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The Young Lion Act 2 Ch 12
🕑 Added 2026-01-19 15:25:01 +0000 UTCDisclaimer: 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 12: Dinner with Wolves
Night had settled over King’s Landing with the softness of a lullaby.
The old tourney grounds were beyond the city’s inner bustle, a wide oval of hard-packed earth and trampled grass once meant for jousts and men playing at war. Banners still hung from their poles—sun-faded and worn by weather—but where they once had snapped proudly in the daylight, now they stirred softly in the night wind like ghosts remembering more certain times.
Torches lined the area in disciplined arrangement, their flames steady, casting long amber shadows across the field. The smell of pitch and oil mixed with the sharper scent of iron and sweat that had soaked into the ground over the last three months. The stadium had been repurposed. Not with loud proclamations of royal decrees, but by repetition. Repetitions of marching. Repetitions of falling and getting back up. Repetitions of men being broken and rebuilt.
Seven long lines of men stood at attention in the center of the grounds. Four thousand souls stood completely motionless.
They were arranged with careful intent: seven single-file ranks, each stretching far enough that the end vanished into the torchlight’s shadows. Their bare chests gleamed faintly in the firelight, skin marked with old scars, healing bruises, and the dull sheen of hard-earned muscles. The men hadn’t arrived like this. Many had been thin, hollow-eyed, and desperate when they first arrived. Dockhands, smith’s sons, beggars, and former guards dismissed for drink or debts.
Now they stood as one with straight backs and impassive expressions.
Before them, forming a wide half-circle, stood the existing Royal Guard—those already blooded and sworn to the King. They wore their black aketon armor and matching breeches. They did not speak. They only watched.
At the far end of the grounds, the gates slowly opened. A murmur rippled through the assembled guards as King Joffrey entered.
He walked at an unhurried pace, flanked by two of his most trusted Kingsguard whose white cloaks caught the torchlight like a pale flame. The sound of his boots on the packed earth carried farther than it should have; each step was both distinct and deliberate. He wore his gilded steel circlet, along with a dark red doublet which highlighted his new, lean, muscular physique.
Four thousand men straightened their backs as he made his way before them.
Joffrey stopped several paces before the first rank. He surveyed them slowly, his eyes moving left to right, taking in each of their hardened expressions. Some stared straight ahead. Others dared to meet his gaze directly, a mixture of unease and pride filling their eyes.
Behind him, the torches hissed softly. This wasn’t a performance for the amusement of a grand crowd. It was a baptism for a new era. Joffrey stepped forward alone, signaling for his Kingsguard to stay back.
For a moment, he said nothing.
The quiet stretched, thick with expectation, broken only by the distant hum of the city and the crackle of the flames. Joffrey let it linger—not as a tactic, but as a silent acknowledgment. These men had waited longer than this. They had stood in rain, trained until their hands bled, and had replaced their hunger with discipline.
When he finally spoke, his voice carried easily across the grounds.
“Look at yourselves,” he said, pausing. “Three moons ago, many of you could not stand this long without shifting your weight. Three moons ago, some of you couldn’t even lift a shield without shaking. Three moons ago, most of you were spineless worms written off and forgotten by the world.”
His gaze hardened—not with cruelty, but with pride.
“But now, not a single one of you fits that description.”
The Royal Guards behind him nodded their heads, subtly agreeing with his words.
“You have passed the selection,” Joffrey continued. “Not training, but selection. The training is never complete. But not every man who trains is meant to stand. And not every man who stands is meant to remain.”
He gestured broadly to the assembled Royal Guards behind him.
“These men—your brothers—have already bled in my service. They didn’t know whether or not you would make it, and frankly, neither did I.”
A few of the recruits at the front gulped after hearing his words.
“But you did.” The King’s voice lifted. “You chose purpose over pain, and discipline over desperation.”
He took another step forward.
“Tonight is the night you cast off the shackles of your old life. Tonight is the night you leave behind your former names. Your old debts and failures. Tonight is the night you become part of something greater than yourselves. A better world.”
The torchlight reflected the passion in his eyes.
“You are no longer alone. Welcome, brothers. Welcome to the Royal Guard.”
The Royal Guards behind him banged their spears with approval while the recruits struck their fists against their bare chests, filling the stadium with the sound of makeshift drums. Slowly Joffrey raised his hands for silence, and they immediately complied. Servants carried in hot braziers from the side of the grounds, and an officer stepped forward carrying a long iron brand, its tip glowing a deep, molten red.
