Two Gold Cloaks stood left and right.
Expressionless, they hoisted Petyr up, dragging him like a dead dog toward the center of the platform.
The game was over.
Everyone watched the man who had lost consciousness, stripped of all dignity and decency.
Once, he was the indispensable Master of Coin in King's Landing.
No one dared offend him.
Now, he was a criminal, a piece of meat about to be placed on the chopping block.
Lynn watched it all calmly.
His gaze moved past the ashen-faced Petyr to King Robert.
The excitement of the duel still lingered on Robert's face.
He gulped down a goblet of wine, a disturbing fanaticism flickering in his cloudy eyes.
"Drag him away! Throw him in the black cells!"
Robert waved his big hand, his voice booming like a bell.
"Three days from now, in front of all the people of King's Landing, I will personally cut off his head!"
"I want everyone to see with their own eyes the fate of betraying me!"
Personally execute him?
Ned Stark frowned.
This was completely different from the Northern tradition of the man who passes the sentence swinging the sword.
He could see the excitement in Robert's eyes.
This was definitely Robert satisfying his own selfish desires.
Cersei's lips curled imperceptibly, her eyes filled with undisguised disgust.
A King obsessed with personally executing prisoners was never a good sign.
He was truly beyond saving.
It seemed the poison her father administered was very effective.
Just as the Gold Cloaks prepared to drag Petyr away, the sound of urgent hoofbeats approaching broke the strange atmosphere of the tourney grounds.
"Make way! Make way!"
A high-pitched voice pierced through the noisy crowd.
Everyone turned instinctively.
A knight wearing a winged helm, with the blue sky, crescent moon, and white falcon sigil of House Arryn embroidered on his chest, charged through the crowd like a madman.
He dismounted and stumbled up the high platform.
"It's someone from the Eyrie!"
Someone in the crowd recognized his identity.
Everyone's heart was in their throat.
This messenger had arrived too late.
The knight rushed onto the platform. When he saw Petyr Baelish being held by the Gold Cloaks, unconscious, his face turned pale instantly.
"Stop!"
He pointed at the two Gold Cloaks from afar, his voice urgent.
"By order of Lady Lysa Tully, Lady of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and Warden of the East!"
"No one is to harm Lord Petyr!"
His appearance made the already chaotic scene even more tense.
Ned Stark's frown deepened.
Lysa... she had gotten involved after all.
The knight walked quickly to the throne and dropped to one knee.
But his held-high head and arrogant eyes showed no trace of respect.
"Your Grace, I am Ser Morton Waynwood, bannerman to Lord Yohn Royce, the Bronze Yohn."
He announced his name, his tone carrying the unique arrogance of a Vale knight.
"I come by order of Lady Lysa to request the release of Lord Petyr Baelish."
"He grew up in Riverrun and is a friend to Lady Lysa and Lady Catelyn. You cannot treat him like this!"
Lynn watched this suddenly appearing Ser Waynwood calmly, a cold glint flashing in his eyes unnoticed.
This identity might have made Robert consider old feelings in normal times.
But now... it would only add fuel to the fire.
In that case, let me add a little more fuel; one more won't hurt.
Lynn's consciousness, like an invisible thread, quietly extended and gently wrapped around Ser Morton's mind.
He didn't control him, but merely amplified the arrogance and paranoia inherent in this Vale knight by ten, a hundred times!
King Robert was already excited by the bloody scene just now.
Hearing someone dare speak to him in such a commanding tone, his face darkened instantly.
"Request?"
Robert sneered. He picked up his goblet and drained the ale inside.
"You call this a request?"
Ser Morton was completely oblivious to the change in the King's tone.
Or rather, in his perception, the King should listen to the will of the Vale.
After all, the war to overthrow the Targaryen dynasty started in the Vale.
"Your Grace, perhaps you have forgotten."
Ser Morton stood up, his voice rising sharply, filled with unquestionable superiority.
"It was Lord Jon Arryn who raised you and Lord Ned. To refuse handing you two over to the Mad King, Lord Arryn was the first to raise his banner against 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, which means making an enemy of the entire Vale!"
"Enemy of the Vale?"
Robert looked as if he had heard the funniest joke in the world.
His massive body shook violently with laughter.
He stood up slowly, walking down the steps one by one.
The huge figure carried a suffocating pressure.
"That bitch Lysa murdered my foster father, and I haven't settled accounts with her yet. Now she dares send someone here?"
"She really has some nerve!"
Robert's tone was aggressive, giving no face to the envoy from the Eyrie.
He called Lysa a bitch right to his face.
Ser Morton Waynwood looked up, no fear on his young and arrogant face.
"Lord Baelish is an honored guest of the Eyrie. No one is allowed to tarnish his honor!"
Hearing this, the anger in Robert's heart burned even hotter.
"Honor? Petyr is made of schemes; what honor does he have?"
"As for orders?"
"She fucking dares to order me?!"
"Who does she think she is? The King of the Seven Kingdoms?!"
"I'm not dead yet!"
Robert's roar shook the entire platform.
But Ser Morton Waynwood remained unmoved.
He even straightened his back, looking at Robert with a gaze bordering on provocation.
