WebNovels

Chapter 109 - Chapter 111: The Hound

When the royal herald called out the name of Sandor Clegane, the atmosphere in the tourney grounds reached a new boiling point.

If "The Mountain" was a terrifying monster, then "The Hound" was a loathsome mad dog.

Joffrey's sworn shield, and a pathetic plaything.

In the stands, curses and cheers mixed together, forming a wave of morbid frenzy.

Sandor Clegane was deaf to it all.

He sat silently, his expression hidden beneath the snarling dog helm.

His gaze passed over the noisy crowd, landing on the black figure preparing to leave the field.

A crow on a plow horse?

Who won against a Frey fool on sheer dumb luck?

Just then, a golden figure squeezed in front of him.

"Hound!"

Prince Joffrey's voice was filled with unquestionable command.

His face was flushed, panting slightly from excitement, fanatical light shining in his blue eyes.

"Did you see! Ser Lynn won!"

He pointed at Lynn in the field, as if showing off his favorite toy.

"Next match, it's you against him."

Joffrey lowered his voice slightly.

But the imperious arrogance didn't diminish in the slightest.

"I forbid you to win."

Sandor's body stiffened.

He lifted his visor, slowly turning his grotesque head to look at the boy prince before him.

"Why?"

"No why!"

Joffrey puffed out his chest.

"I just want Ser Lynn to win!"

"He saved my life! He is my hero! He will be my future Kingsguard!"

"And you, Sandor, you are just a dog."

"What the master tells the dog to do, the dog must do."

"If you dare unhorse him, I'll chop off your ugly dog head and hang it on the walls of the Red Keep."

Joffrey's vicious words were exceptionally clear beside the noisy arena.

Sandor fell silent.

In his eyes, rage and humiliation burned hot enough to incinerate a man.

But in the end, he said nothing.

He simply nodded slowly.

"As you command, My Prince."

Watching Joffrey turn away satisfied, Sandor clenched his gauntleted hands tightly into fists.

Lynn returned to the Stark box and removed his helm.

He deliberately gasped for air, sweat beading on his forehead, his face pale.

"Lynn! You were amazing!"

Arya's eyes shone like stars.

Sansa handed him a dampened silk handkerchief, her face full of adoration and lingering fear.

"Are... are you alright?"

"I'm fine, just a bit drained."

Lynn took the handkerchief and wiped his face.

"That Ser Frey was strong."

His exhausted appearance convinced Sansa and Arya even more of how thrillingly close that victory had been.

Only Ned, looking into Lynn's still calm black eyes, felt the suspicion in his heart grow heavier.

Just then, a large shadow loomed over them.

"The Hound" Sandor Clegane had walked up to the stands unnoticed.

He wasn't wearing his helm. His face, hideously scarred by fire, looked even more terrifying in the sunlight.

"Crow."

He spoke, his voice dripping with undisguised contempt.

"Good luck."

He glanced at the Shire mare "Storm," quietly eating hay beside Lynn.

"Your plow horse is sturdy too."

"But next match, your luck runs out."

"Is that so?"

Lynn looked up, a "just right" look of nervousness appearing on his face.

"Nothing."

Sandor grinned, revealing teeth yellowed by wine, a smile uglier than crying.

"I just wanted to remind you, when you fall off the horse, remember to protect your neck."

"Otherwise, you might not keep that head of yours."

With that, he turned and left, leaving behind an oppressive silhouette.

Arya was so angry she wanted to curse, but Ned stopped her with a look.

"He... he seems to hate you very much."

Sansa said uneasily.

"It doesn't matter."

"The louder the dog barks, the more afraid it is inside."

Soon, as expected, Loras Tyrell took his victory without surprise.

Lynn put his helm back on and mounted his horse.

The horn sounded again.

Lynn and Sandor Clegane faced each other from opposite ends of the track.

"Look! That lucky crow is up again!"

"He's facing 'The Hound' this time! He's dead!"

"I bet the Hound skewers him off his horse in one pass!"

Still, no one favored Lynn.

"Begin!"

Robert's roar fell.

Sandor spurred his warhorse almost instantly!

His massive destrier shot out like an arrow from a bow, charging with crushing momentum!

The killing intent rushing toward them even made the noble ladies in the front rows scream in terror.

Lynn also began his clumsy charge.