A quiet ripple passed through the new recruits—not fear, but anticipation sharpened by the pain that was to come. Joffrey took the red-hot brand into his hand without breaking eye contact.
“Unfortunately, the cleansing of one’s past is a trial that can only be achieved through fire.”
He turned to the first man in the nearest line—a young dockworker by the look of him, his shoulders now broad and sculpted.
“Step forward,” he ordered.
The man immediately obeyed.
Joffrey gestured with his free hand. “Kneel.”
The young man dropped to one knee, his eyes fixed on the tip of the King’s boot, until Joffrey reached down and raised his chin. His eyes showed compassion, not malice. Then, with one hard motion, he pressed the brand into the man’s chest, just above his heart. The hiss of flesh meeting iron filled the night air along with the smell of charred meat.
“Embrace the pain,” he said steadily as he held the brand. “For it is your soul finally being unburned.”
The man’s hands curled into fists so hard his knuckles turned white. His breath hitched once—but he refused to scream.
Joffrey held the brand for a few more seconds before pulling it away. The mark was clear: a seven-pointed crown permanently burned into the man’s skin. Joffrey handed the brand to the officer and spread his arms wide.
“Welcome home,” he said with a kind, loving smile.
The man stood, his feet unsteady for a moment, and then he stepped forward, wrapping his arms around the King who held him tight. Joffrey held the man against his chest, one hand firm at the man’s back, while the other combed briefly through the man’s damp hair.
“This is your family now,” he said softly. “And you will never be alone again.”
Tears streamed down the man’s cheeks as Joffrey slowly broke off the embrace and urged him forward to meet his new brothers, who all surged forward. They clapped him on the shoulders and pulled him into rough, affectionate embraces.
“Welcome home,” one told him.
“Welcome, brother,” said another.
The King continued the ceremony. One by one, men stepped forward, and one by one they knelt.
The commanding officers all stepped forward as one, each holding a brand identical to the King's. Their voices echoed his words, steady and practiced. The recruits bore the pain with varying reactions—tight breaths, trembling hands, clenched jaws—but not a single one of them screamed.
By the time the last man rose, his chest branded and shoulders squared, the night air was thick with smoke and heat. The recruits stood together with their new brothers, not in a formation of tactics, but of belonging.
Joffrey gestured with his hands, immediately gaining their undivided attention.
“Congratulations to all of you. You are now all Royal Guards,” he declared. “And this city—and soon the Seven Kingdoms themselves—will be under your protection.”
His stern expression softened.
“And as such, I believe you’ve earned a reward.”
At his signal, servants emerged from the edges of the grounds, hauling long wooden tables into place. Soon the scent of roasted meat filled the air—pig crackling at the skin, spiced seasoned chicken, thick cuts of beef still steaming, and pitchers of diluted wine.
“Come, enjoy yourselves!” he proclaimed. “Celebrate our new family. Eat, drink, and be merry.”
The men’s cheers filled the air. Joffrey watched the scene with a satisfied expression, his arms folded. Slowly, Jacelyn approached him.
“Where did all of this come from, Your Grace?” his Master of War asked.
“From the castle’s food stores. Around twenty percent of it.”
Jacelyn’s eyes went wide. “That’s quite bold, Your Grace.”
“You call it bold; I call it necessity,” he replied. “They needed to know that the promise of a better life was real.”
“Make sure they’re outfitted by morning,” Joffrey ordered. “We’ll start adjusting the schedules and assigning specific duties tomorrow.”
“Consider it done, Your Grace.”
“You should join them,” Joffrey added. “It’ll be good for their Vice Commander to be among them.”
“And what of you, Your Grace?”
“Unfortunately, I already have dinner plans,” Joffrey said, his expression betraying his apprehension. “I’m dining with my family—and my future queen’s as well.”
Jacelyn nearly chuckled. Joffrey turned to leave, the sounds of celebration echoing behind him.
Jacelyn called after him, “I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, Your Grace!”
Joffrey laughed and, without turning back, threw a dismissive hand over his shoulder, snapping his fingers in a sharp, mocking gesture of camaraderie. He was already turning his thoughts toward his next appointment, dinner with his future in-laws.
o-O-o
The Red Keep was a silent beast at night.The usual bustle and clattering of servants and guards absent.
