I was already sitting when my Small Council arrived. The tension was palpable in Tywin’s steps; Pycelle had even forgotten his fake hobbling; and Varys could barely look in my direction. The only one who seemed oblivious to it all was Mace, who sauntered into the room with the swagger of a peacock.

They should be nervous, too. The past days had been hell. While rewarding in the long term, the whole experience with Melisandre’s entrancing spell and the poisoned wine and using my blood to light up a magic sword had put me in bed with a bone-deep exhaustion I’d never felt in my life. Now, there was a deep burning I couldn’t seem to dampen right behind my eyes, and I felt like blaming everyone for it, if for nothing else then to blow out some steam.

When they were all seated, I nodded graciously to each of them and started, “My lords, thank you for heeding my summons. I believe we have much to speak on, given the happenings of two nights ago.”

“We are your Small Council, Your Grace. We live to serve,” Grand Maester Pycelle said, his wizened hands folded over his stomach. He’d be having his, too.

I gave him a thin smile, then turned to the only eunuch in the room. “Lord Varys, what can you tell me of the city? Do they know what happened that night?” I asked, as if I hadn’t tasked Olenna to tell everyone and their mothers about it. “Are there any rumours going around? I have been, admittedly, locked inside for two days. What do the people know, and what do they think?”

While I could control the information they received, what they did about it was out of my hands. The people’s reactions on this particular issue would guide my next big moves, and it always paid to have every bit of information on all factions on the board. I didn’t want to be shanked on some alley street because some barely-washed peasants decided I was the second coming of the anti-Christ, when I could just simply avoid going out.

Varys tried for a tittering, unbothered smile, failed, and settled for looking in my eyes without flinching for the first time since he walked in. He was wearing dark robes today, bulkier than his usual fare, with silver-lining at the sleeves and a great hood hanging at his back. It would be today, then, I decided.

“Your Grace,” he started, “from what I am told, many gold-cloaks were in the Pavilion the night of the… attack. Inevitably, stories and hearsay have run rampant in the city.”

I gestured him on. “What kind, my lord? What kind?”

“Well, Your Grace, a growing number of peasants have begun to congregate nightly by the Keep’s walls to pray for the Seven… and for their king.”

I nodded, completely ignoring the last part. The sharp gleam in his eyes told me he was looking for a reaction to it. “The castle?” I said. “Not the Sept, then?”

“There’s been some discontent spreading in the city toward the faith,” Varys said. “It seems there have been some attacks by septons, mostly on brothels and taverns.”

I hummed. “Curious.” Bronn was an efficient man. “Grand Maester,” I said suddenly, looking over his way. He swallowed when he noticed the furrow in my brow. “From everything I have ever heard, the official position of maesters and the Citadel is that magic is dead and gone from this world. Now, far be it from me to gainsay our illustrious knights of knowledge, but I could swear a shadow-demon just tried to kill me not two days ago.” Pycelle sank on his seat like a puddle the further I spoke. When he kept quiet, I prodded, “Well? Speak up, Grand Maester.”

He sputtered for a moment. “Your Grace, well…” I saw sweat beading on his balding forehead. “It, uh, it is possible that with the resurgence of dragons in the east, some small, uh, spark of magic may have reignited and flared up the fire of the gods we know as magic from its dying embers.”

My head pulsed with heat, and I considered having him killed right there. “How poetic,” I said, gritting my teeth. Just hearing his rasping voice filled me with an inexplicable rage.

I must have blanked out for a moment, because I came back to someone already speaking. “If I may ask, Your Grace.” It was Pycelle again. Wonderful. “Where is Ser Balon of the Kingsguard? I heard he was injured during the attack, but he never made it to my table.”

I fixed him a look that begged to know if he was an idiot. “Why, Grand Maester, I obviously sent him to someone who didn’t speak of magic as if it was all children’s fancies like you imbeciles in the Citadel, didn’t I?”

The Grand Maester nearly recoiled on his seat, and I saw Tywin frowning my way. He cleared his throat. “Now that the pissing contest is done. Tell me, Your Grace, where is the red woman? She disappeared after my men took her to the dungeons.”

