[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 17: ROBERT (Public) (Patreon)

The roar of the smallfolk was a living, breathing beast, a tempest of sound that shook the very timbers of the royal gallery.

King Robert Baratheon stood at the edge of the velvet-draped railing, his heavy hands gripping the carved wood so tightly his knuckles turned pale. The breath sawed in and out of his chest, thick with the smell of spilled wine and his own sweat. Down in the churned, bloody mud of the lists, the grey giant sat atop the massive black destrier, his helm removed, his golden curls catching the afternoon sun.

He had dropped the wreath of winter roses into Cersei's lap. Mother, the boy had said, his voice carrying over the sudden, stunned silence before the cheers erupted.

A great, booming laugh tore its way up Robert's throat, rumbling deep in his massive belly before bursting into the open air. It was a laugh of pure, violent release. He had not felt this light, this fiercely alive, since the waters of the Trident ran red.

My son, Robert thought, his wine-soaked mind struggling to grasp the sheer, magnificent scale of the boy. The Gods be damned, the Stag has finally shown his horns. For years, Robert had watched the Crown Prince in the training yards. He had seen the boy grow tall and broad across the shoulders, but he had despaired at the sight of him. Joffrey had always been clad in gilded, ornate armor, surrounded by the Queen's red cloaks, trading soft, measured blows with blunted tourney swords. Robert had looked at that massive frame and seen only a tame, gilded show pony, a creature whose Baratheon fury had been smothered beneath courtly manners and his mother's velvet skirts.

But the creature sitting that black warhorse was no show pony. He was a warlord of bone and iron, who had just battered the Mountain to his knees and cast the Kingslayer into the dirt. He had fought exactly like the Demon of the Trident.

Robert shoved himself away from the railing. "Out of my way!" he bellowed. He pushed past the pale, trembling form of his Hand. Jon Arryn shrank back against his seat, looking frail and hollowed out. Robert clapped a heavy hand on the old man's shoulder as he went. No time for your fretting today, Jon, the King thought fondly, his blood singing. Today belongs to the Stag. The King took the wooden stairs of the gallery heavily, his booted feet thudding against the boards, brushing past the Gold Cloaks who scrambled to clear his path. He reached the list fence and swung a thick leg over the painted timber, his weight making the wood groan, before dropping awkwardly into the churned earth with a heavy splash of mud.

The smallfolk howled their approval, a deafening roar of adoration at the sight of their King taking the field.

Joffrey swung his long, armored legs over the high cantle of his saddle and dropped to the earth. He landed with a heavy, metallic thud, towering over the squires who rushed to take Brimstone's reins. As Robert marched forward, the Prince turned. His jaw was set, his broad chest rising and falling slowly beneath the scarred grey steel of his breastplate.

"You lied to your King, boy," Robert boomed, his voice echoing across the lists. He stopped a pace away, forced to crane his neck slightly to look his fifteen-year-old son in the eye.

Joffrey did not flinch. His brilliant emerald eyes met Robert's, entirely devoid of fear or apology. "I kept the King's peace in the Kingswood, Your Grace. When the broken men were put to the sword, I found myself thirsting for true competition. I knew my lord father would not suffer a Name Day champion who hid behind blunted steel."

Robert stared at the boy's unyielding face. Then, the King threw his head back and roared with laughter. He stepped forward and slammed a meaty fist against Joffrey's steel-clad shoulder. The Prince did not give an inch beneath the blow. He stood like a wall of living stone.

"True competition!" Robert shouted, turning to the roaring stands. "Did you hear him? A Baratheon thirsts for steel!" The King turned back to his son, his blue eyes bright with overwhelming pride. "Kneel, boy. You rode like a man. You fought like a man. You shall not stand before me as a mere squire."

Joffrey's face remained a mask of perfect, disciplined calm. He unclasped his sword belt and drew his blade, offering it hilt-first to his father before dropping smoothly to one knee in the mud.

Robert took the hilt. The weapon was shockingly light, perfectly balanced in his grip. He looked down at the blade and felt a sudden chill at the nape of his neck. It was not tourney steel. The metal was dark as smoke, rippling with the telltale, folded patterns of magic and blood. Valyrian steel. Robert's brow furrowed for a fraction of a heartbeat, wondering how a boy had laid hands on a king's ransom, but the howling of the crowd washed the thought away. Today was a day for glory, not questions.

