[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 29: JOFFREY VI (Public) (Patreon)

The air inside the Great Hall of Winterfell was thick as a wool blanket, choking on the heavy smoke of roasting aurochs, pine pitch, and the sour, undeniable stench of spilled winter ale. A thousand tallow candles burned in the iron sconces along the grey stone walls, casting long, frantic shadows over the lords and ladies of the North.

At the center of the high table, King Robert Baratheon held court as a portrait of dynastic decay. The King was a mountain of black velvet and wine-soaked ruin, his broad chest heaving as he roared with laughter, groping the serving wenches who dared step close enough. He slammed his flagon against the oak boards, loudly trapping a strained, rigid Eddard Stark in endless, repetitive tales of the Trident.

Joffrey sat at his lord father’s right hand just long enough to eat his portion of venison, his emerald eyes sweeping the high table and the lower benches with the calculating scrutiny of a liege lord evaluating the strength of his levies. He saw the grim, hard-bitten men of the North staring up at the dais. They looked at the drunken King with veiled pity. To his left, Cersei sat in stony, perfumed silence. She had barely touched her trencher, pressing a lace handkerchief to her nose as if the very air of the North offended her, looking upon the high lords of winter as though they were unwashed savages. Small wonder the men of the North looked upon the Queen’s crimson silks with outright disdain.

He had seen enough.

Joffrey rose from his heavy oak chair. He did not ask his father for leave, nor did he offer a soft, courtly bow to his mother. He simply unclasped his heavy velvet doublet, tossing the rich garment to a passing serving boy, and descended the stone steps of the dais clad only in a plain, sweat-dampened linen tunic and dark riding leathers.

He waded directly into the roaring, ale-soaked chaos of the lower benches.

The Northern lords stiffened as the Crown Prince approached, their laughter dying in their throats. The bloody tales of the Kingswood and the Name Day tourney had already ridden up the Kingsroad. They knew him as the Titan's Bastard, the behemoth who had broken the Mountain and unhorsed the Kingslayer. Arms crossed over broad chests, they fell into a guarded, wary silence. Joffrey stood near seven feet tall, his chest broad, his arms banded with thick, corded muscle that strained the seams of his linen tunic.

"My Prince," Jon Umber rumbled, rising slowly from his bench. The Greatjon was a massive tree trunk of a man, his wild beard stained dark with ale. He looked Joffrey up and down. "You wander far from the high table. The ale down here is thick and bitter, meant for winter men. It sours the stomachs of those used to Arbor red."

Joffrey did not smile. He reached out and wrapped his massive hand around a heavy iron flagon resting on the Umber tables. He raised it to his lips and drained the harsh, bitter swill in a single, unbroken draught. He slammed the empty iron vessel down so hard the timber table groaned.

"A harsh brew for a harsh land, Lord Umber," Joffrey said, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that carried easily over the din of the hall. "But a man who drinks only sweetened wine forgets how to taste iron when the battle lines break. I came to drink with the vanguard of the realm."

The Greatjon stared at the empty flagon, then up at the Prince's unyielding, green eyes. A slow, savage grin split the Umber lord's beard. "Well spoken!" he roared, slamming a meaty fist against his own chest. "Well spoken! Let us see if the Stag’s grip matches his thirst!"

Umber extended a massive, calloused hand over the scarred oak boards.

Joffrey stepped forward and met him, locking forearms in a warrior's clasp. The collision of flesh and bone drew a crowd of fierce, bearded faces. Karstarks, Glovers, and Tallharts crowded around the bench, howling and slamming their tankards together.

The Greatjon surged, throwing the weight of his massive shoulders into his grip, intending to pull the Prince off balance and test his footing. The muscles in Umber's neck bulged like thick hempen ropes, his face turning the color of crushed plums.

Joffrey did not yield a hairsbreadth. He planted his boots against the floorboards, his own jaw locking into a hard, unforgiving line. He absorbed the Greatjon's tremendous, raw strength, his golden curls sticking to his forehead as the sweat broke across his brow. He met the older man with a brute, unyielding pressure, his arm feeling like a wall of living stone. Slowly, inexorably, Joffrey's sheer physical mass and disciplined strength turned the tide, forcing the Lord of Last Hearth's arm down an inch, then two.

The Greatjon let out a booming laugh and broke the clasp before he could be bent entirely, clapping his massive other hand on Joffrey's shoulder. The bench erupted. The Northmen did not resent the show of power; they revered the display of undeniable strength. The Umber lord called for a fresh cask of ale, and Joffrey drank with them, perfectly mirroring their martial brotherhood while maintaining the terrifying aura of a warrior-king.

