The newly crowned King Joffrey Baratheon of Westeros sat upon the Iron Throne with a smug smirk as his mother stood by his side, looking rather more cheerful than usual. Her husband had just died. This was not unexpected. He was a glutton and a drunk: his liver and stomach had unanimously decided to commit treason once the first opportunity arose, before either of them exploded, and the queen had been of a similar mind ever since Joffrey had been born.
As it turned out, none of the above had to do a single thing.
Robert Baratheon had been with his court shortly before the tragic accident, where they had been discussing various matters with his newly appointed Hand, Eddard Stark, when Varys arrived twenty minutes later than usual.
"You're late," King Robert snapped. "What's your excuse this time? One of your little birds shit on you?"
"Hopefully not this time, your grace," Varys said apologetically. "I have news of the Targaryens. They have formed a rather unusual alliance with one Khal Drogo of the Dothraki tribes."
"You told me they were planning this already," he said sharply. "What of it?"
"The arrangement... did not go as foreseen."
"What? Oh," he said dully, holding a hand over his eyes, "he's got her up the duff already, hasn't he? They have no standards, these people."
"Far from it, your grace."
"Eh? What do you mean? Speak up!"
Varys paused and decided for the sake of the fragile minds of the court to approach the king and whisper in his ear instead.
King Robert listened carefully, one eyebrow raised.
Once the story was told, the room was silent.
Then King Robert started laughing.
And he didn't stop laughing, even when his heaves turned to gasps, then to hoarse whispers, then finally to trapped wind escaping as the court quickly called for Maester Pycelle and two strong men trained specifically for the task of carrying fat men long distances at the behest of a foresighted Littlefinger.
One day later, Joffrey had been crowned king and was currently executing people for very little reason under supervision from the queen regent, who paid him very little attention.
"And why, pray tell," asked Joff patronisingly, "did the lyrics of said song contain only two semi-intelligible syllables and a strangled cough?"
"'Cuz the king laughed himself to death, sire," the minstrel muttered.
"Do you think this is suitable conduct on the days following your beloved king's death?"
"It is compared to the song we wrote about the Beggar King," he muttered.
"Oh, is it? Tell me," he said in an amused tone. "Did you write a song about me yet?"
"No, do you want me to? I have a great many songs pre-written, your grace, they need only your grace's name in the blank spaces and a word that rhymes with it—"
"Ridiculous nonsense," Cersei interrupted. "Ser Ilyn, if you would."
"About these songs first—" Joffrey cut in.
"I wouldn't advise humouring the convicted traitor, Joffrey," she said coldly.
Ser Ilyn Payne raised his sword high and brought it down on the man's head before he had to chance to bow it.
"I would have liked to hear the song about the Beggar King first," Joffrey said sourly.
"He has them written down, he said so himself. Next victim—er, subject, please."
As the next victim-er-subject emerged, Cersei let her mind wander to Jaime, who was speaking with their father before practise for the upcoming tourneys the king had spent so long organising. She was looking forward to seeing him swordfight. He looked good sword fighting. He looked good doing anything, really. Even picking his nose, which Cersei only found out through Joffrey and Tommen doing it, the only thing that made her children less perfect than him. Jaime would never pick his nose, but seeing the boys doing it with their noses being perfectly identical to his put her off spending time with him regardless.
She could do that all she liked now, she realised. Now that she finally had the room to herself, Jaime could come in as much as he wanted. The thought made her tingle.
She had plotted her husband's death ever since Jon Arryn had snuffed it – or been snuffed out, she thought triumphantly. The man had been interfering. The man was always interfering. Fine, maybe his suspicions about her spending nights – and often afternoons – with her twin brother while the king hunted for things to stab might have been true that time. But she didn't have to accuse the kids of being bastards. Even if they were, technically. But at least they were pretty. She had seen Robert's off shoots before. They were ugly as sin.
A severed head struck her on the shin hard and she yelped in surprise.
"Apologies, Mother, Ser Ilyn meant to send it the other way," Joffrey said quickly.
Ser Ilyn shrugged apologetically.
Cersei sighed and kicked it away. It was going to be a long day.
Stark sauntered in as the severed head was collected sheepishly by Payne. "Your grace," he bowed to Joffrey. "My queen."
"Yes, Lord Hand?" she said loathsomely. She decided she would appoint Jaime as the Hand of the King someday, but she never got around to it what with the fat king's burial coming up. She didn't like Eddard Stark. He was too honourable. It made him look pigheaded.
"I would like to beg your permission to resign my post as Hand of the King."
Cersei paused. This was going easier than she thought it would. "Why would you ever want to do that, Lord Stark?" she asked sweetly.
"I must return to my son, Brandon," he said courteously. "His life was threatened, I must tend to him and my wife Catelyn. I'm sure you understand, your grace."
She nodded. She supposed she did. "I wouldn't have been able to cope if one of my children had befallen such a fate." Particularly considering Jaime had pushed him, she reflected. "I will grant you this resignation, with the king's permission, of course."
Eddard looked towards Joffrey half-heartedly. She could see the hope fading from his eyes fast. She couldn't blame him.
Joffrey glanced at him in disdain. "What of the Lady Sansa?" he asked mildly.
Eddard gulped.
Cersei smiled. He didn't want her to marry him. It had all been Robert's idea really, Stark had just gone along with it to shut him up. Much like how I spent the past years, she thought. Except she did it because she knew he would die soon. Ned did it because he was a pushover.
"He thinks it would be wise to end the engagement, your grace," Cersei supplied with a smirk. "Mayhaps we shall find you a more suitable match."
"More suitable? What do you mean, your grace?" Stark asked with a frown.
"Well, perhaps Sansa is not such suitable company for the king considering her sister's behavioural tendencies," she said spitefully, her eyes flitting briefly to Joffrey's ruined arm where the little witch's direwolf had got him.
Joff cradled it in remembrance.
"The direwolves have been dealt with, you grace. They will not harm the king again," he said slightly indignantly. "As for Arya, she will be coming with me. Sansa has plenty of good friends here, she will no longer need her little sister around."
"As you say, but we have yet to get to know Sansa fully," the queen pointed out. "Her courtesy has served her well, but it is only a matter of time before her true self emerges – whatever that may be."
"Hush, Mother," Joffrey said, to her surprise. "Sansa shall stay here as planned. Lord Stark may leave for Winterfell with Arya and his men."
"Are your sure? I'm told Margaery Tyrell is yet to be wed—"
"I do not care. Sansa is to be my queen."
Cersei scowled. She despised Sansa Stark, the simpering little snot. Not an ounce of character in her. The day she spent quality time with her willingly would be the day hell froze over. At least then there would be something interesting to talk about.
"As you please, your grace," Stark said with a bow. "Sansa shall remain here with you. May I be excused to say my goodbyes?"
"Of course, my lord," Joffrey said amiably. "Safe journey. Be sure to return for the wedding, we will send you an invite, of course."
"I'm afraid there will no longer be a wedding to invite us to, your grace."
Cersei turned her head to the entrance.
Catelyn Tully stood at the doorway, Lord Baelish at her side.
