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The Young Lion
Act 2 Ch 7: The Kingsguard Selection
The war council was held in the largest hall of Lord Harroway's Town, a grim, drafty chamber where sunlight struggled to penetrate the high, narrow windows. Robb Stark, the King in the North, wore his crown of winter, a circlet of bronze fashioned into the likeness of the First Men's runes and pointed longswords. Its design was simple yet grave, and it weighed uncomfortably as Robb stood before a massive, intricately detailed map of Westeros laid out on a long trestle table.
The map was the focal point of the chamber, displaying the current players of the war with small wooden markers. Tywin Lannister's formidable army was marked by a large cluster of crimson lions, currently positioned just north of Saltpans. Renly Baratheon and the vast green host of the Tyrells were far to the south, near Goldengrove. Stannis Baratheon's presence was a lone marker on Dragonstone. Lysa Arryn and the Vale were represented by a blue falcon, currently static behind the formidable Mountains of the Moon. Finally, King's Landing, Joffrey's seat, was a small, vulnerable yellow marker near the coast.
"We have held Tywin's forces just short of Saltpans," Robb stated, his voice calm and authoritative, cutting through the chill of the hall. "The battle lines have stabilized. We have won every battle; however, we cannot win a war of attrition with the Lannister army, even with our combined host." He said as he gestured to the Lords of the North, Riverlands, and the Trident. "Tywin has endless gold and resources that we don't."
Lord Roose Bolton, pale and soft-spoken, posed the inevitable question. "Has your aunt, Lady Lysa Arryn, responded to any overtures to join forces, Your Grace?"
Robb shook his head. "No. She is content to govern her own kingdom and has no interest in my or the North's struggles."
He silently recalled his mother's warnings. Catelyn believed her sister's grief over Jon Arryn's death had curdled into a dangerous derangement. For Robb, however, the Vale's disinterest was almost welcome; dealing with a potentially unstable ally was a complication he couldn't afford.
"Then what do we do, Your Grace?" Roared Greatjon Umber, his voice booming like thunder. "Sit here and wait for the old lion to starve us out?"
Robb stared at the map, his long auburn red hair falling across his neck. As he pondered, the other lords and advisors began to argue, throwing out short-sighted ideas that relied purely on strength and fortitude rather than any actual strategy.
"Silence!" Robb shouted, the word sharp and sudden.
He moved the crimson Lannister markers slightly forward, then began to move his own forces—the direwolf and the trout banners—backward, heading towards the east.
"We will feign a retreat," Robb announced, his plan beginning to take shape. "We will retreat towards the Twins."
A minor Lord of the Trident immediately argued. "A good army cannot win a war fighting backwards, Your Grace!"
Robb was calm. "It is a feint, Lord Vance. We will retreat until we reach the border of the Eyrie. Once we are close enough to the Mountains of the Moon, we will send a fast raven to the Vale forces informing them of the Lannisters' movement."
He demonstrated on the map. "This is where our Riverland and Northern forces split."
Robb designated the fifteen thousand Riverrun bannermen to continue their retreat towards the Twins, drawing the Lannisters' attention.
"The rest of us," he gestured to the northern lords whose bannermen reached around twenty thousand combined, "will head west towards Oldstones and begin our rapid march south to King's Landing."
A murmur went through the hall.
"What stops the Lannisters from simply pursuing us, Your Grace?" A Lord asked.
"My aunt," Robb said, a cold strategic glint in his eyes. "Knowing how mad she is for Lannister blood, she will likely unleash the full force of the Vale on the Lannisters' rear once they are close enough to her lands. Lady Lysa desires Lannister blood, and I intend to accommodate her."
The lords exchanged glances. The plan was audacious and hinged entirely on Lysa Arryn's thirst for vengeance. It would take time, probably at least one moon, to execute the march and feint, but all of them agreed: not even Tywin Lannister could fight on two fronts, especially with a fresh, unused army like the Knights of the Vale at his back.
Robb continued, his focus shifting to the coast. "I will write to Theon. I want the Iron Fleet to meet us at King's Landing. They can block the harbor while we attack from the land."
Some of the Northern lords looked weary at the mention of the Greyjoys, their distrust of the Ironborn deep-seated. But they trusted their King, who had done nothing but succeed so far.
The council ended with a flurry of activity as the lords hurried off to make their preparations. Robb remained alone for a moment by the map, his hand resting on the marker representing King's Landing.
He closed his eyes, offering a silent prayer for his family, specifically his father and sisters who remained Lannister prisoners.
