The Young Lion
Act 1 Ch 9: Meeting the Small Council
A few days crawled by since the prince's euphoric encounter with his mother's handmaiden. Once enough time had bled away, House Darry's Maester finally delivered the welcome news: the prince's wounds had knitted together enough for safe travel. Relief washed over the queen, and she immediately barked orders for the royal entourage to prepare for their return journey. This news, however, landed like a dull thud on Robert, who still hadn't managed to track down a Shadowcat fierce enough to match his son's.
The main bulk of the royal escort had peeled off from their slower-moving party, arriving at King's Landing a full day ahead. Eventually, the Stark contingent also trickled into the Red Keep. Barely had the dust settled when a messenger informed the Prince that Grand Maester Pycelle had already summoned a Small Council meeting. Joffrey, shedding the more ornate garments he'd been forced into, pulled on simpler clothes – a stark contrast to the silks he usually favored – and made his way down the echoing corridor towards his first official foray into the viper's nest. As he neared the chamber doors, a low rumble of voices spilled into the hallway.
"How could he have let this happen?"
"The Master of Coin finds the coin; the King and the Hand spend it."
"I will not believe Lord Arryn would –"
The Hand's impassioned words were abruptly cut short as the heavy oak doors swung inward. Every head in the room snapped towards the interruption. A ripple of shock, subtle yet palpable, spread through the assembled lords. Lord Baelish's eyebrows shot up, while Grand Maester Pycelle's mouth hung slightly open. Joffrey strode in with a deliberately casual gait, his gaze sweeping across the faces of his future subjects and potential adversaries.
"Alright, recon time. Let's ID the friendlies and the hostiles in this AO."
"No, please, don't let me interrupt your… strategizing," he offered with a disarming smile that didn't quite reach the steel in his eyes.
A rustle of movement followed as many of the seated members rose to acknowledge the unexpected arrival.
"My Prince," Barristan Selmy, Varys, and Petyr Baelish murmured in unison, their heads dipping in practiced bows.
Only Renly Baratheon, Grand Maester Pycelle, and Lord Stark remained seated.
"My Prince, we were so distressed to hear of the… incident on the Kingsroad," Varys said, his plump hands engulfing Joffrey's. "We have all offered fervent prayers for your swift and complete recovery." His voice was a silken whisper, his compliments dripping with an unctuous sincerity that Joffrey instantly flagged as false.
"Velvet spider. Every word is a carefully spun thread."
"Thank you, Lord Varys. I'm sure your… devout wishes expedited my healing," Joffrey replied, his tone polite, his smile unwavering.
A flicker of surprise tightened Varys's smooth features before his mask of concern slid back into place. He bowed again. Joffrey offered brief acknowledgements to Ser Barristan and Lord Baelish before turning his attention to the long table. Not everyone, however, shared the Spider's practiced courtesy.
"What are you doing here, Joffrey?" Renly drawled from his seat beside Ned Stark, his tone laced with undisguised impatience.
The Master of Laws was a striking figure, tall and lean, clad in a dark green velvet doublet embroidered with golden stags. His black hair, thick and long, brushed the collar of his tunic.
"Hello to you too, Renly," Joffrey responded, the smile on his lips failing to warm his gaze.
"Yes, yes, hello. Now, this is the Small Council chamber. Members only." Renly's impatience sharpened his voice.
"These kingdoms will be mine soon enough," Joffrey stated, his gaze locking with his uncle's. "I'd like to gain some familiarity with the realm I'll be commanding one day."
Envy, raw and undisguised, flickered in Renly's eyes, a stark reminder of his place in the line of succession. "Only members of the Small Council may attend these meetings, dear nephew," he emphasized the last two words with a subtle curl of disdain.
"Well, I believe that falls under the Hand's purview, not the Master of Laws," Joffrey countered, a hint of challenge lacing his tone as he held Renly's gaze. "So, Lord Stark? Does my presence here… inconvenience you?"
Ned Stark sat impassively, his grey eyes slowly scanning the faces around the table. A long moment stretched before he finally spoke, his voice measured. Inside, he felt a growing unease. This Joffrey had not been the boy he'd expected.
