"Perhaps the two ministers might simply return to their residences and remain behind closed doors," Renly suggested to Hanna, his voice smooth as polished stone. "We could post men outside to guard them. That would hardly violate the spirit of His Grace's decree."
The youngest Baratheon brother smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. "I wonder, would my counsel be considered among the 'opposition and pleading' the decree forbids?"
"I concur," interjected the Castellan of the Red Keep, his voice carrying weight across the hushed chamber. "By all custom, the execution of such a decree would fall to me, yet these circumstances are... unusual. Caution would serve us well."
Renly felt a prickle of surprise that the Castellan, a man of some consequence, would so openly declare his position.
But that mattered little now.
He knew his eldest brother's temperament all too well. If the fierce Robert truly had knowledge of these matters, he would have thundered back to the capital, war hammer in hand, to pulverize the two traitors into bloody ruin.
This was no royal decree. It was a Lannister coup, plain and simple.
In such a maelstrom, what value did a castellan's tepid support truly hold? Renly cared nothing for such trivial considerations.
What gnawed at him was deeper disquiet.
Did this coup target only Varys and Littlefinger? Or did it herald a complete rupture with House Lannister?
How breathtakingly foolish and arrogant!
Had Lord Tywin himself orchestrated this from Casterly Rock? Had he emerged from his mountain fortress? With how many swords at his back?
Renly could only prepare for the worst.
Should actual violence erupt, his score of Storm's End men-at-arms would prove woefully inadequate against the hundred and fifty Lannister guards and three hundred gold cloaks. He would be overwhelmed in moments.
He must, therefore, secure the allegiance of the Royal Guards and the courtiers present.
Two hundred Royal Guards would suffice to tip the scales of this conflict. Yet since Robert's Rebellion, when King Robert claimed the Iron Throne and the Crownlands, while Renly was granted Storm's End and the fealty of the Stormlands lords, the brothers had grown apart. They were no longer of the same herd.
Renly lacked the authority to command the Royal Guards.
Moreover, the decree called not for immediate execution of the ministers, but reserved judgment for the king personally. Given this, the Royal Guards would likely favor the Lannisters, who claimed possession of the royal decree.
Fortunately, the courtiers and their attendants numbered some three or four hundred swords.
Renly caught the eye of Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, and offered a courteous nod.
The handsome knight immediately understood the silent command. "I stand with Lord Renly's wisdom in this matter," he declared. "Allowing the two ministers a few days' peace in their own residences would prevent any irrevocable mistake while honoring the letter of the decree. Is this not prudent?"
He placed a hand upon the hilt of his sword. "I willingly offer myself as their guardian."
Other courtiers and knights aligned with House Tyrell murmured their agreement, a chorus of assent rising from around the hall.
Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard stepped forward, his white cloak billowing. "Who granted you leave to speak in this chamber?" he demanded. "Hold your tongues!"
A thunderous rumble of protest rose from the assembled nobles. Many proclaimed they would not suffer such discourtesy, that every knight present had the right to voice his counsel.
The solemn dignity of the throne room collapsed into utter disorder.
Hanna bit her lip in frustration. Whose creature was this Arys? Could he not see how his words inflamed the passions of all present?
Were these protestations genuine outrage, or merely the coordinated response of those aligned with certain interests?
Hanna felt a stab of disquiet. The Crown Prince had instructed her explicitly to remove Varys and Littlefinger through political means whenever possible, yet it seemed blood would inevitably stain the marble floor before the day was done.
Yet comfort came to her as the Prince's voice echoed in her mind: "Fear not. All draws to its conclusion."
BANG!
A tremendous crash reverberated from the entranceway. Brilliant light swept across the hall, accompanied by the harsh music of steel against steel. Every eye in the chamber turned instinctively toward the sound.
Varys and Littlefinger, certain that reinforcements had arrived, turned with confident smiles that froze upon their faces like winter frost.
The massive doors of the throne room were thrust open by gold cloaks, revealing a solitary figure framed in the archway. From either side, a tide of gold-cloaked men poured into the hall like a river breaching its banks.
"The Hound!!" exclaimed the Commander of the City Watch, jabbing a trembling finger toward the figure. Disbelief contorted his features. "How came you to command my men?!"
The Hound lifted his helm, exposing his ravaged face, and advanced toward the stout commander with deliberate steps.
The assembled court watched in silent dread as the blood-spattered warrior approached.
