Disclaimer: Just in case nobody realized I don't own nor do I claim ownership of Game of Thrones, all characters and worlds belong to their real world respective owners. I'm just having some fun, that's all.
The Young Lion
Act 2 Ch 23: An Unnecessary Celebration
Midday sunlight poured over the towers of Red Keep, catching on the red stone and turning it into something warmer, almost golden from a distance.
From the city below, the noise rose in layers. Vendors were shouting, carts rattled, and the distant murmur of thousands of voices pressed together within King's Landing all added to the cacophony. Inside the castle walls however chaos had been shaped into an organized event.
Joffrey sat at the high table, his posture straight and rigid, his gilded circlet resting lightly against his brow.
The image was flawless, a young king at ease among his people.
Even if it was a lie.
His fingers rested against the arm of his chair. He sat still now, though moments ago he had been tapping in a quiet, unconscious rhythm. His gaze moved across the hall, taking in every detail not because he cared, but because he needed something to do.
The great hall had been transformed.
Long tables stretched from end to end, filled with nobles, merchants, minor lords, and even a scattering of commoners who had been allowed into the outer sections of the keep for the celebration.
Platters of roasted meats glistened beneath torchlight, juices pooling at the edges of the carved trenchers. Bowls of fruit, wheels of cheese, and loaves of bread still steaming from the ovens were in abundance, displayed as spectacle.
Wine flowed freely and laughter came easily.
Far too easily.
Joffrey watched a pair of lesser lords at one of the lower tables. Their cheeks were red, flushed from the wine and their hands already unsteady around their cups. One leaned too far, laughing at something that hadn't been particularly funny, nearly tipping over. The other slapped the table hard enough to rattle the plates, laughing at his own joke.
Beyond them, a group of merchants tried subtly, though poorly, to draw attention to themselves, angling their seats just enough to be seen from the high table. Their smiles were too eager, their posture too stiff.
His gaze shifted again to his guards stationed throughout the hall.
The Royal Guard stood along the walls and between the pillars, their armor catching the light in dull glints as they remained perfectly still. They did not laugh, nor eat, nor speak. They remained completely still, but their eyes moved constantly, scanning the room and tracking every motion in the hall.
Joffrey had tripled their number for this event. Not because he feared an attack, but because he expected one. Not today, perhaps, but soon.
And if anything happened, it wouldn't be because he had grown complacent.
The smell in the hall was thick. Roasted boar and spiced wine competed with the pungent odor of sweat trapped beneath silk and velvet. Perfumes layered over unwashed skin added another layer to the aroma. It clung to the air, heavy enough that every breath carried it.
Joffrey exhaled slowly through his nose.
A waste.
That was the only word that fit for this ridiculous celebration. A waste of time, food, effort, and attention. All of it spent on celebrating the simple fact that he had been born.
His jaw tightened slightly, though his expression did not change.
His gaze drifted, almost unconsciously, toward the small council seated nearby. Tyrion was lounging with his usual ease. Varys sat nearby, his hands folded, watching everything while appearing to watch nothing. The remainder of his councilors sat with him at the high table.
Slowly his mind drifted back to the events that had led to this absurd occasion.
[Flashback]
Inside the Small Council chamber, Joffrey had not taken his seat. He paced around the room mulling over a proposal his uncle had made that had left the council split.
"You want me to host a party to celebrate my nameday?" He asked, stopping at the far end of the table. Turning to face them all he continued, "While at this very moment the realm continues to tear itself apart?"
He didn't raise his voice. He kept his tone even and low, though his irritation was apparent.
"Remind me," he continued, his gaze moving from one face to the next, "which part of a civil war calls for feasts and dancing?"
Silence had followed the king's question.
Across the table, Ser Jacelyn had stood with his usual firm posture, his hand clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. Yet it was clear he didn't disagree with the king's words.
Beside him, Ser Barristan had inclined his head slightly, the faintest acknowledgment that the king's frustration was not misplaced.
Finally, the King's Hand spoke.
