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The Young Lion Act 2 Ch 6
🕑 Added 2025-12-01 13:00:30 +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 6: Drunkard’s Decision
The journey back to the Red Keep was a blur of frantic urgency. Joffrey rode Glory alongside the slow-moving wagon, the heavy thud of the wheels against the cobblestone road an incessant reminder of the young man’s injury. Joffrey’s jaw was clenched, his mind consumed by guilt.
“My fault. It's entirely my oversight. I was so focused on the grand vision of innovation that I utterly neglected the basic safety protocols. The young smith’s agony is a direct result of my carelessness.” He thought.
As they approached the Red Keep gates, the urgency of the King’s return was immediately noticed. They moved swiftly through the outer and inner yards. Pycelle, alerted by a fast-riding messenger, was waiting in the courtyard, his assistants hovering nervously behind him, gurneys and medical supplies laid out.
The moment the wagon stopped, the Royal Guards on duty moved with surprising efficiency and care. They lifted the unconscious young man, whose face was slick with sweat and grime, onto a medical gurney. Four guards carried him into the castle, following Pycelle, who, spurred by Joffrey’s icy glare, was forced to move at a speed he usually kept well hidden.
“Maester, move your ass! We have no time for your little act!” Joffrey commanded, pushing past his own guards.
They arrived at the Maester’s laboratory, a large, well-lit room scented strongly with antiseptic herbs and faintly old parchment. Pycelle and his assistants immediately set to work, barking orders to one another.
Joffrey and the others stood back, watching the procedure. Joffrey was surprised by Pycelle’s efficiency and clear knowledge of human anatomy, despite the primitive state of medicine in the fantasy medieval world. The old man, for all his political maneuvering and sycophancy, was undeniably skilled in his craft.
What seemed like hours stretched out, filled with the scraping of tools and the low, concerned murmurs of the Maester.
Finally, Pycelle straightened up, wiping his brow with a silk handkerchief. He turned to the King, his posture regaining some of its usual slump.
“Your Grace, the leg is set. The deep lacerations are stitched, and the bone is stabilized. He is a strong young man. He will live.”
Joffrey felt a great weight lift from his shoulders but his face betrayed nothing.
“Will he lose his leg, Grand Maester? Tell me honestly.”
Pycelle shook his head, a rare look of professional pride on his face.
“No, Your Grace. It was a terrible crushing blow, but the damage is manageable, and the blood flow is restored. And thanks to your quick thinking with your sword belt, you managed to stop the severe bleeding. If you don’t mind my asking, where did you learn such a measure? The act saved his life.”
Joffrey just shrugged, playing it off.
“Instinct, Grand Maester. I saw the blood, and I tied it tight.”
The old ferret seemed to buy it, nodding sagely.
“Instinct indeed. Quite remarkable, you would’ve made a fine Maester, your Grace.”
Joffrey tilted his head, appreciating the compliment. The young man was semi-conscious now, moaning softly. Joffrey approached the bedside. The smell of blood and disinfectants was strong.
The smith’s eyes slowly fluttered open. He tried to sit up, a panicked look on his face.
“M-my leg? How will I work?! I have two little girls, Your Grace. I need my pay!”
Joffrey gently grasped the man’s shoulder, forcing him to lie still.
“Your leg is fine, young man. It will heal. And listen closely, this accident was my fault. My oversight. I apologize for my negligence and carelessness.”
The man looked utterly bewildered that the king was apologizing to him.
“You will receive full pay until your recovery is complete,” Joffrey assured him. “Your family will be cared for. You worry about nothing but getting better, do you understand?”
Tears welled in the young man’s eyes.
“Thank you, Your Grace. Thank you.” He tried to bow his head.
Joffrey gripped his shoulder one last time.
“Get some rest.”
The smith obeyed, his eyes closing as exhaustion and the initial shock of the pain relief finally overtook him. Joffrey turned back to the Grand Maester.
“He will require milk of the poppy for the pain, but in small, controlled doses, Grand Maester. Strictly monitored. I do not want him to become reliant on it.”
A sharp memory flashed through Joffrey’s mind: The sterile white walls of a hospital, the relentless, insidious creep of addiction after a parachute jump gone wrong, the desperate need for another pill his bullshit doctor had prescribed; Oxycodone. It was the primary reason he was so adverse to the use of powerful painkillers, even in the medieval fantasy world.
“The Crown will foot the bill for his recovery ,” Joffrey continued, pulling a heavy pouch of gold dragons from his belt. “Give him anything he needs, and you, Grand Maester, will be compensated for any used item as long as his treatment is successful. Now see to his comfort.”
Pycelle’s eyes widened at the sight of the gold.
“Of course, Your Grace! I shall personally oversee his care. He will be back up on his feet in no time.”
