[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 35: JOFFREY IX (Public) (Patreon)

The heavy oak doors of the Small Council chamber swung shut with a dull, echoing finality, sealing away the murmurs and the bustling politics of the Red Keep. Outside, standing as a silent, unmoving sentinel of white enamel and scaled armor, Ser Mandon Moore remained at his post. The Kingsguard knight kept his pale, dead eyes fixed straight ahead, an emotionless sword guarding the door for a Prince who demanded absolute, unquestioning obedience.

Inside the chamber, the air was thick and still, carrying the scent of warm beeswax from the melting candles, the dry rustle of old parchment, and the faint, sweet smell of summerwine.

Prince Joffrey Baratheon sat at the head of the massive, polished oak table. He did not slouch in the high-backed chair, nor did he reach for the wine flagon. He sat perfectly upright, a towering figure of broad shoulders and coiled, terrifying stillness. He let his brilliant emerald gaze sweep over the smooth wood of the table, studying the men gathered before him, and more importantly, studying the spaces where men were not.

Two high-backed chairs remained pointedly vacant.

To Joffrey’s immediate right, the heavy chair reserved for the Hand of the King sat empty, awaiting the arrival of the quiet, honorable Wolf of Winterfell. Lord Eddard Stark was currently crawling south down the muddy expanse of the Kingsroad, bringing the King’s bloated royal procession with him. To Joffrey’s left, the chair for the Master of Coin awaited the return of the misshapen Lion from the freezing, desolate misery of the Wall. Lord Tyrion Lannister’s appointment had been a calculated stroke, binding the realm's wealth securely to Casterly Rock, but his absence left a temporary void.

Joffrey looked at those empty chairs and felt no anxiety. The absences were not a weakness; they were a physical, undeniable manifestation of his unchecked authority. He ruled the interim, and the interim was the window he needed to forge his engine of state. By the time the Wolf and the Lion arrived to take their seats, the trap would already be sprung, and the jaws of the royal machine would be locked firmly in place.

He shifted his gaze to the men who were present. Lord Renly Baratheon, the Master of Laws, sat casually near the center of the table. He wore a stunning doublet of deep forest-green velvet, slashed with cloth-of-gold. Renly drummed his long, manicured fingers lightly against the armrest, projecting a bored, courtly detachment that failed entirely to mask the underlying wariness in his bright blue eyes. Further down sat Grand Maester Pycelle, hunched under the heavy, suffocating weight of his many-linked chain. The old man’s spotted, liver-marked hands trembled slightly as he meticulously arranged his ink pots and freshly cut quills, his milky eyes darting nervously toward the unfamiliar faces at the table.

"My lords," Joffrey began, his deep baritone voice filling the quiet room with an effortless, crushing command. The murmurs ceased instantly. "The King's absence leaves us with the heavy burden of governance. We have empty seats to fill, and the realm will not wait for the royal wheelhouse to trundle through the Riverlands mud."

Joffrey gestured with a large, heavily ringed hand toward the right side of the table. "Lord Eldon Estermont joins us today to take up the mantle of the Master of Ships. Beside him, Qyburn takes the seat of the Master of Whisperers. And at my left, Moredo Rogare sits as a special guest of the Crown, to advise upon the treasury until my uncle returns from the North."

The heavy, forged links of Pycelle's chain clinked loudly in the sudden silence as the old man shifted violently in his seat. The Grand Maester’s face mottled with a sudden, deep crimson indignation. He pushed himself up, leaning heavily on the table, and pointed a shaking, crooked finger directly at Qyburn.

The new spymaster sat quietly, his hands folded passively in the wide sleeves of his simple, unadorned grey robes, his face an mask of mild, grandfatherly serenity.

"Your Grace, I must formally protest," Pycelle croaked, his voice thick with the outraged orthodoxy of Oldtown. "This... this man is an abomination to our order. He was stripped of his chain by the Conclave of Archmaesters. His practices in the depths of the Citadel were deemed unnatural, an affront to the gods and to the healing arts. To seat a disgraced exile at the King's table... it is an insult to the order of maesters and the wisdom of the Seven."

Joffrey did not raise his voice. He simply turned his eyes upon the old man, and the temperature in the room seemed to plummet.

