Cat.

Cat had only seen the inside of the old Targaryen hotel a few times when Aerys had been alive. She remembered a cold, white marble cocoon, with no discernible trace of warmth or personality and a clinical, acidic smell. But now the place was alive with workmen, stripping and chipping away, like a hundred busy ants swarming over a dead carcass. Robert was wasting no time in making the hotel his own. The giant marble Chinese dragons under the reception desk remained but they were the only things she could readily recognise. There were dust sheets across the floors, the smell of paint thick in the air and all around, the buzz of electric power tools echoing. The hotel's grand re-opening was scheduled for two weeks time, and right now that seemed awfully close. Cat was doubtful all of Robert's plans could be made reality by then, but nevertheless, she had to admire his ambition.

They picked their way through the debris towards the elevator, and were soon spirited away to the upper floors. The workmen were there too, but in much smaller numbers. Most of their efforts were concentrated on the area's the public would see. Aerys' old apartments were largely untouched for the time being, although Cat knew Robert had plans for those as well. For now, just the old man's furniture had been removed, replaced with a haphazard collection of pieces that reflected Roberts more eclectic taste. Cat had never seen the inside of the penthouse before, but for the first time found herself thinking that perhaps it would have been better as it was before. At least Aerys seemed to have had a little more sense of taste and continuity.

Robert was waiting for them in one of the boardrooms. There were windows across three of the walls, flooding it with light. The large table was deep chestnut oak, polished to a shine with pleasing scents of leather and beeswax. A shining chrome bar was in the corner, with crystal decanters filled with amber, gold and burgundy and a bucket of ice. People were standing around idly, filling glasses, talking quietly.

Robert was seated at the head of the table, already with a drink in hand. His tattooed arms were covered by shirt sleeves, tucked in loosely to smart looking trousers. If it weren't for the shaven head and the careless way he had slung himself in to the chair, he might look as though he had always belonged. Cat recognised some faces and it seemed Robert had invited nearly everyone. Tywin Lannister stood apart from everyone, silent and still with his back to the window, looking straight ahead as Roose Bolton spoke to him in hushed whispers. One of Robert's brother was there too, another largely silent figure, measuring each person up and apparently finding them wanting by the sour look on his face. A tall, thin man with hair shot with silver talked to a younger man who was his image and ignored everyone else. She saw Jon Arryn seated near Robert, with other men she did not recognise, leaning in close and nodding earnestly at whatever he was saying. All around the room, figures robed in black stood with their backs against the wall and the recognisable bulge of a revolver at their hips. Cat knew some of their names, and knew what they had done. Her uneasiness made her feel nervous, but she shook it away as best she could. They had sworn new allegiances, she reminded herself. They are Robert's men now, in theory at least.

She took a seat at the table while her father did his greetings and Edmure fetched them drinks. Across the table, her gaze fell on a pair of serious grey eyes, the colour of stone. She smiled clumsily but apparently Eddard's attention was elsewhere as he seemed to look right through her. When her brother came back with her drink, she turned away from his uneasy stare and sank back in to the chair.

The others were coming to take their seats now and soon the chatter fell away in to more serious talk. Robert held court from the head of the table, slipping further and further in the role before Cat's eyes. The angry young man was still there, hidden under the stiff clothes and the patter, masked by the glamour of the boardroom, but he was doing a good job of holding him in. The last few months had changed everything, him included. He didn't seem so young any more. Nobody did. She glanced across to the Stark boy sitting opposite her and realised at once that she would have to stop calling him that. They were not boys, not now. He was he the oldest one left, a family of two where there had once been five. She remembered Brandon then, and a cup of coffee in her kitchen. It was another lifetime ago.

'I have no intention of messing anyone around' Robert was saying loudly. 'As far as I'm concerned, things can stay as they were under Aerys. I see no point in changing up everyone's percentages. The system wasn't broken; just the man running it.'

There were nods from the majority and mummers of agreement. The tall, silver haired man and his son remained stoic, Cat noticed.

'That is unfortunate' he said crisply from the far end of the table. 'We had hoped that a new regime might allow things to be distributed more fairly.'

'We know what changes you'd like, Balon' said Robert meeting the older man's eye. 'Aerys knew too and he didn't give it to you. Why should I?'

Balon Greyjoy lent back on his chair and regarded Robert with a hard, unblinking stare.

'Remind us again, why is it that we are all expected to just roll over and accept your authority on this matter? What worth do you have exactly, an unproven boy?'

Cat watched as the assembled power of the city shifted its gaze from Balon to Robert, silent and waiting. No one spoke up.

They agree with him she thought, as her heart went to the fierce young man at the head of the table. Don't give them what they want. They expect you to explode. Don't do it, don't do it.

Robert held the eyes of the table steady, the muscles of his neck and jaw taut. He leant forward, rising slightly from his chair as his hands spread out across the slick surface of the table. His words came out quietly, the battle for control evident in the slight tremor that accompanied them.

'And what is it that you have to boast about Greyjoy? How many achievements do you have to your name? Or is it that you've just been happy to sit in the shadows and pick at the leftovers Aerys threw your way. Have any of you ever done anything different? When the shit started to rain down, did any of you move to stop it? No. When he began to screw us over, one by one, you looked the other way and kept your heads down. I stood in this exact room, nearly six months ago, listening to the ravings of a mad man as he threatened to have the woman I love - one of our own! – killed. And still nothing from you. And when he murdered her family in cold blood in this very building, it was me who took the first step. It was me. It was me who found that son of bitch's fucking son and shot him right between the eyes for what he did. It was me. I lit the match that blew that old man clear away. So how about you try telling me again why I don't deserve to take everything he left. How about you look at what I did, and you try telling me I'm not worthy.'

The silence was heavy. It smothered them. Cat glanced at Balon and saw the flinch in his expression; small but noticeable, a crack at the corner of his watery eyes. Delicately, he let his hands fall to his sides and he stood – a motion so fluid it seemed almost instant. The men in black all moved as one, hands instantly on their weapons. Balon laughed then, and his chuckle broke across the silence like ripples across a lake.

'Calm yourselves' he said to the room, raising his hands with palms exposed. 'We're leaving. Rodrik, come.'

They turned away from the table, father and son both, making their way to the door. But Robert wasn't finished with them yet.

'If you leave this room, I'll take it that I no longer have your co-operation' he said carefully. 'Any privileges you might have had might need to be reconsidered.'

Balon stopped in the doorway to chuckle again. He did not turn when he spoke.

'Privileges?' he snorted. 'Do what you want Baratheon. What was it you said, about leftovers? Well perhaps you're right. And perhaps I'm tired of being hungry.'