The Young Lion Remastered

Disclaimer: Just in case nobody realized I don’t own nor do I claim ownership of Game of Thrones, all characters and worlds belong to their real world respective owners. I’m just having some fun, that's all.

The Young Lion

Act 2 Ch 35: Time to Meet the King

Five days had passed since the Battle of Blackwater Bay.

Five days since Joffrey had killed his uncle in single combat atop a bridge of burning wreckage.

And in that time, the Stormlander host had been routed and scattered, their survivors either surrendering peacefully or being hunted down by the combined forces of the Reach and the Westerlands.

The war was over, and King's Landing had survived.

o-O-o

As the mid-morning light filtered through the windows of the King's Solar, Joffrey sat in a high-backed chair while Grand Maester Pycelle carefully unwrapped the bandages from his hands.

The chamber was warm despite the season. A fire crackled in the hearth, its heat necessary for the healing process according to Pycelle's medical wisdom. Outside, the windows overlooked the city below and even now Joffrey could hear the distant sounds of celebration. Music. Laughter. The normal rhythms of life resuming after the terror of a siege.

He focused on those sounds as Pycelle worked, using them to distract himself from what was happening to his hands.

The old maester's fingers were surprisingly steady despite his age. He unwound the linen strips with practiced care, layer after layer coming away to reveal the damaged flesh beneath.

The bandages were stained—not with fresh blood, which would have been alarming, but with the yellowish stains that accompanied healing wounds.

Standing a few feet away, near the desk, was Caspen, Joffrey's personal steward and secretary.

The young man held a leather-bound ledger against his chest, his posture attentive but relaxed. He'd been with Joffrey almost since he took the throne, managing the endless details of royal life with quiet efficiency.

Pycelle removed the final layer of bandaging from Joffrey's right hand.

The palm was a landscape of healing burns and cuts. The flesh was pink and raw in places, the deepest burns - where Joffrey had gripped Lightbringer's glowing blade - had been treated with salves that left a greasy residue.

Stitches ran across several of the lacerations, black thread against the raw flesh.

It looked better than it had five days ago, but it was still terrible.

Pycelle leaned closer, his rheumy eyes examining the wounds with professional detachment. His gnarled fingers probed gently around the edges of the burns, testing the flesh, checking for any signs of corruption.

Joffrey flinched.

The flesh was still tender. Even Pycelle's gentle touch sent sparks of pain shooting up his arm.

"Apologies, your grace," Pycelle murmured, not looking up from his examination. "I must ensure the healing is progressing properly."

Joffrey said nothing.

He simply clenched his jaw and forced himself to remain still as the old man continued his work.

Pycelle moved to the left hand, unwrapping those bandages with the same methodical care.

This hand was in slightly better condition—the burns were less severe, the cuts shallower. But it was still a mess of damaged tissue and healing wounds.

Again, Pycelle probed and examined, and again, Joffrey flinched.

The maester made small sounds of consideration as he worked—little hums and murmurs that might have been approval or concern.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he straightened and looked at Joffrey's face.

His eyes moved to the stitched wound that ran from just above Joffrey's right eye down to the top of his cheek.

The cut had closed cleanly, the edges held together by neat black stitches. The surrounding flesh was still swollen and discolored, but there were no signs of infection.

"The facial wound is healing well," Pycelle said, his voice taking on the tone of a man delivering a medical assessment. "The stitches can be removed in another week, perhaps less. There will be scarring, of course—significant scarring—but the eye was spared and the cut was clean. You were fortunate, your grace."

Joffrey's green eyes remained fixed on the old man's face, waiting.

Pycelle turned his attention back to the hands, gesturing at them with one gnarled finger.

"As for these..."

He paused, choosing his words carefully.

"The worst has passed. The corruption I feared did not take hold, thanks to the aggressive treatment. The flesh is healing, slowly but steadily. The burns will leave scars, certainly, and they should regain their full strength and dexterity with time. But more importantly you will keep them, your grace. You will keep your hands."

There was relief in his voice as he said it, as if he'd been genuinely uncertain of that outcome.

Joffrey felt something loosen in his chest at the old man’s words—a tension he hadn't fully acknowledged until now. He would keep his hands and they would heal with time. And that was where the problem lay.

"How long?" he asked, his voice quiet but firm.

Pycelle blinked. "Your grace?"

"How long until they're fully healed? Until I can use them normally again?"

The old maester's expression became troubled. He looked down at the damaged hands, then back up at Joffrey's face.

"That is... difficult to say, your grace. The body heals at its own pace, and burns of this severity—combined with the lacerations—require significant time. You must take great care not to strain them, not to reopen the wounds or damage the new flesh as it forms. If you push too hard, too soon, you risk permanent damage. Loss of grip strength. Reduced flexibility—"

"How long?" Joffrey cut him off, his tone hardening slightly.

Pycelle shifted uncomfortably, his chain of office clinking softly.

"I cannot say with certainty, your grace. Every man heals differently. But if I were to estimate..."

He trailed off, clearly reluctant to commit to a specific timeframe.

"Estimate," Joffrey said, making it clear it wasn't a request.

Pycelle sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly.