Joffrey left the laboratory, making his way down the stone hallway and soon found Ser Barristan, Sandor, Tyrion, Bronn, and Varys waiting for him outside the corridor. Their expressions were a mixture of concern and curiosity.
He answered their unspoken question immediately, his voice tired but firm.
“The young lad will be fine. Pycelle saved his leg.”
Immediately the group's tension eased until Varys posed a question.
“What of his work, Your Grace?” The spider asked curiously.
“This was my mistake, so the crown will compensate him and his family with full pay until he has recovered.”
Tyrion and Bronn seemed surprised by the king’s generosity, unlike the others. Joffrey leaned against the stone wall, allowing himself a moment of weary honesty.
“I was careless. I was so focused on the grandeur of the project that I wasn’t prepared for anything to go wrong. We were lucky no one was killed.”
He ran his hand through his long hair as the magnitude of the mistake weighed on him. The scent of blood and iron was still fresh in his mind. Surprisingly, Tyrion stepped forward and offered a few words of genuine encouragement.
“Your Grace, no man, not even a king, can predict every outcome. You acted swiftly and decisively when the moment called for it. That is what truly matters.”
Joffrey looked at the dwarf, a flicker of appreciation in his eyes.
“Thank you, Uncle.” He nodded. “I will not make that mistake again.”
They began discussing the machine itself.
“While the accident was unexpected, the machine itself was working.” Joffrey commented, his mind already shifting back to problem-solving. “We will have to take a look at their connecting mechanisms. I suspect the iron was too brittle for the machine’s power, or perhaps the bolts were not properly secured. The force generated was immense after all.”
“What of the project itself, Your Grace?” Ser Barristan asked.
“For the time being, I’m going to halt all use of the water wheel and the trip hammers ,” Joffrey declared. “At least until I can procure a dedicated safety and medical team, and until Tobho can reinforce the structure and its mechanisms, but for right now, it’s too great of a risk.”
He paused, considering the need for continued productivity.
“Instead, we will revert to what we know works. We will install a simpler, smaller horse mill in each of the primary forging stations. It won’t offer the full power of the trip hammer, but it will keep production up and allow the men to continue forging the components we need.”
His men agreed, accepting the decision. The safety measure was logical, even if it was frustrating.
o-O-o
Later that afternoon, away from the immediate scrutiny of the Red Keep, Joffrey dispatched a rider. The man, dressed in the standard uniform of the Royal Guard, rode hard back toward the Industrial Sector.
The rider dismounted at Tobho Mott’s shop, presenting a sealed letter to the Overseer.
Tobho, surrounded by his anxious workers who were still shaken from the morning’s events, took the parchment. Since most of the smiths were illiterate, he was the one who would read the King’s words. He broke the seal and unrolled the letter.
He cleared his throat and began to read aloud, his voice booming, cutting through the subdued atmosphere.
“To my esteemed Overseer Tobho Mott and my workers of the Industrial Sector, know that your fellow worker, who was injured this morning, is alive and will make a full recovery.”
A collective gasp of relief swept through the gathered men, quickly followed by a powerful, unified cheer.
Tobho continued, reading off the King’s pledge of full pay and support of the man’s family until he was finished recovering.
As the smiths began to celebrate, slapping each other on the back and letting out joyful cheers, Tobho Mott looked down at the King’s signature. He felt a wave of profound gratitude. He had served previous kings and plenty of lords in the past, but never had a monarch shown such immediate personal care for one of their subjects. Tobho internally thanked the King, knowing Joffrey had just secured the loyalty and devotion of every man in the Industrial Sector that day.
o-O-o
A few days passed, marked by the steady, demanding rhythm of the King’s life. The injured smith was recovering, and the Industrial Sector was adapting to the new, safer pace of production.
Joffrey, accompanied by his uncle Tyrion, traveled to the Tourney grounds, the enormous stadium just outside the city that now served as the living and training area for his newly formed Royal Guards. The journey was quick, the King riding Glory while Tyrion rode his normal mount.
They arrived to find the grounds a whirlwind of purposeful activity. The air was filled with the rhythmic cadence of marching feet, the shouts of drill instructors, and the metallic clang of armor.
They were greeted by Ser Jacelyn Bywater, Joffrey’s Master of War and second in command, along with several of his officers. The men, hardened and disciplined, banged their fists against their chests and saluted with an open palm. The Royal Guards' common salute Joffrey had implemented replaced the tedious and time-consuming kneeling.
Jacelyn greeted the King professionally, the manner of a soldier addressing a superior officer, but his eyes held a clear, proud shine at the King’s visit.
“Your Grace. Welcome to the proving grounds.”
