[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 4: JAIME (Public) (Patreon)

The White Book had no pages for boredom.

If it did, Jaime Lannister would have filled a volume. The King was off smashing the Ironborn, glory and salt spray in his face, while the Kingslayer was left to guard a castle of wet nurses and weeping women.

He leaned against the warm stone of Maegor's Holdfast, one hand resting idly on the pommel of his sword. Below, in the dust of the lower bailey, the future of House Lannister—and ostensibly House Baratheon—was at play.

Or rather, one of them was playing.

Tyrek, his uncle Tygett's boy, was chasing a cat, shrieking with the mindless joy of a three-year-old who had not yet learned that cats have claws.

Prince Joffrey was doing… something else.

The boy stood near the quintain. He was absurdly large for his age, a fact Cersei preened over daily. He has the King's strength, she would say. Jaime looked at the boy now. He didn't see Robert. Robert was a force of nature, all bluster and impulse.

Joffrey was still.

The boy held a wooden sword—not the padded, pointless toys the Master-at-Arms gave the pages, but a heavy piece of oak that looked like a cudgel in his small hands. He wasn't swinging it wildly. He was stepping.

Pivot. Thrust. Recover.

It was clumsy, restricted by the motor skills of a toddler, but the intent was terrifyingly precise. He wasn't fighting an imaginary dragon. He was aiming for the gaps in an invisible man's armor.

Jaime's curiosity, a rare thing these days, pricked. He pushed off the wall and sauntered down into the yard.

" careful, nephew," Jaime called out, his voice lazy. "The air has surrendered. You can stop killing it."

Joffrey stopped mid-thrust. He turned. His face was flushed with exertion, beads of sweat clinging to his hairline, but his breathing was controlled. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Who taught a babe to breathe like a bravo?

"Uncle," Joffrey said. His voice was a low rasp. "Is Father winning?"

"Your father always wins," Jaime said, crouching down so he was eye-level with the boy. Up close, Joffrey smelled strange. Not like milk and powder. He smelled of iron and raw beef. "He has a big hammer. Men fall down when he waves it."

"Hammer is slow," Joffrey stated. He lifted his heavy oak stick. "Sword is faster."

Jaime smirked. "True enough. But a hammer doesn't need to be fast if it breaks your ribs."

"Show me," Joffrey said.

"Show you what? How to break ribs?"

"No," Joffrey stepped closer, his green eyes locking onto Jaime's with an intensity that made the Kingsguard uncomfortable. "Show me the trick. The one you used on the Mad King."

The smile died on Jaime's lips. The air in the yard seemed to drop ten degrees.

"That is not a story for children," Jaime said, his voice hard.

"I am not a child," Joffrey replied calmly. "I am a lion. Lions kill." He pointed the stick at Jaime's groin. "Ser Aron says strike the shield. You strike the man. Show me."

Jaime stared at him. This wasn't natural. It was... intriguing.

"Ser Aron is a tourney knight," Jaime murmured, glancing around to ensure the septas were distracted by Tyrek's yowling (the cat had finally turned). "He teaches you to score points. In a real fight, points don't matter."

Jaime slowly drew his dagger—not the sword, just the steel dirk at his hip. The sunlight caught the edge.

"In a real fight," Jaime whispered, "you don't hit the shield. You hit the eyes. The throat. The groin."

Joffrey nodded, his eyes tracking the steel. "The soft parts."

"The parts that bleed," Jaime corrected. He reached out and tapped Joffrey's wooden sword with the flat of his dagger. "You're holding it like a farmer. Your knuckles are white. If I hit you now, you'd drop it."

"I have a strong grip," Joffrey insisted.

"Strength is useless if your wrists are stiff." Jaime reached out, adjusting the boy's small, chubby fingers. "Loose. Like holding a bird. Tighten only when you strike."

Joffrey adjusted his grip. He didn't complain. He absorbed the instruction with a terrifying focus.

"Now," Jaime said, standing up. "Hit me."

He expected the boy to flail. To swing for the legs or the chest.

Joffrey didn't swing. He lunged.

It was a straight, vicious thrust aimed directly at Jaime's crotch.

Jaime sidestepped, barely, letting the wooden tip graze his white enamelled greaves. He laughed, a genuine, surprised bark of sound. "Vicious little bastard, aren't you?"

Joffrey didn't smile. He recovered his balance instantly, turning to face Jaime again. "You moved."

"I tend to do that. Men who stand still die." Jaime nudged the boy's shoulder with his boot, hard enough to knock a normal child over.

Joffrey stumbled but didn't fall. He dropped his center of gravity, widening his stance. His legs were thick, unnaturally sturdy for a three-year-old. Whatever that slurry he eats is doing, Jaime thought, it works.

"Again," Joffrey commanded.

They spent the next hour in the dust. Jaime didn't treat him like a prince. He tapped him with the scabbard, tripped him, and shoved him.

When Tyrek fell, he cried for his mother.

When Joffrey fell, he hit the dirt, rolled, and came up spitting grit, his eyes burning with a cold, calculating fury. He didn't cry. He didn't even look for approval. He just analyzed why he had fallen and adjusted his feet.

"Enough," Jaime said finally, sheathing his dagger. The sun was high now. "Your mother will have my head if you're late for your... whatever it is you do. Nap?"

"Growth," Joffrey corrected, wiping a streak of dust from his cheek. "I do not nap."

"Right. You grow bigger and stronger." Jaime ruffled the boy's hair. It was thick, like golden wire. "You did well, Joff. Better than half the squires I know."

Joffrey looked up at him. "Better than Father?"

Jaime paused. He thought of Robert, drunk and roaring, relying on brute strength and the endurance of a bull. Then he looked at this small, focused creature who treated combat like a geometry problem.

"Different," Jaime said carefully. "Robert is a storm. You..." Jaime hesitated, searching for the word. "You are a blade. Keep it sharp."

Joffrey nodded, satisfied. He turned and marched—actually marched—toward the Keep, leaving his wooden sword propped respectfully against the rack.

Jaime watched him go, a strange unease settling in his gut. He had expected to find a spoiled nephew to amuse him. Instead, he felt as though he had just been sharpening a weapon that would one day cut them all.

"Seven hells," Jaime muttered, turning back to his post. "Cersei, what have you made?"