"Several months at minimum, your grace. Perhaps as many as six. Possibly longer if complications arise or if you do not allow them proper rest. These things cannot be rushed."

Six months.

Half a year until his hands would be fully functional again.

Joffrey absorbed this information in silence. His face remained neutral, betraying nothing of what he felt. But internally, he was already accepting it as the cost of victory.

He had killed Stannis Baratheon.

He had saved King's Landing.

And he had proven himself in single combat before thousands of witnesses. Six months of healing was a small price to pay.

"I understand," he said quietly.

Pycelle looked relieved that the king wasn't arguing or demanding a faster recovery. He reached for fresh bandages from his medical kit, preparing to rewrap the hands.

"I will change these dressings daily, your grace. Fresh salves must be applied to promote healing. You must avoid using them as much as possible; no gripping, no lifting, no strain of any kind. I cannot emphasize this enough. If you damage them now, while they are still so fragile, the consequences could be—"

"I said I understand," Joffrey repeated, his tone making it clear the lecture was unnecessary.

Pycelle nodded and began rewrapping the right hand, his movements efficient and practiced. The fresh linen was clean and white, a stark contrast to the stained bandages he'd removed.

He worked in silence, winding the strips around the palm and between the fingers, securing everything with small knots.

As he worked, Joffrey turned his head slightly toward Caspen.

"What does the day hold?" he asked.

Caspen straightened immediately, opening his ledger with practiced ease. His eyes scanned the pages, reading off the schedule he'd carefully maintained.

"Tobho Mott sends word that he's already begun work on your new bracer blade, your grace. He assures me this one will be properly reinforced—he was quite embarrassed that the previous one broke during the battle. He estimates it will be ready within a fortnight."

Joffrey nodded slightly.

The hidden blade had saved his life when Stannis disarmed him of Fury. Getting a replacement immediately would be wise.

"The kitchens report that supplies are adequate for the celebrations, though they request additional funds for the feasts planned for the arriving lords. The Master of Coin has approved the expenditure."

Another nod. The lords of the Reach and Westerlands had been arriving steadily over the past few days, coming to swear fealty and bask in the victory.

Feeding them properly was both a courtesy and a political necessity.

"Ser Jacelyn reports that order has been fully restored in the city. The last of the fires have been extinguished, and the cleanup of the battlefield continues. He estimates another three days before all the dead are properly accounted for and given to the silent sisters."

The king’s jaw tightened slightly at that. Thousands of dead. Thousands of men who would never go home. But he forced the thought aside, it wasn’t the time for dwelling on such things.

Caspen continued reading, his finger moving down the page.

"The small council requests an audience at your earliest convenience to discuss the terms of surrender for the captured Stormlander lords. Lord Varys has prepared a list of those who surrendered peacefully versus those who continued to resist after Stannis's death. Recommendations for clemency or punishment are—"

"Later," Joffrey interrupted. "What else?"

Caspen's eyes moved further down the page.

"The Faith has requested permission to hold a grand ceremony in the Great Sept of Baelor. They wish to formally recognize the divine favor shown to your grace in the battle. High Septon Eustace would like to—"

"Approved," Joffrey said. "Let them have their ceremony. It will be good for morale."

Caspen made a note in his ledger, then continued.

"And finally, your grace, Lord Tywin has sent word that he plans to hold court this afternoon while you continue to recover from your injuries. He wishes to begin receiving the oaths of fealty from the arriving lords and—"

Joffrey's head snapped toward Caspen so quickly that Pycelle, still wrapping his left hand, fumbled slightly with the bandages.

"What did you just say?"

Caspen blinked, clearly startled by the sudden intensity in the king's voice. He glanced down at his ledger, then back up at Joffrey.

"Y-Your Grace?” he stuttered, confused by the king’s sudden change in mood.

"What did you say?" He repeated more slowly, his voice very quiet now.

Caspen swallowed, suddenly nervous though he didn't understand why.

"Lord Tywin... plans to hold court. While you are indisposed and recovering from your injuries. He intends to receive the oaths of fealty from the arriving lords in your stead."

Silence fell over the chamber.

Pycelle had stopped wrapping the bandages, his hands frozen in mid-motion. He was staring at Joffrey's face with growing apprehension, clearly sensing the shift in atmosphere.

Caspen stood very still, his ledger held against his chest like a shield.

The king’s eyes had narrowed to slits.

“Hold court.” He thought over the words and their hidden meaning. “In my stead while I am "indisposed."

He realized almost instantly that this was a power play, a calculated move by Tywin to establish dominance while Joffrey was vulnerable.

The old lion hadn't arrived until the battle was practically over.

His forces had swept in at the end, routing the already-broken Stormlander army, claiming glory for a victory that they had not earned. Now, while Joffrey was still healing from wounds sustained in single combat, Tywin was positioning himself as the true authority.

“I will hold court. I will receive the oaths. I will sit in the position of power while you rest and recover like a wounded child.”

The message he was trying to send to the lords was clear.

“I am the real power behind this throne. I am the one who truly rules.”

And if he allowed it—if he stayed in his chambers and let Tywin hold court - every lord and lady in the Seven Kingdoms would see it, and think he was just a puppet king, controlled by his grandfather.

Everything he had fought for would be undermined.

