Interlude: The Smaller Council

Cersei Lannister, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, was impatiently tapping her fingers on the polished table as Grand Maester Pycelle rambled on and on. The old man spoke of Essos, of spice traders, sellswords and things she cared little about.

Of late, there had been much talk of Essos and mercenaries. Only a short time ago, she had been bored with talk of the Golden Company crushing some Dothraki warlord she couldn't remember the name of. Droko, Mogo? All Dothraki names sounded the same to her. Despite all the misgivings the Grand Maester urged, Cersei couldn't bring herself to care. She was queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Why should she concern himself with some sellswords on the other side of the Narrow Sea? The Free Cities were always fighting each other in an endless series of betrayals and alliances that meant little and less to Westeros.

Pycelle finished his dull lecture with a bowed head, blinking with heavy-lidded eyes and struggling not to yawn. He carried the weight of two dozen heavy woven chains around his neck and it was a ponderous thing that covered him from throat to breast. The links were forged of every metal known to man: black iron and red gold, bright copper and dull lead, steel and pale silver, brass and bronze and platinum. Jewels crusted the metals as well: garnets and amethysts and black pearls, all adorning the metal work, as were the occasional emerald and ruby. From what Cersei could remember, he had never been anything but old. He was getting older and more absent-minded, but Cersei Lannister could not doubt he looked magnificent. Ever courteous, richly clad and with an immense white beard, Pycelle looked dignified and carried with him an air of wisdom.

Only a few seats across, sitting atop the king's seat was her husband, staring angrily with fierce blue eyes. "We shouldn't have trusted those spineless merchants to put an end to them," Robert Baratheon growled before emptying his cup in one mouthful. Rich Arbor red ran down his face, into his coarse black beard and staining his silken doublet with wine instead of just sweat. "Jon Arryn, may the Seven watch over him, persuaded me the Free Cities would have dealt with them. That they would have united, forced the Golden Company out of the Disputed Lands and brought an end to their latest scheme. That or the ambitions of Toyne would founder and die." He cursed and loudly. "Not only had they not collapsed and now control a sizeable portion of the Stepstones, that pox-ridden Pentoshi cheesemonger now has both dragonspawn in his manse and the audacity to marry the girl to his own son."

What are you going to do about that, dear husband? King Robert Baratheon had been strong and fierce in his youth, a giant towering above other men, with women whispering he was sculpted like a god between sighs. The Warrior Reborn, they called him. When Cersei first saw him, her handmaidens told her how happy she must have been, how lucky she was to have Robert Baratheon as her husband. How handsome and strong and ferocious like a stag King Robert was. How she would have so many children by him, all strong and lusty with black hair and blue eyes. The queen could almost laugh. Look at you now. Think you can take on Essos and the Golden Company?

What she saw wasn't King Robert the Demon of the Trident. What she saw was an overweight man; massive, but now in girth as well as height. Horrid black hair carpeted thick on his chest and coarse around his sex. Where once he had been clean-shaven, he now sported a thick wiry beard that failed to hide his double chin. His eyes were puffy from wine and surrounded with dark circles. Red-faced and covered with beads of sweat, even climbing the stairs was a strain for the great warrior king. The idea of him leading an army in this state was something the queen found droll and almost laughed at the absurdity of it. It was tempting though, and Cersei made a point to remember. No doubt if she were to act the good loving wife and plead for her husband not to go, it would make Robert more adamant with doing so. He's bound to die, no doubt heroically, and will leave the throne open for Joffrey to inherit and myself as regent.

"Why does this matter concern us?" Lord Renly asked, looking very much like Robert Baratheon in his youth. Lean where his older brother was fat, near as tall as the king and had a clean-shaven face. He was soft and fickle and so corruptible, spending all his time in the small council japing with Littlefinger rather than anything productive. She hated that about him. Hated him for his mockery behind perfectly rehearsed smiles and taking up a seat that could instead go to a Lannister. "Who cares if the girl is being married to some cheeseseller's pockmarked son. They are no threat to us."

"Indeed," Littlefinger said, reclining casually in his seat with a lopsided smirk. "Perchance we offer them a fine wedding gift?"

"Aye," Robert grimaced. "A sharp knife and a good man to wield it. Both those vermin need to die."

Cersei looked up lazily from her wine.