The Hound clasped the commander's shoulder with mocking familiarity. "I hear your father was a butcher," he rasped. "Did he teach you only to devour meat, not to recognize your true master? What means this talk of 'your men'? They belong to the King!"
Commander Slynt surveyed the newly arrived gold cloaks. Some faces he knew well, others were strangers to him, but the manner in which they regarded him had changed utterly. Gone was the deference he had come to expect.
He opened his mouth to rebuke them, but the cold steel in their eyes extinguished his wrath and bravado in an instant. Though he knew not the cause, he understood with sickening clarity that the City Watch no longer answered to his command.
The commander forced his lips into a semblance of a smile. "Lord Sandor, my loyalty to His Grace is beyond question. We stand as one in this matter."
"Heh." The Hound's eyes bored into his like augers. "Can you guess what I desire to do at this moment?"
The commander struggled not to avert his gaze, but beads of sweat erupted across his brow, and his heart hammered against his ribs like a war drum.
"Lord Sandor," he said, fingers twitching.
"I truly cannot fathom what you—" He exploded into sudden motion, drawing a dagger from his belt and lunging at the Hound with desperate ferocity.
The Hound seized the commander's wrist with contemptuous ease, then caught the incoming left fist as though intercepting a child's blow. He tightened his grip until bones creaked in protest, then drove his knee upward with brutal force.
Clang~
The dagger tumbled from the commander's nerveless fingers and clattered against the stone floor. Agony blossomed in his abdomen, turning his face as crimson as boiled crab.
The Hound drove him to the ground with a savage kick. "You all bear witness!" he called to the stunned assembly. "This man not only defied His Grace's decree but raised steel against the king's justice. Can any doubt remain regarding his treasonous intent?"
The Hound retrieved the fallen dagger. "In the name of King Robert, first of his name, I sentence Janos Slynt, former Commander of the City Watch of King's Landing, to death!"
Without so much as bending his knee, the Hound flicked the dagger through the air. It struck with unerring precision, embedding itself in Janos's throat.
Janos stretched his arms outward in mute appeal, his fingers grasping at nothing as he thrashed weakly. Blood flowed ever more freely from the wound, his breathing growing shallow, until at last his limbs stiffened and he lay twisted in death.
Silence reigned, broken only by the soft hiss of steel leaving scabbards.
The gold cloaks the Hound had brought likely outnumbered all others combined.
The Royal Guards, who had initially favored the authenticity of the decree, drew their swords and leveled them at the three hundred gold cloaks formerly under Janos's command.
The balance of power had shifted utterly.
Hanna delivered her final ultimatum, voice ringing clear across the hall. "The decree stipulates that all subordinates shall receive pardon for their transgressions and retain their positions. This moment is your final opportunity to demonstrate loyalty!"
The gold cloaks stationed within the Red Keep exchanged uncertain glances. Who among them would dare stand against the combined might of their fellow soldiers and the Royal Guards, who outnumbered them several times over?
Clang~ Clang~
Within the span of a few heartbeats, hundreds of spears clattered to the floor, abandoned by men who valued their lives above their pride.
Hanna began to convey the Crown Prince's instructions. "Lord Varys, Lord Baelish, submit to supervision without resistance. Only thus might you hope to clear your names."
She approached the two men and whispered words meant for their ears alone. "In truth, the Crown Prince harbors doubts regarding these accusations. His Highness even interceded with His Grace on your behalf, earning his father's wrath. Take heart—when His Grace returns to the capital, matters may yet take a favorable turn."
Heh, only a simpleton would believe such obvious falsehood.
Yet Varys and Littlefinger recognized the subtle message beneath her words: the possibility remained for the two sides to coexist, without the need for mutual annihilation.
But was this assurance genuine?
To speak or remain silent? The two masters of intrigue faced a dire choice.
To speak meant certain, immediate death.
To hold their tongues meant possible death at a later hour, but also the chance of survival.
"Come, my lords."
The Hound and dozens of Lannister guards formed a ring of steel around them.
In the end, they chose not to reveal the information that would ensure mutual destruction—the truth of Joffrey's parentage.
The Small Council meeting concluded thus.
The courtiers dispersed with unseemly haste, as though some dread beast pursued them through the corridors.
Beneath the shadow of the Iron Throne, Hanna fixed her cold gaze upon the retreating figure of the Castellan of the Red Keep, watching as he staggered away like a man already marked for the grave.
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