[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 16: CERSEI II (Public) (Patreon)

Date: Early 298 AC

Location: The Tourney Grounds, King's Landing


The reek of the smallfolk rose from the tourney grounds like a physical miasma, a foul stew of cheap, sour ale and unwashed bodies baking in the afternoon sun. It was a stench thick enough to gag a rat. Cersei pressed a perfumed silk handkerchief to her nose, her emerald eyes tracking the senseless brutality in the lists below with deep, festering irritation.

She twisted the heavy golden ring on her index finger, her slipper tapping a sharp, restless rhythm against the floorboards. She was a queen, yet here she sat, forced to endure the roaring of the mob and the endless splintering of ash wood lances. To her right, King Robert leaned heavily over the velvet-draped railing of the royal box. He wore a rich doublet of black velvet, the crowned stag of House Baratheon worked across his broad chest in thick gold thread, but the fine garment was already ruined, stained dark with sweat and spilled wine. His booming laughter rattled Cersei's teeth.

He should be here, she thought, her fingers tightening around the stem of her jeweled chalice. Joffrey should be sitting beside me. He should be wearing the crimson and gold of his mother's house, letting these wretches look upon the face of their future King.

Instead, her firstborn was a day's ride away. A broken arm, the raven had said, taken when his courser stumbled in a coney hole in the Kingswood while hunting down a band of broken men. Now, on the very day of his fifteenth Name Day tourney, the Prince was confined to the damp, dismal towers of Castle Rosby, nursing his bone. That scarred beast, Sandor Clegane, stood guard at his chamber door, turning away the maesters Cersei had dispatched from the Red Keep with blunt threats of violence.

It was an insufferable insult. A Name Day tourney without the Name Day Prince, leaving the glory to nameless hedge knights and foreign scum.

"Look at him!" Robert bellowed, slapping a meaty hand against the armrest. "By the Seven, Jon, look at the size of the man!"

Cersei ground her teeth and turned her gaze to the far end of the lists. For two days, the smallfolk had been chanting a single, grating name until it echoed off the red brick walls of the city. The Titan. The heralds had blown the silver trumpets for the final jousts, and riding from the pavilions was the man who had turned her son's celebration into his own personal mummer's farce. A sellsword from the Disputed Lands, Littlefinger had whispered in her ear. He was a massive brute, daring to stand near seven feet tall—an arrogant affront to the magnificent stature of her own absent Prince.

The beast he rode matched him—a massive black stallion with a wicked eye, foaming at the bit. The rider's armor deeply offended her sensibilities. It was plain, unpolished grey steel, scarred and pitted, devoid of gold work, enamel, or a proud house sigil. The only mark he bore was painted roughly on the heavy oaken shield strapped to his left arm: a jagged red comet. A bleeding star.

At the edge of the tilt, a lean, hard-eyed youth in boiled leather and sturdy boots hurried forward to hand the grey giant his lance. Cersei's lip curled. The boy wore no livery, just the drab, weathered garb of a common mercenary's squire. A supposed champion of the lists, keeping company with baseborn rabble.

The Master of Revels stepped forward. "A challenge answered! Ser Meryn of the Kingsguard!"

Ser Meryn Trant rode out to meet the grey giant, his white enameled scales gleaming in the afternoon sun, his snowy cloak billowing behind him like a swan's wing.

Break him, Ser Meryn, Cersei thought coldly, dropping her handkerchief to grip her chalice. Remind this sellsword of his place in the dirt.

The trumpets blared a brazen call. The destriers surged forward, tearing the earth beneath their iron-shod hooves in a flurry of mud. Trant rode well enough, his lance couched tight against his breastplate, leaning forward into the charge with the weight of his horse behind him.

But the grey giant did not ride like a common freerider. As the black stallion thundered down the list fence, the Titan's Bastard kept a perfectly deep seat. He absorbed the violent, shuddering gait of the massive warhorse entirely with his hips and thighs, keeping his torso a stable, unyielding platform. His lance tip did not waver a fraction of an inch, tracking Trant with the cold, lethal precision of a striking adder.

They met with a sound like the splintering of a hundred trees.

The collision was simultaneous. Trant's ash wood lance struck the grey shield and exploded into a shower of pale splinters that rained down over the stands. But the Bastard's lance found the exact center of Ser Meryn's white shield. The grey knight did not yield a hairsbreadth of ground in his stirrups. The pure, crushing weight of the charge transferred instantly into the Kingsguard.

Ser Meryn was torn violently from his saddle. The rotational force spun him through the air over his horse's rump, his arms flailing, before he crashed heavily into the dirt in a tangle of white steel and broken pride. He lay there, groaning, his armor smeared with brown filth.

The crowd erupted into a deafening roar.

Cersei set her chalice down so hard the wine sloshed over the rim. A knight of the Kingsguard, her personal shield, tossed aside by a nameless vagabond. She glanced at Jon Arryn sitting nearby; the old Hand looked pale, his liver-spotted hands trembling as he gripped the edge of his cloak. Even the Lord of the Eyrie knew this was an embarrassment to the Crown.