Its corridors, so often filled with the scrape of armor and the echo of raised voices, had settled into a watchful hush. Torches burned lower here, their flames trimmed and tended, casting warm gold against pale stone. Beyond the narrow windows of the Hand’s Tower, the city of King’s Landing sprawled in darkness, only the occasional lantern marking life beyond the walls.
Inside the Tower of the Hand, the dining chamber had been set with care. Fresh linens covered the wood—undyed, simple, clean. Plates of glazed ceramic rested neatly at each place, alongside polished cups and folded napkins. Platters of food steamed gently: roasted capon with herbs, trenchers of bread, bowls of greens dressed lightly with oil, honeyed carrots, fresh fruit brought up from the markets earlier that day.
Eight guards stood stationed throughout the chamber.
They were positioned discreetly-two by the doors, two near the windows, the rest along the walls. None spoke. None moved unless required. Their presence was unmistakable, but restrained.
The atmosphere, however, was far from clean. It was thick with a tension that made the air feel heavy. Eddard Stark sat at the far end of the table, his posture as rigid as the Wall. He wore clean clothes—dark wool and simple leather—but his eyes remained cold, tracking every movement of the Royal Guards.
To his right, Sansa sat with her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were white. She kept stealing glances at the door, then at her father, her face a mask of fragile composure. Beside her, Arya was a coiled spring. She didn't look at the food; she looked at the guards, her hand instinctively twitching toward the spot on her hip where a sword should have been.
Opposite them sat Tyrion, who was uncharacteristically silent, nursing a cup of wine and looking between the brooding Wolf and the anxious girls. The silence was agonizing, broken only by the occasional crackle of the hearth.
The doors opened. Joffrey entered, flanked by Myrcella and Tommen.
Lord Eddard rose slowly, his movements deliberate. Sansa and Arya followed suit, though Arya’s gaze was defiant. For a long moment, Ned and Joffrey locked eyes—the man who knew the truth and the boy who occupied the throne. The silence in the room sharpened, the air humming with the unspoken threat of the war raging in the Riverlands.
“My apologies for the delay. I was indisposed,” Joffrey spoke, his tone relaxed. He gestured for them to remain in their seats. “There’s no need for any of that.”
He took his seat at the opposite head. To his right sat Myrcella, who looked nervously at Sansa, and Tommen, who looked eagerly at the food. To Joffrey’s left sat Tyrion.
“You know, nephew,” Tyrion said, his voice cutting through the ice, “most kings invite their Hand for counsel, not supper.”
“This isn’t a council meeting, Uncle. It’s a dinner between our families, and you are part of the family,” Joffrey responded as a matter of fact.
Tyrion blinked, momentarily robbed of his wit. “Y-yes, well. It’s good to see the inside of my eventual office. I do hope I'll be moving in soon.”
“I do believe it was Lord Stark's office before it was yours, Tyrion,” Joffrey retorted. “Besides, it’s not like you need a lot of room.”
Arya let out a sudden, sharp snort of a laugh while Tyrion stared at Joffrey with a blank expression. A few moments passed before Tyrion cleared his throat and spoke.
“I must say, this is a pleasant change. Usually our family dinners involve shouting, wine, and someone threatening someone else.”
“Give it time, Imp,” she joked, her voice breaking the heavy gloom. “The night is still young.”
The tension snapped like a dry twig. Lord Eddard’s jaw dropped slightly in shock at his daughter’s boldness, while Sansa looked as though she might faint. Joffrey’s eyes flared with brief agitation, but when he saw Myrcella hide a giggle behind her hand, the corners of his own mouth twitched.
Tyrion waved off Ned’s impending apology with a dismissive hand. “The girl has a point. And a sharp tongue to match.”
The conversation loosened. Joffrey broke the silence by sipping his Arbor Red. “I trust you’ve been treated well, Lord Stark.”
Eddard looked at him carefully. “As well as can be expected, Your Grace.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Eddard took a breath. “Then yes, Your Grace. My girls and I have been treated very well, and for that you have my thanks.”
Myrcella, sensing the opening, leaned forward toward Arya. “Sansa told me you’re learning Braavosi swordsmanship. Is that true?”
Arya’s eyes lit up. “Water dancing. It’s about being light and quick. You move like water.”
“Do you think I could learn it?” Myrcella asked.
Arya grinned. “If your brother lets you.”
Joffrey felt the weight of the table’s gaze. “I’ll speak with this dancing master. If he agrees, I don’t see why not. But it will be under guard the entire time, is that understood?”