"Beg your pardon, Your Grace?" Ser Barristan asked, bowing his head slightly like a loyal little lapdog. "Did I hear you correctly?" Even in the small council, the Lord Commander of the kingsguard wore a suit of white enamelled scales and the white cloak of his order. He was tall and pale, with blue eyes and a body strong despite his age. Cersei imagined how much better it would be for Jaime to sit in his seat, with his long curly hair of beaten gold instead of dull white, a smooth face so like her own instead of an old man's winkles.

"You think that is wise, Your Grace?" the raspy voice of Pycelle asked with all the strength of an old man on his deathbed.

"Wise? Of course it is wise! Both those dragonspawn are now under the care of a Pentoshi magister looking across the Narrow Sea at us. They are no doubt mocking us with how close they are, and we can do nothing about it. Not with them being protected behind his walls and surrounded by an army of Unsullied slave soldiers."

"A cockless army," Littlefinger quipped.

The king's mouth twisted. "The gods be cursed."

"Mayhaps we send a warning and put all Pentos to the torch to remind Essos of the stag's wroth," Renly suggested with a smirk and the shrug of his shoulders. "What can some trader do against our might?"

"Are you a fool, brother?" Stannis asked, glaring at the Master of Laws. Lord Stannis Baratheon sat as tall as his king with a spine made of iron and lead, thin where Robert was fat but with the same broad shoulders the king had in his youth. Where His Grace had a horrid beard of wiry black hair, Stannis Baratheon only had a close-cropped beard across his large jaw, a heavy brow and a fringe of black hair so short he might as well be bald. His entire face had a tightness like cured leather which grew even tighter whenever he ground his teeth. He was grinding his teeth now. "It is known to even the most ignorant of fishwives that Magister Illyrio Mopatis has allies within and outside the Triarchy. Many of whom visited his manse to inspect the Targaryen pretenders for themselves."

Robert spat angrily. "I should never have trusted the Titan and Elephant to put an end to them. They know nought of the ways of war. The Golden Company are exiles, many from bloodlines dating back from before Aegon the Conqueror invaded and remained in Essos since the days of Daemon the Pretender. Should they align themselves with the Beggar King, he'll get twenty thousand men and the might of the Kingdom of the Three Daughters."

"Your Grace, the Triarchy are not a kingdom in the true sense of the word," Pycelle said with agonising slowness. "The Golden Company declares itself the protector of the Disputed Land and the eastern islands of the Stepstones, to guard the cities and the land it governs. They are, in other words, wardens."

"Gentle words to say ransoming them for tribute," Littlefinger translated. "Every few months the officers of the Golden Company receive coin from the three of them. They even went as far as to replace native officials with others who are much more pliable. We lost more than a few allies and it was enough to worry the Titan of Braavos which is why they hired Khal Drogo. A foolish decision, it must be said. The Dothraki care little for the ways of gold, or strategy if what I heard was true. The Golden Company is even richer now and their hold more secure."

Robert growled. "Stannis, should it come to pass, is the royal fleet enough to contest such an invasion?"

"The royal fleet can't compete with the fleets of Myr, Tyrosh and Lys on its own. The royal fleet numbers fifty-and-a-hundred warships which will increase should we confiscate merchant vessels. That won't be enough, however. Only with the Arbor can we hope to stand against them in the Narrow Sea."

"The-the Redwyne fleet is the largest in Westeros," Pycelle needlessly told everyone. "Lord Paxter Redwyne owns two hundred warships and serving him is five times as many merchant carracks and wine cogs, trading galleys and whalers."

"Whereas the Triarchy has four hundred warships and can levy as many vessels as the Redwynes," Stannis told the council with a scowl aimed at no one in particular. "Should war be declared, they hold the advantage and have the coin to hire pirates operating in the Stepstones. Many of those pirates hold close ties with those in the Free Cities and, like many times before, will join their kin and further increase their naval capabilities."

"That's if they don't just raid the coast," Littlefinger added. "Pirates are attracted to weakness like krakens to blood. Should the lords ride to war, they'll take their garrisons with them and thus the coast will be easy prey to slavers operating across the Narrow Sea, and raiders looking for easy pillaging."

"My lands," Renly grimaced. "The Stormlands are the closest to the Stepstones and are regularly raided by those scum. I won't have pirates striking my holdings."

Robert gulped down his wine and ordered the serving girl to fetch him another. "Stannis, you are to expand the royal fleet should such a thing happen. Enough ships to deal with whatever invasion the Triarchy can send against us. Lord Baelish will see you have the necessary coin."

