Disclaimer: Just in case nobody realized I don't own nor do I claim ownership of Game of Thrones, all characters and worlds belong to their real world respective owners. I'm just having some fun, that's all.
The Young Lion
Act 2 Ch 9: The Tyroshi Builders
The week following Ser Balon's triumphant trial was marked by a quiet efficiency within the Red Keep. The new Kingsguard quickly settled into his duties, a silent, steady presence at Joffrey's side.
On a cool, damp morning, Caspen informed Joffrey that the three Tyroshi building companies, contracted by his Master of Trade, Lord Lark Distar, were due to arrive at the docks. Joffrey dressed carefully in a crimson velvet doublet over brown wool breeches, the rich color contrasting sharply with the pale gold of his hair.
Surrounded by his Kingsguard—now six strong, Ser Balon among them—and several councilors, including Tyrion, Lark, and Ser Jacelyn Bywater, Joffrey made his way down to the waterfront.
The city docks were a cacophony of sound and smell. The air hung heavy with the sharp brine of Blackwater Bay, mingling with the fetid stench of fish guts and the sweet, cloying aroma of spices from arriving trade ships. Seagulls cried overhead, their harsh calls competing with the rhythmic clanging of ship bells and the shouts of dock workers.
Joffrey walked onto the main pier, his boots steady on the weathered timber. He stood patiently surrounded by his bodyguards, his eyes fixed on the harbor mouth, waiting. Three distinct ships, their sails lowered, were slowly being guided into their berths. They were not merchant vessels but specialized transports, laden low with tools, scaffolding, and prefabricated sections.
As the gangplanks dropped with a heavy thud, three men, clearly the leaders of their respective companies, descended. They were distinctively dressed: one in flamboyant purple and gold silks, his beard intricately braided; another in practical, dark leather with heavy iron rings on his fingers; and the third in sober grey wool, carrying a precise measuring rod.
Lord Lark stepped forward, his voice practiced and smooth. "Your Grace, may I present the heads of the three Tyroshi companies: Seloros, Vyntris, and Hallet. They are, without question, the finest builders in all of Essos."
The Tyroshi leaders exchanged polite nods, their thick accents rolling over the King's ears. Joffrey studied them in silence, his expression stoic as his eyes narrowed. He noted the curve of Seloros's jaw and the subtle twitch of his fingers. Vyntris fidgeted with his coat, betraying a trace of nervousness. Hallet simply watched, expressionless, but Joffrey caught a flicker of calculation behind his eyes.
Joffrey slowly stepped forward, stopping before the man in purple silks. "Tyroshi, huh?" the King's voice was clear and firm. "My Master of Trade tells me you're the best, and that your past work was… distinguished."
"The very best, Your Grace," Seloros confirmed. "My company has raised towers and palaces across the Free Cities. We were the ones who renovated the great palaces of Pentos."
Joffrey nodded, his expression remaining unchanged. "And what of you? "
"We repaired the walls of Qohor after the last siege, Your Grace!" the man in dark leather stated.
"My company designs castles that have withstood every type of siege engine for centuries, Your Grace!" added the man in grey.
Joffrey raised his hand, silencing the sudden competitive clamor. He then slowly turned to Lord Lark. "Do you vouch for them, Lord Lark? "
"I do, Your Grace," Lark replied, bowing. "Their reputations are unmatched."
"Excellence, then?" Joffrey repeated the word, rolling it over his tongue. He looked at his Master of War, Ser Jacelyn, who gave nothing away. "You will find that I demand more than the minimum. I do not put stock in boastful claims or idle hands, only results. Show me you are worthy of the trust my Master of Trade has in you, or fail and return to Essos."
The air seemed to tighten with anticipation. Joffrey stared at the three men for an uncomfortable moment before speaking. "Come." He turned and began walking down the dock, leading his entourage and the newly arrived foreigners into the city.
As the procession moved onto the main thoroughfare, a cloaked, slim figure detached itself from the shadows near a stack of crates. The figure remained hidden, quietly watching the group before following them with practiced, silent grace into the winding streets of King's Landing.
o-O-o
The King's procession moved slowly through the city. Despite the ongoing war, the streets were bustling—a mix of commerce and grit. Merchants hawked their wares, and children chased stray dogs - the air thick, with the continuous, dull roar of thousands of lives being lived.