"Hold on," he whispered to the map. "Hold on just a little bit longer."
o-O-o
Meanwhile, a thousand miles away from the muddy fields of the Riverlands, the Red Keep was quiet, awaiting the start of the Small Council meeting. Sansa Stark, now dressed in rich purple silk, a gift she received from Joffrey, was seated beside the King. She was chuckling softly, relating a joke his sister Myrcella had told her earlier.
"And then she said," Sansa whispered, covering her mouth with her hand, "That if you smell a flower from the Reach too long, you'll start believing every compliment they give you—like Mace Tyrell when someone convinced the fat flower he could dance."
Joffrey laughed, a genuine, warm chuckle. He was amused by his sister's growing mischievous personality and was pleased that she and his future wife were getting along so well. Myrcella had stumbled across Sansa while the latter was busy reading in the library. Sansa had been engrossed in a book that discussed the history of the Reach, specifically the era ruled by House Gardener before their destruction during Aegon's Conquest.
Sansa's interest in history, philosophy, and governance logistics had blossomed after Joffrey had discovered her apparent love of reading as well as her memory and recall that rivaled his own. Apparently her mother, Catelyn Stark, had discouraged her passions, claiming it was unladylike and that no man liked a wife more versed than they are. Joffrey had dismissed it as nonsense, encouraging her to pursue her desires and accommodating them in any way he could, while internally disliking Catelyn more and more.
The doors to the council chamber opened, and the rest of the Small Council members made their way inside, discovering their king and future queen already seated. Slowly Varys, Pycelle, Tyrion, Barristan, Jacelyn, Ros, and Lark took their seats.
"Good morrow, my lords." He said politely.
"Good morrow, Your Grace." They responded.
"Alright, let's get started. What news from the front?" The King asked his Master of Whispers.
Varys began his report, his voice soft as silk, detailing the various war fronts.
"Renly Baratheon remains at Goldengrove, Your Grace. He seems to be hosting yet another tourney for his army. The Tyrells continue to feast and preen."
Joffrey scoffed, leaning back into his chair. "A pompous boy playing at king, wasting his time with games while the realm bleeds."
Ser Jacelyn and Ser Barristan both nodded their heads in agreement, their disapproval of Renly's frivolity clear.
Varys continued. "Stannis Baratheon, meanwhile, has been diligently recruiting. He has turned to pirates and certain sellswords to fill his ranks, particularly those whose loyalties are bought with gold and promises of plunder."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Any notable names, Lord Varys?"
"Salladhor Saan, Lord Hand. A notorious pirate from the Free Cities, now sworn to the service of Stannis."
At the name, Joffrey and Lark Distar locked eyes for a brief, significant moment. Salladhor Saan was a new variable—one that could be put to some use. Moving on from the Baratheon brothers, Varys reported on the Vale.
"Lady Lysa Arryn's bannermen have finished mobilizing. The Vale stands perhaps forty-five thousand strong, but she has yet to make a move beyond patrolling the Bloody Gate."
Sansa, who had been listening intently, shifted slightly at the mention of her deranged aunt. Joffrey sensed her unease and reached out briefly, placing his hand on hers.
"We will deal with her in due time," he announced to the council, while soothing Sansa's unease. He then focused on the primary threat. "And what of my grandfather, Lord Tywin's movements and Robb Stark's?"
"They are still stalemated in the Riverlands, Your Grace," Varys reported. "Lord Tywin is holding the line firmly, but the Young Wolf rarely engages in an open battle."
Joffrey felt a familiar annoyance at Tywin's defiance. His grandfather was refusing to obey his direct order to stand down and allow Robb south. This was one of his primary motivations in creating the Royal Guard; once he realized Tywin had no intention of obeying his commands, either during the war or after.
Meanwhile, Robb Stark had proven to be as brilliant a strategist as the show and book portrayed. Joffrey, an admirer of tactics and battle strategy, had to admit Robb's performance placed him among the greatest strategists, using fewer men to defeat superior numbers. The stalemated Riverlands was a testament to Robb's caution rather than Tywin's strength.
Next, the King shifted the focus from the war to finance and trade. Lady Ros, Joffrey's Master of Coin, spoke next, her ledger open before her.
"Your Grace, I am pleased to report that the debts owed to the Tyroshi Cartels and Faith of the Seven have been paid in full. The Crown's debt has been reduced significantly."
A murmur of approval ran through the room. Ros then added, "the High Septon, however, would like to request an audience regarding your Coronation. He feels the quiet ceremony you settled for is insufficient and wishes to arrange a grand spectacle once the war is concluded."
