[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 10: SER BARRISTAN (Public) (Patreon)

The lower bailey of the Red Keep baked in the shimmering heat of midday, the air thick with the smell of dry dust and hot iron. It was a day for idleness, yet the galleries were full. Lords and ladies in silks of azure and gold fanned themselves, their eyes fixed on the hard-packed earth below.

They had come to see the Prince.

Ser Barristan Selmy stood in the shade of the portcullis, his white cloak hanging heavy and still. He watched his charge with a quiet, measuring gaze. At twelve namedays, Prince Joffrey was a creature of striking contradictions. He had the height of a man grown and the chest of a smith, yet he moved with a stillness that belonged to neither.

Joffrey stood in the center of the yard, clad in a simple gambeson of boiled leather and ringmail. He held a blunted tourney sword in a low guard—the Alber, or Fool's Guard—his tip resting near the dirt, his posture deceptively lax.

Facing him were three squires: his cousin Lancel Lannister, a year his elder and eager to prove it; young Tyrek Lannister; and a burly Frey ward named Walder, whose reach exceeded his wit. They were armored in heavy plate, sweating and shifting their weight nervously.

"Three against one seems hardly sporting, Nephew," Lord Renly Baratheon called from the gallery. The Master of Laws peeled an orange with a silver knife, his velvet doublet scandalously bright for a practice yard. "Shall I fetch the Hound to make it a fair wager?"

Joffrey did not look up. He rotated his wrist, testing the balance of his blade.

"If you wish to join them, Uncle, feel free," Joffrey replied, his voice a dry, carrying baritone. "Though I would hate to bruise the velvet. The dye looks expensive."

A ripple of laughter went through the court. Renly grinned, saluting with a slice of orange.

"Begin!" Ser Aron Santagar bellowed.

The three squires charged. It was a clumsy, enthusiastic rush—the kind born of youth and the desperate need for glory.

Barristan watched Joffrey's feet. Heels down. His weight balanced low.

The Frey boy led, swinging a heavy overhand blow meant to shatter a shield. Joffrey did not retreat. He stepped into the arc, catching the flat of the Frey's blade on his crossguard—the Kron, a high parry that locked the steel.

With a sharp twist of his hips, Joffrey leveraged the bind, wrenching the sword from the boy's sweaty grip. In the same motion, he drove the pommel of his sword gently but firmly into the squire's helm. Clang.

The Frey stumbled back, dazed. Joffrey caught him by the pauldron to steady him.

"You spend your weight like a drunkard spends copper, Walder," Joffrey said, his tone not mocking, but instructive. "A heavy swing leaves your purse empty. If you miss, you have nothing left to pay the counter-stroke. Keep your feet under you."

"Yes... yes, my Prince," the boy stammered, blinking behind his visor.

"Again," Joffrey commanded, shoving him gently aside.

Lancel and Tyrek were on him now, circling. They had learned from the Frey's failure; they split, Lancel to the left, Tyrek to the right.

"Wolf tactics," Joffrey observed, pivoting to keep them both in his peripheral vision. "But wolves know not to bite their own kin. You are crowding each other like sheep in a pen."

"We have you, cousin!" Lancel shouted, lunging with a thrust.

"You have a hope, Lancel," Joffrey corrected.

He side-stepped the lunge with a minimal shift, trapping Lancel's blade under his left arm. It was a risky maneuver—half-swording. Joffrey dropped his right hand from the hilt to grab his own blade halfway up, effectively turning his sword into a short spear.

He drove the blunt tip into the gap of Lancel's armpit, checking the blow before it could bruise bone. Lancel yelped, his arm going dead, and dropped his sword.

Joffrey didn't strike him down. He shoved Lancel backward into Tyrek, who was winding up for a strike. The two Lannisters collided in a clatter of steel and cursing.

Joffrey stepped back, lowering his sword. He was barely breathing hard.

"Hold," Joffrey said, raising a hand.

Lancel scrambled up, red-faced and furious, reaching for his sword.

"Yield, Lancel," Joffrey said calmly. "You are dead. And Tyrek, you are dead because your cousin fell upon you."

He walked over to Lancel, offering a hand. Lancel hesitated, then took it.

"You overcommitted on the thrust," Joffrey told him quietly, so the court could not hear. "A shield wall requires trust, cousin. If you lunge without cover, you break the line. If I were an Ironborn reaver, you would be bleeding out on the stones. Fight with your kin, not in spite of them."

Lancel nodded, the anger draining out of him, replaced by a grudging respect. "My thanks, Prince Joffrey."

"And Tyrek," Joffrey turned to the younger boy. "You signal your intent before you move. I saw your shoulder drop before your feet moved. Watch my eyes, not my sword. The steel lies; the eyes do not."

"Well fought, my Prince!" Pycelle called out from the gallery, clapping his spotted hands together like a seal. "A display worthy of the Dragonknight himself!"

"It was simple leverage, Grand Maester," Joffrey said, sheathing his sword with a sharp click. "They formed a line. A line is easily broken. Had they formed a kite formation, I would be on my back."

Barristan stepped forward, handing the Prince a linen towel. "You rely on the crossguard heavily, my Prince. A sharp blade would bite into the steel."

"Then I must ensure the first strike is the last, Ser Barristan," Joffrey said, wiping the sweat from his neck. "Brutal speed is its own armor."

The court was buzzing. They had come to see a boy play at war; they had seen a commander conducting a lesson. Even Stannis Baratheon, standing in the shadows of the archway, gave a curt, approving nod.

Suddenly, a small, nondescript servant in grey wool slipped through the gate. He weaved through the knights and squires, keeping his head down, until he reached Joffrey's side.

The servant stood on his toes and whispered into the Prince's ear.

Barristan saw Joffrey's eyes change. The bored, analytical calculation vanished. For a split second, there was a flash of intense, hungry fire—the look of a dragon scenting smoke.

"Are you certain?" Joffrey asked the servant, his voice barely a murmur.

"The bird carried the seal of the Citadel, my Prince. The black wax. It arrived within the hour."

Joffrey nodded. He tossed the towel to the servant.

"My lords, ladies," Joffrey announced, his voice projecting easily to the gallery. "I fear I must retire. The stewards have found a discrepancy in the winter wheat tallies."

"Wheat?" Renly scoffed. "You just won a melee, Nephew. Stay and drink a cup of Arbor gold. Celebrate!"

"If the King will not count, the Prince must," Joffrey said, offering a thin, dry smile. "I find the numbers... calming. They do not lie."

He turned and marched toward the keep, his stride long and purposeful.

Barristan watched him go. He knew the Prince found a strange comfort in his ledgers. He knew Joffrey liked the order of a tally. But he also knew that the look on the boy's face just now had nothing to do with wheat. It was the look of a man who had just been handed a weapon he had waited a lifetime to wield.