Chapter 1760 - grh

Some of those teeth will have to go, Your Grace," the old man said sadly.

"As I feared," his mother replied. "Robert backhanded poor Joff with all his strength! We are fortunate that my son only lost a few teeth!"

"Baby teeth at that, Your Grace." Pycelle turned to the boy, Joff, and spoke in a kindly manner. "Worry not, my prince. Your teeth will grow back soon enough, but I fear you'll be supping on nought but soup and softened bread for some time."

"Joffrey is a lion!" his mother declared. "Lions eat meat, Pycelle!"

Joffrey, then. Joffrey was his name. It sounded right.

"Cooked slow, meat should be fine," Pycelle acceded to her demands instantly. "For the nonce, Prince Joffrey must keep to tender food. I'll inform the cooks."

"See that you do," his mother said shortly. Her tone meant dismissal, even Joffrey could tell. Pycelle took the implied command with good grace and left them alone without another word.

Joffrey considered bringing up his lost memory, but thought better of it. He was a child. Watching and learning would be more effective.

These "Seven Kingdoms" were an absolute mystery to him, but if he wanted to stay alive, Joffrey would have to learn quickly.Last edited: Sunday at 3:09 AM Like ReplyReport Reactions:néocorvinus, ComfyChrom, Dsin and 449 othersMchkngMay 30, 2026Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Tyrion I View contentMchkngI trust you know where the happy button is?May 30, 2026Add bookmark#11The Red Keep had been quiet of late, Tyrion Lannister observed. Quieter than usual, one might even say suspiciously quiet.

King Robert and his royal sister were fighting, that was plain. Unpleasant? Yes, but normal enough. They had had rows before, great roiling, screaming matches loud enough to wake the closer neighborhoods in King's Landing. The present quiet was much different.

My young nephew is at the heart of it, no doubt.

All the servants gossiped about it when they thought he was out of earshot. The boy, cruel and callow as only a spoiled prince could be, cut up a pregnant cat to see the kittens in her belly. When he proudly presented his discovery to Robert, the king gave him a good clout on the ear, more than good. His Grace, though fat and getting fatter, was still a man of surpassing strength. He'd knocked several of the boy's teeth out with one backhand blow, sending the young lad sprawling on the rushes. He might've done more, but Tyrion's sister took young Joffrey in hand and fled from the Royal Presence. They'd hardly spoken since.

Cersei, a vile shrew at the best of times, was still a mother who loved her children. Tyrion could discourse on her many flaws from morning till evenfall, but this much credit he could give her. She had a right to be angry, even if the prince deserved it.

Ah, the boy.

Joffrey was the other half of this bizarre situation. It seemed absurd, but Robert might've actually managed to knock some sense into his son. Every report grew more ridiculous than the last. Joff trained in the yard with a new determination, listening intently to Ser Aron Santagar, the master-at-arms. He'd lost the foppish arrogance instilled in him by Cersei and trained alongside boys of much lower birth with nary a complaint. Sweet sister hated it, of course, but the boy never had much trouble getting his way when his mother was concerned.

Word from Maester Pycelle was even more shocking. Joff had mastered his letters well enough to read histories of the simpler sort, and could do sums faster and more accurately than some highborn lads twice his age. Wherever did he find the brains? Not from Cersei, surely, and definitely not from Robert.

Curioser and curioser.

"Mother, really, I'm fine. Maester Pycelle says I'm on the mend, and new teeth will come in soon enough," piped a high, reedy voice. Prince Joffrey recoiled from his mother's overzealous care as he attempted to keep her from cutting up his food for him.

Would you believe the lad was six? Curious indeed. The boy didn't know what he had. Imagine, Cersei Lannister behaving like a servant! Anything for her darling boy, of course.

"Oh, good morning, Uncle," Joffrey greeted him politely. Their eyes met, and Tyrion could not detect a single mote of disdain. Seven be praised, it was a miracle.

"Good morning, my prince," Tyrion answered courtesy with courtesy, and sat down to break his fast, giving his sister a wide berth. Little Myrcella and Tommen the babe remained in the nursery, leaving the Lannister siblings to dine with the prince. "What's this I hear about you reading?"

"I'm learning about Aegon's conquest right now!" the lad answered brightly. "Would you like to talk about it? Personally, I think the loss of the dragons is a great tragedy. I would've loved to see one."

"It would be the last thing you ever see," Jaime teased. "They could swallow an aurochs, those dragons, to say nothing of the fire."

"Don't scare him!" Cersei berated her twin.

"I'm not scared," Joff said, but not boastfully, with hardly a trace of childish petulance. "The dragons are dead. The dead can't hurt you."

"Wisely spoken, nephew," Tyrion complimented, a rueful smile twisting on his lips. Would that it were so. The dead might hurt us most of all.

"Where's father?" the prince asked suddenly, making the gentle smile on Cersei's face curdle instantly.

"Still abed, little lion," she answered diplomatically. A whore's bed, went unsaid.

"Is he still angry with me? I thought I was being good!"

The truth of it silenced all the table. Joffrey on his best behavior was a wonder.

"You are good, Joff," Cersei told the boy, and, shockingly, Tyrion found he agreed.

"Well, I'll just have to keep at it then," Joffrey said reasonably. He ate the last of his soft eggs and drained his cup of milk. "I'm off to the yard, then. Farewell, Mother, Uncles." With a quick bow of his head, the prince rose from the table.

"Do be careful!" Cersei called after him.

"I shall yield to Ser Aron's wisdom, Mother. No more lost teeth, I promise." With one last casual wave, the little blond boy was on his way.

"He reminds me of you, Jaime," Cersei said once the prince left them. There was a certain resemblance, Tyrion had to admit. Same long limbs, same golden curls. Those plump, pouty lips, though, that was also Cersei.

"Me?" Jaime raised an eyebrow. "The boy takes after Tyrion, if anything. Reading histories at six! I couldn't read at all at that age."

"Because you had swords on the brain, of course," Tyrion joked.

"So does this one," Jaime replied with a queer look in his eye. "I've watched him once or twice. He does all manner of odd things in the yard, but I can tell he's fast and has good balance. With steady training, they'll make a proper terror of that son of yours, Cersei."

"I don't like it," his sister complained bitterly. She'd hardly touched her food, Tyrion noticed. "Joff is less biddable than he used to be, always off to this lesson or that, with hardly any time for me. A part of him died when Robert struck him. A mother can tell."

Right, the bad part, Tyrion said to himself. A servant brought Tyrion eggs and bacon of his own, burned just as he liked it. Somehow, his sister's sour mood made the meal taste all the sweeter. Even the headache from last night's wine seemed to fade away like a dream on the wind.

"He is the heir," Jaime broke the uncomfortable silence. "Heirs have to be serious. Mayhaps Joff...realized his responsibilities. Personally, give me a sword and a strong foe, and let the realm rot. Leave ruling to serious men."

"You could rule, if you were more serious, brother. You should be hand, not stodgy old Jon Arryn."

Jaime and Tyrion sighed as one. If anyone was unfit for the position of Hand of the King, it was Jaime.

"I like where I am," Jaime said, and the twins shared a secret look that Tyrion couldn't quite parse. Was it true what they said about twins having a secret language? Whatever the case may be, his brother stood up next. "I must arm myself. The watch rotation for the king starts in an hour."

Cersei reached for him, but Jaime pulled away.

"Apologies, sweet sister, but duty calls."

Well, Tyrion wasn't about to subject himself to Cersei alone, so he made his own excuses. Mayhaps a trip to the yard might be in order? Prince Joffrey might be the most exciting thing in the castle just now. It would be a shame not to take a look. Like ReplyReport Reactions:néocorvinus, RedRumConnoisseur, ComfyChrom and 516 othersMchkngMay 30, 2026Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Jaime I View contentMchkngI trust you know where the happy button is?May 31, 2026Add bookmark#26"Kingslayer!" bellowed Robert jovially at the changing of the guard. Ser Jaime longed for a helmet to mask the rolling of his eyes, though none was at hand. They usually didn't wear them in the castle itself.

His grace had just risen, though it was the hour of the horse, and most had already broken their fast. Outside the chamber window, he could observe the sun climbing high. It would be noon in a few hours. Ser Boros brushed past him with a curt greeting and a whore with a Dornish look trailing behind. Her dark eyes showed not a lick of shame as she admired him in passing, as well she might. After a night spent under that ox, Jaime thought just about any man would compare favorably. Then again, mayhaps the whore didn't care, so long as she was paid. What is cock compared to gold, however comely the owner?

Jaime supposed he ought to be glad the king was wasting his seed in whores, yet another part of him couldn't help feeling vexed at Cersei being dishonored so. Is my sister not good enough for you, Baratheon?

"Your Grace," he inclined his head with polite deference and placed one hand upon the hilt of his sword, ready to guard this man against any attacker. He had considerable experience guarding men he despised. Robert, of course, took no notice, oblivious cuckold that he was.

The man was still half drunk, groping ineffectually for a winesoaked doublet cast aside in the night. Those were powerful arms still, Jaime had to admit. Though our Robert had grown a belly that jutted out over his belt like a feastday ham, his shoulders and chest were still corded with muscle enough to see to old Balon Greyjoys pretensions at independence.

What a jolly little war that was, he thought. Father was still cross about his fleet being burned at anchor, but losses are inevitable in battle. As a nice bonus, he'd had Cersei all to himself for far longer than usual. They lived almost as true husband and wife, the dream of his boyhood.