From the high table, Eddard Stark watched the Prince wipe the ale from his chin. Ned’s hands gripped his silver goblet so tightly his knuckles turned stark white. Robert commanded through boisterous, fading nostalgia, but Joffrey was actively conquering the hearts of the Northern vanguard with every shared drink. Ned realized, with a sudden, suffocating clarity, that the Prince was systematically buying the loyalty of Winterfell's bannermen right in front of him.

Stepping away from the roaring throng, Joffrey seamlessly shifted his persona. He moved further down the hall, seeking the men who worshiped the ledger as much as the Seven.

Wylis and Wendel Manderly sat surrounded by plates of baked lamprey and roasted fowl. They were heavy, prosperous men, their doublets trimmed in fine Myrish lace. As Joffrey approached, the brothers scrambled to rise, but the Prince gestured for them to remain seated, pulling up a heavy stool to join them.

Stripping away the martial bluster he had used with the Umbers, Joffrey spoke in quiet, measured tones.

"White Harbor is the throat of the North, Ser Wylis," Joffrey said, his voice steady beneath the roar of the feast. "Yet your merchant cogs waste precious weeks sailing to Gulltown or Braavos to find proper weigh-houses and coin for their timber and pelts. It is a squandering of Northern silver."

Wylis Manderly blinked, his heavy, walrus-mustache twitching in surprise. "The Crown has little interest in Northern trade, my Prince. The masters of coin have always favored the Narrow Sea."

"The old masters of coin are dead," Joffrey replied smoothly. "I have established the Royal Bank in the capital. I intend to grant White Harbor the exclusive royal charter to host its first branch."

Wendel nearly choked on his wine. "A royal charter? Here?"

"A vault built of Crown stone, backed by the Iron Throne," Joffrey confirmed, his eyes locking onto the brothers. "Furthermore, I will sign a royal edict establishing a subsidized, direct trade corridor between your port and King's Landing. Your wool, fur, and pelts will flow south without the heavy tariffs of the Bite, and our castle-forged steel and Myrish glass will flow north. The Manderlys will hold the purse strings of the entire kingdom above the Neck."

The Manderly brothers exchanged a look. They saw the unimaginable wealth of a continent funneling directly through their own toll gates. They nodded frantically, eagerly agreeing to carry the royal terms back to Lord Wyman. With a few spoken words and the promise of royal silver, Joffrey had firmly secured the greatest economic engine in the North into his own financial web.

Returning to the dais, Joffrey reclaimed his seat beside his father. He took up his goblet of watered wine, his mind already moving to the final piece of the board.

He watched young Bran Stark. The boy had the restless, boundless energy of a hunting hound, his eyes wide as he took in the armor, the songs, and the sheer spectacle of the royal retinue.

Joffrey leaned closer to Eddard and Catelyn Stark, his expression softening into a mask of warm, fraternal affection.

"He has a fierce spirit, Lord Stark," Joffrey murmured, gesturing slightly toward Bran. "Watching him scale the inner keep today, I see the fearless blood of the First Men. And I see the very shadow of my own younger brother, Tommen. Full of wild courage, desperate for the yard and the clash of swords."

Ned looked at his second son, a faint, proud smile touching his lips. "He dreams of the Kingsguard, my Prince. He thinks of nothing but the songs of the South."

"Then let him live them," Joffrey said smoothly, his trap springing with flawless precision.

Ned’s smile vanished, replaced by a sudden, rigid caution. "My Prince?"

Joffrey leaned heavily into the history he knew bound the Warden of the North. "My lord father and you were fostered together in the Vale. Jon Arryn took a quiet, honorable wolf and a boisterous Stormlands stag and forged them into brothers. That brotherhood brought down the Mad King and secured the realm. I propose we build that bridge once more."

Joffrey turned to Catelyn. "Let Bran ride south with us to King's Landing. He will serve as a royal page, a fighting partner, and a constant companion to Tommen. They shall be raised together, learning the war lance and how to fight in the crushing weight of full plate under the direct tutelage of Ser Barristan Selmy himself."

Catelyn Stark’s breath caught in her throat. Having already seen the cold, terrifying intellect beneath the Prince's golden facade, she felt a sudden, suffocating dread take root in her chest. This was no great honor; it was a flawlessly executed, polite hostage situation.

