Time seemed to stretch endlessly at that moment.
Everyone watched helplessly.
Sandor Clegane's monstrous elder brother hauled his head toward himself with all his strength!
The Mountain intended to twist Sandor's neck clean through with his one uninjured hand!
On the dais, Sansa let out a short scream and clamped her hands over her mouth.
The color drained from Arya's little face, her gray eyes filled with despair.
Ned Stark sprang to his feet. He wanted to do something, but he could not interfere with the duel. He was powerless.
A flicker of sickly hope returned to Petyr Baelish's slack face.
Die!
Both of you, die!
As long as the Hound died, this duel would have no winner!
As long as there was no winner, he still had a chance to live!
Yet at that critical instant...
Lynn, who had sat calmly there from the very beginning, finally made a slight movement.
He did not rise or even open his eyes.
He sighed softly, his fingers shifting slightly around his wine cup.
A current of extreme cold, invisible to the naked eye, crossed the distance in an instant like an unseen thread and wound precisely around Sandor Clegane's neck!
Humm-!
Sandor, whose head was being wrenched forward with such force that he could feel his neck bones about to snap, shuddered violently.
An impossibly bitter chill burst from the back of his neck.
It spread down his spine and through every limb!
It was a cold that was... indestructible!
In that instant, Sandor's neck seemed to cease being flesh and blood, becoming instead the hardest cold iron in the Lands of Always Winter in the North!
"Crk... crk, crk..."
For the first time, an emotion other than bloodlust appeared in the Mountain's bloodshot eyes.
It was bewilderment and confusion.
He