Two Gold Cloaks stood one on each side.
They expressionlessly hoisted Petyr, dragging him towards the center of the high platform like a dead dog.
The game was over.
Everyone looked at the unconscious man, stripped of all dignity and decorum.
Once upon a time, he was the most indispensable master of coin in King's Landing.
No one dared to offend him.
But now, he had become a criminal, a piece of meat about to be laid on the chopping block.
Lynn watched all of this calmly.
His gaze passed over the ashen-faced Petyr and landed on His Majesty the King, Robert.
Robert's face still bore the excitement from the duel.
He gulped down a cup of wine, and an unsettling fanaticism flickered in his cloudy eyes.
"Drag him away! Throw him in the black cells!"
Robert waved his large hand, his voice as resonant as a bell.
"Three days from now, I will personally chop off his head in front of all the citizens of King's Landing!"
"I want everyone to see with their own eyes the consequences of betraying me!"
Execute him personally?
Ned Stark's brows furrowed.
This action was completely different from the Northern custom of personal execution.
He could see the excitement in Robert's eyes.
This was definitely Robert satisfying his own selfish desires.
Cersei's lips, however, subtly curled, and her eyes held undisguised disgust.
A king obsessed with personally executing criminals was never a good sign.
He was truly beyond saving.
It seemed her father's poison was very effective.
Just as the Gold Cloaks were about to drag Petyr away, a flurry of hoofbeats approached from afar, breaking the eerie atmosphere in the tourney grounds.
"Make way! Make way!"
A high-pitched voice pierced through the noisy crowd.
Everyone instinctively turned to look.
A knight, wearing a winged helmet and with the blue sky, crescent moon, and white falcon sigil embroidered on his chest, charged through the crowd like a madman.
He dismounted, stumbling towards the high platform.
"It's someone from The Eyrie!"
Someone in the crowd recognized him.
Everyone's hearts tightened.
This messenger had arrived too late.
The knight rushed onto the high platform, and when he saw Petyr Baelish, held by the Gold Cloaks and unconscious, his face instantly turned pale.
"Stop!"
He pointed from afar at the two Gold Cloaks, his voice urgent.
"By order of the Defender of the Seven Kingdoms, the Warden of the East, Lady Lysa Tully, Duchess of The Eyrie!"
"No one is to harm Lord Petyr!"
His appearance made the already chaotic scene even more tense.
Ned Stark's brows furrowed even deeper.
Lysa... she had gotten involved after all.
The knight quickly walked to the throne and knelt on one knee.
But his raised head and arrogant eyes showed no hint of respect.
"Your Majesty the King, I am Ser Morton Waynwood, Warden of the Gates of the Moon, under Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone."
He introduced himself, his tone carrying the unique arrogance of a knight of the Vale.
"I am here on Lady Lysa's command, to request that you release Lord Petyr Baelish."
"He grew up in Riverrun, and is a friend to Lady Lysa and Lady Catelyn, you cannot treat him this way!"
Lynn calmly watched this suddenly appearing Ser Waynwood, an unnoticed cold glint flashing in his eyes.
If this identity were in normal times, it might have made Robert remember some old affections.
But now... it would only add fuel to the fire.
Since that's the case, I might as well add a bit more fuel myself.
Lynn's consciousness, like an invisible thread, silently extended and then gently wrapped around Ser Morton's mind.
He didn't try to control him, he merely amplified the inherent arrogance and stubbornness in this knight of the Vale tenfold, a hundredfold!
His Majesty the King, Robert, was already excited by the bloody scene just now.
Upon hearing someone dare to speak to him in such a commanding tone, his face instantly darkened.
"Request?"
Robert sneered, he picked up his cup and drained the ale within.
"You call this a request?"
Ser Morton seemed completely oblivious to the change in the King's tone.
Or rather, in his perception, the King should obey the will of the Vale.
After all, the war that overthrew the Targaryen dynasty began in the Vale.
"Your Majesty, perhaps you've forgotten."
Ser Morton stood up, his voice suddenly rising, filled with an unquestionable sense of superiority.
"It was Lord Jon Arryn who raised you and Lord Ned, and to avoid surrendering you both to the Mad King, Lord Arryn was the first to rise up against the Mad King's tyranny!"
"The knights of the Vale are the staunchest allies of House Baratheon!"
"And Lord Petyr is deeply trusted and valued by Lady Lysa!"
"If you insist on harming him, you will lose the support of the Vale, and that would be making an enemy of the entire Vale!"
"Making an enemy of the Vale?"
Robert looked as if he had heard the funniest joke in the world.
His corpulent body trembled violently with laughter.
He slowly stood up, walking down the steps one by one.
His massive figure carried a suffocating sense of oppression.
"That whore Lysa murdered my foster father, and I haven't even settled scores with her yet, and now she dares to send someone here?"
"She truly has a lot of nerve!"
Robert's tone was aggressive, showing no respect for the messenger from The Eyrie.
He cursed Lysa as a whore right in front of him.
Ser Morton Waynwood looked up, his young and arrogant face showing no fear.
"Lord Baelish is an honored guest of The Eyrie, and no one shall tarnish his reputation!"
Hearing this, Robert's rage intensified.
"Honor? Petyr is a schemer, what honor does he have?"
"As for commands?"
"She dares to command me?!"
"Who does she think she is? The King of the Seven Kingdoms?!"
"I'm not dead yet!"
