Red Keep, the King's Bedchamber.
Morning sunlight poured through the tall arched windows, bathing the chamber in a brilliant red-gold glow. The air carried the rich scent of incense and freshly woven fabric.
Joffrey Baratheon, the newly crowned ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, spread his arms as two maids dressed him in ceremonial robes threaded with gold, embroidered with the crowned stag of Baratheon and the roaring lion of Lannister. A trace of impatience flickered across his face, his toes tapping idly against the ornate carpet.
The heavy oak doors opened, and Queen Regent Cersei Lannister stepped inside. Beneath her gauzy veil, a fresh rose-colored scar glimmered faintly, lending a hint of menace to her cold beauty. She waved the maids away, leaving only mother and son.
Cersei straightened the edge of his robe, her voice calm.
"Joffrey, remember your grandfather, Lord Tywin's command during today's trial of Eddard Stark."
Joffrey adjusted the golden lion brooch at his collar before the mirror, murmuring a distracted, "Mm."
Cersei moved closer and lowered her voice.
"Listen, my child. Eddard Stark must not die—at least not yet. Your grandfather needs him alive."
Joffrey's brow rose in the mirror, confusion and irritation mingling in his eyes.
"Why? He killed Father! He deserves to die!"
"Of course he deserves to die!"
Cersei's eyes flashed with venom before she steadied herself.
"But killing him now helps no one. Your uncle Jaime is still in the hands of that little wolf cub, Robb Stark. We need Eddard alive to exchange for Jaime. Understand? He's our only bargaining chip to bring Jaime back."
Joffrey's lips twisted in open reluctance.
"Why not use his daughter? Sansa's still here in the Red Keep—send her instead!"
Cersei answered patiently, "Joffrey, Sansa will be used to retrieve Uncle Kevan's children. We have too many of our people in the northerners' grasp."
"Damn it!"
The shadow in Joffrey's eyes deepened. He hated being told what to do—especially when the orders came from the grandfather who always loomed over him.
Cersei met his gaze in the mirror.
"At the trial, you will announce that, in recognition of Eddard Stark's service to the realm and his friendship with the late king, and according to ancient custom and law, he is to be shown royal mercy—allowed to take the black and go to the Wall in penance. This is the king's mercy, and more importantly, your grandfather's will. Do you understand?"
Joffrey turned around, forcing what could barely pass for a submissive smile. It never reached his eyes; irritation and defiance simmered beneath the surface.
"Understood, Mother."
Cersei watched him, unease stirring in her chest. Yet, thinking of Tywin's authority and Jaime's fate, she could only trust that her son would at least appear obedient before the court.
"Good."
Cersei nodded, ready to add a few more reminders, when a soft knock came at the door.
"Enter," Joffrey barked impatiently.
The door opened to reveal Petyr Baelish, his signature sly smile firmly in place. He bowed gracefully to the King and Queen.
"Your Grace, Your Majesty, good day. Forgive the intrusion, but there are urgent documents concerning the royal fleet's repair funds that require Your Grace's review and signature."
He indeed carried a scroll of parchment in his hands.
Cersei frowned, displeased by Littlefinger's untimely arrival, though she knew the realm's finances could not be ignored.
Cersei said coldly, "Hurry with the arrangements, Lord Baelish. His Grace is about to preside over the trial."
"Yes, Your Grace," Littlefinger replied respectfully.
With that, Cersei turned and left.
Littlefinger approached Joffrey, unfurling the parchment on the gilded side table beside him. His finger traced several key figures as he explained in an even tone, "Your Grace, look here—the cost of replacing the Dragonbone. And here—the procurement of new canvas..."
Joffrey listened absentmindedly, his gaze drifting over the dull numbers while his mind wandered to the coming trial, imagining Eddard Stark groveling at his feet.
Suddenly, as if remembering something, he interrupted, "Lord Baelish, I recall you knew Eddard Stark? Before he came to King's Landing as Hand of the King?"
Littlefinger raised his head, showing just the right mix of surprise and recollection. "Ah, yes, Your Grace. I was quite close to his lady, and thus had dealings with Lord Eddard on several occasions. The Duke of Winterfell back then... well... was much the same as he is now—a man who placed great value on honor."
Joffrey gave a sharp, mocking laugh. "Honor? Is murdering a king an act of honor?"
His voice dripped with contempt.
Littlefinger bowed slightly, his tone smooth. "Your Grace's insight is admirable. The Great Lord Eddard's actions have indeed sullied the very notion of 'honor.' However, Your Grace, how do you intend to deal with such a traitor—once powerful and respected, now guilty of treason? Will you display boundless mercy, or the unshakable majesty of a true king?"
Joffrey remembered his mother's warning and instinctively curled his lip. "I will send him alive to the Wall."
His tone was laced with clear displeasure.
A faint glint flickered in Littlefinger's eyes. He gave a quiet "Oh," as if pondering something, then spoke slowly. "Mercy is indeed a virtue of a great king. But forgive my candor, Your Grace—strength, not mercy, is a king's true foundation. How do men judge a king? By how he deals with his enemies, by how he upholds the dignity of the crown. Too much mercy can sometimes be mistaken for weakness."
Seeing Joffrey's brow furrow, he went on in a soft, persuasive voice. "Think of your father, King Robert. How did he claim the Iron Throne? With unmatched courage and an iron will. He struck Rhaegar down with his own warhammer. Consider Robb Stark in the North, growing his ambition on the battlefield. If he learns you spared Eddard Stark... what will he think? What will the Northmen think? They'll believe King Joffrey is soft-hearted—perhaps even afraid of them."
"Afraid?!"
Joffrey shot to his feet as if stung by a scorpion, his eyes wide with fury and his face flushed red.
"I am the King! How could I fear those northerners! Eddard Stark killed my father! He deserves to die!"
Littlefinger immediately assumed a posture of alarm, bowing deeply. "Your Grace, please calm your anger. I meant no offense. I merely worry that some foolish people might misinterpret your mercy. Your power is beyond question, but sometimes a single decisive act speaks louder than a thousand words."
He lifted his head, meeting the burning rage in Joffrey's eyes, knowing the seed he had planted was already taking root.
He stepped back respectfully. "The documents can wait for Your Grace's signature. I will not disturb Your Grace as you prepare for the trial."
With another deep bow, he withdrew quietly from the chamber.