At night, the Small Council chamber in the Red Keep was as oppressive as ever.
The dragon bones hanging on the walls cast monstrous shadows in the firelight, looming over the most powerful people in Westeros seated at the table.
But tonight, a lingering trace of blood hung in the air.
The smell seemed to seep out of the flagstones of the Tournament Grounds, pass through the thick walls, and creep into this room that symbolized the Kingdom's highest authority, clinging to everyone's nostrils.
Robert Baratheon sat slumped on the king's Iron Throne.
He had changed his clothes, but the powerful reek of wine and the exhilaration of slaughter still clung to him like grease.
He toyed with a golden wine cup set with rubies, his clouded eyes sweeping over everyone present, his gaze full of suspicion and impatience.
Ned Stark sat in the Hand of the King's seat, his back ramrod straight.
His face was expressionless, his gray eyes betraying no emotion.
Lord Renly Baratheon, Master of Ships and Robert's youngest brother.
As always, he wore an exquisitely sumptuous velvet coat.
But the face that usually bore an elegant smile was now clouded with undisguised disgust.
He looked at his elder brother as though he were a filthy, hopelessly depraved boar.
Varys, the Master of Whisperers.
The rotund eunuch still wore his loose silk robes, both hands tucked into his sleeves.
A gentle, humble smile rested on his face, but the little eyes buried in his flesh were as sharp as a hawk's, missing not a single detail on anyone's face.
Grand Maester Pycelle, old and sluggish.
He huddled in his seat, his long white beard almost touching the table, looking as though he might fall asleep at any moment.
But everyone knew that this old dog's ears were