Everything he and his men had bled for would be for nothing.

The victory at Blackwater Bay would become Tywin's victory and the defense of King's Landing would become a Lannister achievement. Joffrey himself would be reduced to a figurehead—a boy king who needed his grandfather to rule for him.

“No,” he thought.

Joffrey's eyes remained fixed on some point in the mid-distance, his mind working rapidly.

If Tywin held court today, the narrative would be set.

The power dynamic would be established, and changing it later would be exponentially more difficult. His eyes refocused, snapping back to Caspen with sudden clarity.

"That won't be necessary," he finally said, his voice calm and cold. "I will be holding court today."

Caspen's eyes widened.

"Your grace? Are you certain? Your injuries—"

"I will be holding court today," Joffrey repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Pycelle made a small sound of distress. His hands, still holding the half-wrapped bandages, began to tremble slightly.

"Your grace," the old maester said, his voice taking on a pleading quality, "I must advise against this. You need rest. Your hands are still healing, and any strain could—"

"Grand Maester," Joffrey interrupted, turning his head to look directly at Pycelle. "Would you please inform my grandfather that I am more than able to sit my throne today, but I thank him for his consideration."

The words were polite, but the tone was not. After all, Joffrey knew the Grand Maester’s true loyalty lay with House Lannister, or more specifically Tywin, not him.

Pycelle's face went pale.

A cold sweat broke out across his brow, beading on his wrinkled skin. His mouth opened and closed several times, producing no sound.

"Your grace," he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper, "perhaps it would be better if... if someone else delivered this message. I am needed here to complete your treatment, and surely—"

"Did you not hear me, Grand Maester?"

Pycelle looked between Joffrey and Caspen, his eyes desperate, searching for some escape from this impossible situation. He was caught between the king and the Hand, just as the king intended.

But Joffrey's gaze never wavered.

Finally, Pycelle's shoulders sagged in defeat. He nodded, the movement jerky and reluctant.

"Of course, your grace," he said, his voice thick with resignation. "I will... I will inform Lord Tywin of your decision."

He finished wrapping the left hand quickly, his movements less careful now, motivated by a desire to complete his task and escape this chamber as soon as possible. He tied off the bandage, gathered his medical supplies with shaking hands, and stood.

"You must take care with those hands, your grace," he said, falling back on medical advice because it was safe. "No strain. No gripping. No—"

"I understand," Joffrey said. "Thank you for your assistance, Grand Maester."

The old maester recognized the dismissal, and bowed his head, before making his way to the door.

He pulled the door open and disappeared into the corridor beyond, leaving Joffrey and his steward alone in the chamber.

Caspen cleared his throat softly.

"Your grace," he said carefully, "are you certain about this? Your injuries are severe, and if Lord Tywin believes you need more time to recover—"

"I am certain," Joffrey said, pushing himself up from the chair.

He turned toward the window, looking out over the city below. The celebration continued—music and laughter and life resuming as if the attack never happened.

This was his city, his people, and his kingdom.

He would not allow Tywin Lannister to take it from him.

"Have the Royal Guard assembled in the throne room before the guests arrive," he said, still looking out the window. "Send word to Ser Jacelyn. I want everything prepared properly."

Caspen nodded, making notes in his ledger with quick, efficient strokes of his quill.

"It will be done, your grace."

"Good."

Joffrey remained at the window for a moment longer, his reflection visible in the glass. The stitched wound on his face. The bandaged hands. The exhaustion that still lingered in his eyes despite five days of rest.

He looked like what he was, a young man who had been through hell and survived.

But he would not look weak.

He would sit his throne, and he would remind everyone—Tywin included—exactly who was king.

"That will be all, Caspen," he said quietly.

Caspen bowed, clutching his ledger tightly against his chest.

"Yes, your grace."

He moved toward the door, his steps quick. But as he reached for the handle, Joffrey spoke again.

"And Caspen."

The steward stopped, turning back.

"Your Grace?"

"You've served me well these past months. I won't forget it."

Caspen's face flushed slightly with pride. He bowed again, deeper this time.

"It is my honor to serve, Your Grace."

Then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

Joffrey stood alone in his solar, the morning light streaming through the windows, the sounds of celebration drifting up from the city below.

He took a breath, then he turned and walked to the door, pulling it open.

Ser Barristan stood in the corridor outside. His white cloak was hanging from his shoulders and his hand rested on the pommel of his sword. The old knight had been standing guard since dawn, as he had every day since the battle.

He turned at the sound of the door opening, his weathered face showing immediate concern.

"Your grace? Is something wrong?"

"I need your help, Ser Barristan," Joffrey said simply. "I'm holding court today, and I need to make myself presentable."

He gestured with his eyes toward his bandaged hands, the meaning clear.

Understanding crossed Barristan's face immediately. He glanced at the hands, then back up at Joffrey's face.

"Of course, your grace," he said, stepping into the chamber.

The door closed behind him.

o-O-o

The process of dressing took longer than Joffrey would have liked.

Normally, he could manage most of it himself—he'd never been the type to require servants for every little task. But with his hands wrapped in bandages, unable to grip or manipulate fabric, he was helpless as a child.

It was humiliating, but ultimately necessary.

