"Lord Tywin, you've finally arrived."
"We've all been waiting with bated breath."
Grand Maester Pycelle's voice dropped into the dead-silent throne room like a stone into still water, sending one small, awkward ripple across the hall.
No one else spoke. They just traded uneasy glances.
Joffrey stood half a step behind Cersei, eyes sweeping the room.
In the center stood the Red Keep's most powerful lords and officials—including the Grand Maester, who had just realized he'd said something incredibly stupid.
Facing them was Joffrey's grandfather: Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock.
Even past fifty, the man was still tall and straight-backed, long-legged, shoulders broad as a slab of granite. He wasn't wearing his famous armor today—just a dark-red velvet doublet and a gold-embroidered lion cloak slung over one shoulder.
He didn't need the steel. The sheer presence rolling off him made the two fully armed Lannister guards behind him look like decorations.
And on the high dais, seated on the Iron Throne forged from a thousand melted enemy swords, waited the man receiving him.
Not Robert.
Eddard Stark, the new Hand of the King.
His spine was rigid as a sentinel tree, stiff and unyielding, as if the blades at his back were actively prodding him.
"Lord Tywin Lannister." Eddard gripped the throne's armrests. "On behalf of Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I welcome you to King's Landing."
His voice sounded dry as dust.
"His Grace… is currently occupied with other matters."
Joffrey's mind supplied the obvious: Probably some tavern and a serving girl.
He was sure at least half the people in the room were thinking the exact same thing.
Robert had a real talent for creative humiliation when he put his mind to it.
The open slight had Cersei visibly shaking with rage. She stared down at her father, eyes blazing with fury and a silent plea. Even the queen didn't want Tywin exploding right here, right now.
Finally, under every stare in the hall, the king's father-in-law responded.
Tywin didn't bow. He didn't even dip his chin. He gave the smallest, almost imperceptible nod—just enough to acknowledge he'd heard the words.
"The king's diligence is the realm's good fortune," he said, voice low and steady. "With the Hand seated here in his place, His Grace can rest easy knowing the kingdom is in capable hands."
Every syllable was calm. Every syllable still felt like standing at the mouth of a volcano that hadn't decided whether to erupt.
Eddard's throat worked once.
"You've had a long journey, my lord," he said stiffly, clearly eager to end this. "Rooms have been prepared in the Red Keep. Please, rest."
"Thank you for the arrangements."
Tywin offered nothing more. He didn't even glance at his daughter or grandson. He turned on his heel with military precision and strode out. His boots rang across the empty stone floor until the sound faded beyond the doors.
Behind Eddard, Jory Cassel's face was tight with outrage, as if the slight had been a personal insult.
"Dismissed," Eddard said quietly, sighing at his captain. He looked exhausted.
The Hand and his guards left just as quickly.
Joffrey let out a long breath.
Thank the gods both of them kept their heads.
If it had been certain other people, swords would already be out.
The great doors boomed shut.
The silent hall exploded into a buzzing hive.
"Oh my, Grand Maester," Varys drifted over first, his sugary voice dripping with mock concern. "Whatever were you thinking? You nearly gave me a heart attack—I was half-afraid we'd see a repeat of the blood on the steps from fifteen years ago."
"Seeing your old master after so long must have made you forget yourself," Littlefinger added, sliding in beside him. His words were needles, sharp and precise.
Pycelle's old face flushed crimson, then went pale. He stammered a few weak excuses, gave up, and fled with an angry swirl of robes.
Cersei had already swept out the moment Eddard left. Only Joffrey remained, deliberately lingering to watch the show.
A moment later Littlefinger noticed him and sauntered over, first checking the Hound's position before speaking.
"Your Grace," he said with a pleasant smile, "it seems your grandfather and your future father-in-law aren't getting along too well."
Even now, the man couldn't resist a jab.
"Lord Baelish, you exaggerate," Joffrey replied with a polite smile. "Both the Hand and Lord Tywin are pillars of the realm. They simply have different duties."
"Of course," Littlefinger agreed smoothly. "After all, Lord Tywin once held the position himself."
He leaned a fraction closer. "So… might the reason he's upset be that he feels this 'newcomer' has taken what was once his?"
Joffrey's smile never wavered. "Lord Tywin is a man of great breadth. He wouldn't trouble himself over something so small."
"Don't you agree?"
Littlefinger smiled back. "Naturally. The young eventually climb over the old—it's only a matter of time." His tone was light, but the implication was clear. "I simply hope they can work together peacefully and not let such trifles spoil the harmony between them."
They were both talking about the same thing: the little arrangement Joffrey had made with the commander of the Gold Cloaks two days earlier.
Joffrey knew exactly how men like Janos Slynt worked. Loyalty and principle were just tools to be sold to the highest bidder. The second someone offered more, Janos would flip sides without hesitation and think himself clever for playing both ends.
Still, Joffrey hadn't been able to tell from the conversation whether Janos had actually kept his mouth shut.
With Littlefinger's network, any movement inside the City Watch would land on his desk sooner or later.
That was exactly why Joffrey had set up every part of the tourney operation—the fragrant pies on the surface, the prize-guessing gambling ring buried underneath.
One of the real goals was to test the loyalty of the two-thousand-strong force that was supposed to answer only to the king.
After years of Robert's neglect, who did they truly serve—the Master of Coin who paid their wages on time, or the drunk who sat on the Iron Throne?
Varys drifted over like a perfumed cloud, slipping neatly into the meaningless small talk, playing the eternal peacemaker and observer.
Watching the two of them, Joffrey's mind stayed crystal clear.
Dealing with these two sharks wasn't complicated.
He could find a pretext and make them disappear. No one in King's Landing would shed a tear.
The problem was timing. Both had to go at once.
Remove only one and the other would panic and start throwing every dangerous secret he knew into the open, hoping to drag everyone down with him.
Besides, Joffrey didn't want it done that way.
The reputation and image he had carefully built could not be stained by obvious conspiracy or assassination—at least not openly.
He needed a legitimate reason. One that would make their downfall look deserved and satisfying to the realm.
Littlefinger kept chatting, dissecting the awkward audience in minute detail. Varys murmured agreement, eyes flickering.
Joffrey smiled and nodded, but his thoughts had already drifted far away.
There was one place—high mountains, narrow valleys, famous for its cavalry—whose ruler, a grieving widow and regent, might very well sit out the coming wars entirely.
The Vale.
So it wasn't just Littlefinger who stared at the map at night with hungry eyes.
Joffrey wanted it too.