Ned, too, looked entirely paralyzed. The historical parallel had completely disarmed his defenses. To refuse the Crown Prince’s offer of brotherhood—to reject the very path that had shaped his own life in the Vale, and to deny Ser Barristan a squire—would be an unthinkable insult to the King.

"A brilliant thought!" Robert bellowed, having caught the end of the exchange. He slammed his hand on the table. "Bring the boy south, Ned! Let him run with my Tommen. We’ll make knights of them both!"

"We would be... deeply honored, Your Grace," Ned forced out, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

Joffrey smiled, raising his goblet in a silent salute.

Hours past midnight, the Great Hall lay silent, the roaring fires burned down to glowing, resentful embers. Winterfell had succumbed to exhaustion and the heavy casks of ale.

The cold in the courtyard was absolute, a bitter, freezing bite that turned breath to white smoke. Joffrey walked across the packed earth of the ward, a heavy, fur-lined cloak pulled tight over his broad shoulders. Behind him, moving with surprising silence for a man of his monstrous size, came Sandor Clegane.

They reached the heavy ironwood door of the First Keep. Two Stark guardsmen sat slumped against the stonework, their chins resting on their chests, snoring heavily. The heavy dose of sweetsleep laced into their specific evening rations had done its work perfectly.

Sandor pushed the door open, the rusted hinges offering only a soft groan.

They stepped into the freezing, subterranean dark. The Hound struck a flint, lighting a heavy pitch torch. The sudden flare of orange light pushed the shadows back, revealing the narrow, spiraling stone stairs that led deep into the belly of the castle.

"A foul place," Sandor rasped, the torchlight dancing across the horrific burn scars on his face. He kept a wary eye on the flames, his grip white-knuckled on the torch bearing. "Smells of dead men and dust."

"Keep moving, Clegane," Joffrey commanded quietly, his voice echoing softly against the damp walls.

They descended into the crypts. The air grew immediately, aggressively colder. They walked past the long, terrifying procession of the Kings of Winter. Massive stone statues loomed in the dark, their cold, granite faces stern and unforgiving. Heavy iron swords lay across their knees, rusting away in the damp, while stone direwolves snarled silently at their feet.

Joffrey did not stop at the upper tombs. He bypassed the empty, waiting sepulchers of the modern Starks and pushed deeper into the labyrinth. According to the obscure, ancient testimonies of the dwarf Mushroom, Jacaerys Velaryon’s dragon, Vermax, had despised the bitter cold of the North, retreating deep beneath the castle to seek the warmth of the natural subterranean springs.

As they walked deeper into the older, partially collapsed levels of the crypts, the freezing air slowly gave way to a heavy, sweltering dampness. The walls grew slick with condensation.

"It grows hot," Sandor muttered, pulling at the collar of his leather jerkin.

"The blood of the earth," Joffrey replied, tracking the rising heat.

They reached the lowest, forgotten level. The stonework here was ancient, crumbling and unstable. The heat was oppressive, smelling faintly of sulfur and wet earth. Joffrey stopped near a massive, jagged fissure in the floor, where a steady stream of hot, foul-smelling steam vented up from the deep springs below.

Hidden in the shadows of the vent, partially buried beneath a pile of fallen masonry, lay the prize.

Joffrey stepped forward, brushing the dirt and rubble away with his gauntleted hands.

There were three of them. They were massive, the size of a man's head, entirely covered in thick, petrified scales. They did not feel like stone; they felt incredibly heavy, and they were warm to the touch, the heat transferring easily through Joffrey's leather gloves. One was a deep, bruised purple, another the color of dried blood, and the last a pale, sickly green.

"What in the Seven Hells are those?" Sandor breathed, lowering the torch, his dark eyes wide with sudden, primal apprehension.

"The end of an age, Sandor," Joffrey whispered, running his hand over the scaled surface.

His calculating mind asserted itself, fighting down the faint, lingering thrill of the discovery. He already possessed his own prize from the ashes of the past; claiming this clutch was a matter of pragmatic caution, a necessary theft to deny such terrifying assets to any ambitious rivals who might come after.

"Wrap them in the heavy canvas," Joffrey commanded, stepping back from the thermal vent. "Carefully. If you drop one, I will leave you down here with the ghosts."

Sandor grunted, sheathing his sword to pull the thick sacks from his belt. He hauled the heavy, petrified eggs from the rubble.

Joffrey turned back toward the stairs, leaving the dead kings to their silent, crumbling dark. He ascended from the crypts of the wolf, into the silence of the night and the soft snoring of the two guards.

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