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The Young Lion
Act 2 Ch 4: An Aspiring Baratheon
The air within the Small Council chamber was cool and still, carrying the faint lingering scent of old parchment and polished wood. A gentle breeze slipped through the tall arched stone windows, bringing the smell of salt and the metallic tang of the distant harbor water. Joffrey sat at the head of the long, polished oak table, his back completely straight, and across from him sat the newest member of the Council and his stand-in Hand, Tyrion Lannister, whose expression was already weary despite the early hour.
The Small Council was assembled: Ser Jacelyn Ironhand, wearing his usual black spring steel cuirass, sat opposite Ser Barristan Selmy, who was immaculate in his white cloak. Grand Maester Pycelle, smelling faintly of sour milk and stale parchment, hunched over, his hands clasped patiently on his lap. Varys, silent and soft in his long velvet robes, observed everyone from his seat. Next to him sat Lady Ros, sharp and alert, next to Sansa Stark, who still looked slightly out of place.
Joffrey cleared his throat, the sound sharp inside the quiet room. "Uncle, we've reviewed the surface reports. Now, let's delve into the true state of the Crown. Ros, if you would present the full debt ledger."
Ros nodded, her expression grim as she slid several meticulously bound ledgers across the table.
Tyrion took the top one, his eyes widening almost immediately as he scanned the first page. The numbers were staggering. "Three million gold dragons owed to House Lannister," Tyrion muttered, the sheer scale of the debt silencing the usual humor in his voice. He flipped the page. "One million to the Faith...Five hundred thousand to the Tyrells...Two hundred thousand to the Tyroish Trading Cartels...".
He looked up at Joffrey, the color draining from his face. "Your father has spent us into the lowest of the seven hells. And this is before factoring in the cost of the war itself."
"Indeed," Joffrey nodded, his voice flat. "Lord Tywin's efforts, while securing the realm, have relied heavily on the support of the Iron Bank of Braavos. Ros projects that by the time the current conflict is resolved, the debt to the Iron Bank alone will be in the tens of millions."
A tense silence fell over the room, broken only by the subtle fart coming from Pycelle's seat.
Tyrion slowly closed the ledger, the sound a dull slam on the oak table. He looked at the King, then glanced toward Ros's seat, where Baelish used to sit. He rubbed his temples aggressively, trying to soothe the coming migraine.
"Baelish," Tyrion finally said, spitting the words. "He wasn't managing the treasury; he was deliberately making the ledgers so convoluted that we missed him skimming millions of coins off the top. I always suspected he was a snake, but I never imagined the scale of his corruption.".
He sighed, a profound sound of resignation. "I must admit, nephew, killing the snake was the right move. With this much gold, he could've crippled the Crown financially for decades."
"We must discuss repayment options," Joffrey cut in, steering the focus to a solution. "The Tyrell debt is to be considered void by high treason, since they've chosen to crown their own king and move against me in open rebellion. I'll be more than happy to discuss future payments with Lord Tyrell once he is bound in chains at my feet."
He paused, considering the other creditors. "The Lannister debt and the Iron Bank are too large to tackle immediately. We'll hold off on them until after the war is finished, and my Industrial Sector is generating more revenue."
"And the others?" Tyrion asked.
"The lesser debts. The Tyroish Trading Cartels. We'll pay them off immediately. Two hundred thousand dragons is a manageable sum. We need those cartels friendly with us, since they'll be of some great benefit to the Merchant Guild." Joffrey tapped the table decisively. "As well as the Faith's debt."
His Hand raised an eyebrow. "A million gold dragons to the Faith? Why prioritize them?"
"Because the Faith is useful in keeping the commoners in line, and reassuring them of the righteousness of our rule. To anger them is to risk disrupting the delicate order we've managed to maintain in the city despite the blockade." Joffrey knew the debt could eventually lead to the rise of the Faith Militant and the High Sparrow, a crisis he was keen on preventing..
"Pay the million, Ros." He ordered, to which the woman bowed her head, confirming it would be done. Varys watched his King, a flicker of genuine approval in his eyes. Joffrey was anticipating political repercussions and acting to prevent them, a level of foresight the Red Keep hadn't seen in years.
The discussion moved on. Ser Barristan, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, who was ever vigilant of the city's stability, spoke next.
"Your Grace, the flow of refugees from the Riverlands and the Crownlands is increasing daily. They're flooding the gates, seeking safety from the war, but they're starting to displace and fight with the city's common citizens for space and resources. Your Royal Guards won't be able to maintain order if this goes unchecked."
Joffrey leaned back, considering the problem. "We will not turn them away. A large group of starving, frightened citizens is a revolution waiting to happen.".
After a moment of careful consideration, he handed out his orders. "Ser Jacelyn, establish a refugee camp outside the city walls. Set up tents and bunks in an organized manner. Ros, allocate funds for another standing breadline, I want daily rations for the refugees. I'll also assign a Cohort of the Royal Guard—five hundred men—to maintain order and security. They are not to brutalize the refugees, but they will be ordered to prevent any embers of conflict from igniting."