Joffrey had postponed the grand Coronation, preferring to focus on securing his throne rather than celebrating it. He still thought it unnecessary. To his surprise, Tyrion spoke up in favor of the idea.
"Your Grace, I agree with the High Septon. A king must remain a beacon. A grand Coronation, sanctioned by the Faith, establishes your divine right to the Throne beyond any doubt. It is a necessary pomp."
Varys chimed in, "Indeed, Your Grace. It would reassure the populace and the lords of the realm."
Joffrey inwardly cringed at the thought of dealing with the High Septon, the fat pig with his ridiculous jewel crown, but he conceded the political necessity.
"Very well. Arrange the meeting, I will speak with him." He moved on swiftly. "Lord Lark, what of the trade agreements with the Tyroshi Cartels now that their debts are settled?"
Lark Distar, Master of Trade, leaned forward. "The deal is struck, Your Grace. I've negotiated a trade agreement with three of the Free Cities that may look costly to us in the short term, but the long-term benefits are immense. It will rake in thousands of gold dragons into Westeros over the next few years. By the time the Free Cities understand the fine print of the deal—the preferential tariffs and the restrictions on certain commodities—it will be too late for them to back out without severe financial repercussions."
Joffrey gave a small, appreciative smile.
"Sly, Lark. Very sly." He was inwardly grateful to have created the Master of Trade position and for picking Lord Lark to run it.
Lark tilted his head at the compliment, his eyes bright.
"Oh and, Your Grace, I have made contact with the Myrish builder Companies as you requested. I've separated the wheat from the chaff and went ahead and hired the top three companies. They will be here within a fortnight at most."
"Excellent," Joffrey said, the single word conveying his profound satisfaction. The others remained confused, unaware of the King's plans for Myrish builders, but the Master of Trade seemed to understand completely.
"Is that everything then?" Joffrey asked.
Before anyone could speak, Grand Maester Pycelle cleared his throat. "Your Grace, a raven arrived this morning from Castle Black."
Curious, Joffrey took the sealed letter and broke the wax. Unrolling the parchment, he read its contents aloud for the council. He read of how the Wildlings had united to form a great army, naming a former ranger of Castle Black, Mance Rayder, as the King Beyond the Wall.
Tyrion found the bit of news amusing. "How many kings is that now—six or seven? The Maesters in the Citadel will have to rename the war to the War of Six Kings."
Joffrey ignored his uncle's quip, his voice growing more grave as he read the next lines. "Lord Commander Mormont is asking for reinforcements."
Ser Jacelyn cut in immediately. "Your Grace, we're in the middle of a war. We have no men to spare for the Wall."
"There's more," Joffrey continued, his voice low. "Cold winds are rising, and the dead rise with them."
Pycelle wanted to comment on the Northerners' naivety, but still remembered the last time he inadvertently insulted Sansa and wisely held his tongue.
The king continued, "Apparently, one of these dead men tried to kill the Lord Commander in his chambers."
Joffrey knew these words to be true from his otherworldly knowledge, but he couldn't voice it and allowed the other members around him to argue about the likelihood of dead men rising from the grave. Instead he turned to his new Hand.
"Uncle," he said, getting the dwarf's full attention. "You spent time at the Wall. Tell me, how did the Lord Commander strike you?"
Tyrion looked genuinely surprised that Joffrey was honestly asking for his opinion. He sat and thought for a moment before speaking.
"Lord Commander Mormont is a stern but fair man, and is not prone to flights of fancy, Your Grace. I do not believe he is someone who would lie."
Joffrey closed his eyes for a moment, pondering his options. "Varys, how many of the Gold Cloaks remain in the holding cells?"
"Eight hundred and seventy-four, Your Grace," the Master of Whispers responded immediately.
Joffrey nodded. "Uncle, please write a letter to the Lord Commander. Ask him to send down some men to collect our prisoners. I'll have Tobho construct some cages for wagons."
Tyrion looked stunned that Joffrey was actually honoring the request for reinforcements, even if the men were criminals. Pycelle however, could not remain silent.
"Your Grace, is this truly wise? Are you really going to send all of the remaining City Watch to the Wall?"
"I don't see why not," The King responded nonchalantly. "My Royal Guards enforce and keep the King's peace now, and they do it better than the Gold Cloaks ever did."
"Yes, Your Grace, but still perhaps—" Pycelle started but the King interrupted him sternly, ending the argument with finality.
"They're nothing but thugs with a fancy title and ugly uniforms who raped, stole, and murdered with impunity in my city for years. They broke their oaths to serve and protect the citizens from corruption and harm. I can think of nowhere more fitting for them to redeem themselves in the eyes of gods and men. Uncle, please send the Raven this afternoon."