At a signal from the king, the doorward entered to help him dress, and another servant was sent off to bring food. Jaime watched to make sure nothing untoward happened, not that it ever did. The people, such as they are, loved their warrior king. They took the long summer that set in after his ascension for a sign from the gods, and they'd had years of peace and plenty, saving that short diversion to the Iron Islands, whose ripples never reached this side of Westeros in any case.

Watching Robert eat proved a trial, yet Jaime persisted manfully. The light meal he'd had with Cersei, Tyrion, and young Joff rumbled unpleasantly as the king did his best impression of a pig in a trough, but Ser Jaime Lannister managed to keep it down. He was a knight, after all.

"Right, Kingslayer, with me," Robert ordered after rising from his bed. He'd left quite a few crumbs of bread and cheese and bacon upon the coverlet, and upon his Royal Person, yet Jaime knew better than to say ought over it. Rather, he fell behind wordlessly as the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms quit his chambers after some business or other. A herald from Jon Arryn, the Hand, tried to catch his attention, but Robert brushed the lad off with a curse.

They continued down spiral staircases and past the dry moat of Maegor's Holdfast, and Jaime couldn't resist looking down at the spikes below.

An unpleasant end for any fellow who loses his wits on this drawbridge, he thought, envisioning Robert spitted upon one of them like those boars he was so fond of hunting. No, mustn't imagine the death of the king, he castigated himself. He was a knight of the Kingsguard and must be about his duties.

Servants and court functionaries of every description threw themselves out of the way as the king walked with long-strided purpose. He was, after all, six and a half feet tall. Matching those longshanks would be impossible for any save for perhaps a Clegane. Men bowed, ladies curtsied, yet Robert took no notice. They passed from one tower, walking along the curtain wall into another, and started descending.

The small hall is in the other direction, Jaime thought in confusion. Wherever could they be going? King Robert oft shirked his duties, but this was passing strange. Anything he might wish, whether whores, food, or drink, could be brought to him, for he was the king. What brought him hence? The blond knight puzzled over these questions as they descended one of the lesser towers. Even with the high walls round them, the stench of Fleabottom could be smelled upon a breeze out of Blackwater Bay. Surely, this was no place for a king.

"Brother! Fancy seeing you here!" young Tyrion greeted him in passing, before bowing to the king. "Your Grace, it is an honor. Here to see the boy?" Mismatched eyes danced in merriment when the king grunted in affirmation.

"The boy?" Jaime asked, forgetting himself. Typically, it was not the province of the Kingsguard to speak unless directly questioned. His duty lay with shadowing the king, always ready to draw a blade in his defense, nothing more.

The three of them continued down to the base of the tower, exiting into an elevated walkway above the Red Keep's training yard, a familiar enough sight, yet altogether puzzling. Did Robert want to fight today? He hadn't trained in quite a while.

"Prince Joffrey's attendance upon his swordship has been exemplary of late," Tyrion explained.

Now that Tyrion mentioned it, Jaime seemed to remember remarking upon the same. Every morning after breaking his fast, Joff would be off like a quarrel from a crossbow, with no signs of slowing. He knew because Cersei complained of it for months on end. Women, he laughed internally. Is she surprised her son takes to swords? What boy wouldn't?

"What in Seven Hells is the boy doing?" Robert demanded gruffly.

With a keen eye, Jaime speedily scanned the field, spotting the lad at once. Joff, clad in a plain padded gambeson, was stepping in a queer way, lowering his knee to the ground with every stride.

"Walking lunges, he calls them," Tyrion offered helpfully. "Our Prince told me it helps to warm him up before training begins."

"Eh, there's no harm in it, I suppose. Ser Aron Santagar told me the boy showed promise, at last. Mayhaps it's too much to hope that one clout on the ear set him straight, but a father hopes all the same."

"Ser Aron said that himself?" Jaime asked in interest. Even though he was bigger and faster, Ser Aron could still score hits on him from time to time. Why make him the master-at-arms elsewise?

"Yes, that tricksy old Dornishman wouldn't bullshit me," Robert replied, his eyes fixed on the lad.

"Oh, yes," Tyrion added. He'd climbed upon the short wall to get a better look. "Ser Aron said much the same to me. Young Joffrey can even best lads a year or two older, already."

"Is that so?" Something approaching pride crept into the king's voice.

"Just so. See there? He circles his arms like that to 'warm up' as well. Our prince is ever so particular about 'warming up'."

"Mmm," Robert grunted. "Knights do any number of queer things before battles, so I'll say nought against it." Then he ducked down suddenly; the king's prodigious height made the act as comical as a dancing bear. "Stay low, you two. I want to see how he fights when he doesn't know he's being watched."

Tyrion grinned at Robert's bent form. "I believe your grace is in for a real treat. There is a nice concealed alcove to watch from, just follow me." Like ReplyReport Reactions:néocorvinus, RedRumConnoisseur, ComfyChrom and 497 othersMchkngMay 31, 2026Add bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Joffrey II View contentMchkngI trust you know where the happy button is?Jun 7, 2026Add bookmark#45After the third day of going to sleep and waking up in the same bed, the boy, Joffrey, accepted that he was well and truly stuck here. There was lingering pain in

his mouth, and he could feel a few empty places with his tongue where teeth used to be. Still, nobody would tell him just why the king smacked him. Joff resolved to be on his best behavior to avoid a repeat performance. He even maintained the presence of mind to refuse "milk of the poppy," some manner of primative painkiller. The word "poppy" struck warning bells in his addled brain, calling to memory the dreaded opioids which so troubled people back on Earth.

His mother tried to insist, but after two forceful refusals, she relented.

"My little lion is so brave!" she praised.

It was a gamble, a definite gamble, but it seemed his mother was inclined to give him his own way in most things, as long as he kept it reasonable. Joffrey didn't mind the pain. It was a constant reminder that what he was experiencing was real.

Sometimes, it didn't feel real, but the constant bombardment of his senses, the sights and smells, couldn't be denied. This was a real, grounded place, another world, and, most dangerously, a world he didn't understand at all. Thankfully, they were good enough to arrange lessons.

Maesters, that order of scholar monks, were responsible for the academic education of noble children. By some absurd coincidence, he was happy to discover the people of Westeros used the same letters and numbers he was familiar with. From there, lessons were a breeze. Joff was so excited he didn't bother concealing his ability, eagerly devouring everything the maester put before him.

All these unfamiliar terms: Seven Kingdoms, Iron Throne, and more, gradually unraveled as he started to develop a sense of his place in this world.

Dragons existed once, it seemed, and there were rumors of skulls in some cellar deeper in the keep, but he dared not ask to see them, not yet. Sadly, the majestic beasts had gone extinct, and the Targaryen dynasty, previous rulers of the continent, lost their grip on power in a few short generations. His father, King Robert, had been the one to overthrow them once and for all, seizing the realm for himself.

New dynasty, he thought warily. There had already been a rebellion, some minor lord trying to break away. The whole affair was crushed swiftly, but who knows if someone else might try their luck?

The part of him that remembered being an adult tried to think critically of the situation. Of course, he was receiving nothing but propaganda. Everyone made the Targaryens ought to be monsters, dragons in human form, and his father, the noble knight, to slay them at last. It made for a nice, clean, fairy tale, appropriate for a child like him. But was it the truth?

I have no way of knowing, so I might as well focus on something else.

As a general rule, people avoided gossiping about the prince in his hearing, but Joff still heard things from time to time, small snippets. Apparently, he was a real terror before, a spoiled kid who threw tantrums and delighted in humiliating the servants. That couldn't go on. These people brought him his food! One of the first things Joffrey set out to do was repair his reputation, offering a small "thank you" here and there. It wasn't much, but he thought it was already starting to pay off. Courtesy is free, after all. The people around didn't seem nearly so wary of him as when he first became aware of himself.

Mother didn't much care for this, but after another display of willfulness, she wilted, giving him his way again. Small wonder the boy had been so spoiled before the man woke up in his body. This enabling queen would give him pretty much whatever he wanted.

She was absurdly beautiful by the way, his mother. Cersei Baratheon was a tall, leggy blonde with a face that was almost modern. He wouldn't go so far as to call it an iPhone face, but had things been different, his mom might've been big on Instagram. Poor mother was clearly miserable, trapped in a loveless relationship with his dad, the king. It was a political arrangement, as most marriages among the highborn were. Someday he'd have to marry a girl, maybe one he'd never met, and who knows how they'd get along?

King Robert was physically impressive for sure, tall as hell, with broad shoulders and muscles that were visible even underneath his silk tunic. That beer belly, though. He ate and drank way too much, and was loud and uncouth at feasts. People seemed to like it, though. A king who didn't take himself too seriously could be good, but he embarrassed Mom without a care for her feelings, smacking the ass of serving girls and worse.

It explained a lot, really. Cersei, deprived of love in her relationship, focused all her energy on her kids. A lot of women in this world were probably the same. It was sad, but ultimately predictable. Thank goodness this wasn't one of those worlds where the king had multiple wives, and he had to worry about getting poisoned by his half-siblings. That would suck.

