The noise and dust of the tourney had settled, but the next day, the Red Keep did not return to its usual order. Instead, a heavier atmosphere shrouded it.
In the council chamber flanking the throne room, a meeting was underway that would determine the future direction of Westeros and the foundation of Robert's rule.
Participants gathered around the massive round table, representing the pinnacle of power in the Seven Kingdoms:
King Robert Baratheon sat at the head, his face showing the fatigue of a lingering hangover and a trace of impatience.
Queen Cersei Lannister sat beside him, poised elegantly, her expression enigmatic.
The King's brother, Stannis Baratheon, sat with his back straight as a ramrod, solid as a rock, his face grim.
Lord Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West, was expressionless, his golden eyes scanning the room with silent authority.
Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, wore a solemn expression, clearly aware of the weight of today's agenda.
Lord Mace Tyrell, Warden of the South, wore the prosperous smile characteristic of the Reach, but it couldn't hide his shrewdness.
His mother, the "Queen of Thorns," Lady Olenna Redwyne, though aged, had a gaze sharper than anyone else's.
King Quellon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands and the newly named Lord of Harrenhal, Euron Greyjoy—this father and son represented the power of the sea.
Lord Hoster Tully, Warden of the Riverlands, was seasoned and prudent, his expression serious.
Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and Robert's best friend, had his brows furrowed, exuding the calmness and worry of a Northerner.
Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan "The Bold" Selmy, stood guard like a white statue.
Grand Maester Pycelle tremblingly held thick scrolls, ready to provide necessary consultation.
Sunlight filtered through the tall stained-glass windows, casting mottled shadows on the floor, but it could not dispel the tension in the air. Everyone knew that what was to be discussed was no ordinary administration, but momentous matters concerning the stability of the realm, the financial lifeline, and the redistribution of power.
King Robert's coronation and wedding celebrations had ended, but the pragmatic work of building the core of the new dynasty's rule had just begun. The Small Council, symbolizing the highest authority of the Seven Kingdoms, was currently exceptionally empty.
At the long table of the Small Council, only three key ministers were seated: Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, overseeing the overall situation as Prime Minister; Ser Barristan Selmy, responsible for the King's safety; and Grand Maester Pycelle, wearing his chain of knowledge, offering advice from the Citadel.
A sound machinery of rule required far more. Four crucial positions remained vacant, like missing gems in a crown: Master of Coin, controlling the finances of the Seven Kingdoms and filling the empty royal treasury, the lifeline of the realm's operation; Master of Laws, in charge of justice and punishment, maintaining order and fairness; Master of Ships, commanding the navy to ensure open sea routes and coastal peace; and Master of Whisperers, weaving information networks to perceive potential threats from the shadows.
The vacancy of these key positions meant a massive power vacuum and endless possibilities for maneuvering.
The eyes of all factions were quietly focused here. A new round of contention had silently begun in the halls and corridors of the Red Keep.
Robert's booming voice echoed in the council chamber, carrying unquestionable resolve. "The position of Master of Ships," he looked around at the heavyweights present, "should be the least controversial. It must belong to Quellon Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands."
He spread his large hands, his reasoning sufficient and direct. "House Greyjoy rules the sea. Their longship fleet is the sharpest maritime blade of the Seven Kingdoms. It is most fitting for them to command the realm's navy."
Jon Arryn, Tywin Lannister, Olenna Redwyne, and others present nodded almost in unison. No one raised an objection. This was based on irrefutable fact—House Greyjoy's massive Sea Kings and the Iron Fleet they controlled had proven through clean maritime operations and victories that they possessed absolute, convincing dominance over the vast oceans surrounding Westeros.
When discussing the crucial candidate for Master of Coin, Grand Maester Pycelle stroked his beard and proposed in his slow, methodical tone, "In this old man's view, the position of Master of Coin belongs to none other than Lord Tywin Lannister. House Lannister is the wealthiest in the Seven Kingdoms; this is known to all. As for administrative talent," he paused, glancing at the silent Tywin, "during the Mad King's reign, when Lord Tywin served as Hand, he not only repaid all royal debts but filled the empty treasury like never before. Such capability and boldness are unmatched."
Lord Mace Tyrell's face turned somewhat ugly on the other side of the table.
Naturally, he desired the position of Hand of the King most, but he knew well that his standing in Robert's heart could not compare to the King's foster father, the meritorious Jon Arryn. Settling for second best, he coveted the Master of Coin, a key position controlling the economic lifeline. He cleared his throat, about to speak for himself, when he felt a tug on his sleeve.
Sitting beside him, the "Queen of Thorns," Lady Olenna Redwyne, used her wrinkled but surprisingly strong hand to subtly stop her son. Then, the actual ruler of the Reach spoke slowly. Her voice wasn't loud, but it forced everyone to listen intently. "Lannister gold shines brightly, indeed. But have you forgotten that the grain of Highgarden is the true pillar allowing King's Landing and the Seven Kingdoms to survive long seasons in peace? When it comes to understanding the flow of goods and trade lifelines of the realm, my son, Lord Mace Tyrell, is equally capable of serving as Master of Coin."