"The Spider spun webs of treason, Grand Maester," Joffrey said, his tone flat, cold, and entirely unyielding. He leaned forward slightly, resting his heavy forearms on the oak table. "Lord Varys hoarded his secrets in the shadows, trading whispers for his own survival while the Crown bled. I require a man who dissects the truth with the edge of a scalpel. Qyburn’s competence serves the Crown. I care nothing for the delicate sensibilities of the Archmaesters."

Pycelle swallowed hard, the loose, wrinkled skin of his throat working nervously. He looked at the massive, golden-haired Prince, and in those cold, calculating emerald eyes, the old man saw the terrifying, pragmatic tyranny of Tywin Lannister staring back at him. Pycelle was a creature of Casterly Rock; he respected strength, and he recognized a predator who valued utility over polite tradition. Joffrey was not a boy to be lectured.

Pycelle lowered his shaking hand, the fight draining from his stooped shoulders. "As you say, Your Grace. The Crown's needs must come first." He sank back into his chair, accepting the Prince's distasteful choice.

Joffrey turned his attention away from the cowed old man and focused on his new spymaster.

"What news from the East, Qyburn?" Joffrey asked, demanding the report to publicly cement the man's competence before the skeptical eyes of the council.

"Whispers from the Rhoyne, my prince," Qyburn replied softly, his voice carrying the gentle, reassuring cadence of a village healer. "It appears the eunuch Varys fled the coastal manse in Pentos aboard a riverboat, accompanied by the two Targaryen exiles. However, the waters of the Sorrows are treacherous, and the fog is thick with ruin."

Qyburn paused, letting the silence stretch for a fraction of a heartbeat. "The reports suggest they were struck by severe misfortune upon the river. Their vessel is lost. Their whereabouts, and indeed their very survival, remain highly uncertain."

Renly Baratheon raised a dark, elegant eyebrow, a faint, genuine smirk touching his lips as he reached for his goblet of wine. "The dragon sinks in the mud," the Master of Laws mused, taking a sip. "A pity for the singers, perhaps, but a blessing for the realm. One less ghost to haunt my brother's sleep."

Joffrey did not smile, maintaining his rigid, unbroken composure. "And the royal procession?"

"Slow, Your Grace," Qyburn continued, his serene voice filling the chamber. "The Queen's heavy wheelhouse forces a crawling pace. Lord Stark and the King have scarcely passed the swamps of the Neck. However, my little birds along the Kingsroad report that Lord Stark's outriders have doubled in number. The Northman travels with a heavy, watchful guard. He sees shadows in the trees. We have ample time before the new Hand arrives to assume his duties, but he will arrive with his sword drawn."

"Time we shall use to ensure he finds the realm secure," Joffrey stated smoothly, betraying nothing of the trap he was laying for the honorable Ned Stark.

Joffrey shifted his heavy gaze across the table, fixing his eyes on the Lyseni banker. "Rogare. Unspool the ledgers. Speak to the council of the Crown's gold."

Moredo Rogare leaned forward. The Valyrian silver of his hair caught the flickering candlelight, framing a face of sharp, aristocratic angles. He wore a doublet of dark velvet, smelling faintly of exotic spices and sea salt.

"Lord Baelish left behind a labyrinth of deceit, Your Grace," Rogare began, his voice crisp and heavily accented. He opened a thick, leather-bound ledger, the pages covered in tight, meticulous script. "His accounts were built upon phantom gold, predatory loans, and heavy borrowing from the Faith and Casterly Rock. We have spent the past weeks methodically detangling the Crown's actual, physical assets from his shadow networks."

Rogare looked around the table, his calculating eyes meeting Renly's and Pycelle's. "The truth of the treasury is sobering. We have separated the parchment illusions from the actual, physical golden dragons King Robert currently holds in the vaults. The foundation of the King's Landing branch of the Royal Bank has been firmly established within the city, but the King's reserves are uncomfortably low. To maintain a steady flow of silver for the Crown's new endeavors, the treasury requires the immediate infusion of capital through the proposed Royal Bonds."

"The board of the Royal Bank convenes later this evening to secure that very silver," Joffrey assured him, his voice leaving no room for doubt. He knew the Tyrells and the Faith would try to hoard their wealth, and he was prepared to bleed them of it.

Joffrey turned to the right, addressing the old stormlord who had taken Stannis Baratheon's seat. Lord Eldon Estermont was a heavily bearded, thick-chested man who smelled of sea salt and old wool. He was a seasoned veteran of coastal blockades, but the sheer scale of Joffrey's maritime demands clearly weighed heavily upon his broad shoulders.

