Extended her hand. Gently caressed Arya's cheek. Movement unprecedentedly tender. "Arya, I know you really like Lord Lynn. So do I. I swear—no woman in the world can refuse Lord Lynn. If there is, she's definitely not a woman."
Sansa frankly admitted it. Seeing Arya's expression turning dangerous again, Sansa quickly continued: "But our liking can't become his burden. True liking isn't possession. Not like songs sing—earth-shattering."
Sansa's eyes sparkled with wisdom. That light made Arya feel somewhat unfamiliar. Yet inexplicably convinced. "True liking is understanding. Support. Seeing him in difficulty—finding ways to help. Not willfully causing trouble. Understanding when he must sacrifice for greater goals—choosing to stand beside him. Becoming his strongest support. Until one day, he no longer needs marriage to gain status. No longer needs to read anyone's face..."
Sansa's voice lowered. But those blue eyes ignited a bright, persistent flame. "Then—only then—will he have the qualification and ability to choose the woman he truly wants. So what you must do is fully support him. So when he's glorious, he'll remember your support when he was down. Not your current unreasonable behavior. Understand, Arya?"
Arya looked at her sister. At her face slightly flushed with excitement. She suddenly felt she'd never truly known Sansa. She was no longer that silly girl who only knew love songs and lemon cakes. King's Landing's frost made her quietly grow—where no one noticed—into a thorned rose.
"I... I understand." Arya lowered her head. Said quietly. That bit of unwillingness and awkwardness in her heart seemed so childishly ridiculous before Sansa's words. She was indeed... too willful. Whether Myrcella before or Sansa now—whenever she saw other women close to Lynn, she felt terrible. That feeling like someone carving her heart with a knife! Too painful. She couldn't control her jealousy.
But now Sansa's words strangely made her feel less terrible. "I'm sorry, sister." Arya sincerely apologized to Sansa for the first time.
Sansa smiled. That smile like sunshine after rain. Warm and bright. She pulled Arya back to sit on the bed's edge. Sisters leaned heads together. Like back in Winterfell.
"So what we must do now is quietly support him." Sansa's voice carried cunning. "For example, help him watch that woman called Lyana. Don't let her cause Lord Lynn trouble. Of course, you can do other things to help Lord Lynn."
Then... what could help him? Arya's little brain spun rapidly. First time racking her brains over such a "major" political issue. Watching her sister's adorably contemplative appearance, Sansa's lips curved into an imperceptible, eerie arc.
Seven days passed in a flash in King's Landing's giant boiling cauldron. These seven days, the entire city fell into morbid frenzy. From Flea Bottom taverns to Red Keep banquet halls—everyone discussed that coming duel.
The Mountain versus the Hound! This wasn't just a trial deciding Littlefinger Petyr Baelish's life or death. But settling a twenty-year blood feud. Fratricide all Westeros watched!
Betting houses offered shocking odds. Most bet on the Mountain. After all, Ser Gregor Clegane's demon-god physique and brutal record were deeply ingrained. While Sandor Clegane—though also a brave warrior—always seemed dim before his monstrous brother.
On duel day, the sky was overcast. Like rain coming. Torches and fire pits surrounded the tourney grounds outside the Red Keep. Illuminated everything blood-red. Already packed with people. Even walls filled with commoners wanting to watch!
On the high platform—Westeros's most powerful people all present. King Robert wore golden ceremonial robes. Couldn't hide his increasingly bloated figure and face's impatience. Queen Cersei sat beside him. Expressionless. Those green eyes revealed no emotion.
Prince Joffrey was allowed to attend. He sat beside his mother. Face still somewhat pale. Gaze locked on the field's entrance. Seemingly searching for something. Ned Stark and his two daughters sat on the other side. Expressions solemn. House Tyrell's grandmother and grandson looked relaxed. As if watching an interesting play.
As for Littlefinger—Petyr Baelish looked confident of victory. Lynn sat beside Ned. Calmly drank sour wine. His gaze swept the hall. Taking in everyone's expressions. Everything proceeding according to his written script.
As dull horn sounds rang out, iron gates at both ends slowly opened. "THUD, THUD, THUD..." Heavy footsteps from one side. A towering giant appeared in everyone's sight.
Gregor Clegane! He wore heavy black steel armor. No decoration—only family sigil and mottled bloodstains, horrifying scratches. Gregor held a two-handed greatsword nearly half a man's height! Blade wide. Under overcast light—gleaming with heart-stopping cold. Each step—the entire tourney ground seemed to tremble slightly. That killing aura radiating from him—the field's temperature seemed to drop several degrees. Unparalleled oppressive force.
Spectator noise instantly vanished. Everyone shocked by this human beast's momentum. At the field's other end, a relatively "small" figure slowly emerged. Sandor Clegane.
He didn't wear that iconic dog helm. Exposed that half-face burned hideously by flames. He also wore black armor. Held an ordinary knight's longsword. He just stood there calmly. But those gray eyes burned with hatred flames that could incinerate everything.
The brothers faced each other from afar. On the high platform, the High Septon stepped forward. In his lengthy, tedious voice, read the trial procedures. "...In the Seven's name, by the Warrior's soul, judge good and evil, determine life and death! The duel begins!"
The instant those words fell! "ROAR——!!!" The Mountain unleashed an inhuman beast's roar. His massive body—at speed completely inconsistent with his size—charged violently! He raised his greatsword high. Slashed viciously toward Sandor's head! That sword—with air-tearing howl—as if splitting the ground in two! Everyone's hearts leapt to their throats in that moment!
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