[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 42: NED III (Public) (Patreon)

The heavy cedar doors of the Small Council chamber thudded shut, sealing away the clatter of the Red Keep’s corridors. Eddard Stark stood in the sudden quiet, feeling the oppressive, sweltering heat of the Crownlands settle over his shoulders. He wore a simple tunic of grey linen, stained dark with sweat and the pale dust of the Kingsroad. The southern air tasted of hot wax, crushed sweetgrass, and the dry, suffocating scent of old parchment.

The men seated around the polished oak table rose in unison as the Hand of the King entered the room.

Ned walked toward the high-backed wooden chair to the right of the King’s position. He swept his grey eyes across the chamber. He had ridden south braced for a fractured court, expecting to find the King's councilors scrambling in the wake of the sudden purges. The room before him hummed with silent, meticulous order.

Lord Renly Baratheon offered a charming smile, his doublet fashioned from deep forest-green velvet. Grand Maester Pycelle remained hunched, leaning heavily upon the table as his forged chain clinked against the wood. Beside them stood unfamiliar men. A disgraced maester named Qyburn occupied the Master of Whisperers' seat, keeping his hands folded passively within the wide sleeves of his grey robes. Lord Eldon Estermont stood near the Master of Ships' chair, a thick-bearded stormlord with weather-beaten skin.

A Lyseni banker named Moredo Rogare remained near the hearth, draped in sea-green silk, his pale violet eyes tracking Ned’s movements. Seeing an Essosi merchant standing so close to the Crown's ledgers triggered a brief, sharp memory in Ned’s mind. He thought of the man who had occupied that position a moon ago. Petyr Baelish’s smuggled wooden box sat locked securely within Ned’s chambers, holding frantic, inked claims of Lannister poison and murdered Hands. Looking at the sheer, disciplined efficiency of the men operating the current administration, Ned dismissed the dead man's warnings. Baelish had been a corrupt coin-clipper caught red-handed by the Crown Prince. The note was the desperate lie of a condemned thief trying to save his own neck, nothing more.

At the head of the table stood Prince Joffrey. The boy wore a slashed velvet doublet in the black and gold of his house. He possessed the sheer physical bulk of Robert on the Trident, entirely devoid of the drunken lethargy that plagued his father.

Joffrey offered a crisp, formal bow, executing the courtly protocol with flawless grace. "Lord Stark. The realm rejoices at your arrival. We are honored to welcome the Hand of the King to take up his seat."

Ned inclined his head, taking his chair. The carved wood felt stiff against his spine. He looked toward the head of the table. The massive seat reserved for Robert Baratheon sat pointedly empty.

"His Grace is absent?" Ned asked, his voice rough from the road.

Renly chuckled, reaching for a silver flagon of arbor gold. "My royal brother rode out the Mud Gate before dawn, Lord Hand. He spoke of hunting a white hart in the Kingswood though I suspect he truly hunts the bottom of a wine cask to cure his sorrows."

A familiar, exhausting ache settled behind Ned's eyes. Robert was hiding away, leaving the administration of the Seven Kingdoms to a boy.

"The King's absence leaves us with a pressing burden," Ned said, anchoring his hands to the armrests. He met Joffrey's brilliant emerald gaze. He pointed a scarred finger toward a thick, unsealed draft of parchment resting in the center of the table. "I read the draft decree prepared for the royal heralds. A tourney in my honor. The parchment boasts of a ninety-thousand dragon purse. Forty thousand for the joust, twenty for the melee, and a king's ransom for the archery."

Ned leaned forward, his Northern pragmatism warring with the opulent surroundings. "The long summer is ending. The realm must buy the final yields of the harvest to fill the winter granaries. Bleeding the King's recovering coffers for a festival of this magnitude is a grave risk. We cannot afford such vanity."

He braced for the Prince's prideful backlash, fully expecting the golden-haired youth to defend the pageantry.

