The news that Duskendale had fallen, the Mountain had been beheaded, and Cersei and Tyrion had been captured flew like a poisoned arrow across the plains and hills of the Crownlands, straight into King's Landing and the Throne Room deep within the Red Keep.
When the news arrived, Joffrey Baratheon, already seething over the failure to crush the rebels, sprang from the bitterly cold throne forged from countless swords.
"What?!"
Rage distorted his shrill, still-boyish voice, which echoed piercingly beneath the Throne Room's soaring vaults:
"That dwarf! That worthless monster! It's one thing for him to be stupid enough to get himself killed, but he dragged the queen mother into danger too? Useless! Utterly useless! A disgrace to House Lannister!"
He paced furiously across the dais before the throne, kicking the gold-trimmed hem of his crimson robe into a flutter, his face flushed red and twisted with savagery.
"I'll cut off his head! Once he's brought back, I'll hack off that misshapen head myself and mount it on a spike at the Red Keep for the crows to peck! Let everyone in King's Landing see what happens to a useless fool who defies his king and brings calamity upon the queen mother!"
He roared, spittle flying, like an enraged lion cub with nowhere to vent its fury.
His gaze swept over the empty council table below, and that emptiness wounded his fragile nerves all the more.
Not so long ago, his mother Cersei and a host of shrewd or cunning ministers had sat there. Though they argued endlessly, the kingdom had still seemed to function, and power had still revolved around him.
But now? His mother was captured, Tyrion was a prisoner... and where were those ministers?
"Where are they?! Where in hell have they all gone?" Joffrey abruptly stopped,