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 24: End of the Line
The king's birthday celebration unraveled slowly.
Laughter lingered in the corridors, fading into softer murmurs as lords and ladies took their leave in clusters, their voices dissolving into the stone like smoke after a feast fire.
Servants moved in behind them, gathering goblets and wiping spills, restoring order piece by piece to the chaos of the king's name day. It should have been a triumphant end to the evening.
Joffrey didn't stay to see it.
The moment Jacelyn leaned in and spoke, something in him had shifted. The warmth had drained from his face, replaced by a stillness that felt far more dangerous. Once the last of the guests were gone, Joffrey rose from his seat and followed Jacelyn out of the hall.
They found her just beyond the bend of a corridor, tucked away from the fading noise of the party.
Sansa sat on a simple wooden stool, her small frame drawn inward as though she were trying to make herself disappear into the stone behind her.
Her dress—once pristine—was wrinkled and smudged with dust, the hem darkened where it had brushed the floor. Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap, fingers twisting the fabric in restless, anxious movements.
Joffrey crossed the distance quickly, pushing past his guard who fell in around him without needing to be called, Ser Barristan appeared at his side, while Sandor loomed just behind them both. Jacelyn and Tyrion were also there, a small distance behind the main group. When he reached Sansa the king slowly knelt down to her eye level.
"Sansa… what happened?" Joffrey asked.
His voice was controlled, but there was a certain strain beneath it, something tight enough that it was almost on the brink of snapping.
Sansa lifted her head but did not respond.
Her eyes were red and swollen, the skin beneath them flushed and raw. When Joffrey reached out and gently turned her face, the bruise was already forming along her cheek, dark beneath the surface, spreading slowly like spilled ink.
For a moment, the King said nothing. His jaw tightened, the muscle slightly twitching beneath the skin as he struggled to remain calm and controlled..
"Who did this to you?" he asked, quieter now. "Please, give me his name."
Sansa swallowed hard, a small, broken sound escaping her throat before the words came.
"S-ser Meryn…" Her breath hitched, shoulders trembling. "H-he—"
She didn't get to finish, nor did she have to.
Joffrey immediately stood. He reached up, unfastening the gold chain clasp at his neck, and shrugged off his brocade cloak, passing it to Jacelyn without so much as a glance before he turned and began walking down the corridor.
"Joffrey? Joffrey, wait." Tyrion called out to his nephew.
His words might as well have been the wind for all the effect they had, which was none. Joffrey didn't slow down. He just continued making his way down the empty hallway with a clear and singular purpose. Guards and servants alike pressed themselves to the walls as he passed, reading something in his expression that made them want to melt into the very stone of the corridor.
Ser Barristan moved quickly to catch up, his longer stride closing the distance with ease, while Sandor followed at a measured gait that carried a certain anticipation, as though he already knew exactly how this would end. Behind them, Tyrion muttered something under his breath and hurried to catch up with the group.
o-O-o
The king pushed the doors of the White Sword Tower with a heavy shove, making them burst inward.
Inside, the other Kingsguard had already begun to shed their uniforms now that the day was over. Armor lay half-removed, gauntlets discarded on benches, white capelets draped loosely over chairs.
Ser Meryn Trant stood among them, a cup of wine in hand, his posture loose, his face flushed from drink. The empty wine pitcher rested near his feet.
He turned at the sound of the doors slamming open, confusion crossing his features as he took in the sight of his king striding toward him.
"Your Grace? What are you—"
The punch cut him off.
Joffrey's fist slammed into his face with a sharp crack that echoed through the chamber, snapping his head to the side and sending him stumbling backward into the wall. The cup fell from his hand, wine spilling across the stone as blood followed immediately from Trant's nose.
The room fell silent.
Meryn blinked, dazed, one hand coming up instinctively, fingers slicking red as he tried to understand what had just happened. The haze of wine began to burn away beneath the sharper edge of pain.
Joffrey stepped forward without hesitation.
He unfastened his sword belt in a single motion and tossed it aside, the leather striking the floor with a dull sound before he spoke, his voice low and absolute.
"No one is to interfere."
No one moved.