Once the pain in his jaw was really gone, and Joffrey started to run out of basic things to study with the maester, they moved on to memorizing houses and banners. That would be important, very important. In medieval warfare, this was how you knew friend from foe. Learning the family names and the little badges they would wear put a lot in context. Soon, he was spotting them everywhere. Lannister lions and Baratheon stags filled the castle, as you might expect. Not everyone was a blood relative; soldiers who served the families were more common.

Generally speaking, most of the ordinary inhabitants of the castle hailed from the Stormlands, Westerlands, and Crownlands. Estermonts and Bucklers, Crakehalls and Leffords, Rosbys and Rykkers, and so forth could all be spotted daily. People came to court seeking offices, to curry favor, or just to eat on King Robert's dime. His friends in the yard all had names, too. It was helpful to remember who not to piss off.

Swordplay! Now that was fun! Returning to the training yard was easy enough, just a quick conversation with his mother, and suddenly his mornings were packed with activity. That first practice was a bit awkward, but enlightening all the same.

"Ser Aron," he addressed the master-at-arms respectfully. "I, er, that is to say, have forgotten everything. Could we start over from the very beginning? The absolute basics?"

The look Ser Aron Santagar gave him seemed to say he'd never gone beyond the basics anyhow, but Joff was the prince, and he couldn't very well say that out loud.

Other boys might've gotten bored and fidgeted, but not Joffrey. No, he loved learning how to hold his sword, how to take a balanced stance, and how to step. Ser Aron emphasized footwork above all. He proved a quick study, rapidly catching up to and beyond the level of the boy from before.

The more histories he read, the more Joff realized this was a world where political power came from a strong sword arm. Pikes and longbows existed, but no gunpowder. Try as he might, the young prince couldn't seem to remember the formula, either. Maybe whatever power placed his consciousness here plucked the knowledge from his mind. In any case, the heavy knight, armored horsemen who charged with couched lances, remained the dominant battlefield force. There'd been no Agincourt or Crecy here. Aristocrats owned warfare, and the political system reflected that.

I must be a knight as well, he vowed.

Every night he trained in his room: pushups, bodysquats, ab circuits, every workout routine he could remember. According to others, Joff was tall and quick for his age, but not particularly strong. He'd have to remedy that. After an awkward conversation in which he explained to his Uncle Tyrion what pull-up and dip bars were, complete with rough drawings on parchment, the man arranged for a smith to construct the apparatus and install it in his room. Mother complained bitterly about his spending time with Tyrion, who had a reputation for immorality, yet again, she let Joffrey win. Cersei's indulgence was his true superpower.

Months passed. He trained in the yard and in his room. He sparred with other boys, bigger boys, older boys, and started developing something of a reputation. Ah, and Joffrey stuffed his face every day, not just with meat and milk and eggs, but vegetables too. Turnips and cabbages were easy enough to find, but some he remembered from Earth didn't exist at all, or at least not natively to the continent of Westeros.

Truly filling out would have to wait for puberty, but the boy was lean and strong now, not scrawny at all. He listened to Ser Aron's corrections with the patience of an adult, taking them to heart as he studied the blade. They also let him ride a pony and try to slip his play lance through rings hanging from a wooden arm. His first taste of the joust! There would be a tournament in a month or two, everyone said, and Joff could hardly wait. Entertainment was pretty rare here. He had books, and sometimes singers or jugglers at dinner, but that was about it.

Which was why he was determined to have as much fun as possible today. Ser Aron said he was ready to push himself, making Joffrey stand tall with pride.

"Right, my Prince, I want you to fight hard today. Remember what I told you about your tendency to lose your balance on the backswing. You overcommit, and it's become a habit."

He knew it. Joffrey sometimes tried to make up for his shortcomings with pure aggression, but he would often leave himself open. Today, he would be better. A servant worried over him, making sure all the padding was secure, a layer of cloth and leather to keep him safe.

His cousin Lancel, older by two years, stood on the opposite side of the yard. The other boys, and even the knights, had gathered around to see the show, making the Red Keep's training ground grow quiet.

"Remember, Lancel, you really need to push me. I won't get better if you don't," he said, trying to sound cheerful. Joff knew Lancel was uneasy about fighting the prince seriously. They were nearly the same height, but his cousin definitely had the weight advantage and years of experience.

Lancel raised his wooden sword in salute. "As my prince commands," he replied deferentially.

Joff had tried to be friendly, but being royalty and the maturity difference really didn't help matters. He returned the salute and raised his weapon when Ser Aron Santagar cried, "Begin!"

Ser Aron was a Dornishman, Joff remembered, and quite a bit darker than the rest. Didn't the Prince of Dorne have a daughter? Maybe Joff would end up marrying her. He shook his head, no time for thoughts like that!

Joffrey and Lancel circled one another, each clutching a wooden sword with their right hands, with a small shield strapped to their left. The game of inches began as they played at range. Joff circled away from Lancel's sword arm, trying to get a favorable angle of attack. Going at your opponent in a straight line was a great way to get swatted. After a few months of jumping rope, he stepped lightly, dancing around Lancel just out of range, trying to bait an attack he could punish.

Smack! Lancel lashed out, thinking Joff cornered when he backed up to the castle wall. Little did he know, Joffrey had planned this. The prince caught the blow on his shield and stepped inside Lancel's guard, returning a nice slash of his own. While Lancel worried about that, Joff stepped again and spun them around. Now, Lancel was the one with his back to the wall!

They exchanged a few blows, but neither managed to land cleanly on the other. The main difference was that Joff had more room to maneuver. He stepped in and out, teasing and baiting Lancel, who seemed truly discomfitted from the tactic. Eventually, frustration got the better of the boy, and Lancel bumrushed him in a straight line.

At first, he was driving Joffrey back, but the prince had his opening at last, giving Lancel a few stings on his extended arm and shoulder. Once, when Joff baited him into raising his shield too high, he gave his cousin a really nasty smack on the thigh. Not being an asshole, Joffrey avoided the knee itself, but Lancel was still walking funny. In fact, he couldn't pursue at all, and soon Joffrey was hitting him at will.

"Enough!" Ser commanded. "Good fight, both of you. Lancel, you must control your frustration. The prince set trap after trap, and you continually fell into them."

"Yes, Ser," Lancel agreed meekly. Joff hoped he hadn't embarrassed the boy too badly. There were a few jeers and quiet jokes, but nothing he could really hear.

"Prince Joffrey," the master-at-arms addressed him next, leaning down to meet him eye to eye. "That was fine work, but tricks are not enough. I want to see you fight Garth. No more dancing. Plant your feet and go blow for blow."

"Yes, Ser," Joff agreed as well. Garth Estermont was a squire already and nearly twice his age. He was about to get his ass beat, so he didn't get a big head for styling on Lancel. Ser Aron always did this. Garth was another cousin of his, the prince supposed, but that didn't mean he'd go easy. No, just the opposite.

Man, I'm going to be so sore tonight. Like ReplyReport Reactions:Archonstine, ComfyChrom, Jjjj and 503 others

They all watched as Joffrey got knocked on his ass over and over by the older, bigger boy. There was no heraldry to speak of, so Tyrion couldn't tell precisely who was administering the beating.

"All right, I've seen enough," the king decided, leading them away from their concealed vantage point. "They'll be at this for a while. Ser Aron knows his business, can't have the boy thinking he has nothing left to learn."

"His fights back still, Your Grace," Tyrion pointed out. "Quite game, that son of yours."

Robert's lips twisted under those heavy black bristles the gods named a beard. "Aye, that's so. We'll leave my son to it. No point in embarrassing the lad by letting him know his father saw him lose." He turned his head and spoke over his shoulder. "Kingslayer! What do you make of our Joffrey?"

Jaime froze, and for a moment looked genuinely taken aback. "He's good, Your Grace, very good, considering his age. The prince didn't just outfight Lancel; he outthought him. Anyone can swing a sword, but keeping your wits at the same time takes rare talent. Even I relied on strength and speed over skill in my boyhood. 'Twas years before I knew any real tricks."

"Tricks," Robert grunted. "Lancel, you said. That's one of your Lannister cousins, right? A few years older than Joffrey?"

His brother kept his silence, so Tyrion answered for him. "Our Uncle Kevan's son, Your Grace. If I recall correctly, the boy is eight, almost nine." Really, Jaime? Forgetting close kin is unbecoming for a Lannister!

"Eight! Two years older and barely touched my boy!" Robert rumbled with pride. "Every year counts for more at that age, you know. If Joffrey keeps this up, I might actually have a son worth a damn after all. Gods know I did nothing to deserve it. He's clever, too, Pycelle says. Who knew one good clout on the ear would set him straight?"

'Twas more than a clout, Tyrion thought in amusement. Robert had knocked the boy senseless, or so Cersei said. Would that every wayward lad could be corrected thus. Whatever the case may be, the boy was queer. When Joffrey asked him for a smith to fasten an iron bar to the wall of his bedchamber, Tyrion thought him quite mad. His young nephew even devised a game in which he had to pay a "pull-up tax" any time he wished to eat something or even to relieve himself in a chamberpot. Couldn't argue with results, he supposed.

"Yes," the king spoke softly, more to himself than to the brothers Lannister. "I should spend more time with him. Joffrey won't be a boy forever. Mayhaps I'll visit the yard more often, let him see me swing my hammer. There'll be a melee at the tourney in a few weeks. Aye, I could use some sharpening up..."

