[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 11: TYRION (Public) (Patreon)

The Red Keep smelled of intrigue, roasting meat, and the faint, underlying stench of a city that had never quite learned how to wipe itself. To Tyrion Lannister, it smelled like home—or at least, the closest thing to it that didn't involve his father's disappointed glare.

He waddled into the Royal Solar, his stunted legs aching from the climb. He had arrived from the Rock only that morning, his saddlebags heavy with rare books and his liver prepared for a siege of Arbor gold.

"The Imp returns," a voice drawled from the window seat.

Cersei looked every inch the Queen, her emerald gown catching the light of the afternoon sun. She did not rise. Beside her, leaning against a tapestry of hunting scenes, stood Jaime. His twin looked weary, his white cloak lacking its usual blinding luster, but his smile was genuine.

"Tyrion," Jaime said, striding forward to clasp his hand. "We didn't expect you until the moon turned."

"The roads were kind, and my horse was motivated by the promise of King's Landing grain," Tyrion quipped. He accepted the goblet of wine Jaime offered, ignoring Cersei's curled lip. "And I hear the capital is the place to be. Rumors reached even Lannisport that our nephew has been... busy."

"He is a true Lion," Cersei said, her voice dripping with possessive pride. "He has spent the last year auditing the City Watch and reorganizing the royal granaries. He is already more of a King than his father ever was."

"He is economic," Jaime corrected, his tone harder to read. "I watched him in the yard yesterday. He took down three squires in less time than it takes to skin a rabbit. But he fights without... passion. It's like watching a maester solve a sum."

"Passion gets you killed," Cersei snapped. "Joffrey survives. That is what matters."

Tyrion swirled his wine. "A philosopher-warrior? The gods are truly full of surprises. Where is the prodigy?"

"In the Maegor's Holdfast gardens," Jaime said. "With the little ones. He insists on overseeing their afternoon drills."

"Drills?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Myrcella is eight, is she not? Surely she is drilling with dolls?"

Jaime exchanged a look with Cersei. "Go and see for yourself, brother."

The gardens of Maegor's Holdfast were a riot of blooming roses and lemon trees, but the scene in the center of the manicured grass was far from pastoral.

Tyrion stood by a hedge, watching.

Joffrey sat on a stone bench, a large, leather-bound tome open on his knees. He looked startlingly like Tywin Lannister, despite the Baratheon jaw. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and sat with a stillness that was unnatural for a boy of twelve.

In front of him, Tommen—who should have been a chubby toddler of four—was running laps around the fountain. The boy was flushed and panting, but he wasn't crying. He moved with a sturdy, determined gait.

Myrcella, eight years old and golden as a sunrise, was balancing on a low stone wall, walking heel-to-toe with her arms outstretched.

"Keep your chin up, Myrcella," Joffrey called out, not looking up from his book. "If you look at your feet, you fall. Trust your balance."

"Yes, brother," she piped up, steadying herself.

"And Tommen, two more laps," Joffrey added. "Then you may have the dried apricots. Sugar is earned, not given."

Tyrion stepped out from the hedge. "A harsh taskmaster for such tender years, Nephew."

Joffrey looked up. His green eyes—so like Cersei's, yet completely devoid of her madness—locked onto Tyrion. There was no sneer. No mockery.

"Uncle Tyrion," Joffrey said. He closed the book—The Conquest of Dorne by Daeron I—and stood. He offered a stiff, formal bow. "I was told you were coming. I trust the drainage systems at Casterly Rock are finally functioning to specification?"

Tyrion blinked. He had expected an insult about his height. Instead, he got a query about his civil engineering projects.

"They are... adequate," Tyrion managed. "Though I'm surprised you know of them. Father usually omits my contributions from his letters."

"I read the expense reports from the Rock," Joffrey said, sitting back down and gesturing for Tyrion to join him. "Your design for the cistern overflow saved the castle four thousand dragons in structural repairs. It was... elegant work."

Tyrion climbed onto the bench, genuinely stunned. "Elegant. I don't think anyone has ever used that word for me without a heavy dose of irony."

"Intellect is the only elegance that endures, Uncle," Joffrey said. He nodded toward Tommen, who had finished his run and was now happily chewing on a piece of fruit. "The body fails. The mind must secure the legacy."

"Is that why you have them running like destriers?" Tyrion asked.

"The world is not safe," Joffrey said simply. "Soft children die. I will not have them be soft."