"You may join us, my Prince," he gestured to the empty seat beside him. "As long as you do not disrupt the proceedings."
"Of course, Lord Hand." Joffrey offered a curt bow before making his way to the designated seat, a small, triumphant smirk flicking across his lips as he passed a scowling Renly. He found himself positioned between the stoic Northern lord and the ancient Grand Maester Pycelle.
The old Maester seemed to have witnessed the turning of centuries. Sparse white hair clung to his spotted scalp, and a long, meticulously groomed beard flowed down his chest. His robes, unlike the simple gray wool of Maester Luwin, were of rich red velvet trimmed with ermine and fastened with gold. But it was the thick, multi-metallic chain that snaked around his neck and disappeared beneath his robes – a weighty tapestry of knowledge that was his most distinguished feature.
Joffrey recalled from his journey that each link represented mastery of a different discipline. Pycelle's chain spoke of a mind that had delved deep into the Citadel's lore. As Joffrey settled into his chair, the Grand Maester offered a muffled greeting.
"Good day, my Prince," his voice soft and indistinct.
"Good day, Grand Maester. How fares your health today?" Joffrey replied politely.
"Oh, I am quite well, thank you, Prince Joffrey," Pycelle nodded slowly. "I was most distressed to hear of your injuries at the Crossroads Inn. Should you require a further examination, my laboratory is always open."
"Your concern is appreciated, Grand Maester, but I assure you, the wounds are nearly fully healed."
The old man simply nodded. Before Joffrey could fully settle, Renly's grating voice cut through the polite exchange.
"Yes, yes, we've all heard the heroic ballad of the prince single-handedly felling a Shadowcat, dear nephew," he said, taking a deliberate sip from his chalice, his eyes gleaming with disbelief. "Quite… remarkable, wouldn't you say?"
Joffrey's retort died in his throat as Eddard Stark interjected, his voice firm. "It is the truth, Lord Renly. The prince fought bravely and protected my daughter. I will not have you questioning his honor in my presence." A ripple of surprise went through the council, several members casting new glances at the Hand. Ned's brow furrowed slightly; he was surprised at his own vehemence.
"Thank you, Lord Hand," Joffrey said, inclining his head slightly towards the Northern lord.
Renly, unwilling to cede the final word, offered a saccharine nod, his gaze pointedly fixed on Ned. "Well, that truly is incredible," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "The warriors of the North must possess truly potent skills to have so swiftly… enhanced your abilities."
"Indeed," Joffrey agreed smoothly. "Winterfell's Master-at-Arms is a fine knight and a capable instructor. Though I'm sure I'm nowhere near your level, dear uncle. After all, Ser Rodrik taught me that practice is the path to mastery, and with the tales I've heard of your tireless… sparring with Ser Loras, you must be a veritable master by now."
Petyr Baelish choked on his wine, spraying a fine mist across the polished floor, while several other council members struggled to suppress their laughter. Renly's face contorted into a furious scowl, a vein throbbing visibly on his neck. Before the simmering tension could boil over, Ned Stark's voice cut through the air, sharp and authoritative, his hand slamming on the table.
"Enough, my Lords. We have more pressing matters to discuss than engaging in the prattle of fishwives." His tone left no room for argument, effectively silencing the Prince and the Master of Laws.
An awkward silence descended upon the chamber. Joffrey, ever pragmatic, decided to break the tension. "So, where were we?"
"Ah, yes," Grand Maester Pycelle offered, his voice a welcome balm. "We were discussing the tourney His Grace has instructed us to arrange in honor of Lord Stark's appointment as Hand of the King."
"The King does enjoy his… spectacles," Joffrey remarked, taking a sip from his own cup. "What's the tally this time?"
"Forty thousand gold dragons to the champion, twenty thousand to the runner-up, and another twenty thousand to the victor of the archery competition," Baelish supplied quickly.
"Eighty thousand gold dragons, then. A significant sum," Joffrey observed, his gaze sharp. "Lord Baelish, what is the current state of the Crown's coffers? Can we… afford such generosity?"
