"Enough! The two of you, be quiet!"
Cersei's sharp voice cut through the tension, interrupting Petyr and Varys mid-duel.
She hadn't uncovered some deeper plot—she simply found their bickering loud and irritating. How dare they prattle on in front of her without the slightest concern for her presence?
Without waiting for anyone else to speak, she turned to Jon Arryn and said impatiently, "Lord Arryn, I came here today to nominate a successor for the position of Hand of the King."
Her words froze the chamber.
The gathered council members turned toward her in disbelief, not because of the nomination itself—but because of her audacity. The Small Council followed its own unwritten rules, and no one could be sure if the queen was being willfully ignorant or intentionally defiant.
—
Jon Arryn narrowed his eyes. The Lannisters were finally making their move. Was this Cersei's doing… or Lord Tywin's?
He replied coldly, "Your Grace, I've not forgotten my duty. This matter has already been considered."
Cersei scoffed. "Oh? You won't even ask who I plan to recommend? Or are you planning to leave the position… to your young son, Robert Arryn?"
"You—! Cough, cough…"
The jab hit its mark. Jon Arryn was seized by another coughing fit.
Renly chuckled and said with mock amusement, "Your Grace, young Robert still has a long way to grow. But I must admit, that was quite the joke."
Cersei didn't mind the teasing—because there was truth in it. She had long suspected that the Arryns planned to monopolize the office of the Hand. While Robert was only a child, the Vale was more than just the Arryn family, and Cersei had no intention of allowing their influence to linger once Joffrey sat the Iron Throne. Any noble not wearing crimson and gold would be cast out.
—
Once Jon had recovered his breath, he stared at Cersei for a long moment before saying, "It seems only the queen herself is free from personal ambition."
He had already guessed who Cersei intended to propose: Tywin Lannister, her father.
The move reeked of favoritism. She was the queen; he was her blood. Even with excuses, the conflict of interest was glaring.
But Jon knew he wouldn't live much longer. His task was nearly complete: once the royal bloodline issue came to light, no Lannister should be allowed to remain in the Red Keep.
He would let her present her candidate—in exchange for dropping the lockdown plan. A trade.
—
Petyr lowered his eyes, deep in thought.
Today had taken a surprising turn, but it also revealed a rare opportunity. With Jon Arryn visibly ill, the days of acting on his behalf as "messenger" were over.
The great houses would not allow a minor noble like himself to wield such power for long.
Jon's usefulness was wearing thin… but not entirely. Petyr still needed him to become a stepping stone.
—
"I am the queen," Cersei said haughtily, golden curls glinting in the sunlight, "and I act for the good of the realm."
"I, Cersei Lannister, nominate Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden as the next Hand of the King."
Shock rippled across the council.
Cersei's lips curled. "Well, Lord Arryn? Still suspect your queen of selfish motives?"
Inwardly, she was thrilled. This was Gawen's idea, and it was working beautifully.
Not a single one of these so-called lords was her equal.
—
Petyr's heart skipped a beat.
Mace Tyrell? That was a disaster.
The Tyrells had the wealth and power to stabilize the kingdom quickly. And with peace, there would be no chaos—no ladder for him to climb.
He couldn't openly oppose it. The Red Keep had no secrets. Sooner or later, the Tyrells would hear of anything that transpired here.
But he had another idea: the direwolf.
—
Jon Arryn, for his part, worried about the possibility of a Lannister–Tyrell alliance. If the lions and the roses joined forces, then once the truth about the royal bloodline emerged, they would use it as a pretext for war, forging a powerful bloc between the Westerlands and the Reach.
In such times, truth would cease to matter. Only loyalty and alliances would decide who held power.
Another war would engulf all Seven Kingdoms—perhaps worse than the last.
Was he willing to suppress the truth for the sake of peace?
—
Jon was lost in thought, and Petyr grew restless.
He spoke up smoothly, "Lord Hand, Her Grace's recommendation should be taken seriously. The Small Council cannot ignore the queen's wishes. Perhaps both candidates can be presented to His Grace the king."
Jon opened his eyes. A flicker of clarity passed through the weariness.
He knew Robert well. The king had long abandoned his duties, leaving Jon to manage alone. But officially, the choice of Hand still belonged to Robert.
And Jon already knew whom the king would choose.
—
He nodded, speaking clearly now.
"Your Grace, I will inform King Robert of your recommendation."
He forced himself upright. Regardless of whether the lions and roses had already joined hands, he would do his best to sow discord between them.
Perhaps Cersei's blatant proposal was the perfect wedge.
Cersei, for her part, remained aloof and silent.
—
Suddenly, Renly spoke.
"Lord Arryn, please add my name as well. I nominate myself as the next Hand of the King."
He grinned broadly. No one could tell if he was joking.
Jon raised a brow. "Renly… are you serious?"
Renly shrugged. Jon sighed and gave him a subtle nod.
Impulsive as ever.
Jon knew of Renly's close ties to Loras Tyrell, but Loras alone did not represent the Reach.
If this was betrayal, it was a foolish one.
—
Behind Cersei, Jaime's fists clenched.
His emerald eyes burned as he glared at Renly. He had not forgotten the insult Renly had delivered to Cersei in the past.
Gawen had promised to handle Renly—back in Chapter 89.
Lannisters always paid their debts. Jaime would wait… until Gawen returned from Essos.
—
Cersei wasn't finished.
"Lord Arryn, Highgarden is far to the south. We must invite Lord Mace without delay."
Jon frowned. "Your Grace, I am still the Hand of the King. Lord Mace has not been appointed yet—he is merely a nominee."
Cersei scoffed. "Of course. But since he is under consideration, it is only proper to summon him to the Red Keep."
She added with a smirk, "Better that we send the invitation directly, rather than asking the Master of Coin to run errands."
Petyr: "…"
Jon finally saw the whole picture.
This wasn't Cersei's scheme—it was Tywin's.
Cersei lacked the subtlety to pull this off on her own.
She was brash, never calculating. This? This was Tywin Lannister, the true architect.
—
Grand Maester Pycelle rose shakily.
"Lord Arryn, with the Reach's support in grain, you will be able to calm the people when the city is sealed."
Jon turned to Petyr.
Petyr smiled, his voice smooth. "I can already imagine the price of grain skyrocketing. I wouldn't place too much faith in the morals of King's Landing's merchants."
It was the most unhelpful helpful comment Petyr could offer.
Jon frowned but let it pass. Petyr must be just as shaken by Cersei's sudden maneuvering.
Jon's plan for the lockdown—his real purpose—was something only he understood.
Ever since Robert's coronation, the Tyrells had been locked out of the Red Keep. Now, with power in flux, they would not miss the chance to reclaim influence.
Jon had to adjust his strategy.
—
After a moment's thought, he relented.
"We won't rush the lockdown."
Turning to Cersei, he added, "I will write the invitation to Lord Mace myself."
Cersei finally looked pleased.
Varys folded his hands and bowed slightly. "Your Grace, I must remind you—the Red Keep currently has no suitable position for the Lord of Highgarden."
.
.
.
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