"You held a feast for the defeated northmen," Tyrion pointed out. "Or have you forgotten dear nephew."
"That served a purpose," Joffrey countered, turning towards his Hand. "That celebration was to ensure that the embers of rebellion were extinguished completely. Not because I turned one year older."
"And this celebration will serve a purpose as well, your grace." His uncle added. "To alleviate the pressure that the city is currently feeling, noble and commoner alike."
Joffrey's eyes had narrowed slightly.
"And how exactly is wasting food and wine on a pointless day supposed to alleviate pressure?" he asked.
Tyrion leaned back, one hand resting loosely against the arm of his chair.
"People need more than food and walls, your grace," he said. "They need something to hold onto when everything else feels uncertain."
The king just stared, his silence signaling for Tyrion to continue.
"They need reassurance to put their minds at ease," Tyrion continued, his voice steady. "The people need to see that their king is not hiding behind stone and steel, waiting for the storm to pass."
He paused.
"Your nameday," Tyrion added, almost casually, "could be the chance to give them that."
The young king didn't respond right away. He weighed his uncle's words seeing the merit in them. Seeing the king's contemplation, Varys decided to interject.
"As your Hand says, Your Grace," the Master of Whisperers added smoothly, "fear spreads quickly in a city. Left unchecked, it will fester and rot."
Joffrey's gaze shifted to him, Varys smiled faintly before he continued.
"It creates the illusion that all is well."
He paused, still uncertain before Sansa voiced her own opinion.
"The people are afraid, Your Grace," she said softly looking up from her seat at her betrothed. "They hear things, whispers, rumors. They hear of fathers, brothers, and sons being sent to war and not returning."
Her eyes had lifted to meet his.
"They might not be able to see the war, but they certainly can feel it coming closer."
Joffrey had held her gaze.
"And you all believe that a celebration will change all of that?"
"It won't change it," she admitted. "But it might soothe some of it, by showing the people that you are calm, and unafraid. It will allow them to begin to think that their own worries are unfounded."
Her words lingered longer than the others had. Joffrey had exhaled softly, shaking his head just slightly.
"I'm beginning to regret giving you a rhetoric tutor," he muttered.
A faint smile had touched her lips.
"Why thank you, Your Grace."
He had looked around the table, and could see most of his advisors supported the idea.
"Fine," he finally said with great reluctance. "We'll host a celebration within the Red Keep."
A shift passed quietly through the room.
"But it stays contained," he added sharply, cutting through whatever satisfaction had begun to form. "No grand spectacles. No unnecessary excess."
His gaze hardened slightly.
"And absolutely no grand tourneys, we're on a budget."
That sparked quite a protest among some of the members, but none of them voiced it. And thus the humble celebration of the King's seven and ten nameday had been put into works.
[Flashback End]
The Minstrel's music pulled him out of his thoughts. The smell of roasted boar and the heat of the great hall grounding him back in the moment.
A swell of sound—drums, strings, something foreign layered beneath it—vibrated through the hall as the performance reached its peak.
Joffrey blinked, his focus returning to the present, or more accurately to the exotic dancers his Master of Coin had provided.
They moved across the floor in fluid patterns, their bodies bending and twisting in time with the rhythm. Their clothing left little to the imagination, thin fabrics clinging and shifting with every motion.
The audience reacted in very different ways.
The men leaned forward, eyes fixed on the woman's breasts and swaying hips, some practically drooling. The women in the crowd however, had much less pleasant expressions on their faces. As they watched the women on the stage move, their hands tightened around their cups.
Joffrey observed the women, but he found he wasn't particularly interested. Even in his last life, he had never understood the appeal of strip clubs and pole dancers. To him, it was just a place for a man to throw his money away, though his platoon had certainly disagreed.
The performance ended and applause erupted in the hall, his uncles' the loudest.
Joffrey brought his hands together in a polite, measured clap. Enough to be seen, but not enough to suggest any genuine interest.