Ser Barristan worked with quiet efficiency, his movements practiced and sure.

He started with the basics—helping Joffrey out of his sleeping clothes and into fresh smallclothes. Then came the black leather trousers, fitted and well-made, the kind that allowed freedom of movement while still looking regal.

Barristan knelt to help with the boots—tall black leather that came up to mid-calf, polished to a mirror shine.

Then the doublet.

Barristan helped him into it, guiding his bandaged hands through the sleeves, fastening the buttons down the front with patient care.

"The armor, Ser Barristan," Joffrey said as the old knight finished.

Barristan paused, his eyes moving to the armor stand in the corner where Joffrey's battle-worn equipment had been cleaned and stored.

"Your grace? Are you certain? Full armor might be—"

"Not full armor," Joffrey clarified. "Just pieces. The right pauldron and vambrace. And the crimson capelet for the left shoulder."

Understanding dawned in Barristan's eyes. This wasn't about protection, it was about sending a message. The armor would show that Joffrey was a warrior. That he had fought and bled for his throne.

The legendary knight moved to the stand, selecting the specific components with quiet reverence. He worked methodically, adjusting the leather straps of the black-and-gold steel plates until they sat securely over Joffrey’s right side, before fastening the flowing capelet to his left.

Joffrey stood perfectly still throughout it all, letting the old knight work while his useless, bandaged hands hung heavily at his sides.

When Barristan stepped back, Joffrey briefly caught his own silhouette in the full-length mirror. The contrast was striking—the silhouette of a functional warrior king, completely betrayed by the white linen wrapping his fingers.

His lips flattened. He couldn't appear before the court like this.

He couldn't let the lords and ladies see his hands wrapped in linen, unable to perform the simple tasks that everyone took for granted.

Joffrey turned from the mirror and moved to his wardrobe. On a shelf inside were several pairs of gloves—riding gloves, mostly, made of supple leather that allowed for grip and control while handling reins.

He stared at them for a long moment.

Then he reached out with his bandaged right hand and grabbed a matching pair of black leather ones.

"Ser Barristan," he said, his voice tight. "I need your help with one more thing."

The old knight moved to his side immediately.

"Your grace?"

Joffrey gestured to the gloves

"I need to wear these over the bandages."

Barristan's expression became troubled. He looked at the gloves, then at Joffrey's bandaged hands, then back at the king's face.

"Your grace," he said carefully, "the Grand Maester said you must avoid any strain on your hands. Forcing them into gloves—especially over the bandages—could damage the healing flesh. It could reopen the wounds."

"I know," Joffrey said quietly.

"Then why—"

"Because I cannot appear before the court with my hands wrapped in bandages like some cripple," Joffrey interrupted, his voice hard. "I cannot let them see weakness. Not now. Not with more than half the realm watching."

The knight remained silent for a moment, then nodded slowly.

"As you command, your grace."

He took the gloves from the king’s hands.

"This will hurt," he said quietly.

"I know," Joffrey repeated.

He held out his right hand, palm down, fingers slightly spread.

Barristan took the right glove and positioned it at Joffrey's fingertips.

"Ready, your grace?"

Joffrey's jaw clenched. His teeth ground together. His breathing became controlled, deliberate.

"Just get it over with."

Barristan began to work the glove onto Joffrey's hand.

The leather was supple, designed to fit snugly. But with the bandages underneath, it was tight.

Very tight.

The pressure on the healing burns was immediate.

Joffrey's breath hissed between his clenched teeth. His eyes squeezed shut. The muscles in his jaw stood out like cords beneath his skin.

Barristan worked carefully, pulling the glove up over the bandaged palm, guiding it over the wrapped fingers.

The burns screamed in protest, while the cuts throbbed.

"Almost there, your grace," Barristan murmured, his voice gentle.

He pulled the glove up over Joffrey's wrist, settling it into place. The leather covered everything—the bandages, the wounds, the evidence of injury. From the outside, it looked like a normal gloved hand.

His breathing had become ragged. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool morning air.

"The left hand, your grace?" Barristan asked quietly.

Joffrey opened his eyes. "Yes."

They repeated the process and it was just as painful as the first one.

Finally—after what felt like an eternity—both gloves were on.

Joffrey stood there, his arms hanging at his sides, his gloved hands clenched into loose fists. His chest heaved with each breath, while sweat ran down his temples.

But his hands were hidden.

The bandages were concealed beneath black leather.

He huffed out a long breath, forcing the pain down, then he turned his head and looked at Ser Barristan.

The old knight's face was troubled, his eyes filled with concern.

Joffrey tilted his head slightly—a small gesture of thanks.

No words were needed. The old knight bowed his head in response.

Then he moved to the shelf where Joffrey's crown rested.

It was a beautiful piece—a circlet of gilded steel with square-cut rubies running along it. Simple compared to some crowns, but elegant. Barristan lifted it carefully and turned back to Joffrey.

"Your grace," he said formally.

Joffrey lowered his head slightly, and Barristan placed the crown upon it, settling it carefully into place. The weight was familiar now—a constant reminder of what he was and more importantly what he represented.

Joffrey straightened, the crown secure on his head, his golden hair flowing around it.