He then turned his attention to Lord Lark, his Master of Trade. "Lord Lark, I want you to acquire warm furs and fresh clothes for the refugees immediately. Pay for it out of pocket, and you shall be compensated with more of the dead snake's antiquities to trade."
Tyrion watched the King's decisive actions, a wave of shock passing over him. The problems were complex, cutting across economic, military, and humanitarian issues. Yet Joffrey was addressing them with the cold efficiency of an accountant and the pragmatism of a seasoned commander.He's not just solving the problem; he's solving the cause as well,Tyrion thought internally with clear amazement at his nephew's efficiency.
Varys, watching the exchange, offered his own small, proud smile. The King's empathy for the common folk was the trait he'd long craved in a monarch.
The discussions moved on to the most pressing long-term issue: winter.
Pycelle, fidgeting nervously, finally presented a scroll with the Citadel's seven-pointed star. "Your Grace, the raven has arrived this morning. The Conclave has met, considered reports from all across the Seven Kingdoms, and has declared this long summer done. The longest summer in living memory."
A profound coldness seemed to settle within the chamber, and a shiver ran down Joffrey's spine.Winter was Coming for all of them.
Varys decided to speak up. "The Northerners say a long summer means an even longer winter."
Pycelle scoffed, the sound of a derivative snort escaping him. "A common superstition, made up by a bunch of tree worshippers who live in perpetual gloom."
The words landed with a painful sting to the future queen, Sansa Stark. She scowled at the old man's rude remark. Joffrey, seeing Sansa's offended expression, looked at the old man with such cold fury that the old Maester froze mid-breath. The air in the room seemed to drop by twenty degrees.
"Grand Maester," Joffrey's voice was dangerously low, a careful balance of the old Joffrey's anger and the new Joffrey's control. "You will apologize immediately to Lady Stark for your dismissive and frankly rude remarks regarding her people's culture and beliefs."
Pycelle's eyes were wide with terror. He had seen that look before, and it usually preceded the loss of a limb or tongue. "M-my apologies, Lady Sansa," he stammered, his face pale with fear. "I meant no offense to the customs of the North. I was merely commenting on the Citadel's stance."
Sansa looked at the King, then back to Pycelle. She accepted the apology with a curt nod of her head. She then reached under the table and placed her delicate hand on Joffrey's balled fist, her fingers gently rubbing his knuckles, trying to soothe his anger. Joffrey's rage immediately began to dissipate under her soft touch. He looked into her eyes, and she gave him a calm, knowing look.
The King then turned his gaze back to the Maester, his eyes now conveying a message of silent menace:she just saved your life.
An amused Varys watched the exchange, a rare, genuine hint of a smile touching his lips. Even Tyrion, who had witnessed the terrifying speed of Joffrey's rage, watched with surprised fascination. The girl could temper his fire with a simple touch.
"Let's move on," Joffrey said coldly, still eyeballing the frightened Maester. "What is the state of the winter stores? How prepared are we for a long winter?"
Pycelle, eager to prove his utility, opened a thick ledger. "Your Grace, we have enough grain, meat, and wheat to last the city approximately six years, barring any unforeseen circumstances."
The number was reassuringly large, but Joffrey's knowledge of the coming threat made it sound completely inadequate.
"Six years? And if the winter lasts longer as the Northerners suggest?"
"Then, Your Grace," Pycelle replied, his voice brittle, "many of our citizens will starve, and the city will descend into depravity to survive. But that is only if we suffer a winter of unprecedented length."
Joffrey calmly took the news, his stoic face betraying nothing. "Very well. I've heard your council, but worry not, I've already begun looking into a solution. Though, like the Lannister and Iron Bank debts, we'll have to wait until after the war to address them."
After further discussions on city repairs—including the necessary reinforcing of the Mud Gate—and some potential future products to be manufactured and mass-produced by the ever-expanding Industrial Sector, Joffrey adjourned the council for the day.
o-O-o
A few hours later, in the Red Keep's private training yard, the air was thick with the scent of sweat, leather, and damp earth. The only sound was the sharp clash of steel, followed by the measured instructions of a master.
Joffrey and Ser Barristan were in the middle of a rigorous training lesson. Joffrey pressed the attack, moving with a focused, aggressive energy, delivering a series of fast, powerful strikes that the older knight easily parried and blocked.
"Good footwork, Your Grace, but you are leaning too far into your strikes," Barristan's voice was calm, almost conversational. "Keep your center balanced, your Grace. You expose your left flank when you overcommit like that."
Joffrey listened and adjusted his form, pulling back slightly on his next swing.
"Excellent! Much better!" Barristan complimented.
The knight then switched from defense to offense, his movements a blur of years of practice. Joffrey deflected and parried with newfound dexterity, the swords meeting with rapid succession. Joffrey immediately counterattacked, pressing a relentless wave of offensive aggression. Barristan noted the King's fighting style still favored domination and mercilessness—effective, but dangerously aggressive.
Joffrey started to get frustrated, unable to find or force an opening in the older knight's defenses. His teeth ground together in annoyance. He finally went for a reckless, desperate thrust aimed at the knight's throat.
