[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 8: STANNIS (Public) (Patreon)

295 AC

The Small Council chamber was a cage of scented wood and soft men, and Stannis Baratheon was the only one steering the ship.
He sat rigid in his chair, the leather creaking faintly as he shifted his weight. Across the table, Lord Renly was whispering something amusing to Littlefinger, both of them ignoring the Master of Ships. Robert, predictably, was absent. The King was hunting in the Kingswood, chasing boars because he could no longer chase glory.

Stannis's eyes, hard and blue as the sea at dawn, drifted to the end of the table.

Prince Joffrey sat there.

At twelve namedays, the boy was an enigma that made Stannis's teeth grind. He was tall for his age, his shoulders thickening with the promise of a warrior's frame. He wore his hair long, a cascade of gold that brushed his shoulders in the manner of the old Targaryen kings—or the Lannisters.

The seed is strong, Jon Arryn had whispered once, looking at a bastard girl in the Vale.

Stannis looked at Joffrey and saw Cersei's vanity in the hair and Jaime's arrogance in the chin. The suspicion of the incest had taken root in Stannis's mind months ago, a vile weed that he could not pull out. Genealogy demanded that this boy be an abomination.

And yet...

"Lord Stannis," Joffrey said. His voice was not the high, imperious whine of his mother. It was a low, measured baritone, startling coming from a face so fair. "I have been reviewing the port tariffs for the narrow sea."

Stannis blinked. "That is the purview of the Master of Ships, Prince Joffrey."

"It is," Joffrey agreed, inclining his head respectfully. "Which is why I brought this to you, rather than the Master of Coin. I believe the royal stewards at Dragonstone are failing you, Uncle."

The table went quiet. Varys ceased his tittering.

"Failing me?" Stannis asked, his voice flat.

"I have cross-referenced the obsidian mining yields from the Dragonmont against the shipping manifests of the last five years," Joffrey said. He slid a piece of parchment across the mahogany table. It was not a drawing or a demand; it was a ledger. "The output has dropped by forty percent. Yet the number of miners has remained constant."

Stannis looked at the numbers. They were precise. Brutally so.

"Obsidian is glass, Nephew," Stannis said. "It is a curiosity for maesters and mystics. It is not gold."

"It is a monopoly," Joffrey corrected gently. "And a monopoly wasted is a theft from your household, Lord Stannis. If the stewards are lazy, they rob the Crown, but they rob you first."

Stannis felt the familiar cold prickle of defensiveness. Dragonstone was his seat, given to him by Robert as a slight, a dark and salt-stained rock while Renly played lord in the fertile Stormlands. He expected Joffrey to mock it.

Instead, the boy was trying to make it profitable.

"And what do you propose?" Stannis asked. "I cannot whip the rock to make it bleed glass."

"No," Joffrey said. "But a fresh eye might see the fracture. I ask your leave to visit Dragonstone, Uncle. Not as a Prince on a royal progress, which burdens the host, but as a student of logistics."

Stannis narrowed his eyes. "You wish to go to Dragonstone? It is a grim place. It smells of sulfur and the grave."

"It was the seat of the Conqueror," Joffrey said, meeting Stannis's gaze without flinching. "And it is the seat of the King's brother. If there is rot in the administration, I would see it cut out. I have read the histories of the Dragonmont's vents. I believe the heat is not being utilized efficiently for the extraction."

Stannis studied the boy. He looked for the lie. He looked for the weakness of a bastard born of sin. He saw only a cold, hard pragmatism that mirrored his own.

If he is born of incest, Stannis thought, the doubt gnawing at him, why is he the only one in this city who speaks of duty?

The boy's behavior derailed Stannis's certainty. Bastards were treacherous by nature. Incest bred madness. But Joffrey? Joffrey was... competent. It was a contradiction that Stannis could not yet resolve, and it mandated further investigation. If the boy went to Dragonstone, away from his mother's skirts, perhaps the truth would reveal itself.

"The journey is rough," Stannis warned. "The seas around the Gullet are churning this time of year."

"I do not fear the sea," Joffrey said. "I am a Baratheon. The storm is ours, is it not?"

It was a subtle flattery, but it landed. Stannis felt a grudging nod pull at his neck.

"Very well," Stannis said. "You may go. But you will stay in the Sea Dragon Tower, and you will not interfere with the garrison. If you find your 'efficiencies,' bring them to me. Do not act without my seal."

"I would not presume to command in your seat, Lord Stannis," Joffrey said, bowing his head. "Your permission honors me."

Joffrey gathered his papers. As he stood, the long golden hair caught the light, and for a second, Stannis saw Jaime Lannister. But then the boy turned, his movement stiff and efficient, clutching a ledger to his chest like a shield.

He looks like a lion, Stannis thought, watching him go. But he thinks like a stag.

Stannis turned back to the table, ignoring Littlefinger's bemused smile. He would let the boy go to the volcano. He would have Maester Cressen watch him. If the boy was a monster, Dragonstone would reveal it. If he was true... then Stannis would have to reconsider the evidence of his own eyes.