The chamber reeked of perfume and wine. Sunlight slanted through the high windows, illuminating the dancing dust. Small Council gathered around the polished oak table, and at its head, King Joffrey Baratheon lounged in his high-backed chair, the realm a mere toy in his grasp. His golden hair gleamed, and his sharp chin jutted forward, a display of pride unbecoming of a boy so young.
By his side, his Queen dowager, Cersei, sat with a watchful stillness, her green eyes sharp and unyielding, fixed on the man at the far end of the table.
"We must act," Cersei's voice was low and urgent. "Stark rots in the dungeons. The longer we leave him breathing, the more his dogs stir in the North. Better to strike his head from his shoulders and end their howling now, before they grow bold."
Joffrey smirked, a cruel twist of his thin lips. "Yes. Kill him. Put his head on the spike. Let the whole city see what becomes of traitors." His voice was a shrill, unpleasant sound.
At the far end, Lord Varys folded his hands into the soft sleeves of his robe, his painted smile never wavering. "Your Graces, might I counsel patience? Lord Stark is beloved, not only by the Northerners but by the smallfolk as well. His death, too hastily given, may bring more swords against us than it stills. A live wolf is more useful than a dead one."
Littlefinger leaned lazily in his chair, twirling a quill between his fingers, his smile sly as a fox's. "Dead is the best decision, for he is a a traitor. It's the only end possible for someone who tries to usurp the crown." His eyes flicked from Cersei to Joffrey and back again, playing a silent, knowing game.
Tywin Lannister said nothing. He sat with his broad shoulders draped in crimson and gold, his hands resting on the arms of his chair. His face betrayed neither eagerness nor fatigue, only watchful stillness of a man who had weighed a thousand lives against his own designs.
Jaime, lounging to his right, was less patient. "Father," he drawled, golden hair falling loose about his shoulders, "why do we waste breath on this? Catelyn Stark has Tyrion. We can trade the wolf's head for his freedom."
Tywin turned his eyes on his son, and the hall grew colder. "You think like a child." His voice cut through the chamber. "A Lannister does not barter like a fishmonger at market. Stark holds one of ours. We hold three of his."
"Two," Joffrey interrupted, his chin held high. "The wolf girl is missing." The boy-king's voice cracked, but the smugness lingered.
Slowly, Tywin turned his head toward him, his gaze heavy as iron. Joffrey faltered beneath it, his lips tightening, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.
"Three," Tywin said flatly. "The girl is missing, they don't know she is missing. Until her corpse is laid in front of them, she is our hostage all the same."
No one spoke for a time. Even Joffrey dared not.
Just then, the great doors of the council chamber swung wide, and the scent of roses seemed to drift in with the draught. A soft thud echoed as a cane struck the floor.
"Gods save us," Littlefinger muttered, though his eyes glittered with amusement.
Lady Olenna Tyrell swept into the chamber, her white hair veiled in green silk, her sharp eyes keen as any blade. Two towering guards followed at her flanks, dragging between them a figure bound in heavy chains. The man stumbled forward, forced to his knees before the council of the realm. His hair was black and unkempt, his face grim beneath the dirt, but the face of Baratheon was clear upon him—the square jaw, the broad shoulders, the stubborn defiance in his blue-green eyes even as the chains bit into his flesh.
"Renly Baratheon," Olenna said as she eased herself into a chair opposite Tywin, her lips pursed as if she tasted something sour. "He was skulking in the Reach, whispering treasons. I thought it best to bring him here myself, before he tries to usurp the crown itself."
Joffrey leaned forward, eyes wide, almost delighted. Cersei narrowed her gaze. Varys's smile flickered. Littlefinger chuckled under his breath, the sound low and dangerous.
And Tywin Lannister... Tywin smirked. A thin, cruel curling of the lips, gone as quickly as it came, but enough to chill the marrow of those who saw it.
And the man on the floor, who had called himself the king only for a sennight or two, now looked bruised and broken.
Joffrey, unable to contain his glee, leaned forward. "Renly!" he shrieked, a high, mocking sound. "How the mighty have fallen."
Renly simply stared back, a flicker of contempt in his dark eyes. He didn't rise to the bait, didn't plead or beg.
Cersei, ever the pragmatist, saw the opportunity. "He must be questioned," she said, her voice a low murmur. "He has men, alliances. We can use him to pull them from their holdings."
"Kill him," Joffrey insisted, the bloodlust plain on his young face. "On a pike, with the traitor Stark."
"Patience, my sweet," Cersei said, her hand resting on his arm, a gentle pressure that belied the steel in her voice. "A captured king is far more valuable than a dead one. Think of the things we can get him to say, the families we can force to bend to us."
Jaime shifted in his seat, his impatience a physical thing. "So we hold another one? The Starks have Tyrion and we have three Starks and a Baratheon." His voice held a note of weary frustration. "When do we stop collecting hostages and start getting what we want?"
Tywin Lannister remained silent, his gaze fixed on Renly. The smirk now replaced by the familiar mask of cold calculation. "We had three," he said softly, his eyes never leaving Renly. "Now we have four."
Renly flinched, a subtle tightening of his jaw. He knew what Cersei and Tywin meant. The game had changed. He wasn't just a prisoner now; he was currency.
Lady Olenna, who had watched the whole exchange with a weary sigh, finally spoke. "Well, what are you all gawking at?" she said, her voice as sharp as a whetstone. "The boy needs a dungeon, and a glass of water, if he's to be any use to you. Stop talking of death and start thinking of uses. You've just been handed a very valuable chess piece, and the game is just beginning."