The Young Lion
Act 1 Ch 11: A Talk with a Snake
Dawn light crept through the Red Keep windows, falling onto the sleeping prince's face. He stirred, his eyelids fluttering open. Sitting up in his large feather bed, he yawned, stretching his shoulders, relieved the lingering pain had finally subsided. As he rotated his left shoulder, he resolved it was time to confront one of his greatest challenges. With that thought, he tossed aside his quilt and moved to his chamber's standing mirror.
Removing his nightshirt, he studied the four scars that marred his left collarbone, tracing one with his index finger. The savage strength of the Shadowcat remained a faint, visceral memory. A determined look hardened his features as he dressed in a simple white long-sleeved shirt and plain dark brown leather breeches, then made his way out of his solar.
After breaking his fast with his family, Joffrey headed towards the Red Keep's training yard. The clang of steel echoed in the tranquil morning air as he approached.
ClangClangClang
Joffrey stepped onto the stone balcony, looking down at the vast training arena, easily three times the size of Winterfell's. The white pebble field teemed with knights of all ages and birth, honing their skills in various weapon drills. Slowly, Joffrey descended the steps, attempting to remain unnoticed, but every knight froze, their gazes fixed on him as he reached the bottom.
An awkward silence descended upon the assembled men, each clad in training garb, swords held loosely. Sensing the rising tension, Joffrey took the initiative, forcing a reassuring smile.
"Good-morrow, good sers."
"Good-morrow, Prince Joffrey," one knight responded politely, offering a stiff bow. A low murmur of agreement rippled through the yard, accompanied by a flurry of bows. Joffrey waited patiently. "Now that introductions are out of the way, where is the Master-at-Arms?"
A middle-aged knight straightened. "That would be me, my prince," he said, raising a hand.
Joffrey wasted no time, striding towards the man. As he drew closer, he noted the knight's average height, slim yet lean build reminiscent of Benjen Stark, raven hair slicked back with streaks of grey, and olive skin. He stopped a few feet away.
"Your name, good ser?"
"Ser Aron Santagar, my prince."
"Well, Ser Aron, I require arms and armor. It is past time I learned to become a warrior."
A knight resting nearby nearly choked on his water. The arena fell silent once more, the knights rooted to the spot. After a moment that stretched into an insult, Ser Aron spoke hesitantly.
"Um… forgive me, my prince, no disrespect intended, but… are you being serious?"
"Of course. Why would I jest about such a thing?"
"…"
"Well?" Joffrey raised an eyebrow.
"...Yes?"
"Is anyone here going to fulfill my order?" Annoyance flickered across Joffrey's face at the sight of these cowering men dressed as brave knights.
"Well… the thing is, my prince… did you happen to receive the queen's approval for this?"
"I wasn't aware I needed my mother's permission to learn how to swing a sword."
"No! No! That's not what I meant, my prince!" Ser Aron waved frantically. "I merely meant… the queen might not approve of her son and heir engaging in such… dangerous pursuits."
Seeing the sheer anxiety etched on Ser Aron's face, mirrored by the other knights, Joffrey understood.
"Relax, Ser Aron. I will speak with the queen myself if this becomes an issue." He waved a dismissive hand.
"Yes, of course, my prince, but I am concerned about offending the royal…"
"You are offending a royal at this very moment, Ser Aron," Joffrey said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Now, do as your prince commands and fetch me my sword and armor."
Seeing no alternative, Ser Aron sighed wearily and snapped his fingers at two nearby servants. They quickly returned with training bracers, padded armor, and a blunted leaf-shaped longsword. Once Joffrey was equipped, he followed the reluctant knight to the training circle. They faced each other, and Ser Aron spoke.
"Alright, my prince." He raised his sword with both hands. "Let's see what you already know."
Joffrey nodded, slowly raising the blunted sword above his head, his stance shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent. Recognizing the High Guard Ser Rodrik had taught him, Ser Aron raised an eyebrow.