Robert laid the smoking dark flat of the blade against Joffrey's right shoulder, then his left.

"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave," Robert's voice thundered across the tourney grounds. "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent."

He stepped back, lowering the priceless dark sword.

"Arise, Ser Joffrey of Houses Baratheon and Lannister. A knight of the Seven Kingdoms!"

The cheer that followed threatened to crack the sky. Joffrey rose, his golden hair catching the wind, looking out over the sea of cheering smallfolk and the lords in the galleries. Robert threw a thick arm around his son's broad back, feeling the cold, sheer mass of the grey steel plate, and for the first time in his reign, the King felt the suffocating weight of the crown lift from his brow.

The heat inside the Great Hall of the Red Keep was stifling, thick with the savory smell of roasting aurochs, lamprey pies, and the sharp tang of Dornish peppers. A thousand scented beeswax candles burned in the iron sconces along the walls, casting flickering, golden shadows over the high lords and ladies of the realm.

Robert sat at the center of the high table on the dais, tearing a thick chunk of crackling skin from a roasted pig with his teeth. He washed it down with a deep draught of heavy black ale, the foam catching in his thick black beard. He felt magnificent.

He slammed his flagon down and looked to his right. Joffrey sat beside him, dressed in a rich doublet of slashed black velvet over crimson silk. Yet, there was nothing of Cersei's soft vanity in the boy's posture. Joffrey sat with a terrifying, predatory stillness. He did not slouch, nor did he pick idly at his food. He carved his meat with a sharp dirk, his cuts precise and clean, his bright green eyes sweeping over the hall with the cold, assessing gaze of a seasoned commander inspecting his lines. He drank from a goblet of heavily watered wine, pacing himself flawlessly.

Look at them, Robert thought, a savage grin spreading across his face. They don't know what to make of him.

The King looked down the table. Stannis sat rigid as a spear shaft, his jaw flexing rhythmically as he ground his teeth together. Renly, usually dressed in bright silks and laughing with his sycophants, was uncharacteristically quiet, picking at a sliver of fish and casting wary glances at his massive nephew.

Farther down the hall, at the tables reserved for the Tyrells and their bannermen, the Redwyne twins, Horas and Hobber, were staring deeply into their trenchers. Earlier in the week, Robert had heard them boasting of their prowess in the yard. Now, the two arrogant Reachmen looked pale and entirely cowed, shrinking into their seats every time Joffrey so much as reached for his goblet. Nearby, Ser Loras Tyrell sat brooding, his handsome face marred by a sour, sullen pout.

Robert let out a bark of laughter. The Knight of Flowers is wilted, he mused, drinking deeply. He knows the maids won't be singing his name tonight.

"A magnificent ride, Your Grace," a voice called out from the tables below the dais. Lord Beric Dondarrion stood, a cup of wine in his hand, his red-gold hair catching the candlelight. Beside him, Ser Balon Swann rose as well, raising his own cup. "The Marches have not seen a lance held so steady since the days of the old Kings. To the Prince!"

Robert beamed, ready to shout his own agreement, but Joffrey moved first.

The Prince stood, his sheer height dwarfing the King's seat. He took up his heavy silver goblet. He did not boast, nor did he offer the crude jests Robert might have made in his youth. Instead, Joffrey raised his cup toward the Marcher Lords, his voice carrying effortlessly over the din of the hall, smooth and resonant.

"To the men of the Marches," Joffrey replied, his tone perfectly calibrated—magnanimous, confident, and dripping with an unshakable authority. "Men who know that a shield is only as strong as the arm that bears it. I thank you, my lords."

Beric and Balon drank deep, their eyes wide with genuine respect. Robert felt a swell of pride so fierce it almost hurt. Joffrey was speaking their language. He was making the hardest knights in the realm feel seen, while never surrendering an inch of his own towering majesty.

Joffrey turned slightly, his gaze falling upon the Lannister tables. Ser Jaime sat there, his golden hair slightly mussed, a dark purple bruise swelling along his jawline where the mud had struck him.

"And to my uncle," Joffrey continued, his voice softening just a fraction, playing the part of the gracious victor to perfection. "The Kingslayer rides like the Warrior himself. No man in the Seven Kingdoms could have struck my shield with such perfect fury. I confess, I was a hairsbreadth from the mud myself."