Joffrey remained perfectly still. He offered a slow, measuring nod. "The Hand speaks true. My lord father’s generosity vastly outpaces our vaults. The Crown cannot empty its limited treasury to pay the victors."

Ned blinked, entirely disarmed by the immediate agreement.

"The glory of fighting before the Demon of the Trident draws the knights to the capital," Joffrey continued, his baritone voice smooth and reasonable. "The heavy purse is a secondary prize. Yet, if I approach the King alone, he will dismiss me as a youth overly obsessed with penny pinching. If you approach him alone, he will dismiss you as a dour Northman who despises Southern splendor."

Joffrey leaned his heavy forearms upon the table. "I propose we go to him together, Lord Stark. We frame the reduction of the purses as a necessity to preserve the Baratheon legacy for future needs. With the Hand and the Heir standing united, my father will yield. We can pare the purses down to five-and-twenty thousand for the joust and ten for the melee. It remains an extravagance, yet it spares the grand excess."

Ned felt a profound, unsettling shift in his understanding of the boy. Joffrey had just seamlessly recruited the Hand of the King into a political alliance to manage the King's legendary wrath. The Prince was handling his father with the quiet, effortless precision of a seasoned handler managing a destructive beast.

"I will stand with you, Your Grace," Ned agreed quietly. "We shall speak with him upon his return."

"The purses are only a fraction of the ruin," Joffrey said, his voice dropping into a brisk, businesslike cadence. "The feasts, the pavilions, and the wine will drain the silver if we allow it. Lord Rogare, speak of the preparations."

The Lyseni banker stepped forward, opening a thick, leather-bound ledger. He produced a stack of crisp vellum, the bottom edges stamped heavily in the green wax of the Royal Bank of Westeros.

Ned glanced at the dates scrawled at the top of the parchment. The ink was completely dry. The dates were marked from a fortnight past. The boy had anticipated the King's folly weeks before Robert ever demanded the draft. Joffrey had methodically built a financial snare to capture the resulting wealth before the tourney was even announced to the city.

"The Bank shall secure the festival's burdens, Lord Hand," Rogare explained, his accent melodic and precise. "We are issuing Royal Seals of Approval. Wealthy merchants within the Crownlands hunger desperately for the prestige of the highborn. We auction the absolute right to supply the tourney's provisions."

Ned frowned, his thick brows drawing together. "Merchants paying for the King's feast?"

"In exchange for flying their guild banners alongside the Great Houses at the lists," Joffrey stated, his green eyes devoid of sentiment. "Master Olyvar of Rosby and the Vintners' Court will bear the entire cost of the timber pavilions and the ale. Their goods will be served exclusively at the royal banquets, granting them royal favor. The Crown pays nothing for the catering."

Rogare tapped a long, ringed finger against the ledger. "The Crown owns the ground the tourney occupies. Master armorers and fletchers require close proximity to the knights to ply their trade. We will issue Ground Leases. The smiths must pay an upfront fee in silver, alongside a percentage of their daily coin, for the privilege of erecting their forges near the tilt. If they refuse, they remain on the Street of Steel, losing the immediate business of the desperate squires."

Ned felt a deep cultural unease stirring in his blood. A tourney was a sacred martial proving ground, a celebration of Andal chivalry and prowess in arms. Plastering the lists with the banners of spice merchants and taxing the very dirt the armorers stood upon felt entirely foul.

"The knights arrive seeking glory," Rogare continued, ignoring the Hand's darkening expression. "Many lack the heavy coin to pay ransoms for unhorsed destriers or commission new plate armor. The Royal Bank will erect a lending pavilion directly adjacent to the grounds. We offer Tourney Credit."

Joffrey leaned forward again. "We will undercut the outside usurers. By offering highly competitive, state-backed silver, we corner the moneylenders, driving them from the camps. When the vain knights lose in the mud and fail to repay their bonds, the Crown forecloses on their toll-bridges and fertile farmlands as collateral. We acquire the realm's assets through their own pride."

