Would Robert really want Tywin as Hand?
Staring at that fat, bearded face, Joffrey fell into thought.
He had never bought the act that Robert was just a big dumb brute.
Right after the Rebellion ended, the man had locked the entire kingdom down with shocking speed—marriages, alliances, even mercy to old enemies.
Jon Arryn had advised him, sure, but Robert's own moves had been clean and ruthless.
That was why half the small council was still made up of men from the old regime.
Joffrey swept his eyes around the long table without moving his head, picking apart who had planted the idea.
Grand Maester Pycelle's chest was still heaving like he'd run the whole way.
Littlefinger stroked his chin, eyes sliding away the second they met Joffrey's.
Varys sat with hands folded, purple robes shimmering in the lamplight, face calm as still water.
Renly Baratheon looked bored out of his mind, trimming his nails.
Lord Commander Barristan Selmy sat straight as a white-armored statue, thinking about nothing.
The Master of Ships seat was empty—Stannis had bolted back to Dragonstone the moment the Hand got sick and skipped the funeral entirely.
After scanning the room full of idiots and bootlickers, Joffrey had his answer.
He shook his head.
"Lord Tywin isn't right for it."
Every eye snapped to him.
"Oh?" Robert leaned forward, massive body shifting. "Explain."
"Three reasons," Joffrey said, calm and clear.
"First, Lord Tywin rules with an iron fist. The realm needs peace and stability right now, not the kind of thunder he likes."
Varys gave a tiny nod.
"Second, he let his men sack King's Landing. Plenty of smallfolk still hold a grudge. If he moves into the Red Keep it would tarnish your honor, Father."
Joffrey glanced at Littlefinger. The man's usual half-smile froze for a split second.
Pycelle wiped sweat from his brow. "Your Grace, that was years ago. Lord Tywin is—"
"Let the boy finish," Robert cut in, leaning in closer, clearly entertained.
"Third," Joffrey went on, "Lord Tywin is Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock. Make him Hand on top of that and the Lannisters will own King's Landing—coin, swords, the whole council. Everything in the hands of the queen's family. It destroys the balance at court."
"So Lord Tywin cannot be Hand."
The chamber went dead quiet for a beat.
Then Robert threw his head back and roared with laughter.
"Ha ha ha! Good lad—you see straight through it!" He jabbed a thick finger at the table. "You lot are supposed to be the clever ones."
"How the hell is my own son the only one who spotted what's obvious?"
Varys spoke first, voice smooth as silk. "Prince Joffrey is gifted beyond his years. His reasoning is flawless."
"However… if not Lord Tywin, does Your Grace have someone else in mind?"
Robert snorted. "What do you think?"
Renly set down his nail file and stretched.
Joffrey had been waiting for this. He spoke right on cue.
"Eddard Stark."
"Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and one of the realm's most loyal bannermen."
His voice rang clear and steady.
"Why him?" Renly blurted. "That Stark bastard's only been south once in his life."
Before Joffrey could answer, Littlefinger jumped in.
"Exactly why the Stark family has no entanglements with the crown. No one else will feel threatened. And Lord Eddard is famous for his honor and fairness." He turned to Joffrey. "Am I right, Your Grace?"
Joffrey gave a small nod.
The slippery fucker had probably spent last night whispering in favor of Tywin alongside Pycelle. Now that he smelled something better for himself, he flipped on a dime.
Robert seemed to be thinking—or pretending to.
Joffrey pressed the advantage. "More important, Father—you trust Lord Eddard."
"The way you trust your own brother."
Robert's eyes sharpened. Then a huge grin split his face and he slammed the table with one meaty hand.
"Perfect! That's exactly it!"
"Hit me right in the damn heart!"
The two smiling jackals and the stag across the table quickly chimed in. "Yes, yes, well said."
Renly looked like he wanted to argue, then slumped back. "Fine."
A second later he was grinning again. "But nephew, you're giving your uncle way too much credit. Sounds like ten of me couldn't match him."
The rest of the council immediately started heaping praise on Joffrey.
He soaked it up with an arrogant little smirk that said he damn well deserved every word.
Because right then, history—after he'd already shoved it off course—had just been yanked back onto a new path.
He might have used Robert as the hammer, but he was also testing the role he was supposed to play.
[Heaven's Will Points +3]
Not much.
He wondered how much "iron will" the system actually wanted.
Still, he really didn't want Tywin as Hand.
Short-term it would have been safer.
But the old lion's grip was iron. Joffrey wouldn't claw his way out for ten years, and he didn't have that kind of time.
Eddard Stark was different.
In this world some people believed everything and some believed nothing.
Some trusted only the first voice they heard; others only the last.
The Starks were clearly the first kind.
Eddard was honest to a fault and cared about his honor.
A little careful steering and the man would go exactly where Joffrey pointed.
After a short discussion Robert spoke again, voice leaving no room for debate.
"Any objections?"
"Then it's settled."
"Petyr, arrange the journey. After the tourney I'll ride north myself and bring him back."
Joffrey's eyelid twitched.
They were still doing the tourney first?
Jon Arryn's death had already been moved up before his nameday because of Joffrey's meddling.
He wanted to see if the butterfly wings he'd flapped could actually change the timetable.
If they waited two more months everything would slide right back onto the old rails.
"Father," he said immediately, "why not ride north first?"
"Lord Eddard can ride south with us. You'll want to throw him a welcome feast anyway."
"Why not push my nameday back a little? Once we're home we can combine both celebrations into one massive event for the whole realm. Wouldn't that be better?"
Robert rubbed his chin and muttered.
"Combine them? How big could it even be… I was thinking we'd just party for months straight…"
He glanced at Joffrey and waved a hand. "Ah, forget it. It's your nameday—your call. Long as you don't feel cheated, we'll do it together when we get back."
Joffrey nodded at once.
Honestly he'd rather skip the damn thing entirely.
The royal treasury would bleed gold, plus whatever loans they squeezed from his grandfather. That was all his money they were burning.
With the old Hand dead, nothing would hold Robert's spending in check.
The man already pissed away coin like water. Two huge events back-to-back would drain tens of thousands of gold dragons.
Joffrey figured the meeting was over and started to rise.
He still wanted to go test those powders.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Robert's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Sit your ass down."
"You're staying for the rest of the council meeting!"