Beside him, Sansa did the same, but something had shifted. Her gaze dropped briefly down to her own chest and her conservative red gown. A frown quickly spread across her face as she found her own assets wanting.
After a moment Joffrey felt a sudden pinch against his thigh.
"Ow—" The word slipped out before he could stop it, his composure cracking just enough to betray surprise. He turned toward her, brow furrowing. "What was that for?"
Sansa didn't look at him.
She huffed softly, turning her head away, her posture suddenly stiff in a way that made no sense.
Joffrey stared at her.
"What did I—"
Then he stopped, genuinely not understanding what he had done to upset her. He looked around the table trying to find support, but found none.
Across from him, Tyrion had already caught on.
A slow grin spread across his face, the kind that came from understanding something far too amusing to explain immediately. He lifted his cup, taking a slow sip as his shoulders shook faintly with restrained laughter.
Varys's lips curved just enough to suggest quiet enjoyment, his eyes flicking briefly between the two before settling once more.
Even Jacelyn—usually unshakable—let out a low, quiet chuckle beneath his breath.
Joffrey looked between them.
"…what?" he asked, irritation creeping into his tone.
No one answered him, which only made it worse.
Sansa remained turned away, composing herself once more, though the faint color in her cheeks lingered.
Joffrey just leaned back slightly in his chair, exhaling through his nose as he shook his head.
The music suddenly shifted when the dancers left.
The rhythm changed from something soft and swaying into something sharper, more martial. Drums took the lead now, steady and deliberate, their beat echoing across the hall as attendants cleared the central space and reset it for the next display.
The air itself seemed to tighten with anticipation.
Joffrey straightened his back slightly in his chair, one arm resting against the carved wood as his gaze settled once more on the floor below. Whatever confusion he had from Sansa's anger faded into the background as the king sat straighter with interest as a line of boys made their way to the stage.
Squires.
Young, unproven, dressed in light armor that had been polished just enough to catch the light. Their movements were careful, measured, each step placed with the awareness that they were being watched.
And among them was the king's own younger brother Tommen.
Joffrey's eyes lingered on the golden-haired boy.
His younger brother looked smaller than the others at first glance—shorter and less filled out—but there was something different in the way he carried himself now. His posture was straighter, shoulders broader and looked completely relaxed.
Personally Joffrey hadn't expected such a quick change from the sensitive boy.
The first matches began.
Pairs of squires stepped forward one at a time, each duel announced briefly before they took their places. Blunted steel was handed out, the edges dulled but the weight and balance left intact.
The first clash rang out steel meeting steel.
The sound carried cleanly through the hall, sharper than the music, drawing attention immediately. The boys moved carefully at first, testing each other, their strikes controlled but real enough to matter.
The crowd responded, out of politeness at first, but it quickly turned into encouragement.
Each match built on the last, the blows coming faster and more confident as nerves burned away under the weight of watching eyes.
Joffrey just quietly observed.
He noted footwork. Timing. The way some boys hesitated before committing to a strike while others moved too quickly, leaving themselves open.
Most were mediocre, but a few showed some promise.
None really impressed him until it was Tommen's turn. The young Baratheon stepped forward.
Joffrey leaned forward slightly without realizing it.
His brother took his place across from another boy. His opponent was older, taller, and noticeably broader in the shoulders. The visible difference between them drew a few murmurs from the crowd.
It was an uneven match, at least at first glance.
The signal was given and both boys moved, the first exchange came immediately.
The older boy swung first, testing, a straightforward swing meant to probe rather than commit. Tommen met it cleanly, his blade rising just enough to deflect the strike without overextending.
There was no wasted motion, making Joffrey's eyes narrowed slightly.
The second strike came faster.
Tommen shifted his footing—not back, but to the side—letting the blade glance off his own before stepping inward, closing the distance instead of retreating.
"Good," he thought as he watched his brother move. "Very good."
The match's pace quickly picked up.
Blades rang against each other in quicker succession now, the rhythm shifting from cautious probing to something more real. The older boy pressed harder, trying to use his reach and strength to overwhelm his opponent.