Meryn looked up again, his expression shifting from confusion to something closer to alarm. "Joff—Your Grace, I—"
The second punch landed before he could finish, a clean left that snapped his head back, followed immediately by a right cross and a left hook that drove him down to the floor. He hit hard, breath leaving him in a broken grunt as he tried to gather himself.
Joffrey stepped over him.
"Get up."
Meryn coughed, blood pooling at his lips as he struggled to form words that wouldn't come. His body resisted, but the command—and the presence behind it—left little room for disobedience.
"Now."
The word carried more force this time, cutting through whatever hesitation remained. Slowly, unsteadily, Meryn pushed himself up, first to his knees, then to his feet, swaying as he tried to find his balance.
Joffrey didn't give him the chance.
He seized him by the collar and drove a punch into his face, then another, and another, each blow snapping his head back as his body sagged under the impact of the punches.
The king held him upright long enough to deliver another strike, this time a vicious headbutt. Bone met bone with a sickening crack, and Meryn's nose broke cleanly, blood pouring freely as he collapsed onto his back. Joffrey stood over him, chest rising and falling harder now, but his focus never wavering.
"Get up."
There was no response.
"GET UP!"
The shout tore through the chamber, bouncing off the stone walls. "YOUR KING IS GIVING YOU A COMMAND, KINGSGUARD. NOW STAND UP!"
Meryn forced himself upright again, barely managing to reach his knees, his body trembling with the effort. His vision swam, his movements sluggish, but he obeyed.
"Come here."
Joffrey grabbed him by the head and drove his knee upward, the impact snapping Meryn back onto the floor once more. This time, Joffrey followed him down, dropping into position over him and beginning to strike again.
The blows came heavy now, wet with blood, each one landing with a dull, brutal rhythm.
"Not so easy now, is it?" Joffrey's voice cut through the sound of impact, sharper with each word. "It's a bit more of a challenge when your opponent isn't a little girl, isn't it?"
Another strike.
"Where's the tough guy that called her a whore?"
Another.
"Where's that bravado that emboldened you to strike my Lady?"
Meryn didn't answer. Not because he didn't want to, simply he couldn't. His face was already losing shape beneath the assault, blood spreading across the stone beneath him as his arms twitched weakly, unable to defend, unable to stop what was happening.
For a brief moment, Joffrey paused.
His left wrist flicked, and with a soft, mechanical click, the hidden blade slid free from his bracer, catching the torchlight in a thin, gleaming line. Slowly, he lowered it toward Meryn's eye.
The knight's remaining awareness sharpened at the sight of it. A broken, desperate sound clawed its way from his throat as he tried to move, tried to speak, tried to beg. The blade hovered inches from his eye, but before Joffrey could go any further—a hand shot out and seized him by the wrist.
Joffrey turned sharply, his gaze locking onto Ser Barristan, who stood over him with an expression that held no fear, only a certain disapproving sadness.
"Let go of me, Ser Barristan," he ordered.
"My king," he said quietly, "please look."
Joffrey's eyes flicked past him.
Sansa stood in the doorway, framed by the light behind her. Tyrion stood at her side, his face tight with disbelief, while Sandor lingered just behind them, arms folded, watching the scene with a grim sort of approval.
Sansa's hands trembled.
"Joffrey… please," she said, her voice cracking. "Please stop."
The fury didn't vanish, but it did falter.
"He hurt you," Joffrey said, the words stiff, almost defensive.
She nodded, swallowing hard. "I know… but if you kill your own Kingsguard, it will hurt you. It will damage your name and your rule."
The silence that followed stretched, heavy and uncertain, then the soft click of his bracer broke it, and the blade retracted.
Joffrey rose slowly, blood staining his hands and sleeves, and turned fully toward her. "What would you have me do with him, my lady?"
Sansa hesitated, her gaze drifting briefly to the broken figure on the floor before returning to Joffrey.
"Send him to the Wall," she said at last. "Take his white cloak and have him take up a black one."
The king studied her for a moment, weighing her words, then gave a slight nod.
He stepped back to Meryn, crouching just enough to grip his face and drag him upward, forcing the battered knight to look at him.
"Thank her, Ser Meryn," Joffrey said coldly. "My lady just saved your life."