Her statement was like a stone dropped into calm water.
Hand of the King Jon Arryn immediately took over, his tone peaceful. "House Tyrell's capability is naturally beyond doubt; the wealth of the Reach is evident to all." He first gave affirmation, then changed tack. "Lord Mace might be more suited for refined management in times of peace. Now, with a new King and a realm to rebuild, the kingdom needs Lord Tywin's decisive boldness and means to quickly reorganize financial order."
Before Lady Olenna or other interested parties could rebut, Jon used the authority of the Hand to quickly throw out another arrangement, cleverly balancing the interests of all parties. "Therefore, I propose—Lord Mace Tyrell shall take the position of Master of Whisperers. With his shrewdness and capability, he will surely build an efficient intelligence network to perceive the movements of the Seven Kingdoms for the King. The importance of this position is no less than that of the Master of Coin."
This move affirmed House Tyrell's value while diverting their influence in a seemingly important direction.
Robert slapped the armrest of his throne, making the embedded gems vibrate with a dull thud. "The Hand speaks reason!" His voice rolled through the hall like summer thunder, carrying unquestionable decisiveness. "So it is decided!"
His thick finger swept over everyone, finally stopping on Ned. His tone tried to appear casual but still carried royal arbitrariness. "As for Master of Laws, I see you taking it, Ned. King's Landing needs Stark loyalty and justice."
Eddard Stark shook his head slightly, his voice low as the eternal snow of the North. "Your Grace, your trust is my honor. But the warm south is not for Direwolves. The bitter cold of the North is our home." He paused, the familiar house words flowing naturally like breath. "After all..."
"Winter is coming!" Robert waved his hand impatiently, interrupting. His tone mixed helplessness at his old friend's stubbornness with a trace of imperceptible understanding. "Always hanging that phrase on your lips!"
Before Robert's gaze could turn, Lord Hoster Tully emitted a weak, prolonged cough at the right moment. His withered hand stroked his chest, breath slightly rasping. "Your Grace... forgive me. My old bones are like a candle in the wind, truly unable to bear such a heavy burden... Let the young ones toil."
Before Robert's gaze could move further, Euron Greyjoy offered a candidate.
"Your Grace," Euron's voice reached everyone clearly. "I propose Lord Stannis Baratheon for the position of Master of Laws."
Euron paused slightly, ensuring the weight of every word landed precisely. "Lord Stannis is impartial and just, strictly adhering to the law, tolerating no sand in his eyes. His reputation for integrity is known across the Seven Kingdoms. Furthermore," Euron's tone rose slightly as he scanned the reactions, "he is your own brother. It is most fitting for Baratheon blood to administer the realm's laws. The Master of Laws needs someone both impartial and of exalted status."
The position of Master of Laws was like a crown of thorns. It required the wearer to be as fair as scales, with status high enough to deter petty thieves and a will of steel unafraid of offending any power.
King Robert's gaze finally rested on his brother, whose face was stern and jaw tight.
"Stannis," Robert's voice echoed in the hall, carrying a hint of probing. "Master of Laws... this is a position that offends countless people. I need someone who can truly enforce the law, not let it become decoration. Do you," he stared into his brother's blue eyes, similar to his own but colder and harder, "have the confidence to hold this office?"
Stannis Baratheon's jawline tightened further. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he remained silent as a rock for a moment, as if weighing the full meaning of this burden. Then, he stood straight, his movements stiff but exceptionally firm, like a drawn sword. He nodded solemnly, every word seeming chiseled from steel. "I will do my utmost." His voice wasn't loud as he promised, "I will not fail Your Grace's trust, nor the justice of the realm's laws."
Robert knew his brother's capabilities well, but he had never liked Stannis precisely because of this overly hard "integrity"—Stannis seemed never to know how to smile easily. He was like a pool of stagnant water: rigorous, rigid, and utterly devoid of joy.
Facing this legally sound and suitable proposal, Robert merely nodded heavily, emitting a muffled grunt from his throat as acknowledgment.
Stannis Baratheon's gaze turned to Euron. His face, seemingly forever shrouded in gloom, remained tight, his voice dry and clear. "Thank you." He paused, adding explicitly, "Not because you proposed me for Master of Laws today. But because when Storm's End was besieged and on the brink of desperation, your men delivered life-saving provisions, preventing those in the castle, including me, from starving to death. This... favor, I remember."
But then he changed tack, his tone becoming colder and principled. "However, I do not condone your acts of plunder at the Arbor back then. Burning, killing, and looting are acts that trample on the law. In the future, if you or your subordinates commit any acts violating the laws of the realm, as Master of Laws, I will not bend the law for personal favor."
Listening to this typical, Stannis-style speech binding gratitude with warning, Euron merely showed his habitual smile and nodded casually, clearly indifferent to these warnings.
Robert, however, was annoyed by his brother's ill-timed, stiff "declaration of justice" during the moment of rewards. He glared at Stannis fiercely, his thick brows knitting together, clearly very displeased with him spoiling the mood.