Oh, Cersei will hate to hear that! Robert liked to fight, and what was worse, he usually won when he actually put in effort. No doubt more than a few of their men risking the melee would return with broken bones. The king was no true threat in the lists, and thus, Jaime, but anything could happen in a melee. Tyrion decided to warn their people to stay well away. A meeting with Robert's hammer could be hazardous to one's health!

They climbed the tower together, Jaime and Tyrion in the king's shadow, who cursed himself for being out of breath at the top of the spiral staircase.

Breathless, too, was a young page wearing a badge of House Arryn. The lad came at them at a full run as soon as they turned the corner. "Your Grace! The Lord Hand requests your presence at your earliest convenience!"

Robert sighed tiredly. "Very well, back to being king. Let's see what Jon wants, kingslayer."

The king pointedly did not mention him, which Tyrion took for dismissal. He shared one last secret smile with his brother and continued in the other direction. Going up and down that bloody tower had stiffened his short legs. When he knelt to rub his poor thighs, a shadow passed above. Who might this be?

The smell of powder was answer enough. Lord Varys didn't even need to titter mockingly. "A visit to the yard, my lord?" he asked, as if he didn't know. Varys knew everything, or so he feared.

Tyrion looked up, meeting the innocent gaze of King Robert's Master of Whisperers, who had once belonged to the mad king; he must never forget. "Just stretching my legs, as you can see, Varys."

"I see much," the eunuch replied, and implied. "The Crown Prince is a wonder, I'm sure, and catching the eye of the king, even? His Grace must be thrilled at the lad's progress."

"Saw the fight, did you?" In these situations, it was always better to ask than to answer. Tyrion learned that lesson at the foot of the old lion himself.

"This one, and others. Young Joffrey is a born swordsman, they say. One could only expect it, given his lineage."

Tyrion wasn't certain what Varys was implying, so he just smiled placidly. Baring teeth did little to soften the gaze of his ugly face, but one must always do one's best with what the gods give them. "Joff has learned his courtesies, at any rate. Why, the boy hasn't japed about my being a dwarf in months!"

"Yes," Varys agreed, sounding none too pleased. "Completely changed, almost as if he's become a different person entirely."

This time, Tyrion caught on, and the implication made him chuckle. "You can't possibly be suggesting the child is a faceless man!"

Varys covered his face with a handkerchief and hummed neutrally, adjusting his gait to Tyrion's short strides. "No," he answered, sounding oddly sincere. "A faceless man would be a better actor. Rather, I'm saying Prince Joffrey has changed, entirely within himself. He isn't trying to be different. He is different."

"And thank the gods for that!" Tyrion declared. "I know it's your job to be suspicious, spider, but this time, I think investigating too deeply would not profit anyone. Let the realm have its prince and have done with it, I say. Meals with my family have been more agreeable of late, I can tell you that much. No spying required."

"I do not doubt it, my lord. Only..." Varys trailed off, whether this was rhetorical mummery or genuine unease, Tyrion couldn't say. "A changed prince could mean a changed king. Our lot is a comfortable one during good Robert's merry reign. Joffrey has already come to you and asked for things. You know as well as I that the queen would give him the moon if he asked. One wonders what he might ask the king for."

With that, Varys left him, leaving Tyrion to ponder. It was probably nothing. Joffrey was just a boy. What could a boy want? Like ReplyReport Reactions:ComfyChrom, Miami_XM, SiegfriedisPower and 446 othersMchkngJun 7, 2026NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Cersei I New View contentMchkngI trust you know where the happy button is?Jun 8, 2026NewAdd bookmark#76Her son was being taken from her!

Every day, Joffrey and Robert would train together, growing as close as a true father and son. It galled Cersei terribly, even if she took secret pride in the knowledge that her boy wasn't from the king's seed.

"Six weeks!" Joff said excitedly when they took a meal together. "We're counting down the days, Mother. Father is even letting me care for his armor and horse like a real squire! There's so much to learn, but I think I'm doing well. He even let me try to pick up his hammer the other day. I couldn't, of course."

The queen smiled at her son. He was a boy, after all, and tourneys would thrill him. He and Jaime were no different in this. "I'm not surprised," she told him. "You don't suit hammers, Joff. You'll be a swordsman, just like your Uncle Jaime." It took every mote of restraint she had in her being to refer to her twin thus. She couldn't slip, absolutely not. Joffrey was an honest and forthright boy who often said what was on his mind with no guile at all. If he heard the wrong thing, it might prove disastrous.

"Mayhaps," he replied noncommitally, but she could tell her son disagreed.

Cersei's lips flattened into a thin line, and her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Oh?"

"Not for fighting men in armor, Mother," he corrected her patiently, utterly uncaring about the silent pressure she was attempting to send his way. Her fierce boy could not be cowed. It was both a blessing and a curse.

"Then what?" Cersei demanded, her words coming out perhaps a bit shorter and sharper than she intended.

"Eh, I'm not sure. Ser Aron has me training with the lance a bit, riding at rings, tilting at quintains, you know how it is."

She did "know how it is," but most noble ladies certainly did not. "Is being a champion in the lists your ambition? Your Uncle Jaime has won quite a few tourneys, you know."

"But that's not war," Joffrey said confidently. "Training to fight is about winning wars. If I ever have to fight, I'd like something heavier. It seems Father's hammer is too much, but mayhaps a battleaxe might suit, or a mace. I'll do my best to be as skilled with the sword and the lance as I can, but mainly to develop a foundation for something else. Once I'm bigger and stronger, I'll talk to Ser Aron about other arms."

Well, that was years away in any case. The queen didn't particularly like it, but letting her little lion select his own claws was something she could accept, grudingly. Joff was more bookish than Jaime had ever been, almost reminding her of Father. He didn't really have much in the way of friends his own age, but that was to be expected. A prince must stand apart! One day, he would make a fine king, and she would stand beside him proudly.

He pushed away from the table. "Anyway, I'm off again." He took a few final bites of his piece of bread with an egg on it, swallowing the lot, and drained his milk to wash it down. "Tell my uncles I said hello, and give my love to Myrcella and little baby Tommen. Mayhaps I'll visit the nursery after I wash. Farewell, Mother!"

Then he was gone. As she watched him disappear out the door, she realized he was wearing Baratheon colors again. That black doublet looked terribly drab and clashed with his golden hair, but yet again, she was quite powerless to say aught against it.

***

The day of the tourney came at last, and Cersei had hoped to watch with her child by her side. Myrcella was still a bit young to spend all day out of doors, even in their shaded pavilion, and Tommen was just a babe. Court ladies tittered and gossiped all about her, making the queen wish to wretch. How they praised the king and especially her little lion! For once, she was thankful the boy was so young. Fending off these whores would be a terrible trial once he bloomed into manhood, she knew well.

"Sweet sister!" Tyrion greeted her, waddling up the steps to the royal box. His voice alone set her teeth on edge. Cersei took a deep, calming breath. It would not do to make a scene in front of half the court.

"Tyrion," she replied neutrally, her voice only slightly shaded with disdain.

"Joffrey sends his love. The Prince was buckling the king into his armor ere I left. Robert's belly has flattened somewhat, I noticed. I'm sure you'll be pleased."

Not at all! Robert tried to fuck her again last night! His spending time with her son must've given him the impression she might be receptive to his bestial pawing. Worse, he was only a little drunk. Thinking quickly, she offered to take him in her mouth and managed to drink his seed after a bit of effort. Practicing with Jaime saved her yet again.

"Joff is too young to be a squire," she complained.

Tyrion laughed at her lament, as he often did. "Prince Joffrey is a terror in the yard. Ask Jaime sometime. What's more, there's some sense in that golden-shrouded head of his."

The word "shroud" stopped her heart for a moment, but none about her seemed to notice. Surely he didn't know! The imp would not have her boy! He wouldn't! Quick and clever, she held a handkerchief over her face and made to dab the sweat away to conceal whatever visible emotions might've escaped the place where she locked away her innermost fears. High summer was here at last, so none ought to suspect.

The afternoon sun danced in the imp's mismatched eyes. How he loved to see her discomfitted. One day, she'd see him dead, but gods bless her if she had any idea how. As much as she hated him, Jaime, and, to her horror, Joffrey, were bewitched with the little monster's charms.

"Pycelle praises the boy often, I know," she said. An easy comment, and an obvious one. Naturally, her son would be clever.

"He's sharp, Cersei, almost like Father sometimes. There hasn't been a book I've lent him that he didn't understand perfectly. These are no nursemaid's tales of grumpkins and snarks, but histories written by learned maesters and septons. Why, just the other day, he told me why I was a dwarf."

"He told you what?" Cersei couldn't help but raise her voice.

"Yes, it shocked me as well. You see, his theory was that I'm a dwarf because Father and Mother were cousins. He likened it unto Targaryen madness. 'Incest causes problems like that, Uncle. If you doubt me, take up breeding horses or hunting hounds. If the mating pair is too closely related, all manner of problems will start to show up in the line.' Those were his exact words, Cersei. Can you imagine?"

"A boy's fanciful imagination," she dismissed the idea. Tyrion killed Mother, and he was a dwarf because he had an evil nature. That was all the explanation she required. Sometimes clever children settled upon ideas that only made sense to those without experience. In time, her clever son would recognize the imp for the monster he was, she didn't doubt.

"I'm not so sure," Tyrion said quietly.

