Two gold cloaks flanked him.
Expressionless, they hauled Petyr up and dragged him toward the center of the platform like a dead dog.
The game was over.
Every eye tracked the unconscious man, stripped of all dignity and decency.
Once, he'd been the indispensable Master of Coin in King's Landing.
No one dared cross him.
Now he was a condemned man. Meat for the block.
Lynn watched it all with cold detachment.
His gaze moved past the ashen-faced Petyr to land on King Robert.
The king's face still flushed with the thrill of the duel.
He drained a cup of wine in one gulp, his clouded eyes burning with an unsettling fervor.
"Take him down! Throw him in the black cells!"
Robert's hand swept out, his voice booming like a bell.
"Three days from now, I'll take his head myself before all of King's Landing!"
"I'll show every last soul what happens to those who betray me!"
Execute him personally?
Ned Stark's brow furrowed.
This was nothing like the Northern custom of the man who passes the sentence swinging the sword.
He could see the excitement blazing in Robert's eyes.
This was Robert indulging his own appetites.
Cersei's lips curled with barely concealed disgust.
A king obsessed with personally executing prisoners was never a good sign.
He truly was beyond saving.
Her father's poison was working beautifully.
Just as the gold cloaks moved to drag Petyr away, urgent hoofbeats shattered the eerie atmosphere of the tourney grounds.
"Make way! Make way!"
A shrill voice cut through the crowd's murmur.
Every head turned.
A knight in an eagle-winged helm, the blue sky and white falcon of House Arryn blazoned on his chest, burst through the press like a madman.
He vaulted from his horse and stumbled toward the platform.
"That's an Eyrie man!"
Someone in the crowd recognized him.
Every heart clenched.
The messenger had arrived too late.
The knight charged onto the platform. When he saw Petyr Baelish held between two gold cloaks, unconscious, his face went white as milk.
"Stop!"
He pointed at the guards, voice urgent.
"By command of Lady Lysa Tully, Defender of the Vale, Lady of the Eyrie!"
"No one is to harm Lord Petyr!"
His appearance turned the already chaotic scene into a powder keg.
Ned Stark's frown deepened.
Lysa... she'd gotten involved after all.
The knight strode before the throne and dropped to one knee.
But his head stayed high, his eyes proud, showing not a shred of deference.
"Your Grace, I am Ser Morten Waynwood, sworn to Bronze Yohn Royce, Keeper of the Gates of the Moon."
He announced himself with the particular arrogance of a Vale knight.
"I come at Lady Lysa's command to request Lord Petyr Baelish's release."
"He was raised at Riverrun from boyhood, a friend to both Lady Lysa and Lady Catelyn. You cannot treat him this way!"
Lynn watched this Ser Waynwood with cold calculation, a flicker of something dark passing through his eyes.
Under other circumstances, such a plea might have stirred Robert's old loyalties.
But now... it would only pour oil on the fire.
In that case, let me add a little more fuel. What's one more log?
Lynn's consciousness extended like an invisible thread, coiling soundlessly around Ser Morten's mind.
He didn't control it. He simply amplified the Vale knight's inborn arrogance and stubbornness tenfold. A hundredfold.
King Robert was already riding high on the bloody spectacle.
Hearing someone dare use that tone—practically an order—his face darkened instantly.
"Request?"
Robert's laugh was cold. He lifted his cup and drained the ale.
"You call that a request?"
Ser Morten showed no awareness of the shift in the king's tone.
Or perhaps, in his mind, the king should bow to the Vale's will.
After all, the war that toppled the Targaryen dynasty had begun in the Vale.
"Your Grace, perhaps you've forgotten."
Ser Morten rose to his feet, his voice climbing, dripping with unshakable superiority.
"It was Lord Jon Arryn who raised you and Lord Eddard. Rather than surrender you both to the Mad King, Lord Arryn was the first to raise his banners in rebellion!"
"The knights of the Vale are House Baratheon's staunchest allies!"
"And Lord Petyr enjoys Lady Lysa's complete trust and favor!"
"If you insist on harming him, you'll lose the Vale's support. You'll make an enemy of the entire Vale!"
"An enemy of the Vale?"
Robert looked like he'd heard the funniest joke in the world.
His massive frame shook with laughter.
He rose slowly, descending the steps one by one.
That enormous shadow carried suffocating weight.
"That bitch Lysa murdered my foster father, and I haven't even settled accounts with her yet. Now she dares send someone here?"
"She's got some nerve!"
Robert's tone was vicious, giving the Eyrie's messenger no face at all.
Calling Lysa a bitch right to his face.
Ser Morten Waynwood lifted his head, his young, arrogant face showing no fear.
"Lord Baelish is an honored guest of the Eyrie. No one may sully his name!"
Robert's fury blazed hotter.
"Honor? Petyr's made of schemes and plots. What honor does he have?"
"And orders?"
"She dares order me?!"