"Your Grace," Littlefinger was quick to interject, "I'm afraid to report that the royal treasury lacks the necessary coin for such expansion."

"You will find the coin, or I will find a Master of Coin that will."

Petyr Baelish bowed his head. "I will need to borrow the necessary gold to build whatever number of dromonds Lord Stannis requires, and hire the crews to man them. No doubt the Iron Bank will be accommodating. It will be done, Your Grace, rest assured."

King Robert grunted in response. "I will kill every dragon I will get my hands on. I won't stop until the Targaryens are dead as those dragons of theirs and then I'll piss on their graves. If we owe some moneylenders a couple more coppers, so be it."

Cersei Lannister had long learnt not to speak up whenever Robert spoke of the Targaryens. His hatred controlled his actions and she couldn't forgive him. Not now. Not ever. He was the one to slay Prince Rhaegar on the Trident with that crude hammer of his. The wrong man came back from war that day. It was Rhaegar who should have won. It was Rhaegar who Cersei should have married. She could still remember his long silver-gold hair fluttering before her and dark-indigo eyes that had melted her heart. Rhaegar stood tall and proud, with a face so impossibly beautiful he might as well be carved from marble by the Smith himself. Even Jaime, her beautiful brother, looked no more than a pig boy beside him. When she saw Rhaegar in Lannisport, the Prince of Dragonstone was seventeen and recently knighted, armoured in black plate over golden mail with streams of red and black that looked like fire. Cersei could still remember him playing his silver harp, plucking the strings with long elegant fingers and making the pavilion weep. Her lord father had promised her his hand. Rhaegar was to be her husband and she was to be his queen, birthing him silver lions who would be the most beautiful creatures in the world. On numerous nights Cersei laid awake, imagining Rhaegar as hers and only hers. After hearing the news of her father's plan, Cersei had drawn him with her mounted atop a dragon but when Jaime saw it, she lied and said it was Queen Alysanne and King Jaehaerys. But that dream ended on the Trident. Cersei Lannister could never forget what Robert had done. She was to have a husband worthy of her but instead got a savage, uncaring brute who forced himself upon her when deep in his cups.

"Your Grace," Barristan spoke up again, "The Targaryens, the girl, is only a child, and innocent besides."

"And how long will that creature remain an innocent, Ser Barristan?" The king's mouth grew hard. "Lowborn husband or no, that child will soon spread her legs and start breeding more dragonspawn to plague me and my descendants with."

Yes, continuing believing that you horned king. Cersei never wanted to have his children and made sure of that. The one time she did get pregnant with one of his spawn, Cersei made sure Robert wouldn't have an heir of his own body, so she sent Jaime to find a woman to cleanse her. The woman didn't last long, of course. Cersei couldn't have anyone knowing should the king find out or, worse, someone like Varys use it for leverage. I should kill the Spider once he's done being useful. Just like Littlefinger, he was too useful to kill and hard to replace, unlike everyone else in the small council.

"But the murder of children is vile and unspeakable—"

"What the Targaryens did was unspeakable. The Targaryens are monsters like those beasts of theirs. They are an axe hanging over my own neck and those of my children. Every day we delay, the axe edges closer."

"Just so," Varys said with sadness dripping from his slimy voice. "For the good of the realm we'll need to deal with those pesky dragons. But first, shall we discuss the matter regarding the title of Warden of the East from our late Lord Jon Arryn?"

Littlefinger nodded in agreement, with a lazy smile plastered across his face. Cersei wanted to throw her glass at him, but had no desire to waste good wine. "We can't have a sickly child defending the realm, even one as . . . notable as Lord Robert Arryn."

The death of Lord Arryn had left a position empty in the small council and caused instability that Cersei cared not for. Not only had the newly made Lord of the Vale flee from King's Landing in the arms of his cow of a mother - the boy being promised to be a ward of her lord father - the east coast of Westeros didn't have a war leader to command should they face an invasion. The title traditionally belonged to the Lord Paramount's of House Arryn, but the boy was a frail sickly thing that was still to be weaned despite being six years of age. Suffering from shakes and prone to weep at nothing, the Vale was in weak hands. He was nothing like his father, but Cersei did see opportunities.

"Should an invasion from the Golden Company headed by the Targaryens land, Lord Arryn shouldn't be leading our armies. We need a true warrior to lead, a true knight in the honour of command," Ser Barristan put forth. "There are many skilled lords and knights worthy of the duty and honour."