Everyone around was listening intently, absolutely silent. She cursed herself for allowing Tyrion to drag her down to his level. A sudden, terrifying thought chilled Cersei's blood. If this got back to Father, he would be most wroth...

Thankfully, she didn't have to think too much more on it for trumpets sounded and the herald announced the melee would soon begin.

Robert was obvious enough, even at this distance. He stood high in his stirrups, and that absurd antlered helm broadcast his identity for all to see. This melee would start mounted, and consisted of thirty-odd participants arranged around a muddy field. Once the second trumpet blew, it would be every man for himself.

Hardly any knights of renown or lords from notable houses would take part. These were the dregs, freeriders, hedgeknights, second sons, and, of course, the king. Robert ever so loved debasing himself in such a manner.

"Haroo! Harroo!" went the trumpet. Men and horses galloped into action, hefting steel and churning the ground with iron-shod hooves.

Mud and blood and cries of pain followed. With one fatal swing of that evil lump of iron, Robert dashed some fool knight right out of the saddle not ten seconds after the trumpet blew. At first, men feared to strike him, but fear of the demon eventually won out over fear of the king. Three men surrounded her husband, and for half a moment, she dreamed they might overthrow him, but nay!

Laughing uproariously, Robert smashed one foe after another. None could stand against him. Did Robert murder poor Rhaegar like this?

He was to be my husband!

Robert took him away, just as he was trying to take away Joffrey. She wouldn't allow it! She couldn't!

It was, perhaps, too much to hope for that Robert might take a blow on the back of the head and die like poor Prince Baelor. Instead, he triumphed. The field narrowed quickly, and a knight from Jon Arryn's household yielded rather than face the hammer. He could clearly see what fate awaited him. Half the men Robert struck had yet to rise. Some might never rise. How the smallfolk and all the court cheered when their black-armored king proved to be the last man standing. She hated it.

When Joffrey ran out onto the torn-up tourney ground, and Robert picked him up and carried him on his shoulders, she hated all the more. Everyone cheered and laughed, from the imp to the swineherds, leaving only Cersei to hate.

Let them celebrate this petty triumph. Robert shall not have him, she swore.Last edited: Jun 8, 2026 Like ReplyReport Reactions:ComfyChrom, Miami_XM, SiegfriedisPower and 469 othersMchkngJun 8, 2026NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Tyrion III New View contentMchkngI trust you know where the happy button is?Jun 8, 2026NewAdd bookmark#112Much to his dismay, Cersei's boy grew even taller this year. At his seventh nameday feast, the lad might've passed for ten. If this kept up, he'd be of a height with his royal father when Joffrey was a man grown. Well, Tyrion supposed it was inevitable. Everyone grew taller than him eventually, even little boys.

Just now, he noticed a door left carelessly open as he passed. There were any number of rooms the servants used for storage or some other purpose. To tell it true, there was much about the Red Keep he didn't know, even if it had become his home once his sister wed the king.

Since he had nowhere in particular to be, Tyrion decided to have a look. Ah, and much to his surprise, there was Joffrey, alone and unguarded. There was a large table set out, with blocks and other knick-knacks arranged in orderly stacks.

"Acting your age at last, my prince?" he teased. "I had wondered if you had skipped the phase where one plays with blocks. You know, I probably have some toy soldiers sitting somewhere in my trunk. Shall I fetch them for you?"

Joff didn't look up. "This is play, Uncle, but not the way you think."

Upon closer inspection, Tyrion noticed the ground on the table was uneven, with three elevated zones. Upon the highest was a pile of blocks, red blocks, like the Red Keep!

"Three hills, eh? I suppose that Aegon's high hill there, and one each for Rhaenys and Visenya. You're making King's Landing."

"Good eyes, Uncle." Joffrey handed him a loose scrap of parchment upon which was a rough drawing. When Tyrion examined it, he found the sketch quite good, for a seven-year-old.

"They say King Viserys made a model city like this as a pastime, before the Dance," Tyrion said as he examined the prince's drawing. The principal streets were marked as well as the hills. Much attention was paid to the flow of the river and Blackwater Bay beyond. "However did you manage this?"

Joffrey looked up and met his uneven eyes with discomfitting seriousness. "Walked up the steps of the tallest tower and borrowed a Myrish glass. Wind blows fiercely up there like you can't imagine. I am sorry to say my drawing is not to scale, not yet. This is merely a general idea. Even this model is just a learning experience, I'd say. Once I've made it, I'll tear it down and try again for a proper one."

Proper one? That sounded like young Joffrey had a plan. Varys seemed to fear the day the lad would ask for something. Had that day come at last?

There were other papers on the table, Tyrion noticed, including a rather old-looking one. The parchment was delicate, and his stubby fingers struggled to unroll the thing without damaging it. "This is in High Valyrian!" he said in astonishment.

"Yes," Joffrey confirmed. "You know I've run out of ordinary books to read. I can make some sense of it, but I'm not fluent yet. It seems to me that the real knowledge is there. The Valyrians were more advanced than we are, no? You've heard tales of the Free Cities. The smallest one is better contrived and laid out than even Oldtown, with more people, too. That is the legacy of Valyria, I think, their roads and cities. Dragons are just flashy, but they're gone. They left behind much more, don't you think?"

"You sound like you've thought about this quite a lot."

"Since my nameday, I suppose. After the celebration, my father took me out on a grand hunt. We rode out of the city with half the court. It was shocking, frankly. I never imagined the smallfolk were that badly off. Dirty, half-starved, and living in their own filth. Something must be done!"

Seven hells, the boy sounded half-mad. "Joffrey." He took the boy's hand. "The world has ever been thus, with rich and poor. I doubt not your heart, but use your wits. Setting aright every wrong cannot be done. You are a boy, yet, and even kings cannot simply command the people to stop being poor. The gods do what they will, and we are but their playthings. When winter comes, you'll see the cruel truth of it."

It was not a kindly thing to say, but this unwholesome idealism had to be nipped in the bud straight out. If Joffrey became another Aegon the Unlikely, or, gods forbid, Baelor the Blessed, it would be the end of the Baratheon dynasty.

The prince pulled his hand away. "Uncle, you mistake me. I know perfectly well that feeding everyone is impossible. Winter is coming, as the Starks like to say. I merely wish to clean up the city somewhat, improve it. Mayhaps we could expand the drains and sewers. As far as I could see, the people dumped their filth in the street and emptied their chamberpots out of their own windows. It is for this reason I crave Valyrian knowledge. How did they arrange their cities? What did they build? Could we advance ourselves and build things after their fashion? This matter will be the work of years, I think: years of studying, years of planning, and mayhaps doing something real won't happen until I ascend the throne."

Tyrion sighed in relief. So the boy hadn't entirely taken leave of his senses. Even if such a thing were not entirely practical, Joffrey was entirely right about one matter. He'd exhausted most of the ordinary reading material in the castle, knowing his histories better than most maesters. It was a wonder, to be sure.

"Sewers, you said? I had charge of the drains and cisterns at Casterly Rock, once."

Joffrey smiled eagerly, making him blink. Tyrion thought such mundane duties would discourage him.

"Then you can help me, Uncle! It really all comes down to water and directing it. We need to wash the filth away. Such is the problem, in chief. Of course, digging through a mountain already snaked with mining tunnels and digging under a city where people live are quite different things, and the river is right there. I mean to build the city here, in miniature, until I know King's Landing, really know it. I'll know every house, every rise and dip of the land beneath our feet, how water runs through the streets when it rains." The young prince started pacing about the room. "Anyway, a bad start and a bad plan are worse than no start at all. I need to know how things are done properly, and for that I need coin."

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Coin? Well, now we come to proper Lannister business at last. How much? And to what end?"

The boy turned on his heel and paused dramatically. "Knowledge, of course. We'll be needing books, old books. I want everything the Citadel has on advanced mathematics, geometry, engineering, and the construction of cities. We can pay acolytes to do the copying for us. I understand that is how they earn their pocket money. I've been studying High Valyrian because I reckoned anything of true use to us would be in that language. King's Landing grew too quickly and in a haphazard manner. No more. We will study, and we will plan. Once we have a very good plan, which may take years, we'll bring it to my father." Like ReplyReport Reactions:Archonstine, ComfyChrom, Miami_XM and 483 othersMchkngJun 8, 2026NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Jaime II New View contentMchkngI trust you know where the happy button is?Jun 9, 2026NewAdd bookmark#124Guarding the king had been different these last few years. Every day, at least one of his sworn brothers would have to accompany the king to the yard. At least watching him train could prove entertaining, better than guarding his bedchamber, that was for sure. Robert even lost a bet with his son at the tourney held for the boy's eighth nameday, and as a consequence, shaved off his beard.

"You and Uncle Renly look just alike!" Joffrey cried upon seeing him. "Which one of you is my father?"

Everyone at court bobbed their heads like geese, clucked like hens, and hastened to agree, and not just because the author of the jape was the crown prince. It was plainly true. Robert looked much as he did the day he rode through the Red Keep's great hall to claim the Iron Throne for himself.

The youngest of the brothers Baratheon recently won his spurs and, as a reward, received a seat on the Small Council. With the beard gone, he and Robert might've been twins, if not for His Grace's bulging muscles. A real ox now, even more than before, Joffrey had shown his "father" a few queer play exercises that had the arms, shoulders, and chest burning as if you'd spent an hour swinging your sword. "Sets" and "reps," he named them. Personally, Jaime preferred to let the maesters bother with counting.