Tyrion studied his nephew. The rumors were true. The boy was an anomaly. He spoke like an eighty-year-old Hand of the King trapped in a prince's skin.

"And what are you reading?" Tyrion asked, tapping the book. "Daeron's Conquest? A bloody business."

"A wasteful business," Joffrey corrected, his voice flat. "Daeron was a fool. He writes here of losing ten thousand men taking the Boneway, and fifty thousand trying to hold it. He tried to hold sand with fingers of flesh."

"He didn't have much choice," Tyrion pointed out. "The dragons were dead by then. He had to use men."

"The dragons were dead because his ancestors were idiots," Joffrey said, a sudden edge entering his voice. "The Dance of the Dragons. They treated the greatest biological weapon in history as if they were common destriers. They smashed them against each other until there was nothing left but runts and ash."

Tyrion frowned. "Weapon? That's a cold way to speak of the wonders of Valyria."

"It is the accurate way," Joffrey countered. "A dragon is not a sword, Uncle. A sword kills a man. A dragon ends a civilization. It is a... force of nature. An equation of energy that should never have been squandered on a family squabble."

Tyrion felt a shiver of delight. Finally, someone in this family who wanted to talk about something other than gold or tourneys.

"I have a fascination with the beasts myself," Tyrion admitted, leaning in. "I used to dream of them. I even counted the skulls in the cellar once."

"Nineteen," Joffrey said instantly. "Though the skull of Meraxes is missing a tooth."

"You've been down there?"

"I have measured them," Joffrey said. He looked at Tyrion, his gaze intense. "Tell me, Uncle. You have read the Unnatural History of Barth. Do you believe the theory that dragons are not beasts of the earth, but of fire and blood magic? That they require a... binding agent to wake?"

"Barth believed they were created by the Valyrians," Tyrion whispered, his voice low conspiratorially. "Wyrms for the fire, and something else for the intelligence. A life for a life. Only death can pay for life."

"Entropy," Joffrey murmured. "The energy must come from somewhere. You cannot light a fire without fuel."

"Precisely!" Tyrion beamed. "But the art is lost. The Tragedy of Summerhall proved that. Egg—King Aegon V—tried to wake them with wildfire and prayer. He only succeeded in burning his family alive."

"He lacked the catalyst," Joffrey said, his eyes distant. "He tried to force the reaction. You cannot force a stone to breathe. You must give it a reason to wake up."

Joffrey looked at Tyrion. "If you had an egg, Uncle... a stone egg, cold and dead... would you try?"

"I would likely blow myself up," Tyrion admitted with a grin. "But I would die happy. Why? Are you planning a trip to the Shadow Lands?"

"Travel is inefficient," Joffrey said. "If the knowledge exists, it should be brought here. The Maesters hoard knowledge like misers hoard copper, but there are some who remember the higher mysteries."

Before Tyrion could press him, the heavy iron gate of the garden groaned open.

A herald in the royal livery stepped through, looking flustered. He banged his staff on the stones.

"My Prince!" the herald announced, breathless. "A visitor at the River Gate. He bears the Valyrian steel ring and chain. He... he has brought a retinue of acolytes and demands audience."

Tyrion watched Joffrey's face. The boy didn't look surprised. He looked satisfied.

"Name him," Joffrey commanded.

"Archmaester Marwyn of the Citadel," the herald stammered. "They call him the Mage."

Tyrion nearly dropped his wine cup. "Marwyn? Here? The man is a pariah. The grey sheep of Oldtown despise him. He hasn't left the Isle of Ravens in a decade."

Joffrey stood up, smoothing his doublet. He picked up his book.

"He is not a pariah, Uncle," Joffrey said, a small, dry smile playing on his lips. "He is simply a man who knows that the world is stranger than the Maesters admit. And I have some questions about... geology."

"Geology?" Tyrion sputtered. "You don't summon the Archmaester of the Higher Mysteries to discuss rocks!"

"We shall see," Joffrey said. "Come, Uncle. You appreciate a sharp mind. I think you will find Marwyn... stimulating."

As Joffrey walked toward the gate, his stride long and purposeful, Tyrion scrambled off the bench to follow. He looked at the strong, healthy Tommen, the balancing Myrcella, and the retreating back of the boy who spoke of dragons as if they were engineering problems.

He's not just a Lion, Tyrion thought, a thrill of genuine excitement mixing with his fear. He's something else entirely. And gods help us, I think I like him.