Tides of Power

The Small Council chamber was a grand yet oppressive room within the Red Keep, its walls lined with crimson and gold banners bearing the lion of House Lannister. The air smelled of perfumed oils and wax from the numerous candles flickering atop the polished oak table, but despite the room's luxury, the tension hanging within it was thick, bordering on suffocating.

At the head of the table, Queen Regent Cersei Lannister sat rigid in her seat, her fingers drumming impatiently against the carved wood. Her normally poised and regal expression was absent; in its place, a mask of fury twisted her beautiful features, her emerald eyes alight with rage. The goblet of Arbor gold beside her remained untouched, though her nails had scratched lightly against its surface.

She was furious. Livid.

Across from her, Grand Maester Pycelle shifted in his seat, his hands clasped atop his broad belly, his face pinched into an expression of uneasy contemplation. To her right, Lord Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, was relaxed as ever, a faint smirk dancing on his lips, as if he found amusement in the chaos surrounding them. He twirled the gold ring on his pinky finger, his sharp eyes flitting between the gathered council members.

Then there was Varys, the Master of Whispers, dressed in his flowing silken robes, his smooth, plump hands resting on the table. His bald head gleamed in the candlelight, his soft expression unreadable.

Cersei's voice cut through the tense silence like a blade. "How did this happen?" She demanded, slamming her fist against the table. The sound echoed through the chamber, startling even Pycelle, whose heavy jowls quivered as he shifted in his chair.

No one answered immediately.

It was Baelish who finally spoke, his voice light and lilting, as though this were nothing more than a minor inconvenience rather than a catastrophe. "Well, this is certainly unfortunate," he mused, swirling the wine in his goblet. "Though perhaps not entirely unexpected. Lord Stark does have a remarkable talent for surviving his own mistakes."

Cersei whipped her gaze toward him, eyes blazing with barely restrained fury. "Do you find this amusing, Lord Baelish?" She spat out.

Baelish chuckled under his breath, shrugging. "I find it remarkable that someone as blunt as Eddard Stark managed to escape from under our noses. Or that his honour would allow him to escape facing trial."

Cersei's jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles in her neck tensed. She turned to Varys next, eyes narrowing. "And what of you, Lord Varys? You are supposed to know everything that happens in this city. You are the Master of Whispers, yet you knew nothing of this?"

Varys let out a deliberate, exaggerated sigh, his expression one of calm patience. "Your Grace," he said smoothly, his voice oily and soothing, "I knew that Lord Stark had many friends, but I must confess, I did not foresee this particular scheme before it unfolded. I had my little birds watching the Red Keep, but they whisper many things. There is only so much I can do when plans are made outside these walls, beyond my ears."

Cersei's lip curled in disgust. "You knew nothing of who was behind this?" She pressed.

Varys spread his hands, as if in surrender. "I have my suspicions, of course," he said, tilting his head. "But narrowing down Lord Stark's allies is a difficult task. We must remember, Eddard Stark was not without friends. The Vale still holds sympathies for him, the Riverlands rise in his name, and the North is now in open rebellion. Any one of them could have had a hand in this."

Cersei gritted her teeth. "This is a disaster. That Stark fool should have been executed by now, not running free to join his son's war," she hissed, gripping the arm of her chair so tightly her knuckles went white.

Pycelle, who had remained mostly silent, finally cleared his throat and spoke in his usual, ponderous drawl. "With all due respect, Your Grace," he said, shifting uncomfortably, "Lord Stark's execution was always a delicate matter. He is well-loved by many, and should we have executed him outright, we would have only hastened the North's rebellion rather than preventing it."

Cersei shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. "Do you think we have prevented it now?" She snapped.

Pycelle faltered, lowering his head. "Perhaps… not," he admitted.

"Perhaps not?" Cersei echoed mockingly before shaking her head in frustration.

Baelish exhaled, setting his goblet down. "Regardless of the how, the reality is this—Eddard Stark and his daughters are free, and we no longer have them as leverage against the North," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "This complicates matters significantly."

Varys nodded, his fingers lightly tapping the table. "Indeed," he agreed. "And with Stannis gathering men at Dragonstone and Renly departing for the Reach, we may soon find ourselves fighting on more than just one front. If Renly succeeds in bringing the Tyrells to his cause, he will have the largest army in Westeros."

At that, the room fell into an uneasy silence.

Cersei's anger burned hotter, her fury bubbling beneath the surface, but now, for the first time in the discussion, there was something else beneath it.

Unease.

The war was beginning, and their enemies were multiplying.

The Small Council chamber remained steeped in suffocating tension, the flickering candlelight casting long, wavering shadows across the polished oak table. Cersei Lannister sat rigid and unmoving, her fingers curled tightly against the armrests of her chair, her nails biting into the wood. The air was heavy, not just with her frustration but with the undeniable truth that was beginning to settle over the room.

They were losing control.

Renly Baratheon had left for the Reach, and if he succeeded in securing an alliance with House Tyrell, he would command the largest army in Westeros. That alone was a pressing issue. But now, a new and perhaps greater threat loomed over them.

