[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 5: PYCELLE (Public) (Patreon)

The climb to the Rookery was a penance Pycelle felt he had not earned.

His breath whistled in his chest like a cracked flute as he pushed open the heavy oak door. He expected the solar to be empty, a sanctuary of dust and silence where he could rest his aching legs.

Instead, he found the Prince.

Joffrey was not sitting at the desk; he was standing on the chair, his small, sturdy body leaning precariously over the Grand Maester's worktable. He held a quill in one fist—gripped tightly, like a dagger—and was dragging it across a piece of scrap parchment.

"Grand Maester," the boy said, not looking up. The quill scratched loud and harsh against the parchment.

"My Prince," Pycelle wheezed, clutching his chains to still their chiming. "You... you should not be here alone. The ledgers are delicate."

Joffrey dropped the quill. It left a blot of ink, but he didn't care. He turned, and Pycelle was struck again by the sheer size of the boy. At three namedays, he had the shoulders of a boy of five. The Queen's obsession with his diet—that barbaric regimen of raw milks and organ meats—was bearing strange fruit.

"I waited," Joffrey said. His voice was not the high, sweet pipe of a child, but a raspier sound. Impatient. "You walk slow."

"I am old, my Prince," Pycelle sighed, moving to his chair. "And the stairs are steep. What does the Heir to the Iron Throne require of his servant?"

"Pictures," Joffrey demanded, sliding off the chair. He didn't scramble; he dropped with a heavy thud, landing squarely on his feet. "Father is fighting. I want to see."

"Ah. Stories of the war?" Pycelle smiled benevolently. "I can tell you of the siege of Pyke, certainly. The King's hammer..."

"No," Joffrey interrupted, shaking his head. "Not stories. Pictures. The big parchment. The one with the water."

Pycelle paused. "The map? My Prince, that is a navigational chart for the—"

"Show me," Joffrey insisted. He walked to the scroll rack and pointed. He didn't throw a tantrum; he simply pointed with an absolute expectation of obedience that was entirely Lannister.

Pycelle acquiesced. It was easier to indulge the boy than to argue with Cersei later. He unrolled the map of the western coast, weighing the corners down with heavy stones.

"Here," Pycelle gestured with a spotted hand. "The Iron Islands. Pyke. Great Wyk."

Joffrey climbed onto his knees on the chair, leaning over the map. He didn't look at the sea monsters drawn in the margins, the usual fascination of children. His green eyes tracked the coastline.

"Lannisport," Joffrey said, pressing a finger onto the city. "Grandfather lives here."

"Indeed. Casterly Rock stands above it."

"The ships burned here," Joffrey stated.

Pycelle stiffened. "Who told you that?"

"Men talk," Joffrey said vaguely. He looked up at Pycelle, his expression serious. "Grandfather is angry. He does not like losing things."

"Lord Tywin... dislikes disorder," Pycelle corrected carefully.

"If I was Grandfather," Joffrey said, looking back at the map, "I would put a chain here." He dragged his finger across the harbor mouth. "A big metal rope. So the bad boats can't get in."

Pycelle blinked. It was a childish notion—a giant chain—yet there was a crude tactical logic to it that was unsettling. "A... creative thought, my Prince. But chains are heavy."

"We have gold," Joffrey shrugged, as if that solved all metallurgical problems. "We buy the iron."

He lost interest in the harbor abruptly, his attention snapping to the books on the shelf. The boy's focus was intense but fleeting, jumping from one strategic interest to the next.

"Read that one," Joffrey commanded, pointing to a thick, leather-bound tome. "The Ninepenny Kings."

"My Prince, that is a dry history. It has no knights fighting dragons. It is mostly... lists."

"I like lists," Joffrey said. "I like counting."

Pycelle sighed and pulled the book down. "Very well. But only a few pages. Then you must return to the nursery."

He opened the book to the account of the war in the Stepstones. "Here... 'The host required three thousand bushels of grain monthly, shipped from Tarth...'"

He glanced at Joffrey, expecting the boy's eyes to glaze over. Instead, Joffrey was nodding, his lips moving silently as he repeated the number.

"Three thousand," Joffrey whispered. "That is a lot of bread."

"An army marches on its stomach, my Prince."

"Did they have enough?" Joffrey asked. "Or did the soldiers get hungry?"

"They had enough, though the cost was high."

"Good," Joffrey said firmly. He looked at Pycelle with a sudden, sharp frown. "Hungry men don't fight. Even the dogs in the kennel... if you don't feed them, they don't hunt. They bite you."

Pycelle felt a chill ripple through him. It was a simple observation—one a child might make about a pet—but the application to an army felt too astute.

"You are... very observant, Prince Joffrey."

"Read the next part," Joffrey commanded, kicking his feet against the chair legs, the rhythm aggressive and restless. "The part about the gold. How much gold did the King pay?"

Pycelle cleared his throat. "The Crown borrowed heavily... nearly half a million dragons..."

"Half a million," Joffrey breathed. His eyes widened, shining with a greed that felt ancient. "That is a mountain of gold."

"It is."

"I will have two mountains," Joffrey declared, slamming his small hand on the table. "When I am King. I will have the gold and the bread. And the chain."

He looked at Pycelle, and for a second, the Grand Maester didn't see a toddler. He saw a miniature Tywin Lannister, devoid of Robert's warmth, calculating the cost of power.

Then, just as quickly, Joffrey rubbed his eyes and yawned—a wide, jaw-cracking yawn that showed his teeth.

"I'm tired," he announced abruptly. "Reading is boring now."

He slid off the chair. "I'm going to find Uncle Jaime. He lets me hit things with a stick."

Pycelle watched him go, the heavy door thudding shut behind the small Prince. The Grand Maester looked down at the map, at the smudge of grease Joffrey's finger had left on Lannisport.

"The Gods be good," Pycelle muttered to the empty room. "The boy has his father's hunger... but his mother's eyes."

He reached for his wine. He had a feeling that serving Joffrey Baratheon would be a far more taxing task than serving his father.