~~~298 AC , Four months before Jon Arryn death ~~~
~~~ Riverlands ~~~
Joffrey POV
"Uncle, I trust the preparations for the tourney in my honor have been made?" I asked proudly as we crossed the bridge leading into Harrenhal.
At last, all the lords of the Seven Kingdoms would gather beneath one roof. They would cheer my name, drink to my health, bow before me, and swear their loyalty to their future king.
As they should.
"Don't worry, dear nephew," Uncle Tyrion replied with that irritating little smile of his. "Everything is ready."
I glanced down at the dwarf riding beside me. It still disgusted me that I had to call him uncle. Somehow the malformed little creature managed to stay atop a horse despite those tiny legs of his.
Grandfather should have had him drowned the day he was born.
It would have been even better if he'd been handed to Ser Gregor. I'd heard what the Mountain had done to Rhaegar's little dragonspawn during the Sack of King's Landing.
Smash his head against a wall and the problem disappears forever.
That would've been a fitting end for Uncle Tyrion too.
Still... he was Mother's problem, not mine. Whatever shame House Lannister carried was theirs alone.
As long as they remained loyal and supported me when I became king, I shouldn't care much about what became of the rest of men.
I am not a lion.
I am a stag. Not just any stag, like my uncles—a royal stag.
The future king of the Seven Kingdoms.
"What about the Hand's son?" I asked, urging my horse a little farther ahead so Tyrion would have to hurry his stubby legs to catch up. "Has he arrived yet?"
"Missing your favorite childhood companion already?" Tyrion asked, grinning up at me like he'd said something clever.
I shot him a cold glare.
Everyone knew I despised that arrogant little bastard from the Vale. Father always laughed whenever the boy managed to knock me into the dirt during training.
Instead of punishing him, Father would clap him on the shoulder and tell me to stop whining.
I am a prince, not some common hedge knight.
A prince doesn't need to fight; he needs to command, and the others shall follow—if they don't, then I will have the Kingsguard and other men in my service make them. Otherwise, why else do we have them?
"Just answer the fucking question," I snapped.
Tyrion chuckled, entirely too pleased with himself. "Still sensitive, I see."
One day...
I'd have his tongue cut out for speaking to me like that.
Just wait until I become king. I would humiliate him.
"The Hand has sent word to Essos," Tyrion continued, as though I hadn't just threatened him with my eyes. "The boy should already be on his way."
He shrugged casually. "Whether he reaches Harrenhal before the tourney ends is another matter. Even fast ships cannot command the wind."
"He should already be here," I said with a scowl. "Every lord and every heir is supposed to kneel before me and swear their loyalty."
"The Hand's son was last seen in Slaver's Bay," Tyrion replied patiently, in the tone he always used when he thought he was teaching me something.
"That's well over two thousand miles from King's Landing. Even with his ships, which are the fastest in the world, it will still take him a month to reach us. On top of that, he was fighting a war—even if he left as soon as possible, it would take weeks after the war to deal with everything, and then hop on his ships. It takes time; we expect he will arrive in a few days."
"Why can't he just drop everything and do as he's told? Then he'd already be here," I asked, confused at his behavior.
He is trying to insult me by arriving late, and the crown along with it.
He glanced at me from the corner of his eye before smiling again. "Forget him for now. You should focus on how you'll behave once you meet your grandfather. I've been entrusted to train you to be presentable in front of him, dear nephew."
"You wouldn't want to disappoint your grandfather, would you, after he spent a fortune for your tourney?"
I almost laughed.
As if I needed to impress the old lion.
I was the Crown Prince. He was my grandfather by blood, but a vassal of the crown nonetheless.
One day every castle, every city, every lord in Westeros would belong to me. Why should I care what anyone thought? They would obey regardless.
"I've learned plenty," I replied dismissively.
It was easier to lie than waste my breath arguing with this fool.
Because of him, I had to spend so much time with that old fool the maester, and then with this one, and then training with swords.
Training was painfully dull. Hour after hour of swinging swords while Uncle Jaime shouted the same orders over and over again. Why should I become a great warrior?