They made their way inside the main training area. Joffrey noted the drills the recruits were currently undergoing, having been split up into different units for his rigorous selection process. The original ten thousand volunteers he had read about in his Master of War’s report had been significantly reduced to around seven thousand. Internally, Joffrey doubted that half of those would make it through the last four weeks of selection, which were traditionally the hardest.
Tyrion was astonished by the men’s training. He watched as large groups performed coordinated physical training. Grunts and yells accompanied pull-ups, push-ups, squats, and long-distance running. He noted the heavy, segmented iron armor the men were wearing even while jogging as a group, designed to build endurance and strength.
They came across a disciplinary section, where lines of recruits were being forced to hold a plank position, their foreheads touching the dusty ground and their arms rigidly held behind their backs. The silence in this section was absolute, broken only by the sharp, ragged breathing of the straining men.
“What was their crime, Ser Jacelyn?” Tyrion asked, his eyebrows raised.
Jacelyn’s expression was unyielding.
“They were late by one minute for morning PT, Lord Hand. They must be punished accordingly. Discipline is paramount.”
The dwarf was shocked by the level of discipline being instilled over such a slight mistake, but he noted the many recruits’ stoic and hardened dispositions. There was no whining, no complaining, just silent burning focus.
Moving on from the recruits, Joffrey visited his current Royal Guard Cohorts who were in the middle of their daily training. Keeping their skills as sharp as Valyrian steel.
Joffrey watched with pride as one cohort quickly assembled into Formation C, which was based on the Roman Legion’s Testudo formation. With startling speed, the men formed a tight rectangular block, the front rank holding the medium-sized heater shields forward, and the men in the ranks behind them holding their shields overhead to create a protective shell against incoming projectiles.
Meanwhile, a smaller group practiced Formation D , which was designed after the Legion’s Orbis tactic which involved a defensive circle used by a surrounded and outnumbered group of soldiers to protect all flanks against an overwhelming force.
As Joffrey and his escort passed by, every single soldier, whether in the Testudo or Orbis, stopped their drill instantly. With a synchronized thump of their fists hitting their chests, they saluted the King, showing their devotion, respect, and fanaticism.
Tyrion’s mouth hung open slightly. He had never seen such military precision or such personal loyalty in any Westerosi army, not even his father’s.
Joffrey returned their salute with his own open palm.
“As you were,” he commanded.
The soldiers immediately resumed their training, the clash of shields and the barking of orders filling the air once more. Joffrey began speaking with Jacelyn on the progress of the recruits, discussing supply lines and training schedules, while a flabbergasted Tyrion observed from the side.
“They don’t fear him, they revere him.” Tyrion thought, watching the soldiers train. “He wasn’t wrong, these aren’t just peasants playing at soldiers, that's for sure.”
The dwarf finally realized the true scale of the power Joffrey was amassing, a power built not on fear, but on purpose and discipline.
Joffrey eventually moved on from the group formations, the intense atmosphere of discipline following him like a shadow. He made his way toward the individual training stations, the pace slow and deliberate, allowing him to observe their individual preparation.
He watched as one line of Royal Guards practiced their spear thrust on straw dummies, moving in perfect synchronized rhythm. Others hammered relentlessly at wooden, human-shaped posts with their short swords , the snap of wood a constant beat. Further down, men practiced with the bow, shooting at targets that spun on a wheel, ensuring they could hit moving marks. Joffrey’s objective was clear: despite each man having individual strengths, he wanted his soldiers to be able to fill any need at any time, equally adept with sword, spear, or bow.
He slowly approached the line of soldiers engaged in mock duels, practicing their sword skills against each other with blunted arming swords. He watched, satisfied by their controlled aggression, until one soldier over-committed to a wide slash, leaving his flank exposed. His opponent capitalized instantly, disarming the man with a quick parry, and holding his own sword point at the man’s throat.
“Hold!” Joffrey’s voice cut through the noise, clear and sharp.
Immediately the soldiers froze, snapped to attention, and separated back into two lines of five. Joffrey walked down the center past them, and picked up the arming sword that had been disarmed. He approached the two Royal Guards.
He held the blunted blade at the disarmed man’s throat, his expression stoic and unwavering.
“Don’t let your footing betray you. Remember the strength of your attack doesn’t come from the power of your arms, but from the ground that holds your feet.”
The Royal Guard swallowed hard. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Joffrey returned the sword, patting the man’s shoulder.
“Continue,” he ordered.
The soldiers obeyed instantly, resuming their duels as Joffrey walked past them.
He then noticed a soldier having difficulty with the mechanism of one of the new crossbows, specifically struggling with the goat's foot lever used for cocking the weapon. Joffrey approached and helped him, adjusting his grip and demonstrating the correct angle of the pull.
