[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 7: CERSEI (Public) (Patreon)

The labor had been a red, screaming fog, but the aftermath was gold.

Cersei lay back against the silk pillows, her hair a damp tangle. The chambers in the Red Keep felt crowded with the smell of blood and candle wax, but she felt a fierce, burning triumph. She had survived the birth, and the child was golden.

"A Princess, Your Grace," Pycelle wheezed, his chains clinking. "Healthy and vibrant. A true beauty for the realm."

"Give her to me," Cersei commanded.

The midwife moved to obey, but a small, steady figure stepped into the light first.

Joffrey had been standing by the hearth, watching the fire. He had returned from Casterly Rock with his father months ago, and since then, he had been a silent, heavy presence in the Red Keep. He didn't run to her, and he didn't weep. He simply was.

He walked to the midwife and held out his arms. He was four namedays old, but he had the thick-set frame of a boy of six, his gaze unnervingly steady.

"Careful, my Prince," the woman whispered, but she surrendered the bundle.

Joffrey looked down at the tiny, red-faced Myrcella. He didn't coo or pull at her blankets. He looked at her the way a smith might look at a new ingot of iron—judging the quality of the metal.

"She is small, Mother," Joffrey said. His voice was a low rasp, quiet but distinct. "But her cry was loud. That is good. Loud means strong lungs."

"She is a Princess," Cersei said, reaching out. Joffrey stepped to the bedside and lowered the babe into her arms. "She will be the pride of the West."

"She must be fed well," Joffrey said, turning his green eyes toward Pycelle. "I saw the goats at the Rock. The ones that stayed on the cliffs grew larger than the ones in the valley. The wet nurse—see that she is fed the red meat and the blood-sausage. My sister will not be a sickly thing."

Pycelle blinked, his mouth working silently for a moment. "The... the Prince's observations are noted, Your Grace. A sturdy diet for the nurse is... traditional in some houses."

The heavy oak doors thudded open. Robert Baratheon stomped in, smelling of horse and the remains of a hunt. He was flushed, his beard flecked with mud from the road.

"So, the labor is done?" Robert boomed, his voice making the infant wince. He stomped to the bed and peered down at the bundle. "A girl. Well, I suppose the realm needs some beauty to balance out the brawlers. I'd hoped for another son to squire with, but a daughter will keep the septas busy."

He reached out a large, calloused finger and poked at Myrcella's cheek. "She's got the hair, at least. Looks like she'll be a proper little lady. You alright, Cersei? You look like you've been through a war."

"I have," Cersei spat, pull the babe away from his rough touch.

"Aye, well, you're a Lannister. You're made of stern stuff," Robert laughed, already turning his gaze toward the wine flagon. He looked at Joffrey. "And you, lad! Still standing guard? You should be in the yard. Jaime tells me your seat in the saddle is getting as stiff as a board. A prince needs to be fluid, boy!"

"I am watching my sister, Father," Joffrey said, standing straight.

"Good, good. Watch her well," Robert said, taking a deep swig of wine. "I'm off to find Jon Arryn. He's been grumbling about the cost of the victory tourney for a month. I need to remind him that a King who doesn't spend is a King who isn't remembered."

Robert stomped back out, the room shaking in his wake.

Joffrey remained. He watched the door close, then looked back at Cersei.

"He spends gold he does not have," Joffrey said quietly. "Grandfather says that is how houses fall. He says a man who doesn't count his own coin eventually finds someone else counting it for him."

"Your grandfather is a wise man, Joff," Cersei whispered, pulling him closer to the bed. "And you are his blood. You will be the one to count for this family."

Joffrey touched Myrcella's tiny hand. He didn't smile, but there was a quiet, possessive intensity in his eyes.

"I will see to the nurse, Mother. And I will find the men who buy the silks for the nursery. The prices in the ledgers are higher than the prices in the market. I want to know where the difference goes."

As he walked out, his small boots striking the floor with a rhythmic, heavy thud, Cersei felt a profound sense of relief. The King was a spendthrift and a fool, but her son was already learning to hold the purse strings—and the throat—of the kingdom.