[ASOIAF SI] The Gilded Stag: A Ruthless Joffrey Uplift | Chapter 44: JOFFREY X (Locked) (Patreon)

The midday sun baked the hard-packed earth of the lower bailey, turning the dust into a dry haze that caught in the throat. I kept my breathing measured, inhaling through the nose and exhaling slowly through the mouth, tracking the blunted steel point hovering inches from my collar.

Ser Barristan Selmy circled to my left. He wore a padded canvas jack over boiled leather, his white hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He moved with a seasoned, terrifying economy. Every step he took across the churned dirt was calculated to maintain his measure, keeping him entirely outside my immediate reach while positioning his blade to exploit any gap in my guard.

I held my own rebated longsword in a high guard, the heavy pommel resting near my right ear. The thick layers of my gambeson trapped the heat against my ribs. The sheer physical mass I had cultivated granted me overwhelming stopping power, but closing the distance against the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard required an absolute mastery of leverage and angle.

I drove off my back foot, launching a heavy descending strike aimed directly at his left collarbone (called "Oberhau" in HEMA circles in my past life). I committed my shoulder to the blow, putting my immense weight behind the steel.

Barristan did not attempt a rigid block. To meet my blade directly would have shattered his wrists. Instead, he executed a flawless Absetzen. He used the strong of his blade near the hilt to intercept the weak of mine, simultaneously stepping off the centerline. He let my own downward momentum pull me forward, opening my flank.

I halted my momentum instantly, dropping my center of gravity to prevent a counter-sweep. Recognizing he had stepped inside my measure, I shifted my left hand from the grip to the middle of the blade, half-swording to fight in the bind. I wrenched my hilt upward, driving the heavy steel crossguard toward his jaw.

We froze. The blunt tip of his sword rested firmly against the pulse of my throat. My quillons were locked a hairsbreadth from his temple.

A mutual death.

"You slip the measure flawlessly, Ser Barristan," I said, lowering my weapon, my chest heaving.

The old knight sheathed his practice sword, offering a respectful incline of his head. "And you anchor yourself well, Your Grace. A heavier man is easily pulled off his feet, yet you turn your momentum into a second strike. You possess a terrifying strength."

I handed my weapon to a waiting stableboy and wiped the grit from my face with a linen cloth. Turning away from the weapons rack, I looked toward the edge of the lists.

Bran Stark and my younger brother, Tommen, stood by the wooden fencing. They wore simple tunics of coarse linen, already dark with sweat from their morning drills.

"Bran. Tommen," I called out, my baritone carrying easily across the yard. "Step forward."

The boys scrambled over the rail and hurried through the dust.

"You watched the bout," I said, addressing the young Northman. "Tell me why my first strike failed to find its mark."

Bran hesitated, looking nervously toward the Lord Commander. "Ser Barristan is faster, Your Grace."

"Speed means nothing if your feet are rooted in the mud," I corrected, keeping my tone strictly instructive. I stepped forward, taking a wooden waster from the rack. I held it out, gesturing for Bran to grip the hilt. "Take the blade. Swing at my chest."

Bran gripped the wood with both hands. He swung awkwardly, putting his boyish strength into the arc. I raised my left forearm, catching his wrist before the wood could gain momentum, pushing his strike aside with minimal effort.

"Your feet were parallel," I told him. "You swung with your arms, abandoning the leverage of your hips. Ser Barristan defeated my strike because he controlled the tempo. He stepped off the line of attack, allowing me to commit my weight. A fight is won in the legs before the swords ever cross."

I looked at Tommen, ensuring my brother was absorbing the lesson. "If you cannot control your center of balance, the heaviest armor in the realm will only ensure you sink deeper into the earth when you fall. Both of you, take your wooden blades. You will practice the diagonal pivot until the sun touches the western wall. Ser Barristan will correct your posture."

"Yes, Joffrey," Tommen said earnestly, hurrying to the rack.

Bran nodded, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. The romantic illusions of southern pageantry were burning away in the heat of the yard. I was molding them into capable assets, forging a physical discipline that would bind them to my command.

I left the boys to their grueling drills and turned my attention to the shaded viewing gallery overlooking the bailey.

The carved wooden balcony was fully occupied. Lady Sansa Stark sat near the railing, her auburn hair catching the midday sun. Beside her stood her younger sister. Arya gripped the oak railing with white knuckles, leaning far over the edge, her grey eyes wide and completely enthralled by the clash of steel and the shifting footwork. Septa Mordane hovered rigidly behind them, chaperoning the Stark girls alongside my mother’s ladies-in-waiting. Lady Alys Melcolm and the dark-eyed daughter of Isembard Arryn sat beside Princess Myrcella.