Gods, Jaime was surrounded by Baratheons. Young Renly, dull Stannis, Robert the king, and Joffrey, who was a Baratheon in name if not by blood, had made it their custom to eat together after their morning exercises. Today, it was Jaime's misfortune to be on watch. Cersei urged him to be vigilant, but they hardly ever talked of anything of importance at table. Soon, the watch would change, and mayhaps he could steal some time to be with her, alone.

"Anyway," Joff said conversationally, sitting at ease with a breadroll in one hand and a goblet in the other," please convey my profound gratitude to Ser Davos, Uncle. Taking me to Dragonstone so I could see the Painted Table was quite helpful."

"I will," Stannis replied shortly. Not much for conversation, Stannis.

"Ah," the boy continued, producing a piece of parchment from a leather bag at his feet, "you can have a copy of my sketch for Shireen. She's more than welcome to come and see the new model, though it's only half done."

Stannis took the paper without a word and nodded gruffly. Well, you tried, Joff.

"Buck up, brother!" Robert roared, his voice echoing almost painfully in the small hall where they took their more intimate family meals. "Myrcella was asking after your daughter, wasn't she?"

"Aye," the prince confirmed. "Myrcella would love to see her girl cousin. Just the other day, she helped me do a spot of measuring. Every pair of hands is welcome, and it would help with learning sums."

"...My wife does not wish to send her to court," Stannis declared, and that was the end of it. All knew Shireen had survived a case of greyscale as a babe, and carried the deformity with her. Joff had a soft spot for her, just as Jaime did with his brother Tyrion. As little as he related to the lad, it was nice to know they shared this.

Robert, meanwhile, was tearing into a ham with gusto, making Joffrey frown. "Slow down, father. Do you want to get fat again?"

The king's expression was immediately thunderous, and for a moment it froze the room, until Renly burst out laughing. Soon they were all laughing, save Stannis.

"Sometimes, son, you're too bold for your own good," Robert rumbled, but Jaime marked that he did slow down. The king hardly ever listened to anyone, but the boy managed it, gods be good.

"If I can't tell my own dad the truth, this kingdom is done for," Joffrey stated plainly.

"Hear! Hear!" Renly toasted.

"And what's this about measuring?" Robert pressed the boy after swallowing a mouthful of ham. "I've heard all manner of reports. The goldcloaks are in uproar at you walking the walls. Anywhere you go, the people trample over each other just to get a look at you."

"Valyrian geometry," the boy explained, as if that explained anything. Jaime had never heard of "Valyrian geometry" in his life. "It would be dull for you, but it involves measuring shadows and angles, among other things. The model 2.0 will be an exact replica, down to the last detail, the city writ small. Tyrion and I have been working on it for over a year."

"You've told me often enough, but why?" the king demanded.

"I'll have a proposal for you as soon as I have something to propose," Joff answered, which seemed to satisfy the king.

"Well, you could have worse hobbies, I suppose. I tried talking to your mother last night."

Jaime was instantly alert. What in seven hells did Robert have to say to Cersei?

"I was as gentle as I could be, like you said, proposed we start over, try to be man and wife again. She wouldn't hear of it. It was like talking to a castle wall, I tell you!" He slammed a heavy fist down on the table, making their food jump. Renly almost spilled his goblet, but caught the golden chalice at the last moment.

Joffrey sighed. "I was afraid of that. Father, I know you two never loved each other. Your marriage brought peace, but not happiness."

"A boy shouldn't have to know these things," Robert muttered, sounding almost ashamed, but Joffrey held up a hand.

"Let me finish. It might be time to give it up. I've been working on her, too, but she shuts me down as soon as the conversation goes to you. I tried to convince Mother to give you a chance, but I fear it will just never happen. Mother would give me anything, but not this, apparently. You've got an heir and a spare, and a darling daughter out of the bargain. That's not nothing. Mayhaps...mayhaps it's time to think about getting a royal mistress."

"What?" Stannis snapped. "How can you even consider that?" The whole table was in an uproar.

"And dishonor his wife? My sister?" Jaime couldn't stop himself from speaking up.

"You're here to guard my back, not bandy about words, kingslayer!" Robert bit back coldly. Jaime stood to rigid attention, but sudden anger vibrated through his body from the soles of his feet to his sword arm. Robert was stronger, yes, but he was faster. Then Joffrey said something shocking.

"No more than he dishonors her already!" he cried.

Robert recoiled as if slapped, then his face grew stony. "There is a line between boldness and foolishness, boy, and you're crossing it."

The prince held up his hands in a gesture of placation. "Just hear me out, I beg you." Robert didn't speak, but his hard look spoke enough. "Father, you're miserable. I can see it plain as day. I also know you visit whores."

The table erupted again. Renly laughed inappropriately, and Stannis started grinding his teeth. The king, though, looked ashamed. How did a boy of eight know these things?

"If you got a regular royal mistress, just one, and visited her discreetly, while not embarrassing Mother in public, I think we would all be happier. It looks like your marriage bed is cold, and like to stay that way forever. You've got a long life ahead of you, if the gods are good. What I mean to say is, you've got to find a way to live the rest of your life with at least a chance of happiness."

Robert sank back into his chair, the big man looking suddenly small. "I'll...think on it, Joff. Gods, you're like Ned in some ways; tell me what I need to hear instead of what I want to hear. I really thought that with us getting along, Cersei might warm up to me, but that was a fool's hope; I see that now. The gods are fucking cruel. They give you everything except what you really want."

"Best to keep busy, Father. I'll have that proposal to you before the end of the year. The Hand will want to see it too, I bet." He raised his own glass. "Here's hoping my own marriage is a happier one."

They all drank to that.

When the watch changed, he made for Cersei straight away. Like ReplyReport Reactions:Archonstine, ComfyChrom, Miami_XM and 509 othersMchkngJun 9, 2026NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Joffrey III New View contentMchkngI trust you know where the happy button is?Jun 9, 2026NewAdd bookmark#152Mother and Father had ceased speaking entirely. There had been one last big blowout over the royal mistress issue, and nothing but stony silence afterwards. Joffrey cursed himself for opening his big fat mouth, but what was done was done. He was already living like the son of divorced parents, eating some meals with dad and others with mom, never together. This just made it a bit more official.

Renly found the girl, surprisingly. As one of his first acts as a newly minted knight, Joff's youngest uncle took the boy Loras Tyrell as his squire. They split their time between court and Storm's End, but also took trips to the Reach every so often. The prince asked him to pick up some of the academic works Tyrion was paying the acolytes of the Citadel to copy, and came back with Lyra Flowers as a bonus.

Initially wary of him, Lyra had settled into a "cool big sis" role. She was a young woman with dirty blonde hair, kind hazel eyes, and clearly in love with his father, or she was the best actress alive. Oh, and she had big boobs, too. Joffrey liked that sort of thing in his old life, but puberty had yet to hit this time around, so he wasn't sure if his tastes would stay the same.

This world had no word for it, but plainly, Lyra was a tomboy. She loved riding, hunting, and hawking. King Robert took her everywhere he could get away with. She couldn't be anywhere near Robert at official events like feasts and tourneys, but they shared a bed every night.

As for her ancestry, Joffrey learned that her father was a Hightower, a second son of a second son, or some other manner of distant relation. That was good, actually, noble enough to bring around people, but not enough to be a threat. Dad had really loosened up since she came around. He wasn't drinking as much, and he'd managed to keep the weight off, thank goodness. Joff was not eager to inherit the Iron Throne, not at all.

Long Live the King, he thought, and meant it with his whole heart. Thirty more years, at least. Reaching sixty wasn't out of the question in this world, especially for highborn who had enough to eat and access to the care of a maester.

"You summoned me, my prince?" Tyrion asked formally at the threshold of the model room.

Joff smiled. "Come on, Uncle, don't be like that! You're my favorite, you know."

"It pleases me to hear it." Tyrion shut the door behind him and climbed a stool for a better look at the table. "At least I'm someone's favorite," he muttered bitterly.

"Mother is still angry with you, I take it? She blames you for my idea."

"Oh, yes. She has discoursed at length on how I've been leading you astray, seducing her innocent boy with my debauched ways, among other evils, real or imagined. What's worse, I think Jaime is beginning to believe her. Twins are invariably close, you know."

That wasn't good. "We can't please everyone, Uncle, and I was right in the end. Father has had a lighter heart lately, and I heard good things from some Arryn retainers in the Hand's household. Functionally, the marriage between father and mother is over. It doesn't make me happy, but they were never happy, as you well know. I was born, and my siblings. That will have to be enough."

"Mayhaps," Tyrion agreed doubtfully.

"What about your marriage, Uncle? You're a man grown, are you not? And a Lannister, besides?"

For once, Joffrey's uncle looked well and truly shocked. "Me? I'm a dwarf," he answered, as if that was enough.

"I already told you about that. Your mother and father, my grandparents, bred too close. If you wed someone with no Lannister blood, mayhaps a Dornishwoman, a Northerner, or even a lady of the Free Cities, I can all but guarantee you the babes would not be dwarves."

"And who would have me?" Tyrion demanded hotly. "If you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly the kind of puissant knight maidens fancy."