Tommen didn't meet him head-on. He instead chose to flow with the older boy's strength, not against it.
Each parry transitioned into movement, each step repositioning him just outside the line of the next attack. He gave ground when needed, but never more than necessary, his feet always set, always ready.
The difference in size mattered less with every exchange. The crowd began to notice and the murmurs shifted.
The older boy grew frustrated, his strikes came harder now, less controlled, more force behind them as he tried to break through the defense instead of outmaneuvering it.
Joffrey saw it the moment it happened, when the boy went for a two-handed thrust.
"An opening," he thought and apparently Tommen saw it too.
His blade swept outward, knocking the thrust off line before his body turned with it, stepping inside the reach of his opponent. His free hand came up—not striking, but guiding—just enough to throw the older boy's balance off further.
Then with a slight twist of his wrist, the older boy's sword went flying. It clattered across the stone floor, spinning once before coming to stop.
Silence hit the hall for half a heartbeat, while Tommen's sword was held at his opponent's throat. The older boy froze, the realization settling in a lot slower than it should have.
He'd lost.
Tommen held the position for a moment longer, then slowly lowered his blade, stepping back and offering his opponent space instead of pressing the fight any further. Suddenly the crowd erupted, applause breaking out across the hall at the young prince's martial display. The cheers were much louder than before.
And at the high table—The king himself stood and applauded.
"Well done, little brother," he said, his voice carrying.
Tommen looked up at his older brother, surprise filling his face. It was quickly replaced with a smile as he beamed with pride and excitement.
Tommen seemed slightly embarrassed by all of the attention, but he stood a little straighter under it. He bowed first to the crowd, then, after a brief hesitation, back towards his brother.
Joffrey met the gesture with his own small nod, and a smile that displayed his genuine approval for the boy's martial growth.
Tommen's shoulders eased just slightly before he stepped back, exiting the floor alongside his opponent.
The king sat back down again, the faintest trace of something like satisfaction settling in his chest.
"Maybe this whole celebration wasn't as pointless as I thought."
The next event came much faster than the last.
The space was cleared again, though this time the atmosphere shifted entirely. The energy that had surrounded the squires—light, encouraging—gave way to something much heavier as the king's personal guards took the stage.
Two at a time.
The rest remained in position around the high table, their duty unchanged, guarding the king and his advisors. Even in celebration, the king's protection was paramount.
The first pair took the floor, Ser Balon, and Ser Meryn Trant.
Joffrey's gaze settled on them immediately. He raised his hands, then brought it down in a single, decisive clap.
"Begin."
Steel met steel.
The sound was heavier now. Not the careful testing of squires, but the controlled force of trained men who knew exactly what they were doing. Each strike carried weight, each movement deliberate.
For the first few exchanges, it seemed even, but the difference in skill quickly became apparent.
Ser Balon moved with ease.
His blade flowed from one motion to the next, each strike controlled, each parry precise. He gave ground when needed, but only to set the next position, his footing always solid, always ready.
Ser Meryn quickly began to struggle.
His strikes came with more force than finesse, his movements were slightly slower, slightly less refined. He tried to dominate the exchange through strength, and aggression.
But Ser Balon quickly adjusted.
He began redirecting the now angry knight's blows. Turning each heavy strike aside with minimal effort, he let Meryn's own momentum work against him.
The crowd noticed.
Laughter began to creep in at the edges as the gap widened further.
Ser Meryn could hear them which only increased his anger and his sloppiness. His scowl deepened, his attacks growing sharper, faster—but less controlled. Each swing became more predictable than the last, frustration was bleeding into his form.
Joffrey watched, and waited.
The end of the match came quickly once the incensed knight abandoned all technique in favor of raw power. Meryn stepped in for an overhead strike. His movement was telegraphed and obvious. The now enraged knight shifted his weight too far forward as he committed fully to the blow.
