The next day. The Small Council meeting.
The atmosphere inside the Red Keep's council chambers was suffocating.
The heavy hitters of the realm sat flanking the long table.
Varys wore his oversized purple silk robes, hands tucked neatly into his sleeves, a gentle, practiced smile plastered on his face.
Grand Maester Pycelle slumped in his chair. His long white beard cascaded over his chest, and the heavy chain of office around his neck faintly clinked with his every breath.
He was half-squinting, looking like he was about to nod off at any second.
The rest of the council sat rigidly upright, eyes locked straight ahead, too terrified to even breathe too loudly.
What went down in the courtyard yesterday had already infected every corner of the Red Keep.
King Joffrey had violently and publicly stripped his own grandfather—the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms—of his position.
And today, he was going to crown a new Hand of the King.
A rising warlord from the North. The man who had descended upon King's Landing on the back of a literal dragon.
Creaaaak—
The heavy wooden doors of the council chamber shoved open.
Lynn strode in, dressed head-to-toe in pitch-black leather armor.
He wasn't wearing a single piece of jewelry or lordly flair. The only accessory he carried was the Valyrian steel sword, Longclaw, strapped to his hip.
But the absolute second he crossed the threshold, every pair of eyes in the room snapped to him.
The sheer gravity of his presence made the air in the room feel heavy and volatile.
Lynn completely ignored the storm of stares—the terror, the calculation, the naked jealousy.
He walked straight to the head of the table, stopping right next to the empty chair reserved for the Hand of the King.
A few moments later, Joffrey marched into the room, flanked by a heavy escort of Gold Cloaks.
He was decked out in an extravagant gold tunic, a jeweled crown resting on his head. A smug, arrogant smirk dominated his face. For once, he actually looked like a King who held real power.
Lyanna trailed right behind him, playing the role of the quiet, submissive maiden flawlessly.
"Sit."
Joffrey dropped into the royal seat at the head of the table and waved his hand dismissively.
He cleared his throat, pitching his voice down in a pathetic attempt to sound authoritative.
"I called you all here today because I have a crucial announcement to make."
His gaze swept over the council members before finally locking onto Lynn.
"Tywin Lannister, due to his treasonous ambitions, has been stripped of his titles."
"As of right now, the office of the Hand of the King is vacant."
"A realm cannot survive a single day without its King, and a King cannot rule without his Hand."
"Lord Lynn has crushed the Northern rebellion and secured the Wall. His military victories are unparalleled."
"His loyalty and his absolute competence are beyond question."
"Therefore, I have decided!"
Joffrey shot out of his chair, his voice spiking in volume.
"I am officially naming Lord Lynn as my new Hand of the King!"
He even started clapping his own hands the second the words left his mouth.
A weak, scattered round of applause echoed through the chamber.
Varys smiled and clapped along, and the rest of the terrified lords quickly scrambled to join in.
Except for Grand Maester Pycelle. The old man stayed slumped in his chair, dead to the world, offering zero reaction.
"Grand Maester Pycelle."
Joffrey's smug smile evaporated, replaced by a sharp edge of irritation.
"Do you have a problem with my appointment?"
Pycelle finally cracked his eyes open at a glacial pace.
His cloudy, ancient eyes drifted over to Lynn as he slowly hauled himself out of his chair.
"Your Grace."
His voice was a raspy, agonizingly slow crawl.
"Appointing the Hand of the King is the single most vital decision in the realm. It is not a game."
"I naturally have complete faith in Lord Lynn's loyalty and martial prowess."
"However..."
He dragged the word out.
"The office of the Hand requires a great deal more than simply swinging a sword."
"It demands an encyclopedic knowledge of the Seven Kingdoms' laws. It requires a deep understanding of the labyrinthine political ties between the Great Houses. And above all, it demands the experience and wisdom necessary to govern a massive empire."
Pycelle slowly stroked the heavy chain forged of various metals resting on his collarbone.
"Lord Lynn has spent his life isolated in the frozen North. I fear he is entirely ignorant of Southern affairs."
"Handing him such crushing responsibility on a whim is... highly inappropriate."
"Furthermore, historically, the Hand has almost exclusively been chosen from the oldest, most prestigious bloodlines in Westeros."
"Lord Lynn may have an impressive body count, but his pedigree... simply does not qualify him for the seat."
He masked his insults behind a veil of polished, political concern.
On the surface, he was just looking out for the realm. But between the lines, he was completely shitting on Lynn, reeking of elitist arrogance.
The council chamber plunged into dead silence.
Every set of eyes nervously ping-ponged between Joffrey and Lynn.
Nobody saw it coming. The first guy to actually grow a spine and push back was the fossilized Maester who looked like he had one foot in the grave.
Joffrey's face visibly darkened, twisting into an ugly, livid grimace.
He had just cemented his ultimate authority yesterday.
And now, this rotting old sack of bones had the balls to question his absolute royal decree in front of the entire council?
It was no different than slapping him across the face in public.
"Are you telling me I made a mistake?"