Another uncomfortable silence hung in the air, no one eager to deliver unwelcome news to the Prince.
"Alas, my Prince," Varys finally offered, his voice laced with regret. "Our current funds are… somewhat depleted."
"'Somewhat depleted' how?" Joffrey pressed, taking another measured sip.
A series of uneasy glances passed between the council members before Ned Stark decided to deliver the blunt truth. "The Crown is currently six million gold dragons in debt, my Prince."
Joffrey's wine exploded from his mouth, spraying across the polished table. "Six million?!" he exclaimed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "How in the seven hells are we six million in debt?!"
Ned Stark raised a surprised eyebrow, clearly taken aback by the Crown Prince's apparent ignorance. Before he could respond, Renly's mocking tone filled the silence.
"Because, as you so eloquently put it, Joffrey, your father does enjoy his… spectacles."
Joffrey shot Renly a glacial glare, the blatant disrespect of being addressed without his title grating on his nerves. He closed his eyes, took a slow, deliberate breath, and then opened them, his voice dangerously calm. "To whom exactly do we owe these… substantial sums, and in what amounts?"
"Three million to your grandfather, Lord Tywin Lannister, two million to the Iron Bank of Braavos, and approximately one million to the Faith of the Seven and House Tyrell," Baelish explained, his tone matter-of-fact.
"So, before I even ascend the bloody Iron Throne, I'm already indebted to my grandfather? Just… perfect," Joffrey muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.
"Does owning your grandsire cause you such alarm, my Prince?" Varys inquired, his voice deceptively neutral.
"I am well aware of how my grandfather earned his… reputation, Lord Varys," Joffrey replied evenly. "Though I confess, owing the Iron Bank anything, let alone two million dragons, is a far more… concerning prospect."
Several heads around the table nodded in agreement, though Ned Stark's brow furrowed in confusion, the intricacies of the Braavosi bank unfamiliar to him.
"While His Grace is indeed… generous with his celebrations," Baelish offered smoothly, "perhaps indulging him in this tourney would be a prudent investment. It would provide a seamless transition, not only for the lords but for the smallfolk as well, with the news of the Hand's change."
"...Perhaps," Joffrey conceded slowly. "What about –"
The discussion continued, veering into the logistics of the upcoming tourney, the precarious state of the Crownlands' agriculture, and the urgent need for repairs to the city gates. Throughout the meeting, Ned Stark's gaze remained fixed on the Crown Prince. In many ways, this Joffrey was a stark contrast to the boisterous, headstrong Robert he remembered at the same age.
This boy possessed a gravity that sixteen-year-old Robert had never known. He displayed no interest in the usual youthful pursuits of whores or brawls. Despite Lysa Arryn's frantic letter to Winterfell, Ned found himself unable to reconcile this thoughtful young man with the image of a conspirator. Could I have been wrong? he wondered. Is it possible I misjudged him? For now, in Ned's mind, the Prince remained untainted by the shadow of suspicion.
Joffrey, for his part, maintained a carefully cultivated air of quiet observation throughout the meeting. He listened intently to each council member's pronouncements, subtly categorizing their alliances and agendas. By the time Ned Stark finally rose, declaring, "That is enough for one day. I need to see my girls. Good day, my lords," Joffrey had a nascent understanding of the complex web of power he was about to inherit.
The lords bowed their heads in acknowledgement and began to gather their belongings. Joffrey remained seated, seemingly engrossed in the parchments scattered before him. Only when the last of the council members had departed did he release a long, weary sigh.
"A velvet spider and a honeyed viper," he thought grimly. "Those two are going to be my biggest headaches for the foreseeable future. Time to assess the threat level in this viper's nest."
Pushing back his chair, he made a beeline for the royal library, a sudden craving for solid food hitting him. He instructed a passing servant to bring him a hearty meal of meat and a mug of milk, a request that earned him a slightly perplexed look. Joffrey ignored it, his mind already racing. He was surrounded by vipers, each poised to strike.