Balon effortlessly stepped aside, the blade cutting nothing but empty air. Before Meryn could recover, the flat of Balon's sword cracked against the back of his helm.
The sound rang out echoing across the hall and Meryn stumbled a few steps before going down.
The hall erupted in laughter. Sansa, however, was growing concerned. Catelyn Stark had instilled in all of her children a sense of Northern courtesy. Sansa remembered that her mother insisted that a lady's duty was to see to the well-being of the entire household, even those who were prickly.
Balon stepped forward, placing the edge of his blade lightly against the side of Meryn's neck as he lay there, stunned.
The king let the moment linger just long enough before bringing the match to a close.
"Victory to Ser Balon," he declared, his tone carrying across the hall.
The applause followed quickly, though the laughter still lingered beneath it.
Joffrey leaned back slightly, his gaze resting briefly on Meryn as the knight pushed himself up from the ground, his expression dark, his pride clearly wounded.
"Good." He thought with clear distaste for the knight.
He'd actually instructed the newest Kingsguard to humble his fellow brother in the duel, before the celebration had gotten underway.
Ser Balon had been reluctant at first, even questioning the king on his request. Once Joffrey had informed Balon of Ser Meryn's taste for underage girls in the brothels. A practice no longer tolerated as Joffrey had banned them in the city. Ser Balon was more than happy to acquiesce to the king's request and he had delivered.
Meryn forced himself to stand straight, stepping beside Balon and bowing stiffly—first to his opponent, then to the king.
The gesture was correct, even if everything else about him was not. The two then exited the stage, the humiliated knight quickly pushing through the crowd and failing to return to his position.
Joffrey watched him grab a pitcher of wine off one of the tables, as he made his way out of the room. Ser Barristan offered to retrieve him, but Joffrey waved him off. He was happy to let the knight go and stew. Joffrey turned his attention to the next match as two more knights took the stage.
Sansa however was much less pleased by the spectacle.
Sansa watched Ser Meryn's retreating back, her brow furrowing. The laughter of the court still rang in her ears, and it felt... wrong. In the songs, a knight of the Kingsguard was a pillar of the realm, yet here he was, a shattered vessel of wine and spite.
She looked at Joffrey. He seemed content to let the man rot in his own shame, but she remembered her mother's voice: 'A Queen's smile can mend what a King's sword has broken.' If Meryn remained this bitter, he was a danger to the very man he'd been sworn to protect. She had to show him the 'mercy' that Joffrey was becoming known for. It was her duty to the crown as the future queen.
"Pardon me, your grace." She said as she stood up from the table.
"Where are you going, my lady?" He asked, confused, turning his attention away from the dueling knights.
"I just thought I'd get some air," she responded gently. "Don't worry I'll be right back."
He asked if she'd like an escort but the girl politely declined, assuring him that she just wanted to stretch her legs for only a moment. The king nodded and watched as she made her own way out of the hall before turning back to the match.
o-O-o
Outside the hall, the atmosphere changed. It was quieter now, the sound of music and the crowd were dulled behind stone walls.
Sansa moved carefully through the corridors that at times still managed to confuse her, despite living in the Red Keep for nearly two years.
Her soft steps echoed off the stone as she walked, her hands clasped lightly before her as she followed the path she had seen Meryn take. She found him not far from the outer passage, standing alone, the pitcher of wine in hand already more than half-way gone.
She slowly approached, not wanting to startle him.
"Ser Meryn," she called softly.
He turned, his scowl deepened the moment he saw her.
"What do you want?" he asked, his tone sharp and edged with irritation.
Sansa, while surprised by his tone, managed to hold her ground.
"I only wished to say that you fought well," she said, her voice gentle, composed despite the tension in the air. "There is no shame in—"
"I don't need your pity."
The response came fast, cutting through her sentence before she could finish her sentence, a slight slur to his words.
Sansa blinked, caught off guard by the knight's hostility.
"I wasn't pitying you," she said, her tone tightening slightly as she tried to recover.
Meryn didn't let her.