He looked at himself in the mirror one final time.

"Let's go," he said quietly.

Ser Barristan moved to the door and pulled it open.

They stepped out into the corridor together—the young king and his kingsguard. The pair made their way to the throne room which at that very moment was being filled with the countless lords and ladies of the realm.

All eager to meet the new king of the seven kingdoms, and see with their own eyes what kind of king he would be.

o-O-o

The throne room of the Red Keep was a chamber built to inspire awe.

Massive stone pillars rose from the floor to support the vaulted ceiling high above, each one carved with the sigils and histories of the Seven Kingdoms.

Tall windows lined the eastern wall, their stained glass depicting scenes of conquest and glory—Aegon's landing, the Field of Fire, the submission of the North. Sunlight streamed through them now, casting colored patterns across the polished stone floor.

But the true centerpiece of the room—the thing that drew every eye, was the Iron Throne itself.

It sat at the far end of the chamber, elevated on a dais of black stone. The throne was a monstrosity of twisted metal—a thousand swords melted together by dragonfire, their blades jutting out at cruel angles, their edges still sharp enough to cut after three centuries.

It wasn’t a comfortable seat, nor was it meant to be. It was a reminder that ruling was dangerous, that power came with a price, that a king who sat carelessly would bleed.

The throne room was full.

Lords and ladies of the Reach and the Westerlands had been arriving steadily over the past five days, coming to swear fealty to the crown and celebrate the victory at Blackwater Bay.

They filled the chamber now, dressed in their finest—silks and velvets, gold and silver, the colors of their houses displayed proudly on doublets and gowns.

Two lines of Royal Guards stood at attention down the center of the room, creating a clear path from the main entrance to the throne dais. They were perfectly spaced, perfectly still, their black armor gleaming in the sunlight, their spears held upright.

Each man's face was hidden behind a closed helm, making them look less like individuals and more like dark steel statues.

At the base of the dais, another dozen Royal Guards stood in formation, forming a semicircle of protection around the throne itself. They faced outward toward the assembled crowd, their presence a clear message: approach the king at your own peril.

The most powerful lords had positioned themselves at the front of the chamber, closest to the throne.

On the left side stood House Tyrell in all their glory.

Lord Mace Tyrell was an imposing figure despite his somewhat soft appearance—a large man with a round face and a neatly trimmed beard, dressed in a doublet of green silk embroidered with golden roses.

He stood with his chest puffed out slightly, the posture of a man who believed himself important and wanted everyone else to know it.

Beside him stood his sons.

Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, wore armor of polished steel chased with gold. His handsome face was composed, but his blue eyes moved constantly, taking in every detail of the chamber.

Ser Garlan Tyrell, the elder brother, was broader and more solid than Loras. He wore a doublet of deep green with gold trim, and his expression was thoughtful, measured.

Where Loras drew attention, Garlan seemed content to observe.

And then there was Lady Margaery Tyrell.

She stood slightly apart from her father and brothers, her posture perfect, her hands folded demurely in front of her. She wore a gown of pale green silk that seemed to shimmer when she moved, cut low to flatter without being improper.

Her dark hair was arranged in an elaborate style, woven with golden roses. A delicate necklace of emeralds rested against her throat.

She was beautiful—there was no denying that.

But it was a calculated beauty, the kind that came from careful preparation and an understanding of how to present oneself. Every detail of her appearance had been chosen with purpose.

Behind the Tyrell family stood a figure that drew almost as much attention as they did.

The emerald-armored knight.

The warrior still wore the full plate armor of brilliant green enamel that had caused such confusion on the battlefield. The armor was magnificent—polished to a mirror shine, every piece perfectly fitted, the craftsmanship extraordinary.

But it was the helm that truly captured attention.

The helm was shaped like a stag's head, complete with antlers that swept back and up, each point sharp and dangerous-looking.

It was the helm that Renly Baratheon had worn. The helm that had made men believe, for just a moment, that their dead king had returned.

The knight had not removed it.

Even now, standing in the throne room among allies, the warrior kept the helm in place. the visor closed to hide the face completely.

It was an outrageous breach of court protocol—a silent provocation that had half-dozen Sabers tightening their grips on their spears.

Tyrion’s eyes narrowed as he parsed the theater; Mace Tyrell was clearly using the ghostly mystery to test the boundaries of the Crown’s patience, gambling that the King wouldn't disrupt his own victory court to enforce security rules.

It was impossible to tell who stood inside that armor—man or woman, young or old, friend or foe. The cold friction of it added a tense, suffocating atmosphere to the room.

On the right side of the chamber stood House Lannister.

Ser Kevan Lannister, Tywin's younger brother, was a solid, dependable-looking man with graying hair and a neatly trimmed beard.

He wore a crimson doublet with gold lions embroidered across the chest, and his expression was serious, attentive. He had the look of a man who understood duty and performed it without complaint.

Beside him stood young Prince Tommen Baratheon.

The boy wore a crimson doublet that matched his great-uncle's, with black trousers and polished boots. At his waist hung a sword - Lion's Tooth, the blade that Joffrey had gifted him before the Battle of Blackwater Bay.

Tommen's face was round and soft, still carrying the last traces of childhood. But there was something new in his eyes, a seriousness he didn’t have before, which suggested the events of the past weeks had changed him.