It was a beautiful, courtly lie, and every seasoned jouster in the room knew it. Joffrey had taken Jaime's charge like a cliff taking a wave. But it smoothed the Lannister pride. Jaime offered a tight, acknowledging nod, lifting his own cup in silent concession.

Robert roared his approval, hammering his fist on the table. "Well spoken! Well spoken! A true knight gives honor where it is due!"

As Joffrey sat back down, the King caught sight of the dwarf, Tyrion Lannister, seated in the shadows at the end of his family's bench. The Imp was swirling a cup of wine, his mismatched eyes fixed intently on the Prince. For a fleeting second, Robert thought he saw a silent communication pass between them—Joffrey offering the barest fraction of a nod, and the dwarf raising his cup in a silent, solemn salute. Robert snorted. Even the Imp knows better than to mock the new Demon of the Trident, he thought.

Robert's eyes drifted to the hearth, where Sandor Clegane leaned heavily against a stone pillar. The burned man was tearing at a roasted capon with his teeth, his scarred face bathed in the firelight. Joffrey caught sight of his sworn shield as well. The Prince took a heavy silver platter piled high with prime cuts of venison and tossed a heavy leather purse of gold stags atop the meat. He gestured to a passing serving girl, pointing a long finger toward the Hound.

When the girl delivered the platter, Sandor looked up. Across the crowded, noisy hall, the giant Prince and the scarred killer exchanged a single, pragmatic look. There was no courtly grace in it. It was the silent, brutal acknowledgment of two wolves in a forest of sheep. Sandor gave a gruff nod and took the gold.

He tames the hounds, Robert thought, marveling at the sight. He commands the killers. He does not ask for their love; he buys their steel and demands their respect.

"That blade," a frail voice rasped from Robert's left.

The King turned to see Jon Arryn. The Hand of the King looked dreadful. His skin was the color of old parchment, and his hands shook so badly he had to set his wine cup down to keep from spilling it. Jon was staring at the dark, smoke-rippled scabbard resting against Joffrey's chair.

"Valyrian steel is rarely seen outside the hands of the great houses, Ser Joffrey," the old man said, his voice trembling with a profound dread. "May a man ask where a Prince finds such a treasure?"

The hall around the dais grew quiet. Lords leaned in, their eyes drawn to the priceless dark metal.

Joffrey did not miss a beat. He took a slow sip of his watered wine, setting the goblet down with absolute precision before turning to the Hand. "I won it in a wager from a Pentoshi sellsword down at the docks, Lord Arryn," Joffrey said smoothly, his lie flawless and impenetrable. "The fool had gambled away his captain's coin and offered the steel to cover his debts. I cared little for its history; I cared only for the edge."

Joffrey looked around the high table, a faint, chilling smirk touching his lips. "If any lord here believes the blade belongs to his house, the lists are still open tomorrow. They are welcome to challenge me for it."

Silence hung in the air for a long, heavy moment. No one spoke. No man in his right mind was going to challenge the behemoth who had just broken the Mountain for a sword he claimed from a dockside wager.

Robert threw his head back and unleashed a laugh that rattled the silver platters. "You heard him!" the King bellowed, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "Steel is kept with steel! If you want the boy's sword, you'll have to bleed for it!"

He reached out and hauled Joffrey into a bone-crushing embrace, planting a wet, ale-soaked kiss on the boy's cheek. Joffrey endured the embrace perfectly, remaining as rigid and unbreakable as an iron pillar.

Robert pulled back, his eyes swimming with drink and a fierce, overwhelming love. He looked past his son, out over the hundreds of lords, knights, and ladies filling the Great Hall. He saw the maidens whispering behind their hands, casting heated glances at the Prince's broad shoulders and golden hair. He saw the seasoned knights of the realm looking upon the boy with wary, respectful awe.

"Look at them, Ned," Robert murmured into his ale, his mind drifting back to the barrows of the North, speaking to a ghost only he could see. "They know it now. The realm is safe."

The King took up his flagon, swaying slightly in his seat as he looked upon the magnificent, terrifying warrior sitting at his right hand.

"The Dragon is dead," Robert Baratheon whispered, a contented smile touching his lips. "And the Stag has teeth at last."