His frustration spilled over, boiling up without restraint as he tossed the pitcher aside. It hit the ground with a loud clatter, wine spilling onto the floor as he stepped toward her.
His hand closed around her arm before she could react.
The knight's grip was tight and painful.
She gasped, a small sound escaping her as he yanked her closer, forcing her forward until there was barely any space left between them.
"You know nothing," he snapped, his face inches from hers, his breath sharp with wine. "Nothing about what it means to stand there, and be judged like that."
Sansa tried to pull back, but she couldn't. His grip tightened holding her in place.
"You sit up there," he continued, his voice rising, "wrapped in silk, playing the little sweet princess act like it means something."
Her heart hammered in her chest, her fingers tightening uselessly against his wrist.
"I said I wasn't—"
"You don't get to decide that," he cut in, his voice hard enough to silence her completely. "You of all people don't get to look down on me!"
For a moment, the only sound was his breathing and then—
"I loathe the day I have to take orders from some northern whore like you."
His words landed sharply, piercing the girl's heart like a knife, and then—he shoved her.
Sansa stumbled, her footing slipping as she fell back into the dirt, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. The ground was cold beneath her hands, rough stone scraping against her palms as she tried to catch herself.
By the time she looked up, he was already walking away. Picking up the wine pitcher and making his way down the hall. The sounds of his boots fading in the distance.
The northern girl remained where she was, dust and dirt clinging to her dress.
Her hands trembled slightly as she pushed herself up, her breath uneven, her chest tight in a way she couldn't quite steady.
And for a moment—she didn't move at all.
She just sat there, the soft hiccups of her cries filling the silent corridor.
o-O-o
Back in the great hall the mood shifted as the final two opponents took the stage. The two figures stepped forward, one the greatest knight in living memory, and the other a modern monster feared throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
The main event of the evening; Ser Barristan Selmy against Sandor Clegane. Everyone held their breath as Joffrey clapped his hands.
"Begin," he announced.
Sandor moved first.
His greatsword came around in a wide, powerful arc, the sheer weight behind it enough to split bone and steel alike if it had been sharpened. It cut through the air with a low, heavy sound.
Ser Barristan stepped aside. Letting the blade pass his body by a hair's breadth, and in that same motion, he turned—his sword snapping forward in a precise counter, aimed not to overpower but to exploit.
Sandor was already moving.
He shifted his weight, stepping back just enough to let the strike pass before resetting his stance. He raised his giant sword high before bringing it down with both hands.
Barristan met it half way—he didn't try to stop it, instead he redirected it, his blade catching the heavier weapon at an angle and guiding it away from its path. The impact still rang out, the force of it traveling through his arms. But Baristan had already moved again, his point driving forward in a thrust that forced Sandor to adjust.
Steel met steel.
Again and again, the tempo of the fight quickly building with each exchange.
Sandor pressed forward, his attacks heavy, relentless, each swing carrying enough weight to end the match if it landed clean. He used his size, his reach, his strength—everything about him designed to break through.
But Ser Barristan gave him nothing.
Every one of his movements was exact, every one of his parries perfect. Not an ounce of wasted movement in his swordplay.
He didn't meet strength with strength—he redirected it, turning the attacks into nothing but a waste of energy before it could come close to touching him.
Joffrey leaned forward like everyone else, his attention fully captured by the display of skill.
Sparks began to fly where steel struck steel, brief flashes of light that vanished as quickly as they appeared. The sound of it filled the hall now—sharp, constant, a rhythm that replaced the music entirely.
Sandor pressed harder.
Adjusting his approach, shifting from broad, obvious strikes into tighter, faster movements, trying to force an opening through pressure alone.
But then Ser Barristan adapted as well. He began observing the hound's defence, looking for gaps which he could exploit.
Then he found one.
There came a moment where Sandor's guard wasn't perfectly aligned. A shift in his footing had left just enough space and that left him vulnerable. The older knight immediately capitalized.
Not with brute force, but precision.
