~ 💎 WEEKLY POWER GOALS 💎🔥 60→1ch | 100→2ch | 200→5ch ⏰ Resets Monday! Thanks!
The next day, the Small Council convened.
The atmosphere in the Red Keep's council chamber was suffocating.
The kingdom's most powerful ministers sat ranged on either side of the long table.
Varys wore his usual voluminous purple silk robe, both hands tucked into his sleeves, a placid smile on his face. Grand Maester Pycelle was slumped back in his chair, his long white beard trailing to his chest, the grey links of his maester's chain clinking softly against each other at his neck. His eyes were half-lidded. He looked like he might be asleep.
The others sat rigidly upright, staring at nothing, barely breathing.
Word had spread to every corner of the Red Keep by morning. Yesterday in the courtyard, King Joffrey had deposed his grandfather in the most brutal fashion possible , Tywin Lannister, the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms.
And today, he was going to name a new Hand of the King.
A northern upstart. The man who had arrived at King's Landing on the back of a dragon.
The heavy wooden doors groaned open.
Lynn walked in wearing close-fitting black, nothing marking his rank, only Longclaw hanging at his hip.
The moment he stepped inside, every eye in the room found him. The air shifted. Something in the room changed, subtle but unmistakable.
Lynn didn't acknowledge the stares , the awe, the scrutiny, the jealousy. He walked straight to the head of the table and stopped beside the chair reserved for the Hand of the King.
A moment later, Joffrey swept in, flanked by Kingsguard in white. He was dressed in gold ceremonial robes today, crown on his head, face bright with the particular confidence of a young man who had just beaten someone he'd spent years fearing. He looked almost like a real king.
Liana followed a step behind him, quiet and composed as always.
"Sit."
Joffrey dropped into the main seat and waved a hand. He cleared his throat and adopted what he clearly believed was a commanding tone.
"I've called you here today for an important announcement."
His gaze swept the room and settled on Lynn.
"Tywin Lannister, for his treasonous heart, has been removed from his position."
"The office of Hand of the King is now vacant."
"A kingdom cannot go without its lord, and a king cannot go without his counsel."
"Lord Lynn pacified the North for the realm, held the Wall, and earned military honors beyond counting. His loyalty and his ability are not in question."
"Therefore, I have decided!"
Joffrey rose from his chair, his voice climbing.
"Lord Lynn is hereby appointed my new Hand of the King!"
He started clapping himself. Scattered applause followed. Varys smiled warmly and joined in. The other lords hurried to do the same.
Pycelle didn't move. He sat slumped in his chair, eyes shut, as though he hadn't heard a word.
"Grand Maester Pycelle."
The brightness left Joffrey's face. "Do you have some objection to my appointment?"
Pycelle opened his eyes slowly. His clouded gaze drifted to Lynn. He pushed himself to his feet with the careful effort of a very old man.
"Your Grace."
His voice was ancient and unhurried.
"The appointment of the Hand of the King is the most consequential act in the realm. It cannot be treated lightly."
"I have no doubt of Lord Lynn's loyalty. Or his courage in battle."
"But..."
He let the word hang.
"The Hand of the King requires more than battlefield valor. He must know the laws of the Seven Kingdoms thoroughly. He must understand the tangled web of relationships between the great houses. He must have the experience and judgment to govern a vast realm."
Pycelle reached up and touched his maester's chain.
"Lord Lynn has spent his years in the North. I fear he has little familiarity with the affairs of the South. To place such a burden on him so abruptly could prove... unwise."
"Furthermore, every Hand before him has come from the ancient nobility of Westeros. Lord Lynn's accomplishments are considerable, but his origins..." He paused. "May not be adequate for the office."
The words were dressed up nicely. On the surface, concern for the realm. Underneath, nothing but doubt and contempt.
The chamber went quiet.
Every head moved between Joffrey and Lynn, watching.
No one had expected the first voice of opposition to come from this apparently half-dead old man.
Joffrey's face changed color fast. He had just cemented his authority with a victory. And now this decrepit relic was questioning his judgment in front of the entire council?
This was a slap to his face. In public.
"Are you saying I've made a mistake?"
His voice could have cut stone.
"I would not dare." Pycelle bowed his head, tone steady. "I am merely stating facts. For the stability of the kingdom, I ask that Your Grace reconsider."
