Morning over King's Landing was thick and oppressive, a low ceiling of gray cloud pressing down on the city like a smothering hand.
The air was sour with heat, sweat, and horse stink around the tourney field. The calm before violence.
In his tent, Lynn ran a final check on the black warhorse King Robert had gifted him for the semifinals.
The beast—Shadow—was a true royal steed: tall, heavy‑muscled, eyes like polished coal. They said it was second only to the king's own charger in the royal stables.
The lance sent from the king's armory was longer and heavier than regulation, its hilt lacquered deep brown, the shaft painted with the crowned stag of House Baratheon.
"His Grace likes you," said Eddard Stark, standing beside him, though his tone didn't echo the compliment. "But in this court, favor can turn to target faster than a blade drawn from its sheath."
Before Lynn could answer, commotion erupted near the lists—shouts, panic, the unmistakable sound of riotous fear.
Someone screamed, "The Mountain's gone mad!"
Lynn and Ned hurried out of the tent.
What they saw was chaos.
In the middle of the field, Ser Gregor Clegane—the Mountain—stood over the corpse of his own black stallion, its neck skewered straight through with his massive greatsword. Blood soaked the sand dark red.
Across the tilt, the Knight of Flowers, Ser Loras Tyrell, sat frozen atop his pale mare—her flanks heaving, nostrils flaring. The beast was in heat; her scent had driven Gregor's stallion wild mid‑charge.
When the animal turned on itself, nearly throwing the Mountain, Gregor's temper snapped. He'd taken his rage out on the only thing within reach—his horse.
Now his helmet turned toward Loras, and through the slit of his visor, his eyes burned like a beast's.
Without a word, he wrenched the greatsword free and began to advance.
This was no duel. It was an execution.
The stands erupted in shouts.
"Seven save us," Ned muttered, reaching instinctively for a weapon he didn't carry.
Robert Baratheon surged to his feet, veins bulging, while Cersei half‑covered her mouth in shock. Prince Joffrey leaned forward, eyes bright with anticipation.
Loras kicked aside, trying to turn his startled mare, but she panicked and reared.
Gregor raised his sword.
And then—a blur moved from the edge of the lists.
A dark rider slammed into the Mountain's flank, shield up, horse braced. The impact jarred the weapon from Gregor's hand, sending sparks skittering.
The crowd gasped as the Mountain staggered a half‑step.
"Enough," came a rasp behind the helmet.
Sandor Clegane—the Hound—sat in the saddle, visor lowered, voice low and hard as gravel.
For one dreadful heartbeat, the brothers stared at each other through the slits of their helms, silent but for their breathing.
Then, with a growl that was almost human, Gregor raised the greatsword again.
"STOP!" Robert's roar thundered across the grounds. "Gregor—drop the bloody sword, or by the gods I'll strip your knighthood and hang your hide on my gates!"
Slowly, the Mountain lowered his weapon.
He turned and left the field, every step leaving deep, angry prints in the earth.
Loras slid from his saddle, trembling. He pulled off his helm, eyes wide and grateful.
"Thank you, Ser Clegane," he said, voice shaking. "I owe you my life."
Sandor didn't answer. He only turned his horse and rode past, heading for the exit.
As he passed Lynn's tent, he stopped briefly, helm tilting.
"See you in the finals, Stark's hound," he said, the voice beneath the steel coarse as ash. "I'm not the same man you fought before. This time, I'll tear you apart."
Lynn met the slit‑eyed gaze with calm. "We'll see."
By afternoon, the board had changed again.
The final match was set: Lynn of the North versus Sandor Clegane.
The city hummed with anticipation.
In the taverns, bets doubled by the minute—the black horse of the North against the Hound of the crown. A fighter who'd unhorsed Jaime Lannister, facing one who'd just stopped his murderous brother.
Experience against mystery. South against North.
The odds leaned slightly toward Sandor—the court's seasoned killer against a man barely recognized as a knight.
It was the perfect show.
And in a city where nothing ever happened by accident, someone was already stacking the pieces.
That evening, Petyr Baelish appeared at Lynn's tent entrance, smiling as though greeting a friend.
"A fine twist of fate, isn't it?" he said lightly. "Brother against brother out there—such delicious tragedy. It's a pity the Mountain didn't finish the song by killing the Tyrell boy. Would've made tomorrow's spectacle simpler."
"What do you want?" Lynn asked without looking up, polishing Robert's heavy lance.
"Only to offer advice."
Littlefinger stepped closer, tone dropping to a whisper. "Sandor Clegane is not like his brother. Gregor kills with fury; Sandor kills with precision. He knows exactly where the gaps are in your armor. He'll drag the life out of you inch by inch if he can."
He smiled that razor smile. "Of course… if you'd rather make things easier—for both of us—I can still adjust my wagers. A noble fall, very graceful. You'd walk away with a purse larger than the winner's share."
Lynn planted the lance against the wall. "No."
"Stubborn," Baelish sighed, turning away. At the tent flap, he glanced back once more, voice all honey again. "Oh—and your horse looks a bit listless. Southern feed never suits Northern stock. Be sure it's drinking well."
Then he was gone.
Suspicion flared immediately.
Lynn reached the black horse's side within seconds. The animal looked dull‑eyed, breathing too fast, its sleek neck damp with sweat.
He checked the feed. Fine. Then the water.
At once he smelled it—a faint sweetness under the scent of iron and dust.
Poison. Not enough to kill. Enough to weaken the muscles, dull the reflexes, confuse the nerves.
His jaw tightened.
He dumped the bucket, scrubbed it clean, and fetched well water himself. Then, from a small pouch sewn inside his coat, he drew a pinch of dried herbs—northern antidotes Ygritte had once shown him among the snows. Crushed and bitter, they left a gray film on the water.
"Drink," he whispered, forcing the horse's head down.
Shadow obeyed, trembling but steadying with every swallow.
He wouldn't risk another infusion of dragon‑blood—the last had nearly drained him. Two in a week might burn his veins alive.
No, he'd rely on training, not miracles.
Still, the sabotage could only mean one thing: if Littlefinger had tried to cripple the horse, he might also have aimed at the rider.
That night, his dinner came with a flask of spiced wine and a tray of bread and meat.
He drained a little wine into the corner seam of the tent.
When he ate, the cramps came within minutes. Sharp, twisting pain through the gut.
Laxatives—clumsy but effective.
He grimaced. The dose was heavy enough for a warhorse.
"Amateur," he muttered through his teeth.
Sitting cross‑legged, he let his breathing slow, drawing the fire deep.
Dragon blood pulsed hot through his veins. He felt it ignite—cleansing, devouring.
Heat swept through him as the impurities burned away. The pain ebbed by degrees, leaving him drenched in sweat but clear‑headed.
He'd sacrificed strength for recovery, but he could stand. He could fight.
Baelish wouldn't know that dragon blood burned hotter than any poison.
He smiled faintly.
Let them calculate. Tomorrow, he'd give the city a show that would ruin all their sums.
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