[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 30: JOFFREY VII (Public) (Patreon)

The Winterfell courtyard was a swirling chaos of baying hounds, stamping destriers, and the bitter, lung-biting chill of the Northern morning. The packed earth was hard as iron beneath Joffrey’s boots. All around him, the men of the King’s party were making ready for the wolfswood, hauling heavy boar spears and thick furs atop their mounts.

At the center of the tumult stood King Robert Baratheon. The King was red-faced and boisterous, his booming laughter echoing off the grey granite walls, though the dark pouches beneath his eyes spoke of the heavy casks of ale emptied the night before.

Joffrey cut through the throng, his massive shoulders parting the squires and men-at-arms like a galleon cutting through the surf. He wore a heavy riding cloak of black wool over his dark leathers, his smoke-dark Valyrian steel blade belted at his waist. He halted before the King, offering a crisp, measured incline of his head.

"Your Grace," Joffrey said, his deep baritone carrying easily over the barking of the hounds.

Robert turned, wiping a sheen of cold sweat from his brow. "Joffrey! Fetch your horse, boy. Lord Stark says the boars in these woods are the size of draft horses. We’ll need that swing of yours."

"I must beg your leave to decline, Father," Joffrey replied, his tone smooth and unyielding. "The dawn ravens brought word from the capital. Lord Estermont and Lord Rogare have arrived at the Red Keep. They wait upon the Crown to receive their oaths. The realm cannot be left to fend for itself. I beg my Lord Father to let me return to govern the Seven Kingdoms on your behalf."

Robert groaned, a sound of profound, weary disgust, and waved a thick hand. "Let them wait! The eunuch has escaped, Baelish is rotting in the earth, and the rest can be trusted to their own devices. Let them handle the realm’s mundane matters until I return."

"The coppers pay the smiths, Your Grace," Joffrey pressed softly. "And the smiths forge the swords. Grant me leave to ride for White Harbor and take a fast galleon for the capital. I will shoulder the burden of the parchment and the ink and keep the Realm at bay until Your Grace returns from Winterfell."

Robert’s eyes brightened. The sheer relief of passing the tedious, suffocating drudgery of governance to his son was palpable. The King let out a bark of laughter and clapped a heavy hand against Joffrey’s shoulder. "By the Seven, you have the stomach for it, boy! Go on, then. Bind them in their oaths and make them do your bidding. I will bring you a set of tusks from the Hunt!"

"There is one more matter, Your Grace," Joffrey said, "The journey is long, and the Bite is treacherous this time of year. I carry the blood of the stag. I would ask the protection of your Kingsguard, mine Uncle on the road."

Robert said dismissively, "Take him then. And any other you require. Let me hunt in peace, boy”

"As the King commands," Joffrey bowed, “I shall take my leave with your permission, Your Grace.”

The King merely nodded and patted Joffrey on the shoulders. “I was never one for governing. I like the thrill of the hunt and the war too much and I know I am not the best King for the realm. You shall make a fine King, Joff.”

Joffrey smiled, ”Do not sell yourself short, Your Grace. You have given the realm time to heal and recover from the atrocities committed by Aerys and his ilk. You have given the realm peace and stability. No one can ask for more. I only hope to follow your lead.”

Robert smiled, “Go on then, boy.”

Before mounting his own black stallion, Joffrey sought out Ser Lyle Crakehall. The Strongboar was a mountain of muscle, clad in heavy plate. Ever since Joffrey had battered him into the dirt at the Name Day melee and spared his pride, Crakehall’s loyalty had been absolute.

Joffrey pulled the Westerman aside into the shadow of the parapet. "Ser Lyle. My lady mother remains in an unfamiliar land. You are one of the most skilled lords in the realm. I leave her in your care."

Crakehall puffed out his broad chest, honored by the trust. "No harm will come to the Queen, my Prince. I swear it by the Seven."

"I know," Joffrey murmured, his green eyes cold and piercing. "Add your best men to her door. Keep her safe. And keep me informed of her safety. Every hour. Every movement, Ser Lyle. And dissuade her from moving alone in the Keep if possible, Ser."

"It will be done, my Prince," Crakehall vowed, completely unaware that he had just been ordered to lock the Queen in an invisible cage.

By mid-morning, the royal column rode hard out of Winterfell’s gates, traveling southeast toward the White Knife. They rode alongside the returning retinue of Wylis and Wendel Manderly. Unlike the bloated, crawling procession that had lumbered North from the capital, Joffrey’s party traveled lightly, and with speed and discretion in mind.

They did not stop for comfort. They rode until the sun dipped low and the frost crept over the leaves on the shrubbery. To supplement their rations, Joffrey led hunting sorties into the fringes of the Wolfswood. He did not use hounds or beaters; he rode Brimstone deep into the thickets, bringing down heavy stags and wild hare with a long yew bow. When they required grain or fodder for the destriers, Joffrey did not permit his outriders to seize it from the Northern crofters. He stopped at the minor holds and villages, paying for the oats and salted meat with copper stags.

Wylis and Wendel Manderly rode alongside him, watching the Prince pay the smallfolk with their silent approval. The North was a harsh land where every single stalk of wheat was hard won and thankfully the Prince was kind enough to pay for their provisions. This was a Prince they could follow.