"Outrageous!"
Joffrey's palm cracked against the table. He shoved back from his seat.
"You old dog! Are you telling me how to rule?!"
He jabbed a finger at Pycelle's face.
"I am the king! Whoever the hell I say is Hand of the King is the goddamn Hand of the King! Is your skull packed with shit?!"
"Lord Lynn rode a dragon and won me the entire North! His worth is ten thousand times yours, you useless old man who's never left his study!"
"What gives you the right to open your mouth in here!"
Pycelle flinched as if struck. The blood drained out of his face completely.
He hadn't expected this. Not this.
"Your Grace, please calm yourself... I was only..."
"Only what?!"
Joffrey came around the table in three strides and seized Pycelle's long white beard in his fist.
"Do you think that because my grandfather is gone, you can all go back to ignoring me?"
"Think again."
"Ahhh—!"
Pycelle yelped in pain. He could feel strands tearing.
"Please... spare me... I never..."
"Your Grace."
Lynn's voice was quiet. Perfectly level.
It stopped Joffrey cold.
"Grand Maester Pycelle raises some fair points."
Every face in the room turned to Lynn.
Lynn was looking at the old maester, trembling, bent, his beard still caught in Joffrey's fist, with something almost like a smile.
"The Hand of the King is a position of enormous responsibility. And he's right — I don't know much about the affairs of the South."
He paused, just a beat.
"Perhaps the position should go to someone more familiar with how the realm operates. Someone with deep roots and a strong reputation."
Another pause.
"Someone like the previous Lord Tywin."
A brief, easy shrug. "He did perform the role rather well, didn't he?"
Tywin Lannister.
The name landed like a blade between Joffrey's ribs.
He released Pycelle's beard and turned to stare at Lynn.
Lynn met his eyes. Calm. Attentive. Almost warm , the picture of a man offering honest counsel.
Something buzzed in Joffrey's skull.
Then it clicked.
All of it.
This wasn't about the kingdom. Pycelle wasn't worried about southern politics or bloodlines or governing experience.
He was speaking for Tywin.
He was telling Joffrey, plainly as he dared, that Lynn wasn't fit for the role , that the only man who should hold the King's Hand was Tywin Lannister.
The old dog had crawled back to Casterly Rock, but his teeth were still in King's Landing.
He still thought Joffrey was a puppet. He still thought he could pull the strings.
The rage that hit him was worse than anything before. Hot. Humiliating. Blinding.
"Ha..." Joffrey's face cracked. "Hahaha. Hahahaha!"
He started laughing, pointing at Pycelle, laughing until his eyes watered.
"Oh, that's good. That is very good."
"I nearly fell for it, you old fox!"
The laughter stopped. His expression turned ugly in a way that made the lords nearest to him lean back in their chairs.
"So you don't think Lord Lynn is worthy. You think only Tywin deserves to be Hand."
His voice dropped into something dangerous.
"Then let me show you what happens to someone who defies their king."
He turned and walked back toward his seat, reached past a guard standing at attention, and drew the man's longsword from its scabbard.
"Kingsguard. To me."
"Your Grace!"
Two white-cloaked men stepped forward at once.
"Tear off his chain."
Pycelle's eyes went wide.
His maester's chain. Forged link by link across decades of study, each metal a different discipline mastered, different knowledge earned. It was everything. It was the only thing that made him who he was.
To tear it off was the deepest humiliation a maester could suffer.
"No! Your Grace, you cannot — I am a Grand Maester of the Citadel! You have no authority over me!"
"Authority?"
Joffrey stepped toward him.
"In this castle, I am the only authority that exists."
"I am the king."
The two Kingsguard hesitated for a moment , just a moment , then stepped forward and grabbed Pycelle by the collar.
CRACK!
The chain broke. Links of gold and silver and copper and steel rained down across the stone floor, bouncing and rolling, filling the silence with a soft, terrible ringing.
Pycelle crumpled. He didn't fall so much as fold , all the strength going out of him at once , until he was on his knees on the floor, staring at the scattered pieces.
Tears ran down the old man's face.
➤ Next: Taking Care of It in Passing
— .—— .—— .—— .—— .——
[FULL STORY ACCESS]
📖 Read ahead up to [Chapter 470]
✨ Support the author: https://p a t r e o n（.）com/DarkGolds