He knew, intellectually, from the books and the fragmented memories of the show, that he should be safe, even victorious, in the coming conflicts, at least until his ill-fated marriage to the Tyrell girl. But the timeline had already begun to fray. His actions in the North, this unexpected attendance at the Small Council… who knew what ripples they had already created? One thing the new Joffrey understood: leaving things to chance was a fool's game. And now that he was back in the capital, the first steps of his long-term strategy could finally begin.
[Inside the Royal Library]
The royal study was a cavern of knowledge, lined floor to ceiling with scrolls and bound volumes. Joffrey found an empty table and handed a hastily scribbled list to a waiting servant, ordering him to retrieve the requested texts. As the hour grew late, the Prince tore through scroll after scroll, absorbing the history and economics the original Joffrey had so blithely ignored. The more he read, the more astounded he became.
The sheer inefficiency of the Seven Kingdoms' economy was staggering. Their reliance on subsistence agriculture, while explaining Highgarden's relative wealth, was hamstringing their potential. They possessed resources – silks, spices, even cheeses – that could be traded for significant profit, yet a misplaced sense of lordly pride prevented most houses from engaging in such "base" commerce. Joffrey couldn't help a wry internal chuckle at the amount of wealth squandered on fragile egos.
This newfound understanding, however, brought with it a stark realization: his current position held little actual power. The soldiers were loyal to the Crown, which meant his father. The Lannister forces answered to his mother, or more accurately, his grandfather. The Baratheon loyalties lay with his soon-to-be treacherous uncles. Domestic policy was dictated by the King and his council. Until he wore the crown, his ability to enact meaningful change was severely limited. He would have to move carefully, strategically, until the moment was right.
Just as a frustrated curse was about to escape his lips, he felt the prickle of being watched. His senses, honed by a lifetime of combat awareness, went on high alert. Slowly, deliberately, he scanned the shadowed corners of the vast library, his hand instinctively drifting towards the dagger concealed beneath his tunic. He didn't know if the unseen observer belonged to the Spider, the Snake, or even his own mother; all he knew was they wouldn't leave this room unscathed. A subtle movement behind a towering bookshelf finally betrayed their position. Joffrey rose silently, his footsteps heel-to-toe, the dagger now palmed in his right hand. He rounded the corner, ready to confront his would-be spy, only to be met with a sight that left him more bewildered than threatened.
His sister, Myrcella, stood frozen, her wide emerald eyes fixed on his. Seeing her brother, a startled flush creeping up her cheeks, Joffrey swiftly sheathed his dagger before she could register the glint of steel.
"Myrcella? What are you doing?" He asked, his tone flat, devoid of accusation.
"N-nothing," she stammered, fidgeting with a small roll of parchment and a quill clutched in her hand.
"Nothing, huh?" Joffrey's gaze dropped to the incriminating items. "Then what's that you've got there?"
Myrcella made a futile attempt to crumple the parchment or hide it behind her back, but Joffrey simply held out his hand. With a reluctant sigh, she surrendered the incriminating evidence. As he unrolled the parchment, childishly scrawled descriptions of his day's activities and his "strange" behavior met his eyes. A chuckle rumbled in his chest.
"You've been following me around all day? Why?" There was no anger in his voice, only genuine curiosity.
She remained silent, her gaze fixed on her shoes. Joffrey narrowed his eyes slightly. "Myrcella?" he repeated, a touch more firmness in his tone.
"It's because you've been acting… weird!" The words burst out of her in a rush, causing Joffrey's eyebrows to lift in surprise. "Ever since you woke up in the North, you've been different. It's not just me who thinks so. I heard Mother talking to Uncle Jaime about it."
"So, your brilliant plan was to… spy on me?"
"I just –" she paused, searching for the right words. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't… possessed by some evil spirit that Septa Unella warned us about."
"Hahahahahaha!" Joffrey's laughter echoed through the silent library.
"Hey! It's not funny!" she retorted, her lower lip jutting out in a pout.
"Sorry, sorry," he said, wiping a stray tear from his eye. "It just seems this family's got a little Nancy Drew on its hands."
Myrcella's brow furrowed in confusion. "Who's Nancy Drew?"
"No one, don't worry about it," he muttered, mentally chastising himself for the slip. "Anyway, if you wanted to know why I've been acting differently, you could have just asked."