Barristan, anticipating the move, easily guided Joffrey's blade using his own, the steel sliding with reflective sheen. He used the King's own momentum against him, sliding his blade before twisting it, catching Joffrey's sword hilt and sending the weapon spinning out of his grasp, making a loud clatter onto the nearby rocks.
Barristan immediately lowered his own sword, the blunted tip a few inches from Joffrey's exposed chest. "Reckless, Your Grace. You lost your focus. Never allow frustrations to dictate your movements. It is a weakness your enemies will exploit."
Joffrey's chest heaved slightly before he nodded his head. A servant rushed forward, retrieving the King's discarded sword.
"What were my mistakes this time, Ser Barristan?" Joffrey asked as he accepted the weapon. "Besides the frustrated thrust."
Barristan lowered his sword as he thought over their sparring session. "Your growth has been remarkable, Your Grace, and you have natural instincts for swordsmanship that remind me of your uncle. But you are too aggressive. You seek to dominate rather than exploit. You leave yourself open when you overcommit and get lost to the battle. Focus on patience. Wait for the opening rather than trying to force it."
Joffrey listened to the advice, nodding, his mind already calculating how to incorporate patience into his swordsmanship. Moving to the table, he took a long drink of water from a goatskin bag, the cool liquid a relief to his dry throat.
As he drank, Joffrey looked toward the corner of the yard. On an upper balcony, usually reserved for observers, he saw a familiar flash of blonde hair: Tommen. The boy was leaning against the stone railing, watching the practice.
Joffrey excused himself for a moment and moved silently, sneaking up the stone steps and behind his brother.
"Tommen, what are you doing here?"
The boy jumped, letting out a small yell. "Eek!" He spun around, his eyes wide and filled with tears. "Joffrey! I-I was just watching, I swear!"
The sight of his younger sibling's fear hit Joffrey like a punch in the gut. He knelt down, his movements slow and deliberate, grasping the shaking child's shoulder. His touch was delicate and gentle.
"Do you want to be a knight someday, Tommen?"
Tommen hesitated, looking from his brother's hand up to his eyes, which were filled with gentleness. He remained silent for a few minutes until Joffrey spoke again.
"Tommen, answer me," he demanded, his voice firm but without anger.
"Y-yes," Tommen finally confirmed, barely a whisper.
Joffrey smiled, a genuine, loving expression that surprised his little brother. "Then we best get you started."
He stood up, still holding Tommen's shoulder, and led him down to the training yard. He handed the bewildered Tommen over to Ser Aron, the Red Keep's Master-at-Arms, a lean but scarred man.
"Ser Aron," Joffrey commanded. "My little brother requires arms and armor. He wishes to become a knight."
Ser Aron bowed his head, his expression professional, and led the still-shocked Tommen away to the armory.
Joffrey called out to the retreating knight's back. "Ser Aron, I want the best training for my brother. Do not give him any special treatment. He must learn both discipline and strength."
"As you command, Your Grace," the knight replied, bowing his head once again in compliance.
Soon, the Master-at-Arms and the young prince returned with Tommen, now dressed in training armor and holding a wooden sword weighted with a lead core. Ser Barristan and Joffrey stood side-by-side, watching Tommen begin his training. Ser Aron was patient but firm, guiding Tommen through the proper footwork.
"Lift your feet, Prince Tommen! Do not drag them behind like a sack of turnips!" Ser Aron commanded, demonstrating a proper, swift, light step.
Tommen attempted to mimic the move, stumbling slightly. He immediately complained, a whine escaping him. "It's too heavy! The wood is too heavy!"
Ser Aron knelt down, his gaze steady. "It is heavy to make you strong, my Prince. Every swing you make with this will make real steel feel light as a feather. Now focus, again."
Tommen obeyed, his initial reluctance slowly melting away as he began practicing, following the Master-at-Arms' instructions. He struggled with the grip and the stance, but soon a wide, earnest smile grew across the plump boy's face. He exerted himself, his breath coming in short huffs. He grew visibly more enthusiastic with the training, his wooden sword swinging with determined focus.
Joffrey watched on, a happy, proud smile softening his features. He allowed himself a brief moment of vulnerability, watching the young boy twirl the wooden sword with growing confidence. The sound of his little brother's happiness was a welcome contrast to the whispers of betrayal and screams he'd become uncomfortably accustomed to.
He then turned to his own sword instructor, ready to resume his own practice, when suddenly his assistant arrived, running across the yard.
Caspen, the King's personal assistant, was breathless as he bowed low to both the King and the Kingsguard.
"Your Grace! Ser Barristan! I deeply apologize for the intrusion, but the Industrial Sector's prototype is ready for the demonstration. Overseer Tobho says he won't start without you."
Joffrey's smile broadened. "Excellent timing, Caspen. Tell them I shall be there shortly."
He nodded his head to the assistant, who quickly scurried away, and then to Ser Barristan.
"Come, Ser Barristan," Joffrey said, his voice now filled with anticipation and a hint of excitement. "We're about to witness the next step of the new era."
Joffrey walked out of the training grounds, his Kingsguard falling a step behind him, leaving the sounds of wooden swords clattering against each other behind.
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