One step forward. One flick of the wrist. One strike that forced Sandor to react instead of act.
The balance quickly shifted. Sandor began giving ground as he defended against the knight's onslaught.
The Hound's scowl deepened, his movements sharpening as he tried to regain control of the flow. His strikes came faster now, more aggressive, each one meant to force Barristan back into defense.
It didn't work.
The older knight always remained just out of reach of the Hound's counters. The match quickly reached its climax. The two moved like blurs, Sandor going for a low slash, while Ser Barristan went for an upward thrust.
The two stopped cold.
Ser Barristan's blade rested against the Hound's neck, while Sandor's rested at Ser Barristan's right side.
For a heartbeat, neither opponent moved, even the hall seemed to be holding its breath.
Then applause filled the hall as everyone including the king stood clapping for both opponents.
"The match is a draw," Joffrey announced but he doubted anyone could hear him through all the noise.
His eyes watched the two men. Joffrey had seen in the moment before the final clash that for a fraction of a second Barristan's guard had lowered, not enough to be obvious, but enough to allow Sandor's blade through.
He could tell that Sandor had seen it as well, his posture stiffened, while his scowl deepened.
The two bowed first to each other and then their king, and left it at that. The match ended, but its impressive display still lingered.
Joffrey exhaled slowly, the energy of the fight still settling in his chest as he returned to his seat.
And only then that he noticed—Sansa wasn't back yet.
His brow furrowed slightly.
"Jacelyn," he said quietly.
The Master of War leaned in just enough to hear his king.
"Sansa hasn't come back yet. Please go and find what's keeping her."
Jacelyn nodded once and stepped away from the table, already moving with purpose as he disappeared into the flow of the hall.
Joffrey's gaze followed him briefly, then shifted back to the front of the dais as Lords and Ladies got in line and prepared to present him their gifts.
They came one after another.
Presented with smiles, with bows, with carefully chosen words meant to flatter as much as to give.
The first to approach was the High Septon.
The man moved slowly, his robes heavy, his expression full of practiced warmth that never quite reached his eyes. A jeweled golden cup was carried forward by one of the septas and placed carefully before the king.
"May the gods continue to bless you, your grace," the High Septon intoned.
Joffrey looked at it.
It was solid gold with various different gems in it. Personally he thought it was excessive but he just smiled and nodded his head.
"You have my thanks, your Holiness" he said, his tone polite, controlled.
Next came Ros.
She approached with far more ease, a hint of a smile playing at her lips as she presented a piece of artwork—fine, detailed, clearly expensive.
"From a collection I thought you might appreciate," she said.
It was a portrait that apparently had belonged to the late Petyr Baelish that he'd acquired from across the narrow sea. Joffrey had despised the little worm, but he had to admit he had excellent taste when it came to art.
"Thank you, Lady Ros," he said with much more sincerity.
His uncle came next, carrying an old book that was nearly the same size as him.
"A rare edition from my personal collection," Tyrion said lightly. "I thought you might enjoy it."
Joffrey took it, examining it closely. It was a book on the ancient Valyrian Freehold before the doom. He doubted there were many left in existence. He looked up into Tyrion's eyes giving him a warm smile.
"Thank you, uncle."
Tyrion smiled back and tilted his head before moving aside. More gifts followed from countless Crownland lords.
Jewels.
Silks.
Objects meant to impress him, but none of them held his attention for very long.
Until—Tobho approached.
The man moved more slowly than the others, climbing the steps with care as he carried something covered in a white cloth. There was no flourish in him, no attempt to draw attention beyond what the object itself already commanded.
Joffrey straightened slightly, his interest returning.
"Tobho," he said warmly.
"Your Grace," the man replied.
He bowed his head respectfully.
"I've called in a few favors from my homeland across the sea," Tobho continued, his tone measured. "Spent a fair bit of coin as well to procure something special for your nameday, Your Grace."
He reached down to the cloth and with one movement pulled it away. A ripple of sound—shock, recognition, disbelief—spread outward as the weapon beneath was revealed.
