Blood, charred flesh, and fear.
Robert Baratheon stood at the center of that bloody scene.
His sumptuous golden robes had long since been soaked through with blood, turning dark red and sticky.
Bits of Petyr Baelish's flesh and blood clung to his face, his beard, even his eyelashes.
But he did not care in the slightest.
He even stuck out his tongue and licked a trace of blood from his lips.
A terrifying exhilaration burned in his eyes, clouded by alcohol and slaughter.
He loved this feeling.
The power to grant life or death. The feeling of everyone looking at him with fear.
This was what it meant to be king!
He surveyed the dais, looking at the nobles, pale-faced and silent with fear.
His gaze swept over Cersei's face, etched with disgust, and Jaime's conflicted eyes.
Finally, his gaze settled on Ned Stark.
His dearest brother, Ned.
The man who always tried to bind him with righteousness and honor.
Had he actually dared to try to stop him from killing Petyr just now?
And hadn't he also tried to stop him from hunting down those two remnants of House Targaryen before?
At that moment, Ned was supporting his two daughters, his expression grim.
Under the combined influence of alcohol, poison, and blood, the last thread of restraint in Robert's mind snapped.
The Eyrie... Lysa Arryn...
Lysa was Catelyn's sister.
Catelyn was Ned's wife.
A terrible thought crawled out from the depths of his muddled mind and swiftly coiled around his heart.
"Ned."
Robert spoke.
Ned raised his head and looked at Robert in bewilderment.
"Your wife's sister. That mad bitch in the Eyrie."
Robert descended the dais one step at a time.
His blood-soaked boots left bloody footprints on the stone steps.
"She dared to threaten me."
"Threaten me