His body bounced on the heavy horse's back, looking like he could be thrown off at any moment.

The horses crossed!

CRASH!

A deafening sound!

Lynn's shield shattered on impact!

Splinters flew everywhere!

He was knocked backward by an irresistible force, looking like he was about to fall off the horse.

However, just as his body reached a bizarre angle of nearly ninety degrees to the horse's back, his iron-booted feet clamped onto the horse's belly like iron pincers!

The massive and stable body of the Shire mare "Storm" played a decisive role in this moment!

She only stumbled a few steps before steadying herself.

And Lynn, relying on terrifying core strength, forcibly pulled himself back from the brink of falling!

"OOOOOH!"

Gasps erupted from the crowd.

Sandor Clegane stopped at the other end of the track and slowly turned back.

Under his helm, his brow furrowed tightly.

Something was wrong.

He had used seventy percent of his strength in that thrust. Even a bull should have been knocked over.

This crow... didn't fall?

And that display of flexibility and balance just now was nothing like a clumsy novice!

"Again!"

Second charge!

Sandor's eyes changed.

If the first was a probe.

This time, he brought a hint of seriousness.

He wanted to see what game this crow was playing!

CRASH!

Another loud bang!

This time, Lynn's lance and Sandor's lance collided precisely in mid-air!

Both shattered!

Another draw!

Sandor clearly felt the force transmitted from the opponent's lance—heavy, but erratic, like punching cotton.

His brute force had been deflected by a strange technique.

This crow was hiding his skill!

An absurd thought surfaced in Sandor's mind.

Could it be...

Could this crow be acting?

A sense of humiliation at being toyed with rushed to Sandor's head instantly!

Fuck your mother!

Sandor cursed inwardly.

He threw away the broken lance and took his last spare.

Fine!

You want to act?

I'll play along!

Let's see if you can keep acting!

Third charge!

This time, Sandor was faster! His momentum fiercer!

He was like a mad dog!

Lynn rode to meet him.

His movements were still clumsy, his posture still wretched.

Joffrey stood up nervously.

He was very angry at his uncontrollable dog!

Two figures crossed under everyone's gaze!

The moment before passing!

Sandor's lance tip thrust straight at Lynn's face!

He wanted to force this crow to show his true skill!

However, Lynn's response surprised him again.

Lynn didn't block, nor did he dodge.

His lance thrust forward in a seemingly panicked, chaotic motion!

The target was Sandor's horse!

Madman!

Attacking the opponent's horse in a joust was extremely dishonorable, even despicable behavior!

Sandor instinctively tried to withdraw his lance to protect his mount.

But it was too late!

CRACK!

Lynn's lance struck precisely on the neck armor of Sandor's horse, snapping on impact.

However, a sharp wooden splinter from the broken shaft flew off under the immense inertia!

SQUELCH!

The splinter pierced precisely into the eye of Sandor's warhorse!

NEIGH——

The horse let out a scream of extreme agony and reared up violently!

Sandor felt the world spin!

He was thrown viciously by his maddened mount!

THUD!

Sandor Clegane's massive body crashed heavily onto the ground.

Dead silence filled the arena.

On the high dais, the wine cup in Littlefinger's hand fell with a clatter, shattering on the floor.

His ever-smiling face lost color for the first time.

He lost again?

Lynn remained on his horse, gasping heavily as if he had used the last of his strength.

Looking at the struggling figure on the ground through his cold visor, the corners of his mouth curled up slowly.

Play with me?

You're still a bit green.

He ignored the filthy curses from the crowd, simply turning his horse amidst the boos to leave the field.

Just then, the herald's high-pitched voice rang out again.

"Next match! Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers."

"Against—"

"Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain!"

Lynn paused.

His gaze turned to the knights' preparation area.

Loras Tyrell, the "Knight of Flowers," was elegantly mounting his horse.

The pure white steed beneath him was magnificent, only...

It seemed agitated, pawing the ground constantly, emitting low whinnies toward the "Mountain."

It was a beautiful mare.

A mare in heat.

Littlefinger, it seemed, had found a suitable horse after all.

Planning to win back all his losses with interest in the finals.

Lynn's gaze turned to the other side, where the black Shire mare "Storm" was lazily swishing her tail and snorting.

What a coincidence. His Storm was a mare too.

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