"Your Grace," Pycelle was quick to argue, "The title of Warden of the East has historically always belonged to House Arryn, passed on to every Lord of the Vale beginning with Lord Ronnel Arryn since it was bestowed upon him by Aegon the Conqueror. The lords and ladies of the Vale will be unhappy should you bestow the title to anyone else."

"Can you imagine that little falcon defending the realm?" Littlefinger quipped. "While we've witnessed little lords go to war, he would be among the first, and oldest, to have a milk moustache. Makes me wonder if his lady mother will ride beside him."

"Should the little lord be hungry?" Renly laughed. "Imagine him before the men, rousing them with a speech in armour, then leaning over to suckle his mother's teats. The Golden Company might just die of laughter!"

Cersei allowed herself a light chuckle at the droll imagery, but the two of them laughed enough for all the council. When they were silenced by Stannis' expression, Cersei put her own suggestion forth: "Jaime. He should be Warden of the East. He's among the best swordsman in the realm and a talented commander. Should the Golden Company invade, they need to face a fearless warrior to throw them back into the sea, not a suckling boy."

Pycelle bobbed his head. "Ser Jaime is renown throughout the realm. None can doubt his skill with the sword and courage, and Lord Tywin does command forty thousand swords. Should his Grace decide someone else, there are few who are better suited for such an honour."

"The Kingsguard are forbidden to hold titles," Lord Stannis Baratheon grumbled through clenched teeth. "There are plenty of lords who are dutiful and experienced battle commanders. Any one of them would be better placed than Ser Jaime Lannister and Lord Robert Arryn."

"And do you suggest only you are worthy of the task, brother?" Renly smiled.

Stannis ground his teeth. "Temporarily until Lord Arryn comes of age. We can't afford a sickly child leading the armies of Westeros."

"Then perchance I'll put myself forward," Renly declared. "I'm lord of the Stormlands that's perhaps one the first places to be attacked by the Golden Company as they leap from the Stepstones like frogs over lily pads. If not that, the first against those Dornish who, by no doubt, will be one of the Targaryens allies. I'm the closest so I should have the honour. Not to mention, I am Lord of Storm's End."

"You? You have never led the men into battle. The closest thing to fighting you've ever done is fall from your horse when prancing around before the commons. You have no experience in war other than being a boy at Storm's End, and I don't remember you doing anything more than any other. Besides, Storm's End and the Stormlands is mine by rights. I'm the oldest and the lands should have gone to me."

Renly's face went red but Robert, mayhaps because he didn't desire to join in the war between his brothers, declared, "Seven watch over me. The position will go to Ser Jaime Lannister. He's a knight and talented warrior. No doubt the Lords of the Vale will curse me, but so be it. A six-year-old boy is no war leader, especially against the likes of the Golden Company and the Triarchy." He grimaced. "My grandfather died on the Stepstones and my father took command of his host. Lord Robert Arryn will not share the same fate. I will not send Jon's son off to die."

"A wise cause of action, Your Grace," Littlefinger piped up, his words repeated eagerly by Grand Maester Pycelle, with a much warmer comment by Varys the Spider who praised the king for sparing the boy's life from such a cruel fate.

Stannis, of course, grimaced and Cersei could hear the grinding of his teeth on the other side of the table. He clenched his jaw so hard Cersei was half certain his teeth would shatter. "Your Grace, Ser Jaime Lannister is—"

"What, my lord?" Cersei smiled at him, tilting her head ever-so-slightly. "He's a better sword than yourself and the men love him. He has proven himself in countless jousts and more battles than I dare count. What have you achieved other than hiding behind the walls of Storm's End?"

Stannis' face tightened and the veins in his neck seemed to pop, but before he could say anything, Robert declared, "I'll hear no more of it. Ser Jaime is my Warden of the East. Mayhaps Lord Robert will regain the title in time should he prove himself, but until then, we need a tested knight to command the armies in the east. I'll hear no more. Now of the Targaryens."

"My king," Varys said in a slithery tongue and cocked his powder covered head to the side. "To properly secure the safety of the realm, might it be wise to remove Viserys Targaryen? He is a much greater threat than his younger sister. From what my little birds tell me, she is a delicate little thing. I hear from Ser Jorah that she is sickly and small for her age and is not like to survive childbirth. He would not deceive me."

"If a Targaryen draws breath, it is a threat," Stannis declared. "Give them time and they'll breed as the Blackfyres had done. A knife is safer. I trust not the gods to see it through."

