Time stretched thin as a spider's thread.
Every soul in the arena watched.
Sandor Clegane's head—wrenched toward his monstrous brother's chest by that one good hand. The Mountain was going to snap his neck. Twist it clean off like a chicken bone.
High on the platform, Sansa screamed. Short. Sharp. Her hands flew to her mouth.
Arya's face drained white as milk. Those grey Stark eyes filled with despair.
Eddard Stark surged to his feet. Wanted to do something. Couldn't. This was trial by combat. The gods would decide. He was powerless.
On Petyr Baelish's sagging face, a flicker of sick hope bloomed.
Die. Both of you die.
If the Hound died, there'd be no victor. No victor meant no judgment. No judgment meant he lived.
But then.
The man who'd sat calm as stone through it all—Lynn—finally moved.
He didn't stand. Didn't even open his eyes.
He sighed. Soft. The fingers holding his wine cup twitched.
An invisible thread of cold—colder than the Wall, colder than the Lands of Always Winter—shot across the space between them. Wrapped around Sandor Clegane's throat.
Sandor felt it. That pull on his neck, the bones about to give—
Then ice.
A cold so absolute it exploded from the base of his skull. Raced down his spine. Flooded his limbs.
His neck wasn't flesh anymore.
It was iron. Northern iron. Frozen harder than steel.
"Kk... kkk..."
The Mountain's bloodshot eyes showed something new. Not bloodlust.
Confusion.
He wasn't holding a man's throat. He was holding a block of ten-thousand-year-old ice from beyond the Wall.
Gregor squeezed. Squeezed with all the strength that had crushed skulls and bent steel.
Nothing.
His fingers left pale marks on Sandor's skin. Couldn't dig deeper. Couldn't break through.
What the fuck—?
The Mountain's brain, already half-cooked by pain and rage, crashed.
Sandor snapped back to life.
He felt that cold, unyielding force around his throat. Didn't know where it came from. Didn't care.
This was his shot.
"RAAAAGH!"
He roared. Louder than his brother. Wilder.
The roar of a cornered beast. A dying man's last stand.
His good arm swung. Not the blade—the hilt. Smashed it into the Mountain's bleeding stump of an arm.
Bone splintered.
The Mountain's grip loosened.
Now.
Sandor ripped his sword free. His mangled left arm twisted at a grotesque angle, shoulder slamming into Gregor's chest.
He didn't retreat.
He charged.
"GET—THE FUCK—DOWN!"
Every ounce of hate. Every year of torment. Every nightmare. He poured it all into that shove.
The Mountain—eight feet of muscle and murder—lost his balance.
His eyes stared up at the sky.
Then he fell backward.
Into the brazier.
Into the flames.
Fire swallowed him whole.
"AAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!"
The scream wasn't human. It was the sound of meat cooking. Armor melting into skin. Agony beyond words.
The Mountain thrashed. Writhed. Like a maggot dropped in boiling water.
The air filled with a sickly-sweet smell.
The screaming grew weaker. Hoarser.
Then stopped.
Firelight painted the arena. Every face frozen in shock.
Silence.
Only the crackle of flames. And Sandor's ragged breathing.
He staggered back. Dropped his sword. Collapsed onto his ass.
Stared at the inferno that had finally consumed his nightmare.
Tears carved tracks down his ruined face.
The man who'd lived his whole life in hate was crying.
It was over.
Twenty years of rage. Twenty years of scars.
Finally. Over.
High on the platform, Petyr Baelish melted into his chair. Boneless. His clever grey-green eyes—always calculating, always three steps ahead—were dead.
I'm fucked.
His gaze drifted to the man who'd stayed calm through it all.
Lynn.
Lynn opened his eyes.
Didn't look at the carnage. Didn't look at Sandor.
Looked at Petyr.
No mockery. No pity.
Just the gaze you give a corpse.
"The... the trial... is concluded."
The High Septon's voice trembled.
"Victor... Sandor Clegane!"
The crowd exploded.
Shouts. Screams. Disbelief.
"The Hound won!"
"He killed the Mountain!"
"Seven hells, that was the bloodiest thing I've ever seen!"
Gamblers who'd bet on the Hound howled in triumph. Those who'd bet on the Mountain looked like they'd swallowed shit.
Joffrey leapt to his feet, pale face flushed with excitement. He didn't care who won. He just loved the blood.
Robert opened his mouth. Closed it. Drained his cup. "Good," he rumbled.
Cersei's face was a mask of fury. The Mountain was dead. She'd lost a weapon.
Olenna Tyrell raised her cup toward Lynn. Smiled.
Margaery's eyes glittered.
Lynn stood.
Straightened his collar. Walked down from the platform.
The maesters were loading Sandor onto a stretcher. No one dared approach the still-burning brazier.
Lynn's appearance silenced the crowd.
He stopped at the fire. Heat washed over him. He didn't flinch.
Stared at the charred, twisted thing in the flames.
"Gregor Clegane. Murderer. Monster. Sinner."
His voice carried.
"He was no knight. No warrior. He was an abomination."
His gaze swept the crowd. Landed on Cersei.
"His soul was corrupt. His body cursed."
"To prevent the spread of evil—to protect King's Landing from contamination—I will purify this corpse. In the name of the Seven Kingdoms."
Purify?
Cersei's face went white. She opened her mouth—
Lynn raised a hand.
Gold Cloaks surrounded the brazier.
Everyone watched as the Mountain's massive corpse was dragged out. Hacked apart. Piece by piece.
In less than a minute, nothing remained but charred meat and bone fragments.
Gregor Clegane—the beast who'd terrorized Westeros—was erased.
Lynn bowed slightly to Robert.
He wasn't purifying shit. He knew the truth. In another timeline, a maester named Qyburn would take this corpse. Turn it into something worse. A mindless killing machine.
Lynn didn't leave loose ends.
Cut the grass. Burn the roots.
He turned.
His gaze cut through the crowd.
Landed on the man slumped in his chair. Face grey as ash.
Petyr Baelish.
"Lord Baelish."
Lynn's voice was soft.
"I believe it's your turn now."
Petyr's body jerked.
He looked up. Those eyes—once so sharp, so full of ambition—were hollow with terror.
Two Gold Cloaks approached.
He'd lost.
Lost the game he thought he'd already won.
Lost his life.
Petyr opened his mouth. Tried to speak.
His eyes rolled back.
He fainted.
Game over.
Littlefinger had played long enough.
Time to leave the board.