Meanwhile, Ser Morton Waynwood sat slumped on the ground.
The arrogance on his face had long since vanished, replaced by a fear that seeped into his very bones.
The fog that had filled his mind with excitement and made him fearless was lifting. Reality struck him squarely in the forehead like Robert's warhammer.
What had he said?
What had he done?!
What the fuck had he been thinking?!
He had actually threatened the king with the Vale's military strength in front of all the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms?
Morton raised his head and saw the heap of remains, no longer distinguishable as flesh or charcoal.
Those were Petyr Baelish's remains.
Just then, two Gold Cloaks stepped forward and roughly tossed a heavy cloth sack into his arms, blood still dripping from it.
"Ser Waynwood,"
one of the Gold Cloaks said expressionlessly.
"This is His Grace's answer to Lady Lysa Arryn."
"His Grace expressly said that you must deliver this generous gift to Lady Lysa with your own hands!"
The weight of the head inside the sack, its warm, wet, sticky feel, drew a brief, pitiful cry from Ser Morton.
He knew this was not merely Petyr's head.
It was his own death warrant as well.
He would become a sinner in the eyes of the entire Vale.
Ser Morton scrambled to his feet on his hands and knees.
Clutching the severed head, he stumbled out of that hell on earth like a stray dog driven from its home.
As he left, he did not even dare turn back for another look at King's Landing.
With Ser Morton's departure, the last ripples of the farce gradually subsided.
Ned Stark slowly rose from the ground.
His face, always marked by integrity and resolve, was now nothing but a deathly, ashen blank.