He then released him, letting him drop to the floor like a sack of grain. Meryn hit the floor with a dull thud, barely conscious.
Joffrey turned away from him without another glance and crossed back to Sansa, pulling her into a firm embrace as he guided her out of the chamber. At the doorway, he paused just long enough to look back at Tyrion.
"Clean that shit up," he said flatly. "I want him out of my city by dawn."
Then he was gone, Ser Barristan following close behind.
Tyrion remained where he was for a moment after they left, staring down at what remained of Ser Meryn Trant. He let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand across his face as he took in the damage, the blood, the silence that still clung to the room.
"Well," he muttered finally, voice dry despite the tension still hanging in the air, "that was… brutal."
Sandor gave a low grunt, kicking Meryn's limp body with his boot, something faintly amused in his face.
"Could've gone worse."
Tyrion huffed a quiet, humorless laugh before gesturing toward the guards.
"Get him up, carefully if you would." Tyrion instructed, "I'd prefer that he survive the journey north—if only so that the Wall can finish what His Grace started."
They moved to obey, hauling the broken knight upright between them.
Tyrion lingered a moment longer, his gaze drifting toward the door where Joffrey had exited. A small grin of pride slowly grew across the dwarf's face. He turned and walked away to see that the rest of his nephew's commands were fulfilled.
o-O-o
The Grand Maester's laboratory smelled faintly of vinegar, dried herbs, and something sharper beneath it—metal and old remedies that had steeped too long.
Joffrey stood near the examination table, arms folded behind his back, watching.
Sansa sat where Pycelle had guided her, shoulders drawn in as the old man leaned close, his chain clinking softly with each movement. His fingers—thin, spotted with age—tilted her chin this way and that, inspecting the swelling along her cheek, peering into her eyes with a murmur of quiet, practiced assessment.
"Mm… yes… yes…" Pycelle muttered, his breath warm and unpleasantly close to her skin. "No fracture. No splitting of the skin. A fortunate outcome, all things considered…"
Joffrey's jaw tightened at that.
Fortunate.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing himself to remain calm.
"I should not have left you," Joffrey said, his voice low but steady. "I should have stayed and assured that you were being treated before I dealt with that vile piece of filth."
Sansa's fingers tightened slightly as she grasped the fabric of her dress. She shook her head before Pycelle could even finish his inspection.
"No," she said softly. "You… you did what you had to."
Her gaze flicked toward him, just for a moment, then away again, as if the weight of it was too much to hold for long. There was no accusation in her voice. Pycelle then straightened with a slow groan, adjusting the heavy chain around his neck as he turned toward the king.
"Your Grace, I can assure you, your lady is quite well. There is no sign of injury to her head, nor any cuts beyond the superficial. The bruising will fade in time."
Then his gaze dropped, to Joffrey's hands.
"Though…" the old man added, peering closer, "it seems His Grace is not quite so fortunate."
Joffrey followed his gaze, and only then did he notice the skin across his knuckles was torn open in places, raw and split where bone had met bone too many times. Blood—his and Trant's, had dried dark along his fingers, flaking slightly when he flexed them.
Joffrey extended his hand without comment.
Pycelle took it carefully, guiding it toward a shallow basin of water. When his fingers dipped beneath the surface, the clear liquid clouded almost immediately, red bleeding out in thin ribbons that curled and spread until the water turned murky.
The old man worked with surprising gentleness, rinsing away the blood and dabbing at the cuts with a cloth before patting them dry. From a nearby table, he retrieved a small jar, unscrewing it with a soft pop and applied a pale paste across the broken skin.
It stung, but Joffrey didn't react.
Pycelle wrapped the hand with thin strips of cloth, binding each knuckle with careful precision, his touch light but deliberate.
"These will heal cleanly," he murmured. "Though I would advise His Grace to refrain from… similar exertions for a few days."
Joffrey said nothing.
Across the room, Sansa watched, something in her expression shifting.
Something unsettled sat behind her eyes, her lips parted slightly as if she wanted to speak but couldn't quite find the shape of the words. Her gaze lingered on his bandaged hand longer than it should have.
He quickly noticed.
The moment Pycelle finished, Joffrey withdrew his hand and inclined his head slightly. "You have my thanks, Grand Maester."
