When The Throne Bleeds

29. Cobra in the Council

Yutara had a smirk plastered on his coppery face as he strode through one of the castle's many corridors. The bright sunlight rippled through the ornate windows, casting a golden glow on his handsome face. His taut arm carried a withered book of royal finances, already read and assessed by him.

His feet finally took him to the throne room, and he stopped abruptly at the doors, his mouth morphing into a wide grin as he saw it empty. His predatory black eyes rested on the majestic seat before him, the thousand blades of fallen swords melted into one single throne of ultimate power. It was everything he had imagined it to be, strong, lethal and intimidating. The sharp pointed tips that emerged from it's core made him want to run his fingers over them, maybe even draw a bit of blood.

He chuckled to himself. His blood on the Iron Throne. What a sight.

Standing immobile for a moment, he gazed at the barren throne, narrowing his eyes at it as it stared back blankly at him. Then he turned away from it, walking towards the small council's chamber situated behind the throne room.

He reached a rectangular chamber, made of beige bricks, decorated abundantly with three large ornate windows to his right, offering a panoramic view of the entire capital. To his left was a small garden, filled with whatever plants that made the place look sophisticated. And beyond the rows of emerald green shrubs sprouting out from the garden's rich soil, the path split off to several other destinations.

In the centre stood a long table, it's wood polished off to remove the slightest defect. Yutara skimmed his fingertips on it, momentarily reveling in it's smoothness. Lord Varys and the perverted maester were already sitting on the straight cushioned chairs that had been placed along the length of the table, both of them subtly avoiding small talk with each other.

"Lord Varys. Grand Maester Pycelle." He greeted them as he seated himself beside the maester. The man seemed rather jumpy at that, his body inching away from Yutara.

"Prince Yutara." They responded in unison, although the maester's voice seemed a bit disturbed.

Yutara turned to the maester in a swift movement, placing his elbow on the table. "Maester Pycelle, do maesters normally visit brothels much? Or do they prefer inviting whores to their own chambers?"

The maester hunched his back in a sudden motion and his crumpled eyes rounded around his flaky white skin. "I-I don't see the meaning of this question. Maesters swear the vow of celibacy."

"And do they adhere to it?"

Pycelle gulped, eyes darting between Yutara and Lord Varys. "Yes. Yes, of course. To be a maester, we abandon all desires of the flesh."

"Well then, I think," Yutara leaned back, a wide smile spreading on his lips, "that being the Grand Maester comes with certain privileges."

His black eyes shifted towards the eunuch across the table, whose lips had quirked up in a faint smile, and then towards the gilded doorway, where a second later, Eddard Stark appeared, Ser Barristan at his heel.

The council members rose from their seats to give respect to the Hand, Yutara doing so after sending a last smirk at Pycelle beside him. Lord Stark sank into the centermost chair, the wooden rails of which glided high into the air before twisting gracefully into artistic patterns. A velvet cushion adorned the expanse of the backrest, and Lord Stark leaned heavily into it, his aged eyes weary.

"Tywin Lannister has declared war." He announced, seemingly urging himself to not rub his face in anguish.

The council members shared worried looks, their expressions hardening into the grim looks of bloodshed.