"Lady Lysa also asked me to remind Your Grace."
"The Vale has never forgotten its duty."
"Under the Eyrie, there are two hundred landed knights, over two thousand armored knights, eight thousand infantry, and fifteen thousand soldiers ready to be levied at any time!"
"Thirty-five thousand battle-hardened warriors are waiting with weapons ready, listening for House Arryn's call!"
Ser Morton Waynwood clearly recited a series of numbers.
Everyone's heart shook.
What was Lysa doing?
This was a naked threat of force!
The entire tourney ground fell into a deathly silence instantly.
Thirty-five thousand troops!
Was Lysa Arryn crazy?
She dared to use the entire power of the Vale to threaten the Iron Throne?!
Did the Vale eat a bear's heart and a leopard's gall?
Daring to talk to Robert like this?
Ned's face turned incredibly ugly.
A flash of schadenfreude passed through Cersei's eyes.
And Robert, the muscles on his face, purple from drink and rage, twitched uncontrollably.
In his cloudy eyes, two clusters of mad flames ignited.
"Haha... Hahahahahaha!"
Robert suddenly burst into loud laughter, the sound manic and terrifying.
"Thirty-five thousand men?"
"Good! Very good!"
Laughing, Robert walked step by step to Ser Morton Waynwood.
Then he grabbed him by the collar, lifting him bodily off the ground.
"Go back and tell that madwoman!"
Robert's face was almost touching Morton's, the smell of alcohol and spittle spraying his face.
"Tell her, I, Robert Baratheon, have never feared threats in my life!"
"She wants war? I'll give her war!"
"I'll give it to her right fucking now!"
Robert threw Ser Morton to the ground, then turned and strode toward the unconscious Petyr Baelish.
"Your Grace! What are you doing!"
"Don't be impulsive!"
"Let's discuss this before deciding!"
Ned Stark turned pale with fright and rushed to catch up.
Robert shoved him away.
Then he walked up to a Kingsguard, snatching the longsword from his waist.
Clang!
The sword was unsheathed, cold light flashing.
Robert held the sword, his mad eyes staring fixedly at the puddle of mud on the ground.
"Doesn't Lysa Arryn want him?"
"Fine! Then I'll give Petyr back to her!"
Everyone was frightened by Robert's appearance.
What did he want to do?
Was he going to, right here, in front of everyone...
Lynn watched quietly.
He noticed Robert's pupils were abnormally dilated, and the flush on his face carried a sickly quality.
His breathing was heavy, his emotional fluctuations far exceeding normal range.
It seemed the poison was stronger than imagined.
It not only burned away Robert's reason but also ignited the most primitive brutality in his bones.
The cold killing intent seemed to wake Petyr Baelish.
He woke up groggily, opening his eyes blankly.
The first thing that came into view was King Robert's face twisted with extreme rage.
And... that gleaming longsword.
Petyr's pupils constricted violently.
His clever brain crashed completely at this moment.
What was happening?
What happened while he was unconscious?
He wanted to beg for mercy, to argue, to turn the tide with his silver tongue as usual.
"Robert! Don't!"
Ned rushed up again, trying to grab Robert's arm.
"Get lost!"
Robert backhanded him with an elbow, knocking Ned away directly.
He raised the longsword high, aiming at Petyr Baelish's head, which had once been full of schemes and plots.
"This is what you wanted!"
"This is what you all wanted!"
Splurt——!
The sword fell.
But it wasn't a clean beheading.
Robert's movements lost accuracy due to rage and alcohol.
The blade didn't hit the neck but chopped diagonally into Petyr's shoulder.
The blade went all the way down from the collarbone, almost splitting half of Petyr's body open!
"AH——!!!"
A scream, not sounding human, erupted from Petyr's throat.
Blood, like a fountain, sprayed all over Robert.
The warm liquid mixed with the metallic scent made Robert's mad eyes even redder.
Robert didn't stop.
He raised the sword high again and chopped down again!
Chunk!
Chunk!
Chunk!
He was like a mad butcher, one sword after another.
He vented all his anger, all his dissatisfaction, all his brutality.
On the tourney ground, dead silence.
Only the dull sound of the blade chopping into limbs.
Everyone stared blankly at the King bathed in blood.
Noble ladies screamed in terror; many vomited on the spot.
Sansa was so scared she hugged Arya directly.
Even those battle-hardened knights and guards had faces written with terror.
This wasn't a trial.
This was a massacre.
They seemed to see the Mad King Aerys who liked to burn ministers to death with wildfire.
At this moment, their figures strangely overlapped in the blood.
Finally, Robert stopped.
Panting, he stood beside the pile of minced meat that no longer looked human, his chest heaving violently.
He threw away the sword and turned around.
Using those bloodshot, mad eyes, he scanned every subject trembling in fear of him.
He was satisfied.
He enjoyed this feeling of everyone fearing him.
Robert roared.
"Ser Morton Waynwood, right?"
Robert pointed to Petyr's relatively intact head on the ground.
"Take this bastard's head to the Eyrie for me!"
"Tell Lysa Arryn!"
"This is the answer I give her!"