Pycelle puffed faintly at that, clearly pleased, but before he could respond, Joffrey's attention had already moved past him.
"Now leave us."
The old man blinked, caught off guard. "Your Grace, this is my laboratory, I—"
Joffrey slowly turned his head. The look he gave the old man sent a faint shiver running through him, and whatever argument had been forming died before it reached his tongue.
He bowed stiffly instead, gathering himself with a hurried sort of dignity before shuffling out of the room, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
Silence settled in his wake, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then he crossed the room at an unhurried pace and lowered himself in front of her again, kneeling so that his gaze met hers without distance between them.
"What is it?" he asked quietly.
Sansa hesitated.
Her fingers moved to her lap, fidgeting with something there before she finally drew it free—a small chain, silver catching faintly in the light, with a carved piece hanging at its center.
She held it out.
"I… I made something for you," she said, her voice softer now, tinged with a faint uncertainty. "For your name day."
Joffrey took it carefully.
The chain was simple, but the carving—he turned it slightly between his fingers—was deliberate. A wolf's head, small and cleanly shaped, the lines not perfect, but precise enough to show the care that had gone into it.
He looked back up at her.
"Sansa… did you carve this yourself?"
She nodded, her gaze dropping almost immediately. "I wanted to give you something that came from my own hands. I know it's not—"
He immediately stood up.
The movement cut her off gently, not abrupt, but firm enough that the words died before they could finish. He turned the necklace in his hands once more before unclasping it.
"What are you talking about?" he said, something warmer threading into his tone now. "This is the finest gift I've ever received."
He turned his back to her slightly, lifting the chain just enough. "Would you please help me put it on?"
Sansa blinked, caught off guard, but rose quickly to her feet. Her fingers brushed lightly against his neck as she fastened the clasp, careful not to pull too tight, the cool metal settling against his skin.
For a moment, her hands lingered there, then she stepped back.
Joffrey turned, adjusting the necklace slightly before letting it rest. His fingers brushed over the carved wolf once, thoughtful, before his gaze lifted to meet hers again.
"I will treasure this my lady and I swear I will always wear it," he said.
Color immediately flushed Sansa's cheeks.
She turned her head to the side, as if trying to hide it, but it only made it more obvious—the way her shoulders drew in slightly, the way her breath caught just a little.
He stepped closer.
His hand lifted, slower this time, and his fingers brushed lightly against her cheek—the uninjured side first, then carefully along the edge of the swelling. Not pressing. Just there.
She looked back at him. Her eyes were clearer now, though still rimmed with red, the blue catching the light as she held his gaze.
"Please forgive me for what was done to you," he said again, quieter now. "And for my negligence. I should've assigned you a guard."
Sansa shook her head, raising her own hand to his face, her fingers resting gently against his cheek. "There's nothing to forgive."
The contact lingered.
Joffrey's hand shifted, closing lightly around hers before he lifted it, pressing his lips to the back of it slowly. When he looked up again, the space between them had narrowed.
He leaned in gradually, giving her time—time to pull away, to hesitate, to change her mind but she didn't.
When their lips met, it was soft at first, uncertain only for a heartbeat. Sansa leaned into him, closing the distance fully. Her hand tightened slightly against his, the other rising instinctively to rest against Joffrey's arm as the kiss deepened.
The world beyond the laboratory felt distant.
And for a brief moment—nothing else existed.
o-O-o
The cabin creaked with every shift of the sea.
Wood groaned softly in the dark, the walls seemingly breathing in and out with the swell of the tide as the ship cut through black water. A single lantern swung from a hook above, its weak flame casting long, uneven shadows that slid across the narrow space.
Ser Meryn Trant slumped on the edge of his bunk.
His back was hunched and his shoulders slumped forward. One hand braced against the wood to steady himself as the ship rolled beneath him. The other hovered uselessly near his face, as if unsure whether touching it would make the damage worse.
Half of it was already ruined.
Blood had dried in dark streaks along his jaw and collar, flaking where it had crusted. His right eye had swollen shut entirely, puffed grotesquely outward. The skin of both cheeks was stretched and discolored, pulsing faintly with each beat of his heart. His once straight and even teeth were now broken or missing entirely. Every breath dragged through him unevenly, catching somewhere in his chest where several ribs protested the movement.