It is not the duty of a king to fight; it is to order.
Ser Jaime, the Hound, Ser Boros, Ser Meryn—the list of servants is long. They are supposed to fight for me.
"Ouch!"
Something smacked the back of my head.
I spun around to find Uncle Tyrion withdrawing his hand, looking far too pleased with himself.
"No daydreaming," he said with a grin. "We've arrived."
I followed his gaze, already deciding he'd pay for that later.
The black towers of Harrenhal rose before us, immense even in ruin. Burned towers clawed toward the sky while hundreds upon hundreds of tents surrounded the ancient fortress, stretching across the fields like a small city.
Servants hurried between them carrying barrels, crates, and bundles of cloth while knights in dozens of different colors rode through the camps.
I frowned, unimpressed. "So this is where my tourney is being held? I expected... more."
Tyrion looked up toward the blackened towers, almost fondly, the way old men looked at ruins they found romantic instead of pathetic. "They say Balerion's flames melted Harren's stone like candle wax."
"You said Grandfather spent a fortune preparing everything," I said, "and all I see is a ruin."
"I did," Tyrion agreed. He laughed softly before sweeping an arm toward the enormous encampment surrounding the castle. "I see several thousand tents, feast after feast all over the place, rebuilt kitchens, repaired halls, fresh stables, and more knights than you've ever seen gathered in one place."
Then he looked back at me. "What exactly were you expecting?"
"I don't know..." I said, still staring at the massive fortress looming over us.
"I thought Grandfather would've rebuilt it."
Tyrion actually blinked, as though I'd said something genuinely stupid rather than something obvious. "The whole castle? Are you shitting me?"
"Why not?" I said. "Hold the tourney after it's finished."
For several moments he simply stared at me before shaking his head in disbelief.
"Dear nephew, rebuilding Harrenhal would cost enough gold to empty the coffers of half the great houses in Westeros." He pointed toward one of the shattered towers.
"Do you know how much stone that is? How many masons? Carpenters? Blacksmiths? It would take years, perhaps decades. The Crown couldn't possibly afford it. Not even House Lannister could."
"Why not?" I asked, more irritated than curious.
"The Iron Throne is drowning in debt," Tyrion said simply.
"How much?" I asked, more curious than concerned. Numbers were the small council's problem, not mine.
This time Tyrion looked genuinely surprised. "You don't know?"
"If I knew, why would I ask you?" I said, rolling my eyes at him.
He sighed before answering. "Roughly seven million gold dragons."
That sounded like a lot.
Then again... Father never seemed worried about money. So it shouldn't be a big problem.
"So?" I said.
Tyrion frowned. "So?"
"Father is king," I said, shrugging as though the answer were obvious. "Raise taxes."
For a long moment Tyrion simply stared at me before letting out another tired sigh.
"An elegant solution," he said, the sarcasm impossible to miss.
"We raise taxes. The lords raise them on the smallfolk. The smallfolk starve, then riot. The lords blame the Crown for it. And somehow, dear nephew, you've managed to make every man, woman, and child in the Seven Kingdoms hate you before you've even sat the throne."
I frowned. "They should obey."
"They usually do," Tyrion said, nodding slowly. "Until they don't."
I thought about that for a moment before another idea came to me. "What about House Arryn? Or House Tyrell? They're rich. They can pay for it."
That finally made Tyrion laugh. "And why exactly would they do that?"
I looked at him as though he were the fool. "Because their king commands it."
He rubbed his forehead like a man fighting off a headache. "Gods save us."
"You've been listening to very bad advice," he added.
I folded my arms. "A king can do whatever he pleases."
"Can he?" Tyrion asked quietly. "The last king who believed that was Aerys Targaryen, the Mad King."
His smile had vanished. "He believed the realm existed to obey him. Every lord, every man—ants to him."
He looked back toward the towering ruins of Harrenhal before speaking again. "I don't think I need to remind you how that story ended."
I snorted.
Father wasn't Aerys.
And one day, when I am king, I won't be like Aerys...
He was a weak, frail, old man—a stupid mad man. I am none of those.
I would be far greater.
POV ends