Ned tightened his grip on his sword belt, the boiled leather creaking in the quiet room. The cold, mechanical calculation chilled him to the bone. They were turning a celebration of arms into an economic slaughterhouse. They intended to financially cripple the minor nobility of the realm and transfer their ancestral wealth directly to the Iron Throne.

"We must also address the baser instincts of the capital," Joffrey declared. "Tens of thousands of squires, freeriders, and lords will flood the city. The taverns and pillow houses will overflow with new coin. I am decreeing a Festival Tax. A targeted, one-time levy upon the brothels and inns. The Crown will take its share of the increased commerce."

"The betting pools," Qyburn murmured softly from his seat, his grandfatherly voice contrasting sharply with the subject matter. "The camps are always rife with chaotic, untaxed wagering."

Joffrey nodded. "I grant the Kettleblack brothers an absolute, legal right over all tourney wagers. No hedge knight or independent bookie may hold stakes. The Kettleblacks will skew the odds and remit a mandatory twenty percent House Cut of the total betting pool directly to the Royal Bank."

Ned stared openly at the Prince. The sheer audacity of the scheme stunned him. "You would use the King's justice to enforce a gambling ring run by street thugs?"

"My informants will spot the rogue bookies," Qyburn added smoothly. "Commander Bywater's gold cloaks will crush the illegal rings and seize their silver as contraband."

Grand Maester Pycelle pushed himself up from his chair. The heavy, forged links of his chain rattled violently against the oak table. His spotted, liver-marked face flushed a deep, mottled purple.

"Your Grace!" Pycelle croaked, his voice thick with institutional horror. "To involve the Iron Throne in the filth of the betting tents... to tax whorehouses and use city guards to enforce the wagers... it destroys the traditional dignity of the Crown! The Crown cannot condone such base, criminal commerce!"

Lord Eldon Estermont shifted his heavy, wool-draped shoulders. The old Stormlord fixed the Grand Maester with a glare of absolute, seasoned realism.

"Dignity prevents no riots, Pycelle," Estermont grunted, his voice rough with age and salt. "We have ten thousand drunk, armed freeriders pitching tents outside the walls. The City Watch requires immediate, massive funding to keep the peace. If the vanity of merchants and the vices of gamblers can pay the guardsmen's wages, the Crown would be foolish to reject the coin."

Joffrey’s emerald gaze pinned the old maester to his seat, cold and unyielding. "Lord Estermont speaks the truth. Dignity does not fill the winter granaries, Grand Maester. The realm owes millions. We must wring the silver from the vanity of these lords and the lust of the smallfolk. The Crown must reduce its losses, and the debts cannot remain unpaid."

Lord Renly Baratheon swirled his wine, a sly, opportunistic smile touching his lips. He leaned back, crossing his long legs. "A fascinating web, Nephew. My friends in Highgarden know several prominent clothiers and armorers in the Reach. I am certain they would pay handsomely for a Royal Seal of Approval and a prime ground lease."

"The warrants are auctioned to the highest bidder, Uncle," Joffrey said evenly, his voice offering no quarter. "If the Reach merchants bring heavy silver, they may fly their banners. The Crown plays no favorites with the ledger."

Ned sat in heavy silence. The air in the chamber felt suffocating, tasting of dry dust and cold metal. He could find no logical argument against the brutal reality laid out before him. The staggering, ruinous debt Robert had amassed threatened to break the Seven Kingdoms. Joffrey's ruthless mastery of commerce was actively saving the Iron Throne from collapse. The young Prince was shielding the starving smallfolk from heavy taxation by bleeding the pride of the aristocracy.

He looked at the towering, golden-haired boy sitting at the head of the table. The Hand of the King realized the true, terrifying depth of his predicament. He had to tread lightly to investigate the truth of Jon’s death, lest he be outed to the Prince’s notice.

~~~

Author's Note- It seems Pycelle has his hands where it doesn't belong- why else is he objecting to the Crown's plans?