Lord Eddard Stark was free and that changed everything.

Grand Maester Pycelle, seated beside Cersei, had taken to slowly stroking his long white beard, his wispy brows furrowed in deep thought. His breath came in wheezing inhales, but he said nothing, as if hoping that the weight of this conversation would pass him by.

It did not.

Varys, the Master of Whispers, cleared his throat, his soft, measured voice breaking the silence. "There is one…undeniable problem we must now address." He tilted his head, his smooth hands resting lightly upon the table. "The Riverlands are scattered and all but defeated, but the North still stands strong. And now that Lord Stark is free…"

He let the words hang in the air, waiting for someone else to complete the thought.

It was Petyr Baelish who took the bait, leaning forward with an easy smile, though his eyes gleamed with calculation. "If Robb Stark manages to secure the Riverlands, his forces will swell. But more importantly, if Lord Eddard Stark joins him, that outcome is all but assured."

The words felt like a knife to the gut.

Cersei's grip on her chair tightened, her fury bubbling just beneath the surface. "He would be a fool to march south after everything that's happened," she hissed. "The boy is fighting a losing war."

Baelish chuckled under his breath. "A losing war, Your Grace? Tell me, do you still believe that?" He leaned back, one leg casually crossing over the other. "A week ago, I might have agreed with you. But now? Now, I find myself wondering…"

Cersei's lip curled in disgust, but she did not argue.

Varys nodded. "Lord Stark's influence alone is concerning enough. The lords of the Riverlands may be hesitant, but the Northern lords follow Ned Stark with an almost unshakable loyalty. And if he stands beside his son…" He sighed softly, tapping his fingers together. "Well, that will make our war all the more difficult."

Pycelle cleared his throat, his voice thick with age and phlegm. "I do not see how this changes anything," he grumbled. "The boy has raised his banners and marches to war. It is too late to undo what has been done."

Varys glanced toward him, his expression unreadable. "Oh, I think you underestimate just how much worse things can get, Grand Maester."

Pycelle bristled but said nothing, instead choosing to sink further into his seat.

Baelish took over. "The real problem is not just the North," he said smoothly. "It is the Vale."

At this, Cersei narrowed her eyes, a sliver of doubt flickering across her face. "What of the Vale?"

Baelish smiled, his fingers tracing lazy circles along the polished wood of the table. "Lady Lysa Arryn has kept the Vale out of the war," he reminded them. "But she is not the true power in the Vale. The lords there despise her. They tolerate her because she controls the boy, and the boy is the heir of Jon Arryn." His gaze hardened, sharp as a blade. "But if Eddard Stark arrives at the Eyrie, not even Lysa will be able to keep them from marching south."

The room fell into silence.

The Vale had remained neutral until now, but should that change…

Cersei knew enough of the Vale to understand the danger. Jon Arryn had raised Eddard Stark as his own son. The Vale lords had fought beside him in Robert's Rebellion. They had bled for him. Even after all these years, many of them still held great love and respect for him. If Eddard Stark stood in the Vale, they would listen.

Not even Lysa Arryn would be able to hold them back.

Baelish smirked, seeing the realization settle over them like a storm cloud. "Make no mistake," he said, his voice silken and smug. "If Eddard Stark reaches the Vale, the knights of the Vale will join the Starks."

Cersei's jaw clenched.

That could not be allowed to happen.

Baelish, sensing the moment to assert himself, spread his hands out in a gesture of ease. "However," he continued, "I can ensure that does not happen."

Cersei's eyes snapped toward him. "You?"

Baelish's smile widened. "The Vale lords trust me. Or, at the very least, they trust that I can be of use to them. If you grant me the time, I can make certain that they remain neutral. And, in the future…well, I may even be able to sway them to Joffrey's side instead."

Pycelle scoffed. "You think to keep the Vale out of war? That is a bold claim, Lord Baelish."

Baelish chuckled under his breath. "It is what I do, Grand Maester. I make bold claims and then make good on them."

Varys nodded thoughtfully. "It would be in our best interest if you succeeded, Lord Baelish."

Baelish simply smiled.

Cersei did not like relying on Baelish, but at the moment, she had little choice.

Still, even if the Vale remained neutral, another concern still remained.

"The boy will not be able to resist his father's words," Pycelle said suddenly, his face grave. "Lord Stark will urge his son to bend the knee to Stannis or Renly."

Varys nodded. "That is…the most likely scenario," he agreed.

That brought another silence to the room. Renly Baratheon might soon become the greatest military threat should he secure the Reach, but if Eddard Stark declared for Stannis…that would change everything.

Many of the Stormland lords may abandon Renly to follow Stannis. That would give Stannis much of the Stormlands, the full might of the North and Riverlands, and possibly even the Vale if Littlefinger failed to contain them.

In no scenario did Joffrey stand a chance against either Stannis or Renly.

The room grew heavy with that knowledge.

Cersei's fingers curled into fists.

The war was slipping from their grasp.