As they followed the rushing, icy waters of the White Knife, Joffrey turned his charm upon the Manderly brothers. He knew better than to bore them with the dry scratching of ledgers. Instead, as the horses chewed up the leagues, Joffrey regaled them with the tales of the Name Day tourney. He spoke of the ash-wood lances shattering, of the Mountain cast into the dirt. He told them of the night the corrupt gold cloaks were purged from the city, the iron discipline he was forging in the new Gold Cloaks, and his intent to build a fighting force that could march from the Dornish Marches to the Wall without breaking stride.

The Manderly brothers were utterly captivated. Wendel’s boisterous laughter echoed off the riverbanks, and even the calculating Wylis leaned in, his walrus-mustache twitching with deep, martial respect. Joffrey played the unyielding Stag, and they adored him for it.

But as dusk fell on the third day and the column made camp in a snowy clearing beside the river, the festering ire within the camp finally broke the surface.

The fires crackled, spitting pine sap into the dark. Joffrey sat upon a fallen log, methodically wiping the oil across his smoke-dark Valyrian steel blade. The camp was quiet, the men exhausted from the hard riding.

Ser Jaime Lannister stepped into the firelight. He did not wear his white cloak; he was clad in a heavy leather jerkin, his golden hair wild from the wind. He radiated a toxic, restless frustration.

Jaime stood over the Prince, his shadow falling across the dark steel. Stripped of his usual arrogant bluster, the Kingslayer’s voice was quiet, barbed, and dripping with venom.

"A neat trick, my prince," Jaime murmured, his green eyes flashing in the firelight. He watched Joffrey’s face intently, probing for a reaction. "Whispering in the King’s ear. Dragging the finest blade in the Seven Kingdoms away from the King to guard a boy that unhorsed the Mountain. Tell me, did you fear the shadows of the North so deeply, or did you simply wish to deny the Queen her shield?"

Jaime stared, searching the Prince’s unyielding features, desperate to know if Joffrey understood the true depth of the wound he had inflicted. Does he know? Joffrey did not look up from the sword. He drew the oiled rag down the length of the rippling steel, the metal singing a faint, deadly note in the quiet camp.

"A white cloak has no attachments, Ser Jaime," Joffrey said, his voice entirely devoid of heat, cold as the ice on the river. "He has no family. He has no desires. He has only his vows, his sword, and the King's command."

Joffrey finally looked up, his emerald eyes meeting Jaime’s. There was no mockery in the Prince’s gaze, no boyish spite. There was only an absolute, impenetrable authority that crushed the air from Jaime's lungs.

"You are a sworn sword," Joffrey stated, the words heavy and final. "You stand where the King tells you to stand. You ride where the King tells you to ride. There is nothing else."

Jaime’s jaw locked. The muscles in his neck strained against his collar. He wanted to draw steel. He wanted to scream the truth of their blood into the freezing night. But he looked into the cold, green eyes of his own son and found a prince who does not yield to emotions. Stripped of his power, silenced by the undeniable truth of Joffrey's words, the Kingslayer turned and walked away into the dark, utterly trapped by the vows he had once forsaken.

Two days later, the rushing waters of the White Knife spilled into the Bite, and the towering, white-stone walls of White Harbor rose before them, gleaming like a pearl against the grey Northern sea.

Joffrey was received with immense pomp at the New Castle. The great hall of the Merman’s Court was a cavern of wealth, its walls adorned with tapestries of ships and sea-dragons. Lord Wyman Manderly sat upon his cushioned high seat, a man of immense, staggering girth, yet his small eyes were sharp as shattered glass.

Joffrey did not waste time with courtly dances. The Manderly brothers had brought the matters of concern to the fat Merman, he was sure. He laid the heavy parchment of the royal charter upon the carved wooden table before the Lord of White Harbor.

"The Royal Bank of Westeros, Lord Wyman," Joffrey declared, his eye locked upon the features of the Manderly Lord. "The North has bled its silver to the Essosi banks for too long, who spit upon our traditions and our pride. I bring the Crown's vaults to your shores."

Wyman Manderly leaned forward, his chins trembling. "A grand gesture, my Prince. But gold requires iron to guard it. If the Crown's coin rests in my city, the burden of its safety falls upon my household."

Joffrey smiled. He knew the Merman’s nature and could tell that he had taken the bait. "I do not ask you to guard it for honor alone, my lord. I offer House Manderly the Liege's Share. Secure the vaults with your own knights. In return, the Merman takes a tithe of every exchange, every loan, and every letter of credit processed within these walls."

Lord Wyman considered in silence, his hand stroking his beard gently. The sheer, self-sustaining prospect of the wealth being offered to him was staggering. He saw the timber of the Wolfswood and the silver of the White Knife flowing entirely through his own toll gates. He reached out a thick, ringed hand and took up the quill.

When Joffrey walked out onto the bustling, salt-sprayed docks later that afternoon, the charter was sealed in wax. His entourage boarded the massive, deep-hulled royal transport ship, its hold already groaning with the first tribute of Northern trade goods.

Standing at the prow as the heavy mooring lines were cast off, Joffrey felt the deck heave beneath his boots. The freezing wind of the Bite whipped at his cloak. He looked back at the receding white walls of the city, and beyond them, to the vast, frozen expanse of the North.

He had done everything he could. The rest was upto Fate and the eldritch beings the Westerosi called Gods.

Joffrey turned his back on the ice, his green eyes fixing on the southern horizon. He planned to stop in the Gulltown on the way south to discuss the matters of the royal bank and trade with the Vale Lords. But for now, he closed his eyes and let the winds calm his thoughts.

~~~