He stood straight, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, trying very hard to look like a prince was supposed to.

Near the front of the chamber, positioned between the two great houses, stood the members of the small council.

Lord Tyrion Lannister, the King's Acting Hand, stood with his chin tilted upward, a tight, sharp smile on his face. He surveyed the room with clinical interest. He still wore the badge of the office but with his father’s arrival at the head of sixty thousand fresh troops, Tyrion knew his tenure was over.

Tyrion knew exactly what was happening here. He'd seen Pycelle's face when the old maester had returned from delivering Joffrey's message to Tywin earlier this morning, and the terror in the old man’s eyes when he returned.

Whatever Tywin had said - or more likely, whatever Tywin hadn't said - had frightened the old man to his core.

His father had been planning to hold court today in the Great Hall. As the Warden of the West, Tywin had aimed to preside over the oaths of fealty in Joffrey's stead, for security reasons, thus establishing himself as the true power behind the throne while the "wounded boy king" recovered.

It was a subtle but brilliant move. Nothing overtly treasonous—just the King’s military commander managing the immediate tactical pacification of a fractured capital perimeter.

But everyone who mattered would understand the real message: Tywin Lannister ruled the Seven Kingdoms. Joffrey was merely the crown he wore.

And now Joffrey had countered.

The thought brought Tyrion no small amount of satisfaction.

Beside him stood Ros, the red-haired Master of Coin.

She wore a gown of deep burgundy that was elegant without being ostentatious, and her expression was carefully neutral. She had learned to navigate the dangerous waters of court politics, and it showed in the way she held herself—confident but not presumptuous.

Ros leaned in slightly and spoke low so only Tyrion could hear her.

"This should be interesting."

"Oh, I certainly hope so," Tyrion replied, his smile widening. "I do so enjoy watching my father's plans go awry."

Grand Maester Pycelle stood with his chain of office hanging heavy around his neck.

The old man looked like he might be sick. His hands trembled as he clutched his chain of office, and his eyes kept darting toward the entrance. There was a sheen of sweat on his wrinkled brow, and his face had gone pale.

He had delivered Joffrey's message to Lord Tywin less than two hours ago.

The old lion's response had been... controlled.

Tywin had simply nodded, thanked Pycelle for the information, and dismissed him. But Pycelle had seen the flash of anger in those cold green eyes.

Lord Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West did not appreciate being outmaneuvered.

And now Pycelle stood in the throne room, waiting to see what would happen when the king arrived. Waiting to see if he had just made a terrible mistake by delivering that message, and where exactly Tywin's cold fury would land or more specifically on who.

And finally, there was Lord Varys, the Spider himself, who returned from the king’s mission to bring the Reach into the fold.

The eunuch wore robes of soft purple silk, his hands tucked into his voluminous sleeves, his powdered face arranged in an expression of benign interest. But his eyes—those eyes missed nothing.

He stood quietly, observing everything, and like Tyrion, he understood exactly what was happening.

The young king was making a move, and a bold one.

Tywin had intended to hold court today. To demonstrate his authority, and remind everyone who truly held power in the Seven Kingdoms.

And Joffrey had refused to allow it.

Varys wondered if the boy understood the full implications of what he was doing and wondered if Joffrey was a good enough swimmer to survive the treacherous waters he was entering.

Time would tell.

Away from the others, positioned near one of the pillars, stood Lady Sansa Stark.

She wore a gown of dark blue silk that brought out the auburn of her hair and the blue of her eyes. The dress was beautiful—elegant and well-fitted, with delicate embroidery along the bodice and sleeves. Around her neck hung a necklace of silver and sapphires, the stones catching the light. On her wrists were matching bracelets, and in her ears were small sapphire studs.

All of it - every piece of jewelry - had been gifts from Joffrey.

She wore them now like armor, each piece a visible declaration of her position, and her connection to the king.

Her hands were folded in front of her, her posture perfect, and her face composed.

But there was tension in the set of her shoulders, a tightness around her eyes that suggested she was not as calm as she appeared.

She had seen Joffrey five days ago, in the maester's chambers, covered in blood and barely able to stand. And unfortunately had heard some of the screams from the chamber as Sandor pulled her away, which had haunted her dreams every night since.

And now he was coming here.

To hold court, and sit his throne.

And behind her, like a looming shadow, stood Sandor Clegane.

The Hound was fully armored, his plate mail dark and battle-scarred, his helm tucked under one arm. His burned face was visible for all to see, while his hand rested on the pommel of his longsword.

His eyes swept the room with the gaze of a predator watching for any potential threats.

He had become Sansa's shadow during Joffrey's recovery, standing guard over her, protecting her, ensuring that no harm came to the woman his king valued.

And he took that duty seriously. Anyone who looked at Sansa for too long found themselves meeting the Hound's gaze—and quickly looked away.

The assembled lords and ladies filled the rest of the chamber, arranged by rank and importance. There were dozens of them—perhaps a hundred or more—all dressed in their finest, all waiting.

The murmur of conversation filled the air.

"When is the court supposed to begin?"

"I thought we were gathering at midday?"

"Perhaps the king is still too injured."