A sword.
A Valyrian steel sword to be exact.
The blade drank the light rather than reflecting it, dark and rippling as though something moved beneath its surface. The sheath was black leather, embroidered in gold, while the hilt rose in jagged, antler-like shapes of gilded steel, a ruby set at its center.
Everyone in the hall was shocked by the master smith's gift. Valyrian steel swords were beyond rare with only two hundred known to be in existence since the doom. So for a mere foreign born smith to present a new one to the king, even as a gift, was beyond shocking.
Though what none of them realized was that it wasn't a new Valyrian steel sword, but a repurposed one.
Months prior while his Tyroshi builders were digging out the ruins of the dragonpit, a small group of them had come across something quite special in the rubble.
Two Valyrian steel longswords that had been lost during the Dance of the Dragons, when the common folk had raided the dragonpit and killed the remaining Targaryen dragons.
Vigilance of House Hightower and Lamentation of House Royce.
The greedy group of men immediately recognized the smoky black blades worth, which was beyond any amount of gold and so conspired to smuggle them out of the city on a ship.
Fortunately they had been caught by one of his Royal Guard patrols and were dragged before the king in chains.
Joffrey immediately recognized the sword's value especially in the war with the dead that was sure to come. He felt it was a godsend, as he had started to second guess his decision not to reforge Ice into two new swords like in the original timeline.
Unfortunately, he knew the political ramifications if he was caught keeping two ancestral swords from their rightful owners. So, after executing the group of builders and framing their deaths as the just punishment of thieves who had attempted to steal their fellow builders' payment and set sail, Joffrey had handed the blades off to his Overseer Tobho.
In the original timeline, it had been Tobho who had reforged Ice. Joffrey gave him instructions to reforge both of the recovered swords so that they were unrecognizable. Thus preventing anyone from claiming ownership of them.
Joffrey took the sword in hand, gripping the hilt and slowly drew it from its leather scabbard. The black blade drank the sun's light making it reflect a dark gleam.
He swung it a few times in his hand, the blade a fraction of the weight of his personal longsword, Lion's Tooth. Soon the crowd began shouting cheers and demands.
"Name it, Your Grace! Every Valyrian steel sword needs a name!" One shouted.
"Yeah, name it!" another agreed.
"Yeah!"
Soon more and more of the crowd demanded that he name the sword. Joffrey immediately panicked. If there was one thing he wasn't good at, it was coming up with an original name. He thought about House Baratheon and the words of the house. Then after a moment he had it.
"Fury," he announced.
"Fury," someone repeated.
It spread through the crowd, rolling off tongues, gaining weight with each repetition. Tyrion tilted his head slightly, considering it. Fury was a simple but strong name.
Joffrey lowered the blade slightly, watching as the word echoed back to him from every corner of the hall.
The blade rested in his hand, its dark surface catching the torchlight in uneven ripples, swallowing more than it reflected. It felt right in his grip—balanced, alive in a way ordinary steel never was.
Soon more gifts came.
More voices. More offerings. More carefully chosen words meant to flatter and ingratiate, but all paled in comparison to his new sword.
But the king's attention shifted as his Master of War returned. The man moved through the hall with purpose, cutting a clean path between tables without drawing attention to himself. His posture remained as composed as ever, his expression unreadable to anyone who did not know him.
Though the king looked confused since Sansa wasn't with him.
Jacelyn reached the platform and bowed briefly before stepping closer, leaning in just enough that his words would not carry beyond the king's ear.
Joffrey tilted his head slightly, listening as his second in command spoke. As the man spoke the king's expression changed, his eyes became cold while the veins along his neck bulged as he gripped the arm of his chair.
"I see," was all he said.
Jacelyn straightened without another word, stepping back into position as if nothing had passed between them. Joffrey turned back to the crowd, continuing to wave to his subjects who were unaware of the storm brewing in the king's chest.
"Ser Meryn,"
Was the only name he thought about as he patiently waited for the celebrations to end.
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