“Yes!” Myrcella beamed.
“You’re fine with your sister learning how to fight, Your Grace?” Lord Eddard asked. “That’s rather unconventional.”
“If she wishes to learn how to defend herself, I don’t see the problem. I could say the same about you and your daughter, Lord Stark.”
Ned tilted his head. “Touché.”
Tommen interjected, boasting of his own training with Master Aron. When the boy reached for another pastry, Joffrey stopped him.
“Tommen, if you want to be a great knight, you need to eat fewer sweets. They make a warrior soft. Just ask Lord Eddard; he’s fought in two wars.”
Tommen turned to the veteran soldier. “Is that true, Lord Stark?”
Eddard hesitated, then nodded slowly. “They do. They make a man’s grip and swing weak.”
Tommen pulled his hand away. “Then what should I eat?”
“Meat,” Joffrey responded. “Meat, greens, fruit, and milk. As our father said: meat for the muscles and milk for the bones. How do you think he got so strong?”
Tommen nodded, accepting the logic. “I’ll become a great knight! Like our Uncle Jaime.”
Ned Stark’s jaw tightened. “Yes, the great knight Jaime Lannister—a man who killed his king by stabbing him in the back.”
The warmth vanished. Sansa stiffened, and Joffrey’s eyes narrowed. A tense silence fell over the room until Joffrey spoke.
“Remind me again, Lord Stark,” Joffrey said, his voice eerily calm, “how did you and Howland Reed defeat Ser Arthur Dayne?”
Ned’s eyes widened. He was reminded once again of Joffrey’s otherworldly knowledge. Arya went to speak of her father’s heroism, but Ned stopped her with a heavy hand on her arm.
“I apologize for my words,” Ned said sincerely. Joffrey nodded, accepting the apology.
The silence lingered until Tyrion spoke up.
“Well? Would anyone care for some more wine?”
Laughter followed, cautious laughter, but laughter all the same. The conversations loosened after that. Tyrion told Ned Stark some of his stories of his travels. Some were funny, some clever, and some just downright inappropriate for a dinner conversation, but the northern lord humored the dwarf. Myrcella and Sansa began having the girls talk about dresses and oils, while Tommen attempted to impress and woo Arya only to face rejection.
For the first time in a long time the war did not exist. For just a moment they were just two highborn families enjoying a meal together, but like all good things it didn’t last long.
Slowly the chamber door opened, and a servant pale and breathless entered, but was stopped at the entrance by his Royal Guards.
“This had better be important.” He said sternly, clearly unhappy by the interruption.
“It is, your grace, I assure you.” The servant responded.
Joffrey nodded silently ordering his men to stand down and allow the servant approach which he promptly did. He leaned in close and whispered something into the king’s ear so quietly that no one else could hear him. For a moment Joffrey’s eyes widened just a fraction, before he nodded his head and dismissed the servant.
“Excuse me,” he said as he put his napkin on his plate and scooted his chair back. “I’ll be back in just a moment.”
He made his way out of the room leaving his confused family behind hearing the door shut behind him, cutting off the warmth of the hearth and low murmur of conversations within. The stone corridor beyond was cooler, the air still and faintly damp, carrying the smell of old stone and candle smoke that never fully left the Red Keep’s walls.
o-O-o
Joffrey walked alone unaccompanied by any guards or escorts. His steps echoed softly, measured and unhurried, though his thoughts had already begun to move faster than his feet. The servant’s whisper replayed itself in his mind-not the words themselves, but the urgency beneath them. The tone of a man delivering news that was too heavy to carry comfortably.
He turned down a lesser-used passage, one that curved away from the well-lit halls and toward the older bones of the castle. Torches grew fewer here, their flames flickering uncertainly as though reluctant to challenge the shadows.
Joffrey stopped before an unremarkable wooden door reinforced with iron bands that had dulled with age. Slowly he opened it and stepped inside.
The chamber beyond was empty save for a narrow table, two chairs, and a single shuttered window. No tapestries adorned the walls. No luxuries softened the space. It was a room meant for conversations that should not be repeated or heard.
“You can come out, Varys,” he called out as he closed the door with a soft thud.
A section of stone shifted almost imperceptibly, and a narrow panel slid aside. From the darkness beyond emerged Varys, his soft shoes making no sound as he entered the room. The panel closed behind him with a faint click, leaving no trace it had ever been there.