"The Guard of the hawk." He then shifted his own training sword into the Ox Guard, the hilt beside his head, the tip aimed at the prince. "Alright," he shrugged. "Let's see what you can do, my prince."
At his words, Joffrey surged forward, hacking and swinging at the older knight, who swiftly evaded each blow. Joffrey pressed his attack, but Ser Aron remained elusive. Abandoning the northern techniques, Joffrey drew upon the muscle memory of his army training, adding sweeps and kicks to his assault.
Ser Aron and the other knights exchanged surprised glances at the sudden, almost savage onslaught. Unfortunately, Joffrey's new body lacked the experience and physical conditioning of his previous one, and he quickly began to tire. As the prince's movements grew sluggish, Ser Aron executed a simple riposte, smacking Joffrey's wrist, causing him to drop his sword before extending his own, the blunted tip an inch from Joffrey's throat.
Joffrey panted heavily, brushing his sweat-dampened hair from his face. Ser Aron, in contrast, remained calm, his breathing even as he lowered his sword.
"So?" Joffrey gasped. "What were my mistakes?"
"...Hmm?" Ser Aron stroked his chin, considering. After a moment, he nodded approvingly. "You did very well, my prince. You grasped the northern knight's lessons quickly. Good instincts, and… quite innovative, it would seem." He still recalled the odd sweeps and kicks.
"...But?"
"But you lack the necessary body strength to fully execute that style." He nodded. "Furthermore, you are beginning your training incredibly late. Most boys your age are seasoned squires, well on their path to knighthood."
Joffrey fell silent. Seeing the prince's quiet contemplation, Ser Aron continued. "Frankly speaking, my Prince, it will be nearly twice as difficult for your skills to catch up."
"I see." Joffrey nodded, closing his eyes.
Please be discouraged, Ser Aron thought, relieved at the prospect of avoiding the queen's wrath.
After a brief silence, Joffrey opened his eyes, a determined glint in them. "Then that just means I need to work twice as hard."
Fuck, Ser Aron thought, recognizing the unwavering resolve in the prince's gaze.
Unaware of the knight's internal turmoil, Joffrey pressed. "So, where do we begin?"
Ser Aron sighed and retrieved a massive, thick wooden sword from a nearby table. Handing it to the prince, Joffrey nearly stumbled under its weight.
"What is this?" he huffed, straining to lift it.
"Your first task, My Prince." Some of the younger knights snickered. "You are to swing that sword until it becomes as light as a feather. Only then will you possess the strength to practice swordplay."
Joffrey stared at the heavy slab of wood. Medieval strength training, he thought.
"Very well, Ser Aron," he said aloud. "I accept your challenge."
Oh, thank the gods, Ser Aron thought. A day of swinging that and he'll avoid the yard like the plague.
"That's the spirit, Your Grace," he said, nodding approvingly. "Best we get started."
Joffrey nodded, hefting the wooden sword with both hands, raising it overhead, and bringing it down with a grunt.
"One!"
The other knights offered encouraging nods. He raised it again.
"Two!"
[One Hour Later]
Sweat poured from Joffrey's brow, joining the puddle at his feet. He grunted out numbers with each swing, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. By the time he reached fifty, the initial amusement of the knights had faded, replaced by a mixture of shock and grudging admiration. By ninety, a hushed anticipation had fallen over the yard.
"Ninety-eight!" the knights shouted in unison.
"Ninety-nine!" Joffrey's breath came in ragged gasps, his blonde hair clinging to his face. His arms felt like lead, every muscle screaming in protest. It felt like a lifetime since such physical exertion. As he strained to lift the sword one last time, the knights and squires roared their encouragement.
"You can do it, My Prince!"
"Just one more!"
With a final surge of will, Joffrey extended his arms, locking his elbows, and brought the wooden sword down with every ounce of strength remaining.
"One hundred!"