The boy dismissed his objective with a casual wave. "Old men and cripples find brides easily enough. I think the problem is actually in your head. You refuse to believe you'd make a good husband, and thus avoid the possibility."

"You think Father hasn't tried to find a match for me? Every house old Tywin approached refused in contempt!"

"Then I'll find you someone," Joffrey declared, "if not now, in a few years." With a wave of his hand, he indicated the model of King's Landing, complete at last, and to scale with surprising precision. "See, here? This will make our names, Uncle. Good King Jahaerys built the roads, but Joffrey built King's Landing, or so the chroniclers will write. We will build it as it was always meant to be, a match for Pentos, Myr, or even old Volantis!"

Tyrion laughed and choked a bit on his words. "You lack not ambition, nephew. I'll give you that. I see you've already marked the city in sections."

"Yes," Joffrey confirmed. "The Valyrians knew much of civil engineering, and I am their student. Each division you see outlined with twine is a makatarys, which I would render in the common tongue 'drainage district.' The Blackwater Rush, that great river, shall be our ally."

His uncle raised an eyebrow in interest. "Oh? Tell me more."

"We shall use ardmaen, or the tendency of objects to be drawn towards the ground," Joffrey explained. Ardmaen was the closest concept the Valyrians had to gravity, he thought with a secret smile. "With ardmaen, river flow, and tides, we shall have the necessary water motion for our system. We already have a complete topographical survey of the city. Our chief labor shall be building the overall backbone: vaulted masonry trunk sewers. See here? I've already mapped the intended course."

Tyrion studied the model with his mismatched eyes narrowed skeptically. "You'll have to tear down quite a lot of buildings, and where will you find the stone?"

Joff had anticipated these objections. "I mean to create a city outside the city, slightly upriver. Displaced persons, as well as our workers, will live there for a time. Anyone who must lose their house will have it rebuilt, at the crown's expense. In fact, I would like to rebuild a few of these neighborhoods completely, in a more rational, planned manner. But of course, the crown does not have infinite money." He handed Tyrion a proposed sketch, which the dwarf studied silently.

"Hmmm, rows and blocks, perfectly straight. It's pretty enough, I'll grant, but we cannot raise houses by magic. Again, with what stone? With what brick? Wherever shall you find it? Such materials are heavy and expensive to transport."

"The Dragonpit," Joffrey answered easily. "One of the first things we'll do is harvest those ruins for everything usable. By the time that's exhausted, I'll find another source. For now, it's convenient enough."

His uncle still wasn't quite convinced, but was at least hearing him out. "And where shall it all go? Where do your sewers lead?"

"We shall build alludio, that is, outfalls that take the wastewater away. They shall go further up, away from the bay itself, north of the Iron Gate. See?" He indicated where on the sketch.

"I'm sure the fish will be thrilled," Tyrion japed. "This is all very fine, lad. I'm almost hesitant to ask, but do you have anything else to add?"

"Oh, the main trunk sewers will be the work of years, but I have any number of ideas to forge a complete waste management system. Broadly, we need to separate clean water from foul water as much as possible. It will require some changes to the law, which should thrill Uncle Renly. Wells and cesspits must be kept apart, and we'll have to regulate where butchers, tanners, dyers, and so forth dump their waste. There will be drains at regular intervals, which the goldcloaks will have to monitor. Cesspits will have to be lined, and we'll build public latrines next to strong-flowing drains. Workers will be found to gather night-soil and carry it off to surrounding farms. It won't be terribly pleasant, but I think jobs could be found for all the poor of Fleabottom."

"Gods be good, Joff." Tyrion sounded genuinely taken aback. "You really mean it, don't you?"

"Uncle, really. We spent two years learning this city inside and out. I learned High Valyrian just to read about how they built their cities. Do you suppose I did all that just for my own amusement? No. We're going to transform this city, even if the job won't be done until I'm an old man. But I wish to start soon. My ninth nameday is only a few short weeks away. We need to study the plan and figure out cost estimates before presenting our proposal to the Small Council. For the foreseeable future, the city's Masons Guild will work for us, and we'll have to pay them to take additional apprentices, mayhaps many more."

"You're mad, Joffrey," Tyrion said seriously, but clasped his hand anyway. "I'm with you, then. Let us be about our business." Like ReplyReport Reactions:Miami_XM, SiegfriedisPower, Renko and 489 othersMchkngJun 9, 2026NewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks Jaime III New View contentMchkngI trust you know where the happy button is?Wednesday at 3:21 AMNewAdd bookmark#165"The whore is pregnant!" his sister wailed. Cersei stormed into the sitting room with a flutter of red skirts. The utter despondence in her voice cut him right to the heart. Jaime wanted to help her, to say something comforting.

"It's not the first time Robert sired a bastard," he pointed out, trying to sound reasonable, but that only made Cersei cry harder! Sometimes, Jaime despaired of ever understanding women. Wasn't it a good thing the rutting stag didn't visit her in the night anymore? Let the flower girl handle it and have done with matters.

"You don't understand, Jaime!" she whimpered between sobs. "It's different this time. I'm barely queen anymore. All the court knows we aren't speaking. Gods, that letter from father..." she trailed off, and Jaime shivered sympathetically.

When Lord Tywin heard all the details, the wrath he'd put to parchment had been terrible to behold. There was even talk of sending her back to the Rock. Only Prince Joffrey had saved them that indignity.

Whose side are you on, boy? Jaime wanted to ask. Joff was no son of his, though Cersei would hate to hear him say the plain truth.

At first, Jaime believed her about Tyrion corrupting the boy, but anyone could tell it was false after hearing them talk together a few times, and they talked every day. All they ever spoke of was the "project". Labor and wages, titles, and budgets, it was enough to bore him to tears. Anyhow, Joff was too strong-willed to be misled by Tyrion. They bickered all the time over petty details. The royal mistress was his idea, and he said so, full-throated and unashamed.

"Come along, sweet sister," he spoke to her gently. "Let's break our fast with your children."

Her children, always hers alone, never his.

When Cersei saw Joffrey speaking softly to Myrcella, the weeping started again with renewed intensity.

"Mother, what's wrong?" the prince asked, his young eyebrows tight with worry.

"Oh, nothing," Cersei replied with false nonchalance. "Lyra Flowers is with child, did you know?" Though wet with unshed tears, her eyes were burning clear and green.

"I didn't, actually," Joff answered evenly. "And why does that discomfit you so, Mother?"

"Someone is seeking to supplant me and steal your birthright, my wayward fool of a son!" she screamed. Mycella started crying immediately, and Joff spent a moment trying to soothe her.

"You only have yourself to blame, Mother. I tried to convince you to reconcile. This child is no threat to me."

"I'm sure they said much the same of Daemon Blackfyre," Cersei retorted fiercely. "It is a dagger aimed at your heart, and mine!"

"Let me worry about that, you're scaring Myrcella. This is not appropriate to speak of in front of her." To that, Jaime could only agree.

"What does it matter? Tender years are no protection from court gossip. All the ladies will be laughing into their handkerchiefs every time my baby girl passes by. Laughing because of you!" Then the lioness lashed out. She reached across the table and slapped Joffrey with all the fury of scorned motherhood. It happened so fast that Jaime couldn't have stopped it if he tried. The twins always had quick reflexes, including her, woman or not.

Her son, never his, didn't react immediately. He just rubbed the red spot that slowly spread across his cheek while Myrcella joined her mother in tears.

"You're emotional and not in your right mind," he said with restrained anger. "And for that, I'll overlook this. I've got enough on my mind as is. If the project is to begin before my tenth name day, which is fast approaching, I need to get to work finalizing the details now." He stood up from the table abruptly. "Farewell, Mother, Uncle, Sister." He bowed to them each and exited the room without looking back once.

Jaime thought he heard Cersei say something about not wanting to lose the last part of her son. Well, she was doing a pretty poor job of it in his view.

After that, it was just him breaking his fast, alone with two crying girls.

Lucky me.

***

"Okay, don't push, there's plenty for everyone!" Joffrey cried to the crowd. They were all lined up while the prince himself passed out tools to the workers. Jaime had the honor of standing guard.

Lucky me.

"We need the stone from the ruins of the Dragonpit. Use your pickaxes to chip the stone into usable blocks. From there, we'll put them on carts to carry to the stonecutters, who will shape them. Work together, and use your heads. Above all, be safe! Try not to collapse anything and bring it down on your heads! At the end of the day, there will be generous wages for all!"

Every cutthroat in Fleabottom was here, it seemed. Men, women, children, it didn't matter; all had come for the prince's project. The sun beat down on them and the city, ripe-smelling at the best of times, really started to reek as the lowborn horde worked up a good sweat. The clicking and clacking of pickaxes striking stone near deafened him. They chipped away at the guts of the old Dragonpit, a little at a time, and shipped it back up the Street of Sisters by the cartload. Every day they worked, and every day the rubble receded a bit.

Jaime got to watch it all, cooking in his armor.

Lucky me.

***

Two turns of the moon later, Seven Hells and all the demons within emerged from the depths of the Earth.

All the city shook, and a green cloud shot up into the air, a pillar of pure malice that destroyed everything it touched.

No! It can't be!

What the fuck is that?" Joffrey shouted over the roar. It seemed there was a roar. Jaime's ears were ringing.

"Wildfire, my prince!" Tyrion was quickest to get his wits back. They were well away from the explosion, or else they'd be ashes right now. Good thing Joffrey had the idea for them to stay back and "direct traffic."