Less than a day ago, he had stood draped in the proud white cloak of the illustrious Kingsguard.
He was a proud, respected knight of the realm. Cloaked in honor, feared by lesser men, obeyed without question.
Now—
The ship lurched.
He grabbed the edge of the bunk harder, broken teeth grinding as pain flared through his whole body.
Now, he was being sent to freeze and rot at the edge of the world. Thrown in with thieves, bastards, and gutter scum who had never earned the right to wear steel, let alone stand beside a king.
His lip curled.
All because of a girl.
His good eye narrowed, unfocused slightly as memory pushed forward, dragging him back to the hall—to her. The way she'd looked at him. Frightened. Small. Like they all did.
He let out a breath through his nose, something bitter twisting behind it.
Clumsy little thing.
If she hadn't stumbled. If she'd just watched where she was going, none of this would be happening to him. It wasn't his fault she couldn't keep her footing. Girls like that were all the same. Soft. Fragile. Always breaking under the slightest pressure.
A faint, humorless huff left him.
His mind drifted further back, away from the pain, toward warmer memories—lantern-lit rooms, laughter thick with drink, hands and bodies that didn't resist. It all came easy when a man wore the white cape and carried the king's favor on his shoulders.
Before the boy king started tearing it all apart.
Brothels shuttered, coin watched. Ridiculous restrictions where there had been… freedom.
His jaw tightened as he remembered when the king outlawed young girls being used in brothels.
"Ridiculous reforms." he huffed.
All of it. Every last… Suddenly the door slammed open. The sound cracked through the cabin like a struck bell.
Meryn's head snapped up, his body reacting before his thoughts could catch up. He pushed off the bunk, boots scraping hard against the wood as his shackled hand went for his missing sword.
Four men quickly descended on him. They moved efficiently and left him no room to breathe, let alone resist. Hands caught his arms, wrenching his bound hands above his head. Even if he had been free and armed, Trant thought to himself, the assault was so fast the result would have been the same.
The first punch landed high on his ribs, and the second drove into his gut.
Air left him in a choked grunt as his body folded instinctively, but they didn't stop. Fists came in quick succession, each impact dull and heavy against already battered flesh, snapping his head back, jerking his shoulders as they held him upright just to keep hitting him.
"Wait—!" he tried, but the word broke apart in his mouth as another blow split his lip.
The world blurred.
Pain stacked on pain until it all blended into something hot and indistinct. His legs buckled beneath him, but the grip on his arms didn't loosen until there was nothing left in him to resist.
When they finally let him go, he hit the floor hard.
The wood came up fast, knocking what little breath he had from his lungs. Darkness crowded at the edges of his vision.
Rough hands grabbed him again, under the arms this time, and dragged.
Ser Meryn Trant's boots scraped uselessly against the floorboards as they hauled him from the cabin. His body had gone limp and his head lolled slightly with each step. The narrow hallway opened into the deck above, and with it came the sharp bite of night air and the scent of salt and open sea.
The cold hit him like a slap.
It cleared just enough of the haze for Trant to understand where he was. The men didn't stop dragging him until they reached the center of the deck and unceremoniously dropped him.
Meryn hit the boards and rolled slightly, coughing as something wet filled his mouth. He spat, blood splattering across the wood as he forced himself to look up
A man stood waiting.
He was not armored, but instead was wrapped in a dark cloak which made seeing his face difficult. The man just stood there, calm and still, as if this were no more than an errand he was completing.
Meryn squinted through his one good eye, trying to place him.
Nothing.
"W—what is this…" he rasped, voice rough, uneven.
The man regarded him for a moment before speaking.
"The end of the line."
A small gesture followed—just a tilt of the head—and the men behind Meryn hauled him upright again, forcing him onto unsteady legs. His knees threatened to give immediately, but their grip held him in place.
Panic began to crawl in. It was slow at first, but it quickly began to leak out, like a badly built dam at the verge of collapse.
"Do you know who I am?" Meryn snapped, the words coming sharper now, fueled by desperation more than authority. "I'm—"
"Yes, I know exactly who you are," the man cut in, his tone flat, almost bored. "Ser Meryn Trant."