Joffrey walked at the head of the column, his Kingsguard forming a protective wall. As they moved Lord Lark spoke up to the king.
"Your Grace," Lark said loud enough for the company leaders to hear him. "Perhaps you would like to hear the many structures and monuments they've constructed with their own hands."
Joffrey's eyes momentarily flickered back to the three men. "Perhaps. We have quite a way to walk, and it'll help pass the time. Speak."
Each man, Seloros first, then Vyntris, and then Hallet, spoke in turn of their individual accomplishments: bridges built, walls reinforced, and harbors extended. Each with a smooth, practiced and polished air.
Joffrey listened intently, nodding occasionally, but never interrupting them. Only when they finished did he ask a question.
"And tell me," Joffrey said slowly, "have you ever had a project fail? A bridge collapsing , a wall crumbling under siege? Or a miscalculation that cost men their lives? "
The question hung in the air like a blade. Seloros faltered for a heartbeat before recovering. "Failures are rare, Your Grace. But we learn from them as any master craftsman should."
"Good," Joffrey said softly. "A master craftsman must know his limits, but dare beyond them cautiously. If he is too timid, he dies unknown, yet too reckless, and he dies remembered poorly. Which makes me wonder where each of your pride lies?"
"In the art of creating, Your Grace." The three said simultaneously surprising even each other while making the king smile.
"Excellent," said Joffrey, "My capital requires more than just one repair. Look at these structures. They are built upon one another, choking the air and the light. The sewage runs where my citizens walk, making this city a tinderbox waiting for a spark of disease or riots."
The builders and councilors exchanged glances. The King was speaking the language of urban survival. Joffrey continued, "I have great plans for this city. Plans for aqueducts, for barracks, for defenses that will make the walls of Harrenhal look like a child's sandcastle. But I need the right people to make my vision a reality."
Master Hallet, understanding the King's meaning and the competitive nature of their commission, spoke up.
"And you believe that to be one of us, Your Grace?" Hallet asked.
Joffrey nodded without breaking his stride. "Perhaps. But I'm going to need proof that your skills live up to your reputation. Words are wind after all, and seeing is believing."
Master Vyntris spoke up, "How do you suppose we do that, Your Grace?"
Joffrey's lips curved into a cold smile. "Well, as it happens, I've arranged the perfect test of your skill."
The King offered no further explanation. He simply continued leading the group down another street, leaving the three Tyroshi leaders and even his own council members confused and intrigued. They walked near the Industrial Sector, where the rhythmic banging of hammers formed a continuous lullaby.
Finally, the spires of the ruined Dragonpit appeared over the rooftops. Its massive stone walls, broken and scarred by centuries of neglect, looked imposing even in ruin.
"This," Joffrey said, his voice low but commanding, "is where the work begins. Soon, what I envision will rise from these stones. And I hope you will rise with it, or fail and fall beneath it."
The ruins of the Dragonpit loomed larger with every step. Even in decay, its massive, crumbling walls spoke of grandeur once contained within. Soaring arches, shattered balconies, and the echoes of generations passed. The air was heavy with the tang of moss and aged stone, faintly bitter with mildew, and the scent of iron from centuries of weapon storage.
The King paused at the entrance to the Dragonpit, his crimson cloak fluttering in the breeze. He surveyed the expanse, his sharp eyes running over every crack, every scar, every ruin as though he were memorizing it. The builders followed cautiously, their polished boots clinking on the uneven stone. The massive pit was used in the height of the Targaryens power to house their dragon mounts, and now the king would have it repurposed to house his own power.
"This place once held the greatest power in the world: dragons. It once held life, fire, and fear. Soon, it will hold the future of my army."
Seloros and Vyntrs exchanged wary glances. Hallet's expression remained that of stone, completely unreadable. None had expected a project of such size, though they had been warned prior to their arrival. Joffrey gestured, and Lark produced a set of blueprints. The builders leaned in to examine the detailed plans for training grounds, barracks, mess halls, and storage facilities.
"Look carefully," he said. "These are not idle sketches. These are the instructions and guidelines of my vision."
The builders leaned in, examining the detailed plans. A vast central courtyard, multiple training grounds, barracks, mess halls, stables, and armory, and storage facilities. Reinforced walls, towers for archers, passages for rapid troop movements. Each building and structure was carefully calculated for both offense and defense.