"Who the fuck does she think she is? King of the Seven Kingdoms?!"
"I'm not dead yet!"
Robert's roar made the entire platform ring.
But Ser Morten Waynwood remained unmoved.
He even straightened his back, meeting Robert with a look bordering on challenge.
"Lady Lysa also bids me remind Your Grace."
"The Vale has never forgotten its duty."
"Under the Eyrie's command stand two hundred anointed knights, over two thousand men-at-arms, eight thousand foot soldiers, and fifteen thousand levies ready to answer the call!"
"Thirty-five thousand battle-tested warriors stand ready, awaiting House Arryn's summons!"
Ser Morten rattled off the numbers with crystal clarity.
Hearts seized throughout the crowd.
What was Lysa trying to do?
This was naked military threat!
The entire tourney ground plunged into deathly silence.
Thirty-five thousand men!
Had Lysa Arryn gone mad?
She dared threaten the Iron Throne with the Vale's full strength?!
Had the Vale lost its mind?
Daring to speak to Robert this way?
Ned's face went grim.
Cersei's eyes gleamed with schadenfreude.
And Robert—his face, already purple-red from drink and rage, began twitching uncontrollably.
In those clouded eyes, two flames of madness ignited.
"Ha... HAHAHAHA!"
Robert threw back his head and laughed, the sound crazed and terrifying.
"Thirty-five thousand?"
"Good! Very good!"
Still laughing, Robert closed the distance to Ser Morten Waynwood.
Then he grabbed the knight by the collar and hauled him bodily off the ground.
"You go back and tell that mad bitch!"
Robert's face pressed close to Morten's, wine-breath and spittle spraying his face.
"Tell her that 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 hurled Ser Morten to the ground, then wheeled around and strode toward the unconscious Petyr Baelish.
"Your Grace! What are you doing!"
"Don't be rash!"
"We can discuss this!"
Ned Stark rushed forward in alarm.
Robert shoved him aside.
Then he walked to one of the Kingsguard and ripped the longsword from his belt.
SHING!
Steel rang free, cold light flashing.
Robert gripped the sword, his mad eyes fixed on the broken thing on the ground.
"Lysa Arryn wants him?"
"Fine! I'll give Petyr back to her!"
Everyone froze at Robert's expression.
What was he doing?
Was he going to—here, in front of everyone—
Lynn watched in silence.
He noticed Robert's pupils dilating abnormally. The flush on his face had a sickly quality.
His breathing was labored, his emotional swings far beyond normal range.
The poison was stronger than expected.
It wasn't just burning away Robert's reason—it was igniting the most primal violence in his bones.
The cold killing intent roused Petyr Baelish.
He came to slowly, eyes opening in confusion.
The first thing he saw was Robert's face, twisted with absolute fury.
And... that gleaming blade.
Petyr's pupils contracted.
His clever mind crashed completely.
What was happening?
What had occurred while he was unconscious?
He tried to beg, to explain, to use his silver tongue to turn the tide as he always had.
"Robert! No!"
Ned lunged forward again, trying to grab Robert's arm.
"Get off!"
Robert's elbow caught Ned in the chest, sending him stumbling back.
He raised the sword high, aiming at Petyr Baelish's head—that head once filled with schemes and plots.
"This is what you wanted!"
"This is what all of you wanted!"
THUNK!
The sword fell.
But it wasn't a clean beheading.
Robert's swing, compromised by rage and alcohol, missed its mark.
The blade didn't hit the neck. It carved diagonally into Petyr's shoulder.
The edge drove down from the collarbone, nearly splitting half his body open.
"AAAAAHHH!"
An inhuman shriek tore from Petyr's throat.
Blood fountained out, drenching Robert head to toe.
The hot liquid, reeking of copper, made Robert's mad eyes even more bloodshot.
Robert didn't stop.
He raised the sword again. Brought it down again.
THUD!
THUD!
THUD!
Like a crazed butcher, one stroke, then another.
He vented all his rage, all his frustration, all his brutality.
The tourney grounds fell silent.
Only the wet sound of steel cleaving flesh.
Everyone stared at the king bathing in blood.
Noblewomen screamed in horror. Many vomited on the spot.
Sansa clutched Arya in terror.
Even battle-hardened knights and guards wore masks of shock.
This wasn't justice.
This was butchery.
They saw the Mad King Aerys, who loved burning his lords with wildfire.
In that moment, the two figures merged grotesquely in blood.
Finally, Robert stopped.
He stood panting beside what could no longer be called a body, chest heaving violently.
He dropped the sword and turned.
With those blood-threaded, crazed eyes, he swept over every trembling subject.
He was satisfied.
He savored their fear.
Robert roared.
"Ser Morten Waynwood, was it?"
Robert pointed at Petyr's relatively intact head on the ground.
"Take this bastard's head back to the Eyrie!"
"Tell Lysa Arryn!"
"This—this is my answer!"