I washed the dust from my hands in a silver basin provided by a servant. I donned a fresh doublet of dark crimson velvet, adjusting the stiff collar before making my way up the wooden stairs to the gallery.

The noblewomen rose as I approached. Septa Mordane offered a deep curtsy, her grey robes rustling against the floorboards.

"Your Grace," the Septa murmured respectfully.

"Ladies," I greeted them, my voice smooth and perfectly calibrated for the court.

I looked directly at Sansa. Her cheeks flushed a sudden, vibrant pink. She kept her blue eyes lowered, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. My father had demanded the betrothal upon arriving at Winterfell, a fact my mother had imparted to me with bitter resentment behind closed doors.

The match was a matter of absolute political necessity, though my mind constantly weighed the alternatives. Margaery Tyrell could bring the immense wealth, bottomless granaries, and the vast manpower of the Reach. Daenerys Targaryen, currently shorn of her silver hair and held securely within a manse in the city, represented a staggering magical bloodline asset I could claim. Yet, breaking my father's pact with the Warden of the North would shatter the King's Peace and alienate the new Hand before he ever took his seat. I had to pragmatically accept the Northern girl.

Sansa was a summer child, her head filled with the songs of Florian and Jonquil. Securing her absolute devotion was a vital step in maintaining my anchor over the North.

"The yard offers a poor spectacle today, Lady Sansa," I said, stepping closer. "The heat is oppressive. I fear the dust has ruined the hem of your gown."

Sansa looked up, her gaze catching on my broad shoulders before meeting my eyes. "It was a magnificent bout, Your Grace. The singers say Ser Barristan is the greatest knight alive, yet you fought him so bravely."

"The singers omit the hours of bruised ribs and splintered shields," I replied mildly. I offered her my arm. "Allow me to show you the gardens of Maegor’s Holdfast. The air is cooler by the water."

Sansa’s breath hitched slightly. She placed her small hand upon my forearm, her fingers resting lightly against the velvet. I offered a polite nod to the other ladies and escorted my betrothed away from the clamor of the training yard. Septa Mordane fell into step behind us, maintaining the respectful, discrete distance demanded of a highborn chaperone.

We walked along the high stone bridges connecting the outer bailey to the inner keep. The Red Keep loomed around us, its massive walls the color of dried blood. I maintained a steady, unhurried pace, accommodating her shorter stride.

"My father tells me the capital is vastly different from the North," Sansa ventured timidly, breaking the silence as we entered the shaded colonnades of the royal gardens.

"King's Landing is a crowded city reeking of the scents of the sea, and the smell of human labour," I explained, guiding her past a cluster of blooming blue winter roses. "It lacks the quiet isolation of Winterfell. The clamor of the Street of Steel never truly stops, and the merchant cogs crowd the bay. Do your chambers in the Maidenvault suit you?"

"They are beautiful, Your Grace," she said quickly. "The windows look out over the Blackwater. I have never seen the ocean before."

"You will have ample time to study it," I told her. "The Crown is expanding the shipyards below the hill. We are laying the keels for a new fleet."

We reached a marble bench situated beneath the trailing branches of a large plum tree. We sat together in the dappled shade. I feigned a polite fascination with the ancient hot springs and snows of Winterfell, while sharing carefully sanitized, charming tales of growing up within the sprawling walls of the Red Keep. I played the chivalric role flawlessly, and she absorbed every word with wide, infatuated eyes.

Before Sansa could ask another question about the royal hunts, a soft crunch of footsteps on the gravel path interrupted the quiet.

Qyburn emerged from the shadows of the hedges. The Master of Whisperers wore his simple, unadorned grey robes, his hands tucked neatly into his wide sleeves. He projected the harmless, weary aura of a village healer, his face a mask of mild apology.

"Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace," Qyburn said, bowing his head respectfully toward Sansa. "My lady. I deeply regret disturbing your peace, but urgent correspondence requires the Prince’s immediate attention."

I turned to Sansa, offering a flawless expression of regret. I took her hand, pressing a brief, courteous kiss to her knuckles.

"The burdens of the realm allow few reprieves," I said smoothly. "Septa Mordane will escort you safely back to your chambers. We shall speak again at the evening feast."

"Of course, Your Grace," Sansa murmured, her eyes lingering on my face as she stood and curtsied.

I waited until she and her chaperone were out of sight beyond the rose bushes. I dropped the courtly register entirely, turning my attention to the disgraced maester.

"Walk with me," I commanded.