The young princess couldn't help but feel dumb after hearing her older brother's words. Joffrey just looked at her waiting patiently for her question, but she hesitated. The Joffrey she knew was petty and cruel. Causing untold trauma on not just the servants but on her and Tommen as well. She remembered the day when her little brother came running into her chambers crying of how Joffrey killed his pet fawn in front of him.
When they brought the issue up with their mother she just brushed it off and told him to get over it. Telling them that they were lions and that they had no need for any deer around them. Their father wasn't much better just shrugging his shoulders and telling his boy to find a new one. So ever since that day the two younger siblings had learned it was best to avoid their brother's ire since they had no one around them that could/would help them.
Until they visited the north then everything changed. Now he was polite and kind not just to them but even the servants. Myrcella could still see the childish delight in Tommen's eyes as he spoke about his new pet fawn "Daisy" that Joffrey had given him. At first she thought the whole thing was an act he was putting on for his new betrothed, but now she didn't know what to think. So after waiting longer than she meant to, Mycrella decided to take a leap of faith.
"Why have you been acting so differently Joffrey?"
Her brother just gave her a sad smile as he slowly bent down to one knee as he grasped her shoulder with his left hand making her flinch. Pain filled his eyes as he saw the pure fear that still lingered in his baby sister's eyes. Letting out a heavy sigh he finally spoke.
"Because…" he paused, trying to find the right words. "...Because I realized as I laid in that bed on death's door just how awful I've treated you."
Myrcella's eyes widened hearing her brother's words that were filled with frustration and regret.
"I'm your big brother, I should have been protecting you." He continued on. "Not just you but Tommen as well. I've treated you cruelly for no other reason than personal satisfaction and for that I'm sorry."
The princess didn't say a word, just staring perplexed at her still kneeling brother.
"I know that no words can make up for what I've already put the two of you through. I just want you to know that you will never suffer again. Not by me or anyone else's hands. Not while I draw breath."
He then stretched his arms out inviting Myrcella in for an embrace. She hesitated for a moment before opening her arms and hugged her brother. As they embraced in the empty library, Joffrey slowly ran his fingers through his sister's hair. After a tender moment of sibling affection they slowly separated.
"Now would you like to join me?"
He gestured to the empty wood table he had been using to study. The young girl nodded her head and joined her brother at the table, who picked the young girl up and set her on his lap. Grabbing a book from the pile, Myrcella read the title aloud.
"The Histories of Dorne and Queen Nymeria's Voyage?"
She looked at the book confused.
"It's the story of the Warrior queen Nymeria and her colonization of Dorne."
"Warrior queen? Septa Unella says women can't become warriors."
"Well normally Septa Unella might be correct but in Dorne they have their own customs and traditions. Women there are just as free to take up a spear as they are a needle."
"Really?" The princess looked up at her brother in wonderment.
"Really," he nodded his head. "In fact as far as Dorne is concerned you're next in line to the Iron Throne after me."
"Wow," she looked down at the book with new found respect. "I'd like to visit Dorne someday."
"I promise you will one day Myrcella."
The pair just sat together at the table as Joffrey read the feats of the first queen of Dorne. After a few hours had passed his sister's stomach started to growl with hunger. Joffrey sent his embarrassed sister on her way to the kitchen to get herself a meal. Telling her if any of the staff gave her a hard time to let him know. Once he was alone again in the library the prince stared up at the ceiling with a smile slowly growing on his face. He knew it still wasn't enough to rebuild previously burnt bridges but he was satisfied that he had finally laid the first stone with both of his siblings.
The sentiment quickly passed and he once again focused on the current impending economic disaster his future kingdoms faced. So with those thoughts in mind Joffrey took a blank parchment and began drawing the first of many innovations that would not only save his country, but take it into a new age. After more time had passed it was late into the night when he finally finished. His fingers, unaccustomed to the delicate work, ached from the effort.
"Phew," he wiped his brow with his sleeve. "Drawing with a feather is hard."
He slowly gazed down at the drawing and its working parts. A deep satisfied smile grew across his face.
"Upon this rock I shall build my church."
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