As they passed the Iron Throne—forged from the melted swords of Aegon's enemies—Joffrey gave it a quick glance.
The twisted, jagged blades gleamed coldly in the dim light. Anyone who sat on it had to stay perfectly balanced.
Aegon the Conqueror had built the damn thing to remind his descendants that power was never comfortable. If you wanted to rule, you paid the price.
They crossed the throne room and turned left into the long gallery that led to the council chamber.
Inside, the luxury swung to the opposite extreme.
Myrish carpets so thick your boots sank into them like clouds. A Summer Isles wooden screen carved with hundreds of exotic birds and beasts stood in one corner. The walls were hung with tapestries from Norvos, Qohor, and Lys. Two Valyrian sphinxes flanked the doors.
The small council members were already waiting, clustered in quiet groups.
"Lord Eddard, you're lucky," Renly said with his usual breezy grin. "First day on the job and you get the king himself showing up for small council. Not a sight you see every year."
Robert ignored his brother's jab and dropped his heavy frame into the high seat at the head of the long table. The chair creaked in protest.
Eddard Stark took the Hand's seat to the king's right—the same chair Joffrey had been shoved into months earlier.
Renly claimed the seat at the king's left. Everyone else filed in.
With Stannis still sulking on Dragonstone, Joffrey didn't need to drag over an extra chair. He simply sat at the far right end of the table.
Directly across from him was Grand Maester Pycelle. To his left sat the bald, soft-handed eunuch Varys.
Ser Barristan sat ramrod-straight on the opposite side—symbol of impartial justice and, more often than not, a silent witness.
"All right, everyone settled?" Robert clapped his hands. "We're here to welcome the new Hand—Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell."
"And to finally throw the nameday tourney for my son that's been delayed for months."
He poured himself a cup of wine with deliberate slowness, clearly enjoying the suspense.
"I want a tourney so grand the entire Seven Kingdoms will talk about it for the next ten years."
"So…"
"The winner gets eighty thousand gold dragons!"
Gasps rippled around the table.
Lord Eddard, still new to this circus, made an uncooperative sound.
"Pffft—!!!"
He coughed violently, nearly choking himself to death.
Robert thumped him helpfully on the back. "Easy there, Ned. No need to get so excited."
Eddard finally caught his breath. "Your Grace… that's eighty thousand gold dragons!"
"That's enough bread to feed two thousand people for half a month!"
Pycelle turned his shaky head toward Littlefinger on his right. "Master of Coin… can the treasury actually afford this?"
Littlefinger's fingertips drummed a lazy rhythm on the table. "My dear Grand Maester, don't play dumb in front of the king."
"The treasury's been empty for years. You know that as well as I do." His voice stayed soft and pleasant. "Lord Tywin will be coming to King's Landing soon anyway—to watch his son Jaime compete."
"We already owe him three million gold dragons. What's another few hundred thousand? Debt's debt."
"Three million?!" Eddard's voice cracked with disbelief as he stared at the king.
Robert flinched, then waved a thick hand. "Don't yell at me!"
"I never touch the copper-counting. Old Jon Arryn handled all that."
Littlefinger twisted the knife a little deeper. "To be precise, my lord, we only owe the Lannisters three million."
"We've also borrowed from Lord Tyrell, the Iron Bank of Braavos, several Tyroshi trading houses…"
"Oh, and the Faith. The High Septon drives a harder bargain than a Dornish fishmonger."
He smiled pleasantly and delivered the final blow.
"So at present the crown's total debt exceeds six million gold dragons."
Eddard's face went the color of old parchment. He looked ready to faint.
Even Joffrey felt a faint ringing in his ears.
He had known the numbers were bad, but hearing them spoken aloud still hit different.
"Jon…" Eddard's voice was pained. "Aegon Targaryen left vaults full of gold and silver. How could you possibly—"
"Stark!" Robert slammed a meaty fist on the table, rattling the wine jug. He actually sounded angry.
"I brought you here to give me advice, not to start questioning my decisions on your very first day!"
The rest of the council stayed wisely silent, eyes on the table.
But honest-to-a-fault Eddard kept glaring straight at the king.
Into that tight, angry silence Joffrey spoke up.
"Father."
"Eighty thousand gold dragons is far too much. It's completely unnecessary."
Every head turned toward him.
"Putting one massive prize on a single winner doesn't make the tourney feel grander. It just empties the treasury."
"We should spread the budget on things that actually improve the atmosphere—free food and drink for the crowds, extra events."
"Poetry contests, horse races, that sort of thing…"
Robert sat quietly for a moment, thick fingers drumming the arm of his chair.
Then his eyes lit up and he slapped the table again.
"Good lad—you just reminded me!"
"A plain tourney is boring anyway."
"I'm going to copy my great-grandfather, 'Laughing Storm' Lyonel Baratheon, and hold a trial of seven—a seven-on-seven mounted melee!"
"The whole realm will sing our names for this!"
Joffrey pressed a hand to his face and decided to stay quiet for the rest of the meeting.
Robert grew more excited with every word. Soon his voice was the only sound in the chamber.
The others gave up trying to speak and simply listened with varying degrees of horror as the king painted his glorious vision.
When he finally ran out of breath, Robert stood, clearly convinced the meeting had been a roaring success.
"Petyr, you and Ned work out the details!"
"Plenty of events, but the prize money…" He glanced at Eddard's thunderous face and finally gave an inch. "Keep it respectable. We can't look cheap."
"Dismissed!"
The council fled like men granted parole.
Renly caught up with Eddard in the hallway, clapping him on the shoulder. "Relax. My brother's always like this. You'll get used to it."
Eddard's shoulders slumped even lower.
Back in Maegor's Holdfast, Joffrey didn't head straight to his rooms.
He paced the gallery that overlooked the Tower of the Hand for about fifteen minutes.
Right on schedule, the new Hand trudged into view, looking like a man marching to his own execution.
At almost the same moment another figure slipped up beside him, threw a friendly arm around his shoulders, and whispered something.
The two men turned and disappeared into the shadows.
One hour later.
Joffrey sat on his bed, closed his eyes, and shut out every sound.
[Stargaze].
Catelyn Tully.
The scene snapped into focus.
He stood inside a dim, cheaply furnished room that reeked of cheap perfume and secrecy.
The tall Northern lord and the Riverlands woman were locked in an embrace.
In the corner, a small, sharp-faced man watched them with jealous, glittering eyes.
On the wooden table between them, a dragonbone-hilted dagger stood buried to the hilt.