"Shit!" Joff swore. "Everyone back! Don't trample each other! Get back! Get fucking back! Away from the flames!"

People panicked. Horses panicked more, screaming and stampeding away, anything to escape the flames. The flames started spreading.

"Why the fuck was there wildfire in the Dragonpit?" Joffrey demanded, though none answered. None had an answer, save Jaime.

Aerys must've put it there, he knew at once.

"The flames spread quickly, nephew! We need to get out of here!" Tyrion shouted. That sounded reasonable enough to Jaime.

"No." The prince refused flatly. "I've read about wildfire. Water can't put it out. Nothing can put it out. It must be contained until it burns itself out."

"All the more reason to fly, boy!" Tyrion yelled and tried to pull him back, but the boy didn't budge.

"The faster we act, the better." Joffrey climbed up on a cart that was half-loaded with stone and held up his arms to get everyone's attention. "Good people! Hear me! The whole fucking city will be lost if we don't act now! I need every one of you, pickaxes, spades, hammers, whatever you have, and follow me! We must fan out and start pulling down houses and digging ditches, anything to slow the flames down! I know this city like the back of my hand, I'll show you where to work!"

The people, stunned and disoriented as they were, actually listened, for want of options. The boy had a loud, strong voice, though still quite high-pitched, and looked kingly enough with his golden hair blowing in the hot blast of the wildfire. Joffrey led his workers out, and they followed.

The wildfire burned for three days, taking a quarter of the city with it. None, though, outside the perimeter Joffrey made. Like ReplyReport Reactions:Miami_XM, Plebston323, SiegfriedisPower and 479 othersMchkngWednesday at 3:21 AMNewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks The Lord Commander New View contentMchkngI trust you know where the happy button is?Wednesday at 8:15 AMNewAdd bookmark#190Accompanying His Grace on hunts was one of his easier duties, Ser Barristan supposed. Their party included half the court, but most notably the king's brother, Renly, his young squire, Loras Tyrell, the Lady Lyra, and, of course, the crown prince himself. They rode through the Kingswood together, laughing and talking. Barristan could almost forget his cares, almost.

Well could he recall when Prince Joffrey stumbled into the Small Council chambers, covered in ashes and soot.

"The flames are out at last," he reported dutifully.

"I commanded you to return at once!" Robert scolded him. Rarely had Barristan Selmy seen the king afraid, but he was afraid then, afraid for his son. Being a warrior, that fear oft showed as anger. It was not the way Barristan liked to fight, preferring to keep his head cool and clear, even in battle, but he could understand His Grace's concern.

"There would be no city to return to, had I obeyed. Wildfire cannot be doused or snuffed out, but it can be thwarted. I was on hand to do the thwarting."

Lord Varys shivered and moaned. "Oh, it is a terrible thing, wildfire! Utterly bestial. So many lost. However did that awful substance come to be under the Dragonpit, I wonder?"

Lord Baelish looked over his shoulder and smirked at the eunuch arrogantly. "I was hoping you'd be able to tell us, spymaster."

"Little birds, I am afraid, travel not under old ruins that have sat untouched for a century or more."

Those two often liked to bicker, wasting time in council. The prince put a stop to it straight away. "I know exactly how it happened," he said. "Come in!" he called over his shoulder. In came Ser Jaime, his sworn brother, whose white cloak was stained with the same ash that clung to the prince. "Tell them everything you told me, leaving nothing out," Joffrey commanded.

What followed was madness. Every turn in the tale sickened Barristan further.

How could I have served such a king as that?

And what a terrible choice was put before Ser Jaime! Upon the one hand was his duty to the king, and on the other, the city.

"There you have it," Joffrey announced. "There may be more wildfire caches in the city. Needless to say, sewer construction is halted. I propose that we search the whole of King's Landing, top to bottom. These jars of wildfire are old and getting older. We must be exceedingly careful in disposing of them."

"Even from the grave, the dragons strike at me! I knew they were mad, but not this mad!" Robert thundered.

"It's bad, Father, I'll not deny it, but we managed to evacuate most of the people from the burned quarter of the city. They lost their homes, but not their lives. Homes can be rebuilt. That's something we can discuss once we are assured the wildfire is gone, and the wreckage is cleared away."

"Fine, fine," Robert agreed easily. "Littlefinger, make sure my son gets whatever he wants!"

"Those are dangerous words, Father," the prince couldn't resist the jape. They all laughed like madmen, releasing the tension they felt as the northeastern portion of the city went up in flames. Many feared the fire would reach Aegon's High Hill, but Joffrey's barrier stalled its progress.

The fire burnt itself out nearly a year ago, and Robert's city was on the mend at last. They could afford to enjoy themselves.

"So, Joff, how fares the only thing you care about?" Lady Lyra teased the prince. She sat easily upon her palfrey, riding beside the king like an expert, though she had risen from her first childbed only three short moons past. None took note of the informal way she addressed him. The heir had never been particular about such matters.

"Awful as it is to say, Lyra, the fire made my job easier. Once we cleared away the rubble and the burnt buildings, construction of the main trunk sewer advanced without hindrance of any kind, putting us far ahead of schedule. Your boy Ned will see the completion once he's walking and talking, if the gods are good."

"Terribly boring though, isn't it? You and Tyrion talk about it constantly. Where's the action? Where's the fun?"

"I like a good fight as much as anyone, sis, but sometimes princes have to deal with boring shit."

"When you're king, it's not sometimes, but all the time!" Robert interjected.

Everyone laughed at the king's jape, though for young Joffery it was more like a sensible chuckle. The heir, now nearly eleven namedays and taller than some men grown, was looking more like Ser Jaime every day, but far more serious. Even so, Barristan could see the Baratheon in him. The crown prince was strong and fierce, though gentle with ladies, children, and smallfolk. He'd make an excellent knight, in time.

"Now, now, my love, you mustn't complain too much! We're out here, aren't we? It's deep summer now, so there's plenty of game. I've got my bow with me this time, mayhaps I'll show you a thing or two," Lyra said gaily.

"Arrows, bah! Hardly sporting, dearest. I like to take my quarry, close and personal." Robert bent in the saddle, leaning over to the much shorter woman.

They both stared deeply into each other's eyes. Prince Joffrey visibly gagged to end the moment. "You two are sickening," he stated mockingly.

"Watch your tone, boy, or I'll marry you to a Frey!" Robert threatened.

"They can't all be bad, Father!" Joffrey spurred his horse on and pulled away, making Robert and Lyra give chase. It was almost like they were his true parents, so close they seemed.

Those thoughts made Barristan sigh. Matters with Queen Cersei remained troublesome. At times, she refused to leave her chambers for months. No one, not Ser Jaime, not even her son, could rouse her. Not for the first time, Ser Barristan thanked the gods for the Kingsguard's vow of celibacy.

Being the Lord Commander, he had to keep up with the king, so he accelerated to a full gallop, still gamely scanning the woodline for potential threats. Once he returned to Robert's shadow, they were deep in conversation again.

"Surely there's something you want for your nameday, son. Come on, even if it's an expanded budget for your sewer project, your father is inclined to grant your wish."

"Well, there is something," Joffrey answered mysteriously.

"I want to give Joff a present too!" Lyra butted in, winning a smile from Robert. His Grace still shaved himself every morning with a razor of the finest Qohorrik steel, mainly because she liked his cheeks smooth. Barristan had inspected the implement himself. It was very fine.

"Out with it, boy!" Robert demanded with such force that a cluster of birds fled from a nearby tree.

"Well, I've been thinking about a weapon."

"Anything you want, save Valyrian steel, of course." The king grinned. "What will it be? A hammer like mine?"

The prince laughed mockingly. "Not my style, father," he said, then got quiet. "You remember the fire?"

"Of course, we remember the fire!" Lyra answered for the king. Since they weren't at court, they could behave as they wished. It wasn't strictly proper, but the Lady Lyra was lovely and full of life. Barristan couldn't help admiring her spirit. "You scared me half to death when you insisted on staying out in all that hell! Half the court fled to the other side of the river!"

"Well, when it was getting bad, I made my way to the street of steel and requisitioned every bit of metal we might use. By chance, I ran into a master smith, the same Qohorrik who made your razor, actually, who told me he could work Valyrian steel."

"Would that we had any," the king rumbled wistfully. "I'm afraid House Baratheon never had an ancestral blade. Sorry, son."

"Oh, but we do," Joffrey gainsaid his father. "I've inspected the armory. There's a dagger, a candlestick, and a paperweight, of all things. Melt it all together, and you might have something usable."

Young Loras Tyrell, who often trained with Joffrey in the yard, couldn't hold back his comment. "Oh! Is it what you were telling me about?"

"Yes," the prince confirmed stoutly. "Those oddments could be melted together and forged into an axehead. For the handle, I could harvest some dragonbone from the skulls in the cellars. There's no way I could use the axe in melees, too dangerous, but a weapon like that would be a hell of a thing in a real battle."

"It's yours!" Robert declared, his booming voice no doubt scaring game away for miles. "Now, let's hunt, damnit! I want to kill something!" Like ReplyReport Reactions:Miami_XM, Plebston323, Renko and 475 othersMchkngWednesday at 8:15 AMNewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks The King's Hand New View contentMchkngI trust you know where the happy button is?Thursday at 12:22