"Maybe Lord Tywin will preside instead."

"That would make sense, given the circumstances."

"The boy did just fight a duel five days ago."

"Killed Stannis Baratheon with his bare hands, they say."

"Surely that's an exaggeration."

The voices blended together, creating a constant background hum of speculation and gossip.

Most of the assembled nobles had no idea why they were waiting. They'd been told to gather for court, and so they had gathered.

Now they stood in confusion, wondering when things would begin and who would preside.

Only a few understood the deeper game being played.

Lady Margaery Tyrell stood with her hands folded, her expression serene, but her eyes were bright with curiosity.

She had heard the stories, of course, everyone had. The young king who had defended his city with wildfire and cunning. The boy who had faced his uncle in single combat and emerged victorious.

But stories were just stories.

She wanted to see for herself.

Ser Loras stood beside his sister, his handsome face composed but his mind clearly elsewhere. He was remembering the last time he had seen Joffrey—over a year ago, when he had left King's Landing with Renly after King Robert's death.

He remembered a thin boy with a cruel mouth and a petulant attitude.

A spoiled prince who had only swung a sword in anger, but had never faced any real danger, who had been more concerned with his appearance than with anything else.

That was the Joffrey he remembered.

But the stories he had heard over the past few days painted a very different picture.

Loras found himself curious—and skeptical. People changed, certainly. But that much? In only a year?

He would believe it when he saw it.

Lord Mace Tyrell shifted his weight, his round face showing signs of impatience. He was not a man who enjoyed waiting. He preferred action, decision, movement. Standing in silence while nothing happened was not his idea of proper court procedure.

"How much longer, do you think?" he muttered to his son Garlan.

Garlan's expression remained neutral. "As long as it takes, Father."

"Hmph."

The murmur of conversation continued, growing slightly louder as the wait stretched on.

"Perhaps he's not coming after all."

"Maybe the injuries are worse than we've been told."

"I heard he can barely walk."

"I heard he killed twenty men with his bare hands."

"That’s ridiculous. No one could—"

And then, cutting through the noise like a knife, came the sound of a door opening.

Not the main entrance at the back of the chamber, but a side door, near the front, close to the throne dais.

Every head in the room turned.

Every conversation stopped mid-sentence.

Through the door stepped King Joffrey Baratheon, the First of His Name.

The first thing people noticed was the silence of his entrance.

He walked at the front of a small procession.

To his right walked Ser Barristan Selmy, the legendary knight in his white cloak and armor, his weathered face composed. To his left walked Caspen, the king's steward, carrying a sword in its scabbard—Fury, the Valyrian steel blade with its distinctive smoky black metal.

Behind them came five more Kingsguard, walking in formation, their white cloaks flowing behind them, their armor gleaming.

But it was Joffrey himself who commanded absolute attention.

He had chosen his attire with meticulous care. He wore a double-breasted doublet of rich black silk—the midnight color of House Baratheon—but woven with intricate gold accents along the seams, sharply catching the streaming sunlight.

It was a garment that spoke of absolute wealth and power without being flamboyantly soft, fitted perfectly to his broad shoulders and increasingly powerful frame.

Underneath, a crisp white cravat was fastened high around his neck, its center anchored by a deep red ruby that gleamed like wet blood at his throat.

The contrast of his silhouette was deliberately arresting.

On his right shoulder sat a heavy pauldron of black steel trimmed in gold, the crowned stag of House Baratheon embossed directly onto its polished surface.His right forearm was encased in a matching black steel vambrace, emphasizing his martial, frontline nature.

Conversely, his left shoulder was draped with a flowing crimson capelet that fell elegantly down his back, secured at the collar by a golden clasp shaped like a stag's head to provide a regal, courtly balance to the armor.

His side-parted, golden-blonde hair was kept at a disciplined medium length, falling freely around his crown to catch the light.

Yet, it was his face that drew the most suffocating silence from the crowd.

The stitched wound was entirely exposed. A neat, jagged line of black thread ran from just above his right eye straight down to the top of his cheekbone. The flesh surrounding the black silk stitches was still discolored, dark purple and tight with swelling—a fresh, violent injury that would undeniably leave a significant scar.

It should have ruined his appearance, but if anything it enhanced it.

It was proof.

Visible, undeniable proof that this young king had fought, had bled, and had personally broken the back of the rebellion.

That the king himself had nearly died for his kingdom.

He walked with measured steps, his pace controlled and steady, his emerald-green eyes fixed entirely on the Iron Throne at the far end of the chamber. He did not look at the assembled lords and ladies.

He simply walked, and as he passed, a small, collective gasp rippled through the crowd of noblewomen, their eyes widening at the raw power he projected. He looked like something out of a legend. Something akin to a warrior king, like his father before him.

Lady Margaery Tyrell's lips parted slightly, her carefully composed expression slipping for just a moment.

Her dark eyes followed Joffrey's movement with undisguised interest, tracking the broad cut of his chest and the sheer confidence of his stride.

She had expected a petulant boy.

Instead, she was looking at a warrior king.

A king who carried himself with the confidence of someone who had faced the worst the world could offer and emerged victorious.

Her mind was already working, considering all the possibilities and the best way to approach him.