"The central courtyard," Joffrey began, pointing to the largest section of the blueprint, "will house drills and training grounds. My Royal Guard will live, eat, sleep, and train here. This pit is large, large enough to house tens of thousands of troops. And I intend to fill it with order and efficiency."
He moved his finger to the perimeter, tracing the walls with his finger.
"The outer walls must be thick," Joffrey said, tracing the perimeter. "You will use steel beams to reinforce the structures, and the cement we provide will make it sturdier than anything built in Essos."
Master Seloros tilted his head, intrigued but skeptical. "Cement, Your Grace? Are you referring to the fused stone of ancient Valyria? That secret was lost after the Doom."
"No," Joffrey shook his head. "Valyrian stone required fire and blood. My method requires only the earth and the heat of a forge. We take limestone and grind it into a fine powder, then bake it in our beehive ovens until the very air around it screams. We mix that powder with the volcanic ash of the 14 Flames—or failing that, the silicate dust and iron slag my smiths produce daily. When mixed with water and aggregate, it forms a grey paste that doesn't just dry; it cures. It bonds to the steel beams, creating a 'Liquid Stone' that can be poured into any shape and will harden into a shell as strong as the mountain itself."
Internally, Joffrey was thankful for the construction job he'd worked while in high school. It had taken weeks of trial and error in the Industrial Sector to get the chemical ratios right, but he knew the result would revolutionize Westerosi architecture.
Finally Master Vyntrs asked the question on everyone's mind.
"Your Grace, are you certain of its properties?"
Joffrey's eyes glimmered with a hint of pride.
"I am certain. I have studied it. I have experimented with it. It will bear weight, resist fire, and prevent sieges. Combined with the steel beams of my Industrial Sector, which my workers have forged with precision, this fortress will be unlike anything this country has ever seen."
"Your Grace," Hallet raised his concern, "the scale is immense. Rebuilding this and reinforcing it with steel… it could take us years."
"Years? Perhaps under normal circumstances," Joffrey smiled. "But I've had my engineers calculate the manpower. If worked correctly, this project will be complete within a year."
The Tyroshi builders were stunned into silence. A year for a project this massive seemed impossible.Yet the look in Joffrey's eyes suggested he was dead serious.
Joffrey leaned forward lightly, spreading his hands over the blueprints.
"This is the heart of the project. You see the scale of the project for yourselves, and I don't tolerate excuses. Now tell me can you accomplish this within the span of a year?"
Master Seloros shook his head, careful to maintain his dignity.
"Your Grace, the scale is immense. Even if we're working everyday with no rest, the time needed to complete this project properly would be at least…three, perhaps five years."
Joffrey took in his concerns along with the other builder masters. He waited patiently for them to finish and they spoke slowly.
"Perhaps the problem is with incentive and scheduling," Joffrey remarked, crossing his arms. "Let me show you the incentive first." He signaled to Lark, who led forward a wagon filled with ale barrels. A Royal Guard popped the lid of one barrel, revealing not ale, but gold coins gleaming in the sun.
"There are roughly two hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons here," Joffrey stated nonchalantly. "This is your reward if you complete the project within a year. I will double it if you finish in six moons."
The builders' eyes widened. The prospect of a literal fortune sat right in front of them.
"As for scheduling," Joffrey continued, "I will loan you my workers from the Industrial Sector. They work in shifts—morning, afternoon, and night—meaning the work will proceed around the clock. They will handle the precision riveting of the steel beams while your craftsmen oversee the masonry and the stone-pouring."
The builders looked at each other. Their greed far outweighed their indignation at being challenged by a boy king.
"I accept," Hallet said.
"It will be done," added Vyntris.
"Not an issue," confirmed Seloros.
"Excellent," Joffrey smiled. "Then let's get started."
He then commanded Jacelyn to send word to his Overseer Tobho to begin organizing his workers to come assist with the project. The cost for the project would use up the remaining gold he'd gotten from Littlefinger's loan, but if these men truly could utilize concrete and steel the way he believed they could, the investment would far outweigh any potential costs for his future projects going forward.
o-O-o
Two days later, the spy's report arrived at Casterly Rock. The fortress loomed over the cliffs, steeped in shadow and salt wind. Inside, torchlight flickered against faded tapestries, casting grotesque shapes along the walls. The air smelled of old stone and lingering incense.