I led Qyburn out of the gardens, moving swiftly toward the heavy, iron-bound doors of my private solar in Maegor’s Holdfast. I bypassed the stationed Kingsguard, stepping into the cool, silent room. I shut the heavy oak doors, ensuring the soundproofed walls isolated us from the listening castle.

"Speak," I ordered, moving behind my massive desk.

"My rats on the Kingsroad have sent word from the deep south, my prince," Qyburn began, his voice losing its grandfatherly warmth, shifting into a crisp, clinical tone. "The Dornish party has crossed the Red Mountains. They ride for the capital to attend the Hand's Tourney."

I leaned back in my chair, resting my hands on the armrests. "Prince Doran leaves the Water Gardens?"

"No, Your Grace. It is Prince Oberyn. He rides with half a hundred Dornish knights, accompanied by his bastard daughters."

The Red Viper. He was bringing his spear and his poisons directly into my city. Oberyn Martell possessed a volatile, consuming hatred for the Lannister bloodline. He blamed my grandfather for the brutal murder of Elia Martell during the sack of the city, and he was undoubtedly seeking vulnerabilities to exploit.

"Oberyn does not ride north for the joust," I stated coldly. "He comes to probe the defenses of the new administration. He will seek to uncover the truth behind the Cheesemaker’s sudden demise in our cellars."

"He poses an extreme diplomatic hazard, Your Grace," Qyburn warned softly. "A single misstep with the Prince could incite an uprising."

"We welcome him with open arms and heavy surveillance," I countered. "He possesses every legal right to attend the tourney. Any blatant show of force will only shatter the King's Peace and provoke him into drawing his spear. You will assign your most capable, invisible shadows to him the moment his horse steps onto the cobblestones. I want every servant he speaks to logged. I want every cup of wine he drinks tracked. You will utilize the mute children. Do not use the gold cloaks. If Oberyn spots a guardsman tailing him, he will kill the man in an alley and claim insult, sparking a Dornish rebellion."

Qyburn nodded slowly, committing the parameters to memory. "It will be handled with the utmost discretion, Your Grace."

"What of my uncle?" I asked, shifting the geography of the report.

"Lord Tyrion has departed White Harbor, my prince. He sails south on a trading galley. As per the Crown's standing orders, Lord Estermont dispatched Ser Roland Melcolm to intercept his vessel near the Bite. The new war galley from Old Anchor will heavily escort your uncle for the remainder of his journey to the capital."

I tapped my fingers against the desk. "I require my uncle’s wit in the council chambers. I trust he managed the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch effectively."

"We will know soon enough, Your Grace." Qyburn paused, his mild eyes gleaming with a sudden, sharp intensity. "There is progress on the secondary initiative. The Skinchanger Cadre."

During the Royal Navy’s aggressive sweep of pirates and smugglers in the Narrow Sea, Commander Bywater's men had boarded a Tyroshi slaver ship. Among the chained captives was a wildling warg named Torwynd. Instead of the executioner's block, I offered the savage a pragmatic, irresistible contract—unlimited roasted meat, fine arbor wine, a rotating selection of silk-clad whores, and luxurious lodgings. In exchange, Torwynd served the Crown.

"The wildling proves a capable tutor," Qyburn reported. "My sweeps of the Crownlands have identified a dozen children possessing the latent Sight. They are currently housed in our secure facility. One child has successfully slipped his consciousness into a sewer rat—a perfect, untraceable spy for the city's tunnels. Another has managed to bond with a hawk, offering us unparalleled command from the skies."

"The others?"

"Struggling to break their mental barriers, Your Grace, but the potential is undeniable."

"Keep recruiting," I ordered. "And keep Torwynd completely satisfied. The absolute secrecy of this cadre is a top priority."

"It shall be done," Qyburn said.

"Two final matters," I added, steepling my fingers. "Identify King Robert's bastards within the city. Quietly relocate them to loyal castles in the Crownlands. Do not use force. Present the relocations as prestigious apprenticeships or minor wardships. I want them removed from the board before any rival factions can use them to their advantage."

"And the second matter?"

"Place a subtle, undetectable watch on Lord Eddard Stark. I need to know immediately if the new Hand begins investigating Jon Arryn's death or digging into the capital's recent purges."

Qyburn bowed deeply and took his leave.

As the heavy oak doors clicked shut, the silence of the solar rushed back in. I sat alone in the dim light, rubbing my temples. The immense, suffocating pressure of managing a continent on the brink of war bled through my stoic exterior. I had the gold, the ships, and the steel, but the wolves and the vipers were circling, and one misstep would burn the realm to ash.

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P.S.- First person POV of Joff once more.