Nights in the Master of Coin's Tower were even quieter than in the Tower of the Hand.
The air smelled of old parchment and dried ink.
Sansa Stark sat behind the oversized desk, candlelight lending an almost unreal quality to her intent profile.
She had not followed Lynn's suggestion and used her authority as Master of Coin to arrest those two parasites outright.
She knew she was standing on the edge of a cliff, with a bottomless abyss beneath her feet.
Countless eyes watched her every move.
A green girl from the North, barely installed as Master of Coin, already eager to strike at the Royal Family's longtime servants?
To those noble lords, that would not be a show of authority.
It would be an ugly display of House Stark's greed for power.
It would put both her and her father in an even more difficult position.
Lord Lynn had taught her how to slay dragons, but wielding that blade would still require wisdom of her own.
She could not become the blade.
She had to be the one who handed it over.
Someone else would do all this for her.
And in all of Westeros, there was no blade sharper or easier to wield than Robert Baratheon.
Sansa closed the ledger before her, an unusual light glinting in her blue eyes beneath the candles.
She rose and pulled a few seemingly unremarkable documents from a more disordered pile of parchment beside her.
One was the Armory's quarterly loss report; another was the daily purchasing list for royal banquets...
She carefully arranged the documents, then left the Master of Coin's Tower.
Mornings in the Throne Room always began with King Robert's hangover headache and irritable curses.
"Wine! Bring me wine!"
Robert paced beneath the Iron Throne like a wild