Mondon didn't hesitate after bursting through the door—he charged straight in.
. . .
The bandit gang, taken by surprise, suffered heavy losses. Over half of them didn't even have time to react before being slaughtered.
The remainder had just retreated into this stone house.
They had barely managed to shut the door, trying to catch their breath and discuss their next move, when Mondon's violent entrance startled them all.
Was this even human?
The bandit closest to him froze in hesitation for a moment—just long enough for Mondon to crush his skull.
"To arms!!" shouted the bandit leader.
One of them, gritting his teeth, steeled himself and lunged at Mondon with his sword clutched tightly.
But beneath the visor, Mondon's dim-witted face briefly twisted in disdain.
He stepped forward nimbly despite his massive frame, and with a heavy thud, brought his round shield down like a hammer, flattening the bandit—sword and all—in a single, brutal motion.
Within the confined space of the house, Mondon made full use of his physical advantage, dispatching several bandits in moments.
By then, more Crabb warriors had stormed in behind him and joined the fight.
As soon as Anguy entered, his eyes locked on the bandit leader—barking out commands while cowering at the rear.
The corner of Anguy's mouth curled slightly as he drew an arrow from his quiver.
But just as he was about to raise his bow, Mondon's blood-soaked warhammer spun through the air—
Crack!The flying hammer struck the bandit leader square in the face, the sound of shattering bone echoing through the room.
. . .
Anguy picked another target. Thwip! His arrow flew true, and another bandit fell.
He glanced toward Mondon and muttered with a trace of annoyance, "Nice aim."
Though the helmet obscured Mondon's expression, Anguy could tell from the way his chubby cheeks jiggled that he was laughing.
That dumb, grinning oaf.
The fight was almost over now.
Abandoning his usual calm demeanor, Anguy quickly nocked another arrow and fired.
One of the Crabb men, wielding an axe, was about to claim the last bandit's head when he heard the hiss of an arrow slicing the air.
Thunk!The bandit clutched his bleeding neck and collapsed, gurgling.
The axeman grunted and turned to glare at Anguy with a dangerous glint in his eyes.
Anguy quickly made a drinking gesture. The axeman gave a reluctant nod and turned away.
Mondon, pulling down his visor, chuckled, "Anguy, don't forget my roast meat."
Anguy ignored the cunning brute. "…"
The towering axeman approached. His voice was gruff: "Mondon, next time you bust down a door, take me with you."
Mondon looked up and gave a cheerful nod.
. . .
Over two days and four separate clashes, Gawen's forces had wiped out four bandit groups.
A worthy haul. The old Gawen would've quietly celebrated for days.
He was still pleased—but after spending so much time around the lavish Lannisters, victories like these no longer thrilled him like they used to.
His appetite had grown.
After a day's rest, the Crabb company, all mounted on fine steeds, returned to Rose Avenue with their banners high and continued southward.
. . .
Red Keep, Tower of the Hand.
Duke Jon Arryn had just returned to bed when a fierce cough overtook him.
It took him a while to catch his breath. Then, rasping, he said, "Petyr… I fear this time… I'll be bedridden for quite some time."
Petyr offered comfort. "You'll recover soon, my lord. You must have faith in Grand Maester Pycelle."
Jon murmured, "Yes… Pycelle's skills are considerable."
After a pause, he asked, "And Stannis?"
Petyr's face betrayed a trace of helplessness. "After bidding you farewell, Lord Stannis left King's Landing. I imagine by now…"
He lifted his hands slightly and continued, "He's already aboard a ship bound for Dragonstone."
Jon sighed weakly. "That stubborn stag."
Petyr offered more soothing words. "Everyone knows Lord Stannis's temperament. Don't take his harsh words to heart. You've borne burdens others can't comprehend. They're not the Hand of the King—they don't understand you. Some may even resent you. That's natural."
Petyr was a master of observation. Though Pycelle had acted normally, he hadn't missed the flicker of concern on the old man's face.
He had clearly underestimated Stannis's ability to wound with words—Jon's health seemed genuinely in jeopardy now.
Petyr's consolations weren't just for show. Jon Arryn couldn't die—at least not yet. It wasn't in his interest.
. . .
Petyr's voice was gentle. "I suppose you've long grown used to this."
Something in his tone seemed to lift Jon's spirits. "Petyr, starting tomorrow, come directly to the Tower of the Hand."
Petyr bowed slightly and smiled. "It would be my honor to serve you, my lord."
"Go rest now."
Jon raised his hand with effort and waved it feebly, eyes drifting closed.
. . .
At that moment, Petyr had just descended the staircase from Jon Arryn's chambers.
The halls were dim, deserted.
Suddenly, a soft and pudgy hand seized his arm.
Petyr's grey-green eyes flickered—but he immediately recognized the owner of that hand.
He allowed himself to be pulled into the shadow, placing both hands around the figure's waist, whispering, "My Lysa…"
The shadow was none other than Lysa Tully.
A noblewoman of House Tully in the Riverlands, Lysa was the wife of Jon Arryn, Duke of the Vale and the King's Hand.
Though she lowered her voice, joy still rang in her tone. "You always think of me first, my Petyr!"
As his eyes adjusted to the dark, her features became clearer.
She bore the blue eyes of House Tully.
Her thick auburn hair framed a face that had grown plump and loose after bearing Jon Arryn's only son, young Robert Arryn.
At thirty-one, Lysa's body had grown soft and heavy. Even with powder on her cheeks, she looked ten years older.
And yet, in Petyr's eyes, she was the treasure of a lifetime.
Lysa adored that smoldering look in his eyes—it never failed to melt her.
Drunk on affection, she forgot entirely where they were. Her soft white hand slipped into his robes.
Petyr lowered his gaze, the corner of his lips curling as he glanced down at her.
Though he kept his voice low, there was unmistakable heat in his words:
"Lysa, try to keep the noise down…"
.
.
.
🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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