Cheers erupted, mingled with approving claps. Moved by the prince's relentless effort, the knights showed their admiration. Joffrey leaned heavily on the sword, using it for support. Slowly, he turned his head towards the still-shocked Master-at-Arms.
"I believe that is sufficient for one day," he panted. "I will see you again on the morrow, Ser Aron."
"Y-yes, my prince," Ser Aron stammered, bowing his head.
"Good." Joffrey nodded. "Now, if you'll excuse me, good sers, I require a bath."
Joffrey slowly made his way out of the training yard, each servant, squire, and knight bowing as he passed. His legs felt like lead as he ascended the steps. Reaching the top balcony, he found a waiting servant.
"Prepare my bath," he ordered.
"Of course, my prince." She curtsied and hurried down the corridor.
Joffrey followed at a slower pace. When he arrived at the bath chamber, the same servant awaited him.
"The baths are ready, my prince," she said, her gaze lingering on his sweat-soaked form.
"Good." He nodded. "Fetch me fresh garments, and then ensure I am not disturbed."
The serving girl hesitated. "Will that be all you require, my prince?" she asked, batting her eyelashes, her attempts at allure were rather pathetic.
"The only thing I require is for you to do as I commanded." Joffrey scoffed inwardly at the blatant seduction attempt.
Despite her surprise at his firm rejection, the servant quickly regained her composure. "As you wish, my prince. Forgive any offense."
Joffrey nodded, his eyes briefly following her retreating figure. Eh, Senelle was better, he thought as he entered the bath chamber.
Carefully, he stripped off his soaked clothes and eased his exhausted body into the steaming water.
"Ahh," he exhaled, savoring the warmth on his skin. A long hot bath was one of the few remaining pleasures in this strange world, along with reading, creating, and, of course, fucking. After washing away the grime, he leaned back, enjoying the steamy air as he reviewed his training session.
His physical conditioning would be the greatest hurdle. Skill meant little if exhaustion struck after just a few swings. Thankfully, eight years of military PT provided a solid foundation for building stamina. He began formulating a training protocol: swordsmanship with Ser Aron in the mornings, followed by bodyweight exercises, core work, cardio, and stretching in the afternoons.
Satisfied with his plan, he looked at his reflection in the water, his gaze settling on his annoyingly long golden hair. Joffrey sighed. But first, it's time to finally deal with this. He twisted a lock between his fingers.
[Several Hours Later]
Later that day, inside the small Council Chamber, the Hand and the rest of the King's Council listened to the complaints of the bald-headed twat, Janos Slynt, the so-called commander of the City Watch. The little worm raved on about the chaos the Hand's tournament was causing with the influx of knights throughout the realm arriving to compete. Ned Stark looked exasperated, having been unable to dissuade his friend from hosting the frivolous event.
Once the business concluded and Lord Eddard had promised the commander an additional fifty men as well as some of his own house guard, they adjourned for the day. The lords each stood and bowed to the new Hand and the crown prince before briskly exiting the chamber. Joffrey was one of the last to leave, offering a respectful bow to the northern lord before making his exit. As he walked past the old Maester, he heard Ned Stark call out to the old ferret to remain behind for a private discussion.
The prince didn't even attempt to linger, already knowing the sage and wolf's topic. Instead, more pressing matters awaited. As he made his way through the stone hallway, he eventually came upon the very man he sought: Littlefinger.
Lord Baelish appeared to be engaged in a deep, yet quiet conversation with the Gold Cloaks commander. Upon seeing the approaching prince, Littlefinger swiftly ended the exchange, sending the worm scurrying away before Joffrey drew near. When the prince stood before the Master of Coin, the skinny little man offered a very exaggerated bow.
"My prince." He bent at the hip, clutching his binder of papers tightly.
"Lord Baelish," Joffrey responded respectfully. "I was hoping I might discuss some matters with you, if you wouldn't mind."
"Oh?" The snake's eyes gleamed with intrigue. "What sort of matter, my prince?"