"Aye," Renly laughed, much to his older brothers' annoyance. "Perchance we hand them over to Lord Baelish and we'll be all the richer."

"You honour me, my lord," Littlefinger smirked, "Though I'm afraid my skills with gold dragon are less than what those ones across the Narrow Sea are capable of."

"Is this a mummer's show or a small council meeting?" Stannis questioned him with a scowl that could have shrivelled the cunts of a hundred maidens. "Should you wish to make japes, mayhaps we should dress you up in motley then you can prance around as you desire."

"Pray forgive me, Lord Stannis," Littlefinger said, not sounding at all that shaken. "I'm afraid to say that rich colours do not suit my complexion, you see. And we already have Moon Boy. I would rather not see him on the streets."

"Silence!" the king bellowed, his voice echoing through the small council chambers. "I want him dead. I want them both dead, but Viserys most of all. Give the man who uses the knife gold if you must. I should have killed them long ago when it was easy to get to them, but Jon Arryn persuaded me it would be wrong to kill them. They are only children, he said, and I was a fool to take his counsel. Even after the Golden Company conquered the Disputed Lands and the Stepstones, I listened to him." King Robert signed and looked all the weaker. "He was a good man, Lord Arryn, but was too honourable to a fault. Gods be good, if we need to launch an invasion of the Stepstones once more to crush this invasion in the crib, I'll do so and gladly. The Golden Company have yet to take the rest of the Stepstones, but should they do so, they'll threaten the Seven Kingdoms."

"We should approach the cities of Volantis and Braavos," Lord Stannis suggested. "They have little love for the Triarchy and sought to resist the Golden Company but failed. No doubt they haven't given up yet. Should there be war, we could ask for their fleets to support our armies. They might even be willing to war against them alongside us."

"Both Targaryens must be killed," Renly said. "Though I'd rather send one man over a few thousand."

Varys nodded sadly. "We have no choice. It is a sad thing, but we needs do as we must. I feel for the sweet child."

Ser Barristan shook his head, raising pale-blue eyes from the table and said, "There is no honour in using poison or an assassin's knives. There is honour facing an enemy on the battlefield. I say that should the Golden Company and Targaryens join forces, we wait for them to attack. We fight them just as we did in the War of the Ninepenny Kings."

"You are an honourable man, Ser Barristan, but a fool," Robert said, shaking his head. "I will not see them land. I will not see Westeros burn."

"My lords of the council," Cersei put her voice forward. "We all here know how dangerous a threat both the Targaryens pose. One is a child, not much older than my own Joff, and I'm sure that removing a child is something none of us wish to happen. I bare neither any ill will, but we are servants of the realm. Should any land on these blessed shores with an army, no matter how big, the realm will burn. Is it no doubt better to end it now than risk unnecessary brutality?"

Grand Maester Pycelle bobbed his head, his heavy chains clinking. "A wise and most considerate thought, Your Grace. As I counselled King Aerys as loyally as I counsel King Robert, none of us desire bad things to happen, yet we serve the realm and would it no doubt be kinder for the realm as a whole for this to happen? How many towns will burn? How many men will die, and maidens be despoiled by sellswords?" He stroked his beard, a sad look on his wise old face. "Is it kinder that two may die so thousands might live?"

"Her Grace and the Grand Maester are right," Varys the Spider tittered. "Well and truly spoken. It is so true. We do serve the realm and should the Targaryens land, the realm will indeed bleed."

"And to face this new threat from beyond the Narrow Sea, the king will need a new and firm Hand," Cersei Lannister reminded her husband in a voice of the loyal queen she had perfected from her years in King's Landing. "Mayhaps my lord father would be willing to shoulder your burdens, Your Grace, and accept the position. Someone strong to deal with the Targaryens." She had long encouraged her father over that old fool from the Vale. Lord Tywin was experienced from his time as Aerys' own hand. He would do better in court than Casterly Rock and would further Lannister influence. Unfortunately, King Robert was more fixed on the Targaryens than filling the small council.

"Lord Jon Arryn was a good and wise man," Pycelle said in his weak voice, his chains looking to weigh even more heavy around his neck. "One that will be deeply missed."

"He was the best of men," Robert said, deflating at the words. "But should the worst happen and Viserys Targaryen get his hand on the Golden Company and the Kingdom of the Three Daughters, they should muster thirty-thousand men to fight in their foreign horde. What would have Jon said to that?"