"Fetch another lance!" Robert roared, his face flushed purple with glee. He leaned over the rail, shouting to the Master of Revels. "Who's next in the lots? Let's see if this Titan can bleed!"

The herald's voice cracked as he called the next name. "Ser Gregor of House Clegane!"

A hush fell over the stands. Cersei leaned forward, a dark, vindictive thrill twisting in her chest. Yes. Let Gregor take his head. Ser Gregor Clegane rode into the sunlight. The Mountain That Rides. He was a nightmare clad in thick plate, nearly eight feet of muscle and malice, sitting atop an ugly, rawboned stallion that smelled of blood.

The grey knight wheeled his black destrier around at the far end of the tilt. The hard-eyed youth ran out, handing the giant a fresh twelve-foot lance of heavy ash. The two behemoths faced one another across the barrier. The air grew thick, heavy with the promise of murder.

The trumpets sounded.

The earth actually shuddered as the Mountain charged. It was not a ride of skill; it was an avalanche of flesh and iron. Gregor lowered a lance thicker than a young pine tree, aiming squarely for the center of the grey knight's chest, intending to core him like an apple.

The Titan's Bastard spurred to a terrifying gallop. As the distance closed, Cersei saw the grey knight shift his weight in the saddle, angling the point of his own lance upward.

He aimed high. A murderous, nearly impossible target on a galloping horse.

Crack.

The sound was as sharp as a thunderclap. Gregor's lance struck the Bastard's shield, glancing off the angled steel, tearing a brutal gouge through the painted red comet.

But the Bastard's lance struck true. The blunted iron tip caught the heavy lip of the Mountain's steel gorget, right beneath the great helm. It was a strike of exquisite, lethal geometry. The Bastard used the Mountain's own terrifying forward momentum against him. The ash wood of the Bastard's lance shattered into a hundred jagged pieces, but the upward force snapped Gregor's massive head back with a sickening jolt.

The Mountain was torn loose from his stirrups. He hit the ground with an impact that made the timber of the royal box tremble beneath Cersei's slippers.

A collective gasp sucked the air from the tourney grounds.

Gregor Clegane rolled in the mud, roaring like a wounded bear. He tore his crushed helm from his head, his face purple with rage, spit flying from his lips. He did not call for his squires. He reached back and drew the massive live greatsword slung across his shoulders. He meant to kill the horse, to kill the man, to kill the crowd.

The Titan's Bastard hauled back on his reins, spinning his massive black destrier around. As the furious Mountain charged on foot, swinging a blade that could cleave a man in half, the grey knight smoothly drew his own sword from its scabbard.

It was not tourney steel. It was a longsword of dark, smoke-rippled Valyrian steel, its edge glinting with a wicked, unnatural sharpness.

Gregor brought the greatsword down in a screaming, two-handed arc.

The Bastard did not flinch. He caught the blow on his blade. The Valyrian steel sang—a high, clear, vibrating note that cut through the roar of the crowd. The dark metal bit deeply into Gregor's inferior steel without taking a single scratch, halting the Mountain's monstrous swing cold. With a twist of his wrist, the grey knight batted the heavy greatsword aside, leaving Gregor wide open, entirely at his mercy.

A sharp gasp rippled through the royal box. Cersei saw Jon Arryn lean forward, his eyes widening in shock.

Valyrian steel, a lord muttered behind her.

Cersei felt a sudden, icy chill trace its way down her spine. She twisted her ring frantically, her breath catching. A nameless sellsword wielding a king's ransom in dark steel. Who is this man? she thought, the first tendrils of genuine fear taking root in her belly. He breaks Kingsguard. He swats the Mountain aside. He is a threat. He is a danger to us all.

"HOLD!" Robert Baratheon bellowed, his voice cutting through the din like a warhorn. He was on his feet, his face thunderous. "STOP THIS MADNESS IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING! THE TILT IS DECIDED!"

Gregor shook his head, blood trickling down his temple, his eyes burning with blind hatred. But even he heard the King's command. He spat a glob of blood into the dirt, glared at the mounted giant and the smoking dark blade in his hand, and stomped away.

"The Gods have sent us a true warrior!" Robert roared, turning to the Hand, his breath foul. "Are you watching, Jon? That is how a man fights! No yielding!"

Jon Arryn swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the grey knight. "I am watching, Your Grace."

"Ser Jaime of House Lannister!" the heralds cried, their voices cracking with strain. "The Kingslayer!"

The crowd's roar shifted into a fever pitch. Cersei's heart gave a violent, painful thud against her ribs.

Jaime rode out onto the field, a vision of absolute perfection. His gilded armor caught the sun, blazing like a second dawn. His white cloak flowed behind him, immaculate and pure. He sat his golden destrier with the arrogant, effortless grace that only he possessed. He was the finest lance in the Seven Kingdoms. He was her twin, her soul, her reflection.

Kill him, Jaime, Cersei prayed silently, her perfectly manicured nails biting into her palms. Shatter this grey beast and leave him broken in the dirt.

The final tilts. The air was so tense it felt ready to snap.

The trumpets blew. The Golden Lion and the Grey Giant charged.