Terror had taken up residence here, leaving its mark in the stiff posture of guards and the cautious whispers of the household staff. Since her exile, Cersei had ruled the fortress not merely as a queen without her crown, but as a vengeful presence, her shadow heavier than the walls themselves.
Cersei was in her Solar, pacing the narrow room lined with the battered armors and faded banners of past Lannister kings. Her hands, adorned with rings long dulled from wear, clutched a folded piece of parchment, the seal still faintly fresh. The paper trembled in her grip, not from age, but from the strom brewing inside of her.
She slit the seal of the report with a dagger, the metal glinting in the dim light. She unrolled the piece of parchment. The words were precise and careful, revealing Joffrey's activities, his dealings with the Tyroshi builders, and the supposed project having to do with the Dragonpit.
"So, my cub seeks to build," she hissed, reading of the Tyroshi builders and the Dragonpit. "He thinks he can build something great without my permission. He forgets who shaped him, who taught him the art of cunning."
She looked at a portrait of Sansa Stark that had been hung on her solar wall with a dagger. The girl had apparently grown under Joffrey's shadow according to the old ferret. Molded in his court, yet she had remained untouched, untarnished by the brutal hands that Cersei had endured. Her hands instinctively clenched the parchment.
"And that girl… that wretched little Stark. She poisons his mind and twists his heart. And here I am, cast aside, exiled, while my son becomes poisoned by that red headed harlot. No!...I will not allow it! I will not allow it!"
She strode to the window, gazing out at the jagged coastline where the sea battered the rock cliffs below. The wind carried a salt-laden chill that bit at her exposed skin, but she barely noticed. Her thoughts circled Sansa like vultures. Every detail she had ever learned about the girl-the sly movements, the calculated smiles, the helpless innocent fawn in the woods facade- were racing through her head.
Her mind spun into obsession. She could no longer see clearly; all she saw was Joffrey and Sansa, the boy she had birthed yet felt she no longer truly controlled, and the girl who had supplanted her influence. Her hands shook as she began to sketch out plans, lines and circles sprawling across the parchment, a frenzy of diagrams for letters, signals, and contingencies.
Cersei returned to her desk, the torchlight catching her sharp features and the thin lines of age she had acquired in exile. She leaned over the parchment, her ink-stained fingers working swiftly.
"I could call my agents," she murmured aloud, a thought she immediately rejected. There were only a handful left, scattered and cautious, most likely already reporting elsewhere. Mobilizing them would draw attention. She needed subtlety, influence, and precision—not brute force.
Cersei returned to her desk, her ink-stained fingers working swiftly to draft an encoded letter. Her eyes rested on one name: Senelle. The woman was her personal handmaiden, placed in Joffrey's service before Cersei's exile. Senelle would be her eyes and hands.
She began to draft an encoded letter, using ciphers and false phrases only a few trusted minds could understand. She dictated her commands and outlined a strategy: maintain influence over Joffrey, guide the builders subtly, monitor the city's new order, and if needed, remove threats before they could touch him. Every line dripped with self-assured conviction, a narcissistic belief that she alone understood the path to greatness.
As she wrote, a faint ripple of unease nagged at her—an almost imperceptible mist moving just beyond the torchlight. At times, the quill seemed to resist her, the ink spilling in uneven lines. She shook her head, blaming fatigue, yet the feeling lingered—something subtle, almost conscious. In the end, she dismissed it with a scoff.
"I am Cersei Lannister," she muttered. "No one will take my son from me, Not the savages of the north, not the lesser Baratheons, and especially not some horse faced Stark bitch."
Her obsessive focus on Sansa and Joffrey seemed to intensify with this feeling, as if her own desire for control magnified whatever unseen force brushed against her will. She did not recognize it yet, but her paranoia, her drive, her near-delusional planning were beginning to be influenced in ways she could neither understand nor foresee.
"I am Cersei Lannister," she muttered, finishing the letter. She sealed it with wax stamped with the lion rampant. She summoned a courier, whispering, "Tell her this is urgent. Obedience must be total. My son must not be touched."
She sank into her chair, her hatred for Sansa and her obsession with controlling Joffrey leaving her breathless. In the cold, shadowed halls of Casterly Rock, the widow queen's mind was a tempest—calm only in her certainty, yet storm-tossed by desires and forces she could not yet comprehend.
If you like the story and want to read ahead Chapters 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18 and 19 are already available for Patrons.
Just go to google and search RougePrince69 and click the first link then enjoy.