"Matters best discussed in private." Joffrey's eyes flickered towards the nearby servants and guards feigning disinterest. Understanding his meaning, Littlefinger nodded.
"Ah yes, yes, quite right, my prince. These walls have ears, after all. Follow me, and I'll lead us somewhere more secure."
The snake turned, leading the prince down the corridor. Joffrey followed closely, watching the man's back. He couldn't help but roll his eyes at the pathetic facade of a charming bootlicker. It was transparent.
Is it really possible people could be so oblivious to the obvious for so long? he wondered as they continued down another corridor.
Even without his otherworldly knowledge, Joffrey would have been wary of this council member after a single conversation. The man didn't look at you; he looked through you, his reptilian eyes more boa constrictor than human. After a ten-minute walk, they finally emerged into a secluded section of the castle gardens.
"So, what is it you would like to discuss with me, my prince?"
"These are rather distressing times, Lord Baelish," Joffrey said softly, his gaze fixed on the man. "Jon Arryn's sudden death after nearly seventeen years… quite a shock."
"Oh yes, my prince, truly dreadful. Lord Arryn was more than just my liege lord; he was like a second father to me." The man's melancholic tone sounded remarkably genuine, despite the utter fabrication. Joffrey played along.
"Indeed," he nodded. "And in these chaotic times, I find myself having difficulty trusting much of my father's council. Though you, Lord Baelish, seem like a trustworthy servant I can rely on. Are you a trustworthy servant I can count on?"
"Of course, my prince. You can trust me undoubtedly."
"Good, good." Joffrey nodded. "That's precisely what I wanted to hear, because there is something I want you to do for me."
Littlefinger's head perked up. "How may I serve you, my prince?"
"I would like for you to call upon your skills as the Master of Coin and acquire a large sum of money for me."
"Oh? How much?"
"Probably around a million gold dragons would suffice."
Petyr Baelish chuckled, only to find the prince's expression unwavering. "You're serious?"
"Always," Joffrey responded. "If I wanted to joke, I'd be talking to a jester."
"...Alright… but why so much?"
"There are projects I would like to start implementing to restore this city to its former glory, and it will require quite a bit of coin to do so."
"...I see." He paused, rubbing his pointed goatee. "Why not take these matters to Lord Stark or even His Grace?"
"Because my father would just use the gold to throw more feasts and pointless tourneys. And Lord Stark would feel compelled by his duty to report the money to Robert, resulting in the same outcome."
Lord Baelish couldn't help but nod in agreement with the prince's logic.
"Still, I'm not certain I can perform such acts in good faith without the Hand's or the King's approval."
Joffrey's polite smile dropped almost imperceptibly, but Littlefinger caught the subtle shift.
"Is that so?" he asked rhetorically. "Well, what a shame. I was really hoping to keep you on as my Master of Coin when I take my throne. But if you can't even fulfill my first request, I suppose I'll have to start looking elsewhere."
Petyr's eye twitched slightly at the thinly veiled threat. After a moment of weighing his options, he decided to comply.
Well, if it gets this spoiled brat to start relying on me, perhaps I won't have need for the stupid wolf after all, he thought.
"Very well, my prince," he said with a charming smile. "I shall fulfill your request and acquire the gold for you."
"Excellent! I'm glad to hear it, Lord Baelish," Joffrey said, his smile returning. "And I'm sure it goes without saying that the Hand and the King can't know about this. At least not just yet."
"Of course, my prince. Discretion is one of my many talents."
"I'm sure." Joffrey turned. "Well, I have other matters to attend to. Good day, Lord Baelish."
"Yes, you as well, my prince."
Littlefinger bowed at the waist, watching the young prince walk away, a sly smirk growing on his face. The little snake had already begun plotting the best ways to manipulate the gullible prince and make him dance to his tune. So engrossed in his scheming, he failed to notice the pair of eyes belonging to a young child watching him from one of the bushes. The young girl quickly slipped away, making her way back inside the Red Keep through one of the garden walls' secret passages.
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