[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 6: TYWIN (Public) (Patreon)

The victory belonged to the King, but the ash belonged to Tywin Lannister.

From the high solar of Casterly Rock, Tywin looked down at the harbor of Lannisport. The sea was calm, deceptively so. The blackened skeletons of the Lannister fleet had finally been dragged onto the shingle, leaving the harbor mouth gaping and toothless. It was a humiliation Tywin would not forget, even as the realm cheered for Robert's "glorious" smashing of Pyke.

Robert had arrived three days ago, sailing into the harbor with the Royal Fleet. He had brought the smell of salt, the clamor of an army, and a thirst that had already depleted the Rock's finest vintages. But the King had arrived without his Queen.

Grand Maester Pycelle had been clear: Cersei's pregnancy with the next heir was too far advanced for the rigors of the Goldroad. She remained in the Red Keep under the protection of Ser Jaime and the remaining Kingsguard.

"The Prince's escort has passed the Lion's Gate," Kevan announced, stepping into the solar. "They made good time from the capital."

Tywin turned from the window. "And the King?"

"Still in the Great Hall, regaling the Tullys with the tale of how he broke the gates of Pyke," Kevan said, his voice stiff. "He shows no sign of moving to greet his son."

Tywin smoothed the crimson brocade of his tunic. "Then the duty falls to us. Come. I wish to see what the capital has done to the boy."

The courtyard of Casterly Rock was a bustle of crimson cloaks and stable boys. A line of fifty Lannister knights, led by Ser Boros Blount, rode into the yard. They were dusty and weary from the long trek from King's Landing, but they maintained a disciplined formation.

Tywin stood on the steps, his eyes searching the column. He expected to see a litter or a small wheelhouse. A child of nearly four namedays was usually kept behind curtains, shielded from the wind and the dust.

Instead, at the rear of the knights, a sand-colored pony trotted into the center of the yard.

Prince Joffrey sat the saddle alone.

There was no servant holding a lead rope. The boy's legs, sturdy and thick for his age, gripped the pony's barrel with practiced intent. He wore a doublet of crimson and gold, and his face was smeared with the dust of the road. He did not look for his father, nor did he ask for his mother.

He looked at the Rock.

The boy's head tilted back, his green eyes scanning the sheer, vertical face of the mountain. He didn't gape in wonder; he studied the fortifications with a quiet, heavy focus. He kicked his feet free of the stirrups and slid down, landing on the cobblestones with a decisive thud.

"Grandfather," a voice rasped.

Tywin looked down. Joffrey had walked past the kneeling servants to stand directly before him. The boy stood straight, his chin lifted, his eyes—Lannister green—steady and unblinking.

"Prince Joffrey," Tywin said. "You traveled the Goldroad without your mother."

"The Queen is heavy with the new babe," Joffrey said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper intended only for Tywin. "She is slow. I did not wish to be slow. I told Ser Boros we would ride hard."

Tywin glanced at Boros Blount. The Kingsguard knight was sweating profusely, his face the color of a beet. It was clear the four-year-old had set a pace that had exhausted the grown men.

"A future King must know how to lead a march," Tywin said, a flicker of genuine interest stirring. "And your diet? I trust you did not live on travel-bread and fruit?"

"I ate the dried beef and the liver," Joffrey said, patting a small pouch at his belt. "And the raw milk from the goats we took along. I must stay strong, like the Rock."

Tywin looked at the boy's hands. They were small, but the skin was beginning to toughen.

"Come," Tywin said, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. The muscle there was hard, dense for a child. "Your father is in the Hall. He is... celebrating."

"He is drinking," Joffrey corrected calmly.

The feast that night was a celebration of excess, but Tywin's attention remained on the boy sitting beside him. Robert was at the center of the hall, roaring a song with Greatjon Umber, oblivious to his son's presence.

Joffrey ignored the singers. He was methodically dismantling a roasted quail, cracking the bones with his teeth to suck out the marrow.

When the noise became too great, Tywin rose and moved to the terrace. He was not surprised when the boy followed him moments later, a piece of hard cheese in his hand.

"The ships burned here," Joffrey said, pointing toward the dark harbor of Lannisport.

"They did," Tywin replied coldly. "The Ironborn are treacherous."

"Pycelle showed me the map," Joffrey said, unphased. "The water is narrow at the mouth. If I were Lord, I would put a chain. A big iron chain. Under the water."

Tywin paused, looking at the harbor mouth. He visualized the engineering required. A boom chain, raised by capstans in watchtowers.

"A chain is heavy," Tywin said, testing him. "It would take fifty men to raise it."

"Then use fifty men," Joffrey shrugged. "Or use a winch with gears. I read the book about the machines."

"And the cost?"

"Ships are more expensive, Grandfather," Joffrey rasped. "And we lost those for nothing."

Tywin felt a rare sensation. It was recognition. Robert was a hammer. Jaime was a sword. But this boy... this boy was a ledger.

"You are right, Joffrey," Tywin said softly. "We should have had a chain."

He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Tomorrow, you will not sit with the women or the children at the tourney. You will sit with me. I wish to hear what you think of the knights who 'won' this war."

Joffrey nodded. "I will tell you which ones are wasting their energy."

"I expect you will," Tywin said.