Something rose up in me, and the fire in my head built up into an inferno. I wanted to tell him that I’d fucked her then shoved a sword in her chest and watched as her skin and muscles and bones broke into dust and scattered across my drawing room.

And he’d be the next one if he kept questioning me as if he was my superior.

But one of my hands instinctively went to Lightbringer sitting at my waist, searching. I’d wrapped the handle back in black leather, but the warmth of the hilt where the ruby sat inside was still there. When my hand found the spot, I sighed in the comfort it provided me. In a moment, the pain in my head faded to a dull ache.

I exhaled a breath and forced a smile at Lord Tywin. “Stannis lived in this city for nearly twenty years, grandfather. I didn’t want to risk her being rescued. One of my men took her somewhere and… disposed of her, quietly.”

His eyes narrowed in suspicion, but after I stared at him back for a second, he relented with a nod.

“Your Grace,” Mace called. “Let me just say how honored we are to join our houses. Myself specifically. Being the future good-father of a king was one thing , but a demon-slayer as well.” He broke into guffaws then, his great belly shaking with the effort. “I’m not sure I’m quite up to the task, my king.”

Lightbringer’s warmth had me on a high, so I laughed with him. “It is I that should be honored, Lord Mace,” I said. “And please, express my deepest apologies to Lady Margaery for worrying her so. It has been a traumatic experience for us all, I’m sure, and I needed the time to rest and recuperate in my rooms. I will come to visit her in the morrow.”

“And about the marriage—”

I waved the question away before he could form it. “Do not worry about it, my lord. I intend to visit the High Septon and the Most Devout soon, and we will set a date on the marriage. As soon as your… contribution to our shared dynasty is present, of course.”

Mace beamed. “Of course, Your Grace. Oh, that is just wonderful news. I will send riders to escort the caravan right away.”

“There’s something else I must ask of you, Lord Mace.” He perked up like a tamed dog, ready to roll over at my command. “I would like you to summon the lords Tarly and Redwyne to the capital. To celebrate the joining of our houses, of course, but also to plan an invasion of Dragonstone using forces from the Reach, the Westerlands, and the Crownlands. I will ink the letters with my signet ring, as well.”

When I looked right, Tywin had blazing eyes burning a trail my way, his jaw set in anger. He didn’t like being the last one in on the joke. “And when were you planning on informing us on this decision, Your Grace?”

“Now,” I told him easily. “This attack by the red woman was clearly a ploy by Stannis to have me removed from the Throne. We must be shown to respond with thrice the force if needs be.”

“He’s fled the island, my lords,” Varys said, looking at no one in particular. “Heading north, as far as my little birds were able to find out. Though his destination, I know not.”

I nodded. So it seems at least that went as expected. “With his exhausted army, only a token force must sit at the keep. We can take Stannis’ last remaining stronghold, and cut him off from any relief.” And start mining that sweet dragonglass, too.

The meeting continued with other frivolous problems and concerns the different members on the council had, from a shortage of raven feed at the rookery to a lack of proper equipment for the gold-cloaks and Mace’s drama over what he would have for supper. The soothing of the ruby was the only thing that allowed me to follow through with the topics without bringing down a flaming Lightbringer on them all.

I was barely listening when it was all done and I’d dismissed them, then I motioned Lord Tywin Lannister stayed behind. He looked at me for a long minute before he spoke. “A rider came in the night,” he said. “From Kevan. He’s near the inn, already.”

I nodded. I could see how much he wanted to ask how I knew when and where Kevan should wait, but he seemed too perturbed about everything that’s happened to say the words. Or perhaps the Great Lord Tywin Lannister was afraid of the answer, that I’d tell him I saw the future in the shadow-demon’s eyes or some such nonsense. I would’ve laughed at it if I didn’t know Bran was out somewhere copulating with a fucking tree and seeing everything everyone does like a stalking creep.

“Then I await further news about it, Lord Hand.”

When it comes to magic in ASOIAF, nothing is free. Power requires sacrifice. What did Tommen had to pay for his own Lightbringer, then?