Robert's roar shook the entire high platform, making it hum.
But Ser Morton Waynwood remained unmoved.
He even straightened his back, looking at Robert with an almost provocative gaze.
"Lady Lysa also asked me to remind Your Majesty."
"The Vale has never forgotten its duty."
"Under The Eyrie, there are two hundred landed knights, over two thousand armored knights, eight thousand foot soldiers, and fifteen thousand soldiers who can be called upon at any time!"
"Thirty-five thousand battle-hardened warriors are ready for war, awaiting the call of House Arryn!"
Ser Morton Waynwood clearly reeled off a string of numbers.
Everyone's hearts trembled.
What was Lysa trying to do?
This was nothing short of a naked threat of force!
The entire tourney ground instantly fell into a dead silence.
Thirty-five thousand troops!
Had Lysa Arryn gone mad?
She dared to threaten the iron throne with the entire strength of the Vale?!
Had the Vale eaten a bear's heart and leopard's guts?
To dare speak to Robert like that?
Ned's face turned incredibly grim.
A hint of schadenfreude flashed in Cersei's eyes.
And Robert, his face, purple with drink and rage, was twitching uncontrollably.
Two insane flames ignited in his cloudy eyes.
"Haha... Hahahahahahaha!"
Robert suddenly burst into laughter, a wild and terrifying sound.
"Thirty-five thousand men?"
"Good! Very good!"
Robert laughed, walking step by step towards Ser Morton Waynwood.
Then he grabbed his collar and forcefully lifted him from the ground.
"You go back and tell that madwoman!"
Robert's face was almost pressed against Morton's, his breath reeking of wine and spittle spraying all over him.
"Tell her, I, Robert Baratheon, fear nothing more than threats in this life!"
"She wants war? I'll give her war!"
"I'll give it to her right now!"
Robert violently threw Ser Morton to the ground, then turned and strode towards the unconscious Petyr Baelish.
"Your Majesty! What are you doing!"
"Don't be rash!"
"We can discuss it before making a decision!"
Ned Stark cried out in alarm, rushing after him.
Robert shoved him away.
Then he walked up to a Kingsguard and snatched the longsword from his waist.
"Clang!"
The longsword slid from its sheath, glinting coldly.
Robert held the sword, his mad eyes fixed on the heap of mud on the ground.
"Lysa Arryn wants him, does she?"
"Alright! Then I'll give Petyr back to her!"
Everyone was startled by Robert's appearance.
What was he going to do?
Was he going to, right here, in front of everyone... Lynn watched silently.
He noticed that Robert's pupils were abnormally dilated, and the flush on his face had a sickly quality.
His breathing was heavy, and his emotional fluctuations were far beyond the normal range.
It seemed the poison was stronger than expected.
It not only burned away Robert's reason but also ignited the most primal savagery within him.
The cold killing intent seemed to awaken Petyr Baelish.
He slowly regained consciousness, opening his eyes blankly.
The first thing he saw was His Majesty the King, Robert's face, twisted with extreme rage.
And... the cold, gleaming longsword.
Petyr's pupils suddenly constricted.
His clever brain completely crashed at this moment.
What was happening?
What had happened while he was unconscious?
He wanted to beg for mercy, to explain, to use his silver tongue to turn the tide as he always did.
"Robert! No!"
Ned rushed forward again, trying to grab Robert's arm.
"Get out of the way!"
Robert elbowed him back, directly knocking Ned away.
He raised the longsword high, aiming it at Petyr Baelish's head, once filled with schemes and plots.
"This is what you want!"
"This is what all of you want!"
"Thud—!"
The longsword fell.
But it was not a clean beheading.
Robert's movements were imprecise due to rage and alcohol.
The blade missed the neck, instead slicing diagonally into Petyr's shoulder.
The blade cut downwards from the collarbone, almost cleaving Petyr's entire side open!
"Ah—!!!"
A horrific, inhuman shriek erupted from Petyr's throat.
Blood, like a fountain, splattered all over Robert.
The warm liquid, mixed with a metallic scent, made Robert's mad eyes even bloodier.
Robert didn't stop.
He raised the sword high again, and brought it down again!
"Thwack!"
"Thwack!"
"Thwack!"
He was like a mad butcher, strike after strike.
He vented all his anger, all his dissatisfaction, all his brutality.
In the tourney grounds, there was a deathly silence.
Only the dull thud of the cold blade striking flesh.
Everyone stared blankly at the King, bathed in blood.
The noblewomen shrieked in terror, many vomiting on the spot.
Sansa, terrified, clung to Arya.
Even the battle-hardened knights and Guard had faces filled with horror.
This was not a trial.
This was torture and murder.
They felt as if they were seeing Aerys, the Mad King, who liked to burn his ministers alive with wildfire.
At this moment, their figures eerily merged in the bloody scene.
Finally, Robert stopped.
He stood panting beside the heap of mangled flesh that no longer resembled a human, his chest heaving violently.
He threw down the longsword and turned around.
With his bloodshot, mad eyes, he surveyed every trembling vassal.
He was very satisfied.
He enjoyed the feeling of everyone fearing him.
Robert roared.
"Ser Morton Waynwood, is it?"
Robert pointed at Petyr's still relatively intact head on the ground.
"Take this bastard's head and send it to The Eyrie!"
"Tell Lysa Arryn!"
"This, is my answer to her!"
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