Meryn faltered.
Something in the way he said it—not impressed, not intimidated—it felt wrong.
"You're the reason I'm here," the man continued.
Understanding filled the knight's battered face.
Meryn's gaze flicked between the men, the deck, the dark water beyond the railing—and then back again.
"Why?" he asked, and this time there was no anger in it. Only something thinner, and much tighter. "I'm already being sent to the Wall. I thought that was—"
"Enough?"
The man's mouth curved slightly in amusement.
"Apparently, His Grace disagreed."
Behind Meryn, movement shifted.
One of the men stepped toward the side of the ship, crouching briefly as he adjusted something secured near the railing—a small anchor, its rope coiled loosely beside it. Another moved in closer, kneeling at Meryn's leg.
Meryn jerked instinctively.
"What are you—"
Hands tightened on his arms, holding him still as something cold pressed against his ankle. Leather pulled tight.
The man in front of him stepped closer.
"His Grace asked me to give you a message," he said.
Meryn stared at him, breath coming faster now.
"No one hurts his lady and lives."
Something in Meryn snapped.
"It was just a shove!" he spat, the words bursting out of him, sharp and defensive. "That's all it was! It's not my fault that stupid—"
The man just turned his head and nodded slightly. Immediately the man kicked the anchor off the side of the ship. It dropped with a heavy splash, the rope tearing free in a sudden, violent rush as it unraveled across the deck.
Meryn's voice cut off.
His eye followed the movement—the rope, the speed of it, the direction—down to his ankle.
For a single, suspended heartbeat, everything stilled.
Then the rope went taut. Meryn didn't scream because he didn't have time.
The force yanked him sideways, his body slamming hard against the deck before he was dragged across it, boots scraping, fingers clawing uselessly at the wood as he was pulled toward the edge.
The railing struck his side and then he was gone.
The water swallowed him whole.
A brief eruption of foam and bubbles broke the surface where he vanished, churning violently for a moment before settling, the dark sea closing over him as if he had never been there at all.
The man at the center of the deck watched the water, waiting for the last bubbles to rise. He exhaled once, slowly, before turning back to the others.
"Now," he said, reaching into his coat and producing several small pouches, each heavy with coin. "What happened here?"
He asked as he started handing out small pouches of gold.
One weighed the pouch in his palm, lips twitching faintly as he looked back toward the empty water. "Tragic thing," he said. "Former Kingsguard… swept overboard by a wave."
Another snorted quietly, already counting the coins with practiced fingers. "Aye. Happens more than you'd think. The sea's a cruel place."
The man nodded once satisfied by their answers.
The King's knife turned and walked back toward the cabin without another word, already reaching for parchment and ink. Writing a message to his king, informing him his mission was complete.
The ship sailed on, as if nothing had happened at all.
o-O-o
The king's solar was quiet.
Not the empty kind of quiet, but the measured stillness of a room in use—quill scratching faintly across parchment, the low crackle of a nearby brazier, the occasional shift of leather as someone adjusted their stance.
Maps and ledgers lay spread across the table, weighted at the corners, ink still fresh in places where new lines had been drawn.
"Balance," he said, almost idly, as his quill traced another line across the parchment. "A sword must have it, or it's just a sharpened bar of steel."
Across from him, Tobho Mott inclined his head slightly, thick hands resting on the edge of the table. "Aye, Your Grace. That one will hold its edge well. Fine work, if I may say so."
Joffrey set the quill down briefly, fingers brushing the hilt of the blade resting beside him—the new sword, its gilded steel crossguard catching the light in a muted gleam. He studied it for a moment, then gave a small nod.
"And the second?"
"Nearly complete," Tobho replied. "Final shaping and tempering. A few days more, no longer, I assure you."
Joffrey nodded once. "Do not rush it. I would rather wait for perfection than have a half finished blade."
"As you say, Your Grace."
The king leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers before shifting his attention to the spread of plans laid before them—inked outlines of the Dragonpit, scaffolding placements, material allocations.
"The Tyrosh builders," Joffrey said. "What's your assessment?"