The Master of Whisperers bowed deeply. “Your Grace.”
Joffrey turned to face him fully. “It’s a little late to be learning vital information don’t you think?”
Varys smiled apologetically. “News seldom arrives at a convenient hour, your grace.”
Joffrey nodded his head at the eunuch's words as he took a seat at the table, folding his hands atop the worn wood. “How is your mission going with my uncle?”
Varys moved to the opposite chair but did not sit immediately. He seemed to consider the question carefully, as though selecting from several truths.
“Better than expected,” he said at last. “Lord Tyrion is… cautious. But he is also lonely. Purpose has steadied him. Trust follows purpose, given time.”
Joffrey nodded once. “And the drink?”
“Reduced,” Varys replied. “Not abandoned. But no longer his shield.”
“Good.” Joffrey’s gaze sharpened. “Anything else?”
Varys hesitated just long enough to be noticed.
“There is a woman,” he said gently. “A whore from the Lannister’s war camp I believe. Clever. Observant. She calls herself Shae.”
Joffrey’s expression remained neutral. “A new weakness?”
“A comfort,” Varys corrected. “Which may become a weakness if mishandled.”
Joffrey leaned back slightly. “Watch her. Do nothing else unless I say otherwise.”
“As you command.”
Silence settled briefly between them, broken only by the faint hiss of a torch outside the chamber.
Joffrey’s fingers tapped once against the table. “Now. Tell me why you interrupted my dinner with my family?”
Vary’s body stiffened. His voice, when he spoke again, was lower. Tighter.
“My little birds have sighted Robb Stark,” he said. “Twenty thousand northmen, moving south with haste."
Joffrey felt the familiar tightening in his chest-not fear, but anticipation.
“How far?”
“Marching steadily. Well supplied. Morale appears high.”
Joffrey closed his eyes briefly, picturing maps, roads, choke points. “And my grandfather?”
Varys inclined his head. “Occupied.”
Joffrey’s eyes widened slightly with surprise before they narrowed. “Explain.”
“The Vale,” Varys said softly. “Lady Lysa has… unleashed them. The knights of the Vale have fallen upon Lord Tywin’s forces with unexpected ferocity. They are preventing him from pursuing the Young Wolf.”
For a heartbeat, Joffrey said nothing, then he exhaled slowly maintaining his composure.
“So,” he said, “the wolf marches south unopposed… while the lion is delayed by the falcon.”
Varys smiled faintly. “A poetic summary, Your Grace.”
Joffrey did not return the smile. He stood and began to pace, boots whispering against stone.
“Casualties?”
“Significant on both sides,” Varys replied. “But Lord Tywin endures. He always does.”
“Yes,” Joffrey said quietly as he nodded. “He does.”
He stopped by the shuttered window and rested one hand against the wood, feeling the faint vibration of the city beyond. King’s Landing was alive tonight-laughing, drinking, celebrating the induction of four thousand new Royal Guards, who had no idea the war was coming to their door.
“Robb Stark is bold,” Joffrey said. “But he’s not stupid.”
“No,” Varys agreed. “But he believes his cause to be righteous and that can be just as dangerous.”
A moment of silence fell between the two, before Joffrey turned back to the table.
“We meet at first light. Full council. No rumors. No panic. Speak to no one until then.”
“As you wish, your grace.” He tilted his head “What of the Starks?”
“Increase their security. With this much chaos, someone might try something stupid.”
The two exchanged a few more words before the king dismissed the spider to continue his work and Varys vanished once more into the castle’s hidden passage. Joffrey remained alone for a moment longer, closing his eyes. Images flickered through his mind. Images of sparring in the snowy training yard. Images of a shared hunt. Images of drinking from a yard horn while being cheered on by northmen.
He opened his eyes, a slight smile growing across his face.
“Yes,” he thought, a thrill running beneath the iron calm he wore so well.
Come, my friend. Come and be reunited with your family.
He turned and left the chamber.
When Joffrey reentered the Tower of the Hand, the warmth and light embraced him once more. The sound of laughter reached his ears-Tommen’s, bright and unguarded. Sansa looked up as he returned to the table, relief softening her features.
When Joffrey reentered the dining room, the sound of Tommen’s laughter reached him. Sansa looked up, relief in her eyes.
“Is everything alright?”
“Yes, everything is fine,” he assured her, lifting his cup. “For tonight.”
He smiled, already planning for the coming storm that was at that very moment marching toward his gates.