Beside her, Ser Loras Tyrell stood frozen, his blue eyes wide with shock. He was staring at Joffrey as if seeing a ghost.

The last time Loras had seen the king - over a year ago, when he had left King's Landing with Renly - Joffrey had been a scrawny thing. Thin arms, narrow chest, the soft body of a boy who had never done a day of real physical labor in his life.

That boy was gone.

Completely gone.

In his place walked a warrior with broad shoulders and a powerful frame. The doublet couldn't hide the muscle beneath it—the broad chest and thick arms.

Loras felt something twist in his chest—a complicated mix of emotions he couldn't quite name. Disbelief, confusion, and something else. Something that felt uncomfortably like inadequacy.

He was the Knight of Flowers. He was considered one of the finest warriors in the Seven Kingdoms. He had trained his entire life to be a perfect knight.

And yet, looking at Joffrey now, he felt... diminished somehow.

This was the boy he had dismissed as a spoiled prince. The child he had thought weak and unworthy.

What had happened to him?

How had he changed so much in only a year?

Around the room, other lords and ladies were having similar reactions.

Those who had known Joffrey before - who remembered the petulant prince, the cruel boy, the spoiled child - found themselves reassessing everything they thought they knew.

Those who had never met him before found themselves impressed despite any preconceptions they might have held.

Even the hardened knights—men who had fought in wars, who had seen countless battles, who prided themselves on their martial prowess—found themselves straightening slightly, their eyes following the young king with something that might have been respect.

Joffrey continued walking, his pace never changing, his eyes never wavering from the throne ahead.

The five Kingsguard moved with him, their formation perfect, their movements synchronized.

He reached the base of the throne dais and stopped.

His five Kingsguard moved without being told, spreading out evenly to form a semicircle facing the crowd. They stood like sentinels—silent, armored, and dangerous.

Caspen stepped forward, moving to Joffrey's left side.

He held Fury carefully, the Valyrian steel sword still in its scabbard, the smoky black metal of the blade visible where the scabbard ended.

He extended it toward Joffrey, bowing his head slightly.

Joffrey reached out and took the sword, nodded his head to Caspen in acknowledgment, and turned toward the Iron Throne.

The throne loomed above him—a twisted mass of metal and sharp edges, elevated on its dais of black stone. The steps leading up to it were steep and uneven, designed to make the climb difficult, to remind anyone who ascended that ruling was not easy.

Joffrey began to climb, moving slowly.

Each step was carefully placed as he held Fury in his right hand. Because the smoky Valyrian steel was so exceptionally lightweight, he didn't need to lean his body weight into the weapon, instead using the blade pointed downward to maintain his balance.

Still, even the light, steady friction of the hilt against his raw palm exacted a silent cost. Internally, Joffrey felt a sharp, pulsing heat beneath the leather—a faint, sticky warmth indicating a small amount of fluid and blood was beginning to seep from the edges of his healing burns.

His left hand reached out occasionally to steady himself against the throne itself, touching the twisted metal carefully, avoiding the sharp edges.

And as he climbed, Caspen's voice rang out through the chamber.

"His Grace, Joffrey of the Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the First of His Name—"

Joffrey reached the third step.

"—King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men—"

The fifth step.

"—Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm—"

The seventh step.

A pause. Then Caspen's voice rose slightly, emphasizing the new titles.

"—Maker of Wonders—"

The ninth step.

Joffrey pulled himself up the last rise, his right hand gripping Fury, his left hand steadying himself against the throne.

"—The Young Lion."

And then he was at the top.

The king stood there for a moment, his back to the assembled crowd, facing the throne itself.

The Iron Throne.

The seat of Aegon the Conqueror. The symbol of absolute authority over the Seven Kingdoms. The prize that men had killed and died for.

And it was his.

He turned slowly, and took a seat.

The throne was uncomfortable—everyone knew that. But Joffrey sat with his back straight, his posture perfect. He held his sword Fury in his right hand, the blade pointed downward, resting against his leg.

His left hand rested on the arm of the throne, his fingers spread slightly, the black leather glove concealing what lay beneath.

While his right hand remained loosely but securely clamped around the hilt of Fury; from the outside, his posture was a picture of flawless, imperial stability, leaving the court entirely blind to the dull, throbbing ache of the raw flesh pooling slightly against the inner lining of his right glove.

No one moved or spoke.

They simply stared at the young man sitting on the Iron Throne, trying to reconcile what they were seeing with what they had expected.

Sansa's hands were clenched so tightly in front of her that her knuckles had gone white. She could see the careful way Joffrey had climbed.

She wanted to run to him. She wanted to help him and make it easier somehow.

But she couldn't.

This was something he had to do alone.

Tyrion watched with a mixture of pride and concern. The boy had courage—there was no denying that. He just hoped the boy knew what he was doing.

Joffrey sat on his throne, his expression stoic, his face showing nothing.

Just utter stillness.

He let the silence stretch for a moment before, finally, he spoke. His voice was steady, and carrying across the entire chamber.

"I will now hear oaths of fealty from my loyal subjects."

If you like the story and want to read ahead 10 chapters are already available for Patrons.

Just go to google and search RoguePrince69 and click the first link then enjoy.