Tobho allowed himself a small grunt of approval. "They're masters of their craft, that's for sure. Quick to learn, quicker to adapt. Your three-shift work structure… they took to it better than I expected. We are far ahead of schedule."
A faint, almost amused breath left him. "At this rate, I'll have to pay them the bonus I promised."
Tobho huffed quietly, then continued. "Their leadership, though… it's mixed. Two of them are solid men. They understand work and results. The third—" He hesitated briefly. "—entitled. Headstrong. He thinks himself more important than the work that he's been hired to do."
Joffrey's gaze flicked up for the first time.
"I had the same impression," he said.
The words were calm, but something beneath them settled the matter more firmly than any raised voice could have. He picked up his quill again, dipping it into fresh ink.
"If he becomes a problem," Joffrey added, "you will inform me."
"I will, Your Grace."
Joffrey returned to the parchment, writing again, the steady scratch of ink filling the space between them.
"Once the Dragonpit is complete," he began, almost thoughtfully, "we move to the next phase. Water."
Tobho's brow furrowed slightly. "Water, Your Grace?"
Joffrey's quill moved with quiet precision. "A system that feeds the entire city. Not wells or cisterns. Something controllable that can be filtered."
Tobho's eyes sharpened, interest replacing confusion as he leaned slightly forward—when the door opened.
Both men turned.
Tyrion Lannister stepped inside without waiting to be announced, Bronn following a half-step behind him, one hand resting loosely near his sword as his eyes swept the room out of habit.
Tobho straightened instinctively, caught between uncertainty and instinct.
Joffrey did not react, his quill continued to move.
"I bring grave news, nephew," Tyrion said.
The scratching of ink did not stop.
Silence stretched.
Tyrion shifted slightly, irritation beginning to edge into his posture. "I said I bring urgent news, Joffrey."
The quill dipped again into ink.
"Is there something wrong with your hands?" Joffrey asked, still not looking up.
Tyrion blinked. "What?"
"Your hands," Joffrey repeated, tone even. "Are they injured?"
"No…" Tyrion said slowly, glancing briefly at Tobho, then at Bronn, as if searching for context that wasn't there.
Joffrey nodded faintly. "Then it must simply be a matter of manners or lack thereof."
The words settled.
Tyrion's brow furrowed as realization crept in.
"You entered my solar without knocking."
Tobho shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat. "Your Grace, perhaps I should—"
"Don't move an inch, Tobho," Joffrey said, finally lifting his gaze.
It wasn't raised. It didn't need to be.
"Unlike them, you were invited here."
Tobho stilled immediately.
Tyrion let out a short breath through his nose, annoyance sharpening now into something more open.
"My apologies,Your Grace" he said, the words dipped in just enough sarcasm to carry. "I've only received news that concerns the stability of not just this city but of your entire kingdom. Forgive me for not pausing at the door."
Joffrey regarded him for a moment, then, slowly, he set the quill aside.
"Very well," he said. "You have my attention."
He leaned back slightly, one arm resting against the chair, posture relaxed in a way that somehow made the room feel tighter.
"What news do you bring, dear uncle?"
Tyrion held his gaze for a moment, then spoke.
"Our spies report that Renly Baratheon is dead." The words landed heavy. "And his bannermen have begun flocking to Stannis."
Silence followed.
Joffrey did not move, his expression remained exactly the same. But something shifted behind his eyes.
A faint glint, gone as quickly as it came. While inside of him something clicked into place.
"At last the final domino falls." He thought
Joffrey leaned forward slightly, fingers brushing once against the carved wolf at his chest before resting back against the arm of his chair.
"Then the board has changed once again," he said flatly.
His gaze drifted briefly toward the map of Westeros spread across the table, lingering over the lines, the territories, the shifting balance of power that now tilted—just slightly— back in his favor.
Then he looked back at Tyrion.
"Tell me everything, Uncle."
If you like the story and want to read ahead Chapters 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33 and 34 are already available for Patrons.
Just go to google and search RoguePrince69 and click the first link then enjoy.
Author Announcement: I will be releasing a new story this week. Another Game of Thrones Fanfiction with all new characters and adventures. It's title is A Dragon's Crown so if you like The Young Lion, make sure you head over and give it a read.