Tyrion's dumbfounded expression quickly gave way to grudging respect, nodding his head at the King's request. The other members, seeing the King's determination and the logic of the punishment, nodded in agreement. The old ferret decided to bite his tongue and not press the issue any further. After a few more minutes discussing a few matters regarding the refugees, Joffrey decided to end it there for the day.
"That's enough for one day," the king declared, rising from the council table.
The others swiftly bowed their heads and exited the Small Council chamber. Sansa was the last to go, offering Joffrey a soft smile before departing, leaving the King alone with his assistant, Caspen, and Tyrion.
"Caspen, my next meeting for the day?" Joffrey asked, stretching his shoulders.
"Your Grace, the election of the new Kingsguard is scheduled for this afternoon."
Joffrey looked surprised. "Already? I had almost forgotten."
Tyrion went on to confirm the assistant's words. "Indeed. I have gone through the candidates myself, as you specified."
Joffrey raised a single brow before asking, "and did you adhere to my criteria, Uncle?"
"Yes," Tyrion assured him, rolling his eyes at the clear distrust. "Above average melee skills, true battle-tested valor not just tourneys, and a reputation for honor and loyalty. I assure you, Your Grace, your standards lowered the pool of candidates quite significantly."
Joffrey waved off the complaint. "I won't be guarded by paper lions. Their lineage means nothing if they crumble under pressure as you well know." His mind drifted to the craven Kingsguard he killed.
Tyrion ultimately agreed and passed him the files Joffrey had requested be made for the final candidates. After taking a few moments to read over them, Joffrey was satisfied with the selected knights.
"Gather them in the Throne Room, Uncle," Joffrey commanded.
He then turned to Ser Barristan Selmy, who had remained silent near the door. "Ser Barristan, I require the training yard cleared of any other knights, squires, stable boys, and servants for the rest of the afternoon."
The old knight looked confused. "Cleared, Your Grace? May I ask why?"
Joffrey smirked, "for one final test."
Tyrion and Barristan exchanged confused glances while Joffrey rose and walked out of the chamber with Caspen in tow, leaving a baffled Hand and Kingsguard Commander behind.
o-O-o
Later that afternoon, in the Throne Room, Joffrey sat upon the Iron Throne, an imposing figure of authority. He was dressed in a black velvet doublet and black leather breeches. His crimson brocade cloak draped dramatically, creating a striking appearance as the pelt of the Shadowcat he killed defending Sansa rested on his left shoulder, the rich dark fur of the pelt running along the collar and down the fabric, connected by a heavy gold chain across his chest.
His remaining five Kingsguard stood assembled before the throne, with over a dozen of his Royal Guards standing at attention throughout the Great Hall, the discipline a palpable weight in the cavernous room.
Joffrey greeted the seven candidates respectfully, taking in each of their appearances. All were fit, armored, and met his physical standard. The Royal Steward began reading off each of their names and their many accomplishments. Most of the files detailed tourney victories and a few minor bandit raids.
The Steward reached the last candidate, a man named Ser Balon Swann. His accomplishments were more impressive, noting that he had fought alongside Stannis Baratheon during the Greyjoy Rebellion and had killed several notable Ironborn warriors. Joffrey, impressed but showing little on his impassive expression, continued to thank each of them for their service as honorable knights of Westeros.
"However," Joffrey stated, his voice carrying evenly throughout the hall, "There is still one last test to join my Kingsguard."
He rose from the Iron Throne and walked down the steps. He motioned for them to follow, leading them out of the Throne Room, surrounded by his existing Kingsguard and the disciplined ranks of his Royal Guards.
They marched down the hall and into the Red Keep's spacious Training grounds. The yard had been swept clean, the ground raked smooth. Over a dozen Royal Guards stood at rigid attention along the perimeter.
The King made his way to a comfortable luxury chair that had been placed on a small rise overlooking the yard, followed by his knights and the seven candidates.
One of the candidates, a proud, older knight, questioned the unusual setting. "Your Grace, what is the meaning of this?"
Joffrey settled into the chair, the shadowcat brocade cloak draped over the armrest. He smirked, his eyes filled with a certain glint.
"Tryouts," he said simply. Before pointing a finger at one of the waiting knights and gesturing for him to come forward into the training circle.
As the clearly nervous knight stepped forward, a thought entered his mind before he began the test.
"Now let's see what your tourney valor amounts to."He thought before he began to explain the nature of the test.
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