"That as long as they are on the other side of the Narrow Sea, they would be no threat to the realm," Stannis said with a voice as hard as granite. "He is wrong. They are a threat to the realm at large. Just their presence makes any Targaryen loyalist all the more willing to rise up. Should there be instability or a crisis in the realm, the Targaryens would be wise to launch their invasion just as the Blackfyres had done before."

"And their supporters would rise up against their liege lords," Robert grimaced. "There are many who still call me usurper, even after all these years. Near half the Seven Kingdoms fought for House Targaryen in the war. They bide their time now and give them half a chance, they will murder me in my bed and my sons beside me. Should the Beggar King cross with the Golden Company and Essosi support at his back, traitors will flock to him."

When Robert said 'sons,' Cersei couldn't help but notice the look Stannis gave her. It was only a flicker of a scowl, but she saw it. Does he suspect? Stannis was a prickly sort and bound to his precious honour, but he was no fool. Is he wise enough to know? If so, she would need to find a way to remove him soon as she could. Stannis was the biggest threat to Joffrey's future reign. Both Baratheon brothers were. In no doubt did Cersei believe when Robert was laid to rest on his deathbed, both Baratheons would rise up to dispose her children. Neither loved House Lannister. They were only interested in empowering themselves with lands and titles and positions.

"Should we send assassins, the Targaryens will be well protected by guards," Varys said gently. "Though I do fear should such a plot be discovered, it would cause relations to break down between ourselves and Pentos."

Robert spat. "I care not for the Free Cities. For hosting the Targaryens they have proven themselves as no allies of ours. I want them both dead. Viserys and that whore of a sister of his. Kill her before she breeds some more hatchlings for us to kill."

"Killing them now would be cheaper," Baelish smirked.

"This matter is very simple," Renly said with a casual shrug. "We ought to have killed both a long time ago when they weren't protected by cheese sellers. It might damage our relationship with Pentos, but it matters little. I prefer my cheeses from the Reach. They are softer on the tongue and smell less rank."

"What about offering a lordship? No doubt there is a plot of land that can be given to anyone courageous enough to be a dragonslayer," Littlefinger suggested with a slight smile, "regardless of birth?"

"Pate the pig boy can become a lord if he is brave enough," Robert declared.

"What about Ser Jorah Mormont?" Varys asked. "He is in my employ and begging for a royal pardon to return home."

"He is a slaver," Pycelle gasped, watery eyes widening to the size of eggs. "Lord Stark exiled him for a reason."

"And he can return to Westeros after aiding the realm," Littlefinger retorted. "He can prove himself a loyal servant of the crown by ridding the realm of a pair of dragons and no doubt a thankful king would allow him to return to his ancestral seat."

While that was going on, King Robert was staring at the large hands resting on the table before him. Cersei wondered if he was imagining strangling both Targaryens himself and just before Stannis put his voice forward, Robert declared, "He can receive his pardon if he brings me the pretender Viserys' head. And the sister. He will be remade Lord of Bear Isle. I want that written and sent as soon as possible."

"But surely Lord Stark—" Pycelle began when Robert rose a hand to cut him off.

"Lord Stark will be in no place to refuse. He is coming here, to King's Landing."

Cersei was confused. "Here? Your Grace, what is it you're saying?"

"I need a Hand, as you say, and I need someone loyal. Someone I can trust with my very life. A Hand who once walked with me against the fires of the Targaryens and an able brother in arms. I desire to head to Winterfell and meet my old friend. I want him as my Hand."

Cersei almost growled that he was a fool and heard Stannis grind his teeth across the table. That cretin thinks he deserves that title. Lord Stannis was an envious and proud man. No doubt such a decision had damaged what little warmth was between them. "But Lord Eddard Stark?" Cersei asked, trying to keep her rage under control. "Do you think that is wise, Your Grace? He's not of the Seven, he's of the North. My father, Lord Tywin, he would—"

"Quiet, woman," the king growled and gulping down his fifth cup so far. "You have no right to question the king."

"My lord father would be a better replacement for Lord Arryn. He's served as Hand and is held in most high regard. He knows—"

"You won't stop until a Lannister sits every position in the court," Robert growled, dark-blue eyes staring intensely at her with nothing but loathing. "I am no fool. Lord Stark will be my King's Hand and we are going to Winterfell, and soon. I'll hear no more of Lord Tywin Lannister."

Angry, Cersei stood up, patted down he dress and strode out.