"Lord Estermont," Joffrey commanded. "The progress of the Royal Fleet."

Eldon Estermont cleared his throat, his thick fingers resting on a scroll of shipwright designs. "The new docks along the Blackwater Rush are expanding, Your Grace. The mud is being cleared, and the slips are being dug. But we face monumental hurdles to lay the keels you demand."

Estermont frowned deeply, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. "We severely lack master shipwrights to oversee the construction of warships of this magnitude. Furthermore, we have no trained seafarers or oarsmen to man the galleys once they are built. But the most critical lack, Your Grace, is the wood itself."

The Master of Ships tapped the parchment heavily. "The timber flowing from the Kingswood is vast, but it is entirely green. Freshly cut pine is full of sap and moisture. If we build a hull from green wood, it will warp, split, and rot the moment it tastes the saltwater of the Narrow Sea. We cannot build a war fleet without properly aged wood, dried in the open air for years. And we do not have years."

Renly sighed, swirling his wine. "A grand fleet built of rotting pine. Truly, a terrifying prospect."

Joffrey ignored his uncle's jest. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his mind operating with cold, unforgiving pragmatism. He dismantled the old man's obstacles with brutal precision.

"We will not wait years for the Kingswood to dry in the sun," Joffrey commanded. "Lord Rogare, you will release the necessary capital from the new vaults to purchase naturally aged, seasoned timber from the Free Cities. Funnel it directly into Blackwater Bay."

Estermont looked taken aback. "Even with Essosi wood, my prince, we lack the hands to build them and the men to sail them."

"Use the Rogare network to poach shipbuilders from Lys and the Braavosi Arsenal," Joffrey countered smoothly, his voice cutting through the hesitations. "Offer them double the standard wage in pure silver. They will cross the Narrow Sea for that. Furthermore, Pycelle, you will send word to the Citadel. Draft acolytes who have forged links of iron for warcraft and electrum for navigation. They will serve as our naval architects."

Pycelle blinked, stunned by the sheer audacity of drafting the Citadel's scholars for shipyards, but he dared not object again. "It... it shall be done, Your Grace."

"For the oarsmen and the navigators," Joffrey continued, his gaze shifting back to Estermont. "Draft a royal decree. I am pardoning the smugglers and the minor pirates who plague Blackwater Bay and the Crackclaw Point. Offer them formal letters of marque. They will serve as our privateers. We will turn the very thieves who steal from the Crown into the men who bleed for it."

Estermont sat back in his chair, his bearded jaw slack, utterly stunned by the aggressive, sweeping swiftness of the Prince's commands.

"And the green Kingswood timber, Your Grace?" Estermont asked, his voice rough. "Shall we simply leave the fresh logs to rot on the docks while we wait for the Lyseni ships?"

"No," Joffrey said, his emerald eyes flashing in the candlelight. "We build drying rooms. Massive stone curing chambers along the banks of the Blackwater."

Estermont frowned, confused. "Curing chambers, my prince?"

"Kilns," Joffrey explained, his voice low and intense. "We will cure the green pine with heavy smoke and controlled heat within the stone rooms. Naturally air-dried wood is superior for the critical flexing of a ship's outer hull, yes. But the kilns can bake the moisture out of the Kingswood pine in a matter of weeks, rather than years."

Joffrey tapped his heavy ring against the oak table, laying out the logistical blueprint of his war machine. "Use the kiln-dried wood for the internal decking, the oars, the smaller river patrol boats, and the non-load-bearing structures. Save the aged Essosi timber strictly for the main keels and the outer hulls of the great war galleys. The shipyards will not stop working for a single day."

Silence fell over the Small Council chamber. The scent of beeswax and summerwine was entirely replaced by the heavy, metallic anticipation of industry and war.

Renly Baratheon stopped drumming his fingers. He stared at his golden-haired nephew, the mocking smile entirely vanished from his handsome face, replaced by a profound, dawning realization of the sheer capability of the boy sitting at the head of the table

Joffrey Baratheon sat perfectly still, listening to the silence of the room. Now the Game begins.

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PS:- Originally, was supposed to be a longer chapter, including Joff's inspection of the dry yards, meeting Aurane and promising him a lordship. Also convening the first general meeting of the Royal Bank. However, I had two exams the past week and truth be told, I am severely sleep deprived and my brain is not functioning to its full capacity. The next chapter shall be longer as a compensation. Thank you for your consideration, dear Patrons.