It was a beautiful, terrifying blur. Two masters of the high saddle hurtling toward each other at breakneck speed. They met in the center of the lists. A twin explosion of ash wood. Both lances shattered perfectly on the opposing shields. The impact was deafening, but neither man moved an inch in their saddles. They rode past each other, dropping their broken splinters, wheeling their mounts for a second pass.

"Squires, new lances!" the Master of Revels called out.

They charged a second time. Again, the lances shattered. Jaime's technique was flawless, his aim true, but the Titan's Bastard simply absorbed the blows like a cliff wall taking the sea.

They rode for a third pass.

This time, Cersei leaned forward, her breath held captive in her lungs. She watched Jaime's golden form perfectly aligned, his lance couched, aiming for the dead center of the grey shield.

They struck.

Jaime's lance hit the grey shield with enough force to punch through a castle door. But the Titan's Bastard did not lean back. He did not yield to the pressure.

The Bastard's lance struck Jaime's golden shield.

It was not a strike of mere technique; it was a strike of overwhelming, monstrous power. The brutal force of the impact buckled the gilded steel of Jaime's shield. The leather straps tore free. The crushing weight of the charge ripped through Jaime's defenses, tearing him bodily from his stirrups.

The Kingslayer tumbled through the air, his golden armor flashing in the sun before he crashed violently into the dirt, rolling over twice before coming to a halt in the mud.

Cersei stood up.

She did not realize she had moved until she felt the cold wind against her face. Her hands gripped the wooden railing until her knuckles were white.

A nameless sellsword. A foreign brute. He had just cast her golden twin into the mud. A white-hot, blinding fury consumed her. She wanted to scream for the Gold Cloaks. She wanted to demand the Bastard be dragged from his horse, stripped of his grey armor, and flayed alive in the center of the lists. She wanted his head mounted on a spike above the Red Keep.

"By the Seven Hells!" Robert roared, throwing his arms in the air. "He did it! The Bastard did it!"

The King turned to the field, his voice carrying over the deafening roar of the smallfolk. "Bring him forth! Let me see the face of the man who unhorsed the Kingslayer! Take off the helm, man!"

The Titan's Bastard let his broken lance fall to the mud and trotted Brimstone to the center of the field, directly below the royal box. He halted the massive black beast. Slowly, deliberately, the knight reached up with gauntleted hands.

He unclasped the gorget. He lifted the heavy, battered grey helm from his shoulders.

He shook his head, and a thick mane of golden, shoulder-length curls spilled out, catching the afternoon sun.

Cersei stopped breathing.

The face beneath the helm was smeared with sweat and the grime of the lists, but there was no mistaking the high cheekbones, the brilliant emerald eyes, and the heavy, square jaw that was setting firmly beneath the skin.

It was a boy of fifteen, but he looked like a god of war.

Joffrey.

Silence crashed down over the tourney grounds like a physical weight. The smallfolk ceased their chanting. The lords in the stands froze. Even Robert Baratheon stood with his mouth hanging open, his wine-soaked brain struggling to comprehend the sight before him.

Cersei's mind fractured and remade itself in the span of a single heartbeat.

Castle Rosby. The lie. The broken arm. He lied to me. He played us all. The fury that had burned in her veins a moment ago evaporated, replaced by a rush of emotion so intense it made her dizzy. The terror of the grey giant vanished. In its place bloomed a terrifying, intoxicating high of absolute triumph.

This was no Essosi sellsword. This was her blood. This was the golden lion she had grown in her womb. He had broken the Kingsguard. He had humiliated the Mountain. He had bested Jaime. He was bigger, stronger, and more dangerous than any man in the realm, and he was hers.

"Gods be good," Jon Arryn whispered beside her, his voice trembling with a profound, nameless horror.

"Joffrey?" Robert finally breathed, his voice carrying a note of awed disbelief. "Jon... Jon, do you see this?"

Joffrey rode his black stallion forward, the beast tossing its massive head as they approached the royal box. He looked up at King Robert and offered a respectful, measured incline of his head, acknowledging his lord father's roaring, disbelieving pride.

The Knight of the Gate rode out onto the field, respectfully holding up the victor's prize on the tip of a tourney lance: a wreath woven of pale blue winter roses.

Joffrey took the wreath with his gauntleted hand. He turned his gaze back to the royal box, his emerald eyes bypassing Robert and his courtiers. They locked onto Cersei with absolute, undivided intensity.

He raised the wreath of winter roses and dropped it gently into her lap.

"Mother," the Prince said, his voice carrying clearly over the stunned silence.

The crowd finally broke. The cheer that erupted was deafening, a mad, roaring wave of adulation for the Golden Stag who had fought as a Titan.

Cersei Lannister looked down at the pale blue roses resting against her crimson silk. She looked at her son, sitting atop his black beast, the undisputed master of the realm's greatest killers.

She did not smile. A smile was too small, too mortal a thing for what she felt in that moment. She sat tall, her chest swelling with a fierce, possessive pride, knowing that no one, not Robert, not Stannis, not even the old, pale Hand trembling beside her, could ever take this power away from her.