Joffrey's voice was absolute ice.
"I wouldn't dare."
Pycelle bowed his head, though his tone didn't drop a single ounce of its stubborn pride.
"I am merely stating facts."
"For the stability of the realm, I beg Your Grace to reconsider."
"Insolent prick!"
Joffrey violently slammed his hands on the heavy oak table and vaulted to his feet.
"You old dog! Are you trying to tell me how to run my kingdom?!"
He leveled a finger right at Pycelle's face, screaming at the top of his lungs.
"I am the King! I decide who the fuck the Hand of the King is!"
"Is your skull packed full of horse shit?!"
"Lord Lynn rode a dragon and brought the entire North to heel for me! He's done ten thousand times more for this realm than a useless, dusty old bookworm like you ever will!"
"Who the hell gave you the right to run your mouth in my presence?!"
Pycelle physically flinched at the verbal assault, every drop of blood draining from his wrinkled face.
He completely underestimated just how unhinged Joffrey's reaction would be.
"Your Grace, please, calm yourself... I merely meant..."
"Meant what?!"
Joffrey stormed around the table, got right in Pycelle's face, and viciously grabbed a fistful of his long white beard.
"Do you think just because my grandfather is gone, you can all still treat me like a joke?"
"Let me tell you something! You're dead wrong!"
"Aaagh—!"
Pycelle let out a pathetic wail of pain. He felt like the skin of his jaw was about to get ripped clean off.
"...Mercy... I didn't..."
Right then, Lynn finally spoke up.
"Your Grace."
His voice was dead calm, but it was enough to make the rabid King freeze instantly.
"Grand Maester Pycelle actually makes a fair point."
Every head in the room whipped toward Lynn, their faces plastered with pure confusion.
Lynn looked down at the shivering, terrified old fossil, a faint, dark smirk playing on his lips.
"The office of the Hand carries a massive weight."
"And it's true, I'm not exactly caught up on Southern politics."
"Maybe this seat really should go to someone who actually understands how the realm operates. A highly respected, prestigious lord."
Lynn paused, seamlessly twisting the knife without showing his hand.
"Someone like... Lord Tywin."
"After all, he did a spectacular job sitting in that chair, didn't he?"
Tywin Lannister.
The name jammed straight into Joffrey's brain like an icepick.
He yanked his hand out of Pycelle's beard and snapped his head around, staring dead at Lynn.
Lynn stared right back, his expression completely blank, offering up his "sincere" advice.
A high-pitched ringing exploded inside Joffrey's head.
He got it.
He figured it out completely!
This rotting old prick Pycelle wasn't looking out for the realm at all!
He was shilling for Tywin!
He was low-key telling the King that Lynn wasn't good enough, and that Tywin Lannister was the only man fit to be the Hand!
That old bastard might have tucked his tail and run back to Casterly Rock, but his filthy claws were still buried deep in King's Landing!
Tywin was still trying to play him like a goddamn puppet!
A toxic, blinding wave of fury and humiliation violently washed over Joffrey, hitting him ten times harder than before.
"Haha... HAHAHAHA!"
Joffrey suddenly erupted into a fit of unhinged, psychotic laughter.
He pointed directly at Pycelle, laughing so hard tears actually leaked from his eyes.
"Perfect... simply perfect!"
"You almost had me fooled, you old snake!"
He snapped his mouth shut, his laughter dying instantly as his face morphed into a mask of pure, murderous rage.
"You think Lord Lynn isn't qualified?"
"You think Tywin is the only man who can be my Hand?"
"Then I'm going to show you exactly what happens when you cross your King!"
Joffrey spun around, marched back toward his royal seat, and violently ripped a longsword straight from a Kingsguard's scabbard.
"Guards!"
"Your Grace!"
Two heavily armored Kingsguard immediately stepped forward.
"Rip that Maester's chain off this old bastard's neck!"
Pycelle's eyes bulged out of his skull, raw, naked terror plastered across his face.
The Maester's chain was the ultimate symbol of their status and honor. Forged from interlocking links of different metals, it represented a lifetime of mastered knowledge.
Ripping it off was the most devastating, absolute degradation a Maester could endure!
"No! Your Grace! You can't do this!"
Pycelle shrieked like a dying animal.
"I am a Grand Maester of the Citadel! You don't have the authority!"
"Authority?"
Joffrey let out a sick sneer, slowly closing the distance.
"Inside this castle, I am the authority!"
"I am the King!"
The two Kingsguard hesitated for a split second, but orders were orders. They stepped up and violently grabbed Pycelle by the throat.
Snap!
A sharp, metallic crack echoed through the room.
The heavy chain, the physical manifestation of wisdom and absolute honor, was brutally torn apart.
Dozzens of metallic links rained down onto the stone floor, clattering and pinging in the dead silence.
Pycelle collapsed onto the floor like his strings had been cut, every ounce of strength abandoning his body.
He stared blankly at the shattered metal links scattered around his knees, tears welling up in his cloudy, ancient eyes.