Meanwhile, Tyrion, feeling ignored and perhaps seeking to assert some of his new authority, made his way over to a group of soldiers practicing their marching drills.
“You there!” Tyrion barked, his voice carrying an inherent tone of command. “I require some information regarding the supply store. Tell me about the current iron rations.”
The Royal guards did not stop. They continued marching, their eyes fixed forward. One of them, without breaking his stride, spoke coldly.
“Go away, Lannister.”
Tyrion stopped dead, flabbergasted by the sheer audacity of the remark.
“Have you all lost your minds? I am the King’s Hand!”
The soldier who had spoken glanced at him, his face devoid of emotion.
“Aye, but we are the King’s Sabers, not the Hand’s Sabers. And our brother sits the throne, not you Lannister.”
Tyrion was rendered speechless by the dismissal. He stood there sputtering, his supposed authority completely ignored.
Just then, Ser Jacelyn Bywater, who had been observing the exchange from a distance, approached. The men immediately snapped out of their marching and stood at rigid attention before the commander.
Jacelyn’s voice was low and dangerous. “What was that, Private?”
“We dismissed the King’s Hand, Commander,” the soldier reported stiffly.
Jacelyn’s eyes, cold as ice, swept over the men.
“Lord Tyrion is still the King’s uncle, and while your loyalty to the Crown is commendable, you have shamed His Grace with your remarks towards his appointed Hand. You will show respect.”
The men, chastised, apologized in unison.
“We apologize, Lord Hand.”
Jacelyn didn’t wait for a reply. “Report to the disciplinary sector. Immediately, double time!”
The soldiers obeyed instantly, running toward the plank lines without question.
Jacelyn turned back to Tyrion, the Master of War and the Hand of the King left standing alone amidst the dust and the disciplined sounds of training. Ser Jacelyn and Tyrion stood before each other, the noise of the training grounds providing a rhythmic backdrop to their conversation.
“My apologies, Lord Hand,” Jacelyn said, his tone professional, though the stiffness in his posture remained. "They're still new. They still have much to learn about respecting the King’s appointments.”
Tyrion, still reeling from the dismissal, watched the running recruits.
“Their devotion is…remarkable. What has my nephew done to earn such loyalty? It’s beyond simple loyalty to the Crown.”
Jacelyn’s one hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his gaze steady. There was a subtle annoyance in his eyes, a clear indication that he was tired of Tyrion’s cynical attitude towards the King.
“Perhaps, Lord Hand, you do not know the King as well as you think you do.” Jacelyn paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle. “He lifted every single man in this guard up. He gave them strength, he gave them purpose, and he gave them a family. He took men who were nothing—just overlooked, forgotten, or discarded—and gave them a reason to stand tall. Can you say the same?”
Tyrion contemplated the one-handed knight’s words, the logic of the statement cutting through his usual cynicism.
“Even you, Ser?” He asked.
“Especially me,” Jacelyn said, his voice dropping slightly, laced with a familiar distant bitterness.
He told the dwarf his story, recounting his life as a pathetic drunkard who spent any coin he earned on cheap booze to drown his sorrows. His great victory at Pyke had been stolen by Mace Tyrell, who took credit for the strategy that had cost Jacelyn his hand. The betrayal had sent him into a spiral of self-pity and resentment.
“I was drowning in cheap wine and regret when the king found me,” Jacelyn recalled. “He didn’t offer me pity. He showed me the truth: that a man’s duty isn’t about taking credit, but saving lives, which I had done at Pyke.”
Joffrey had given him a choice: “Come with me and save some more, or drown yourself to an early grave thinking of regrets and self-pity.”
Jacelyn’s eyes drifted momentarily to his belt.
“He placed a dagger, and a gold dragon coin on the table and told me to decide. The coin to buy the next drink, the dagger to choose duty.”
“I chose the dagger,” Jacelyn finished, patting the weapon tucked into his belt, a constant reminder of the day he chose purpose over despair. Joffrey had named him his commander, trusting him implicitly.
“I tell you this, Lord Hand, so you may understand your nephew better, and to explain the devotion you see here.” Jacelyn’s eyes narrowed, his tone shifting, becoming a quiet steel-edge to it. “He saved my life, and the lives of these men. We are his, and should anyone ever betray that trust or turn on him, they will find that devotion is a far sharper blade than mere fear.”
Tyrion got the message. The threat was subtle, yet undeniable. He nodded his head slowly, acknowledging the power dynamics and the dangerous loyalty of the Royal Guards.
At that moment, Joffrey called an end to the visit, riding up on Glory.
“Jacelyn, excellent work. I expect you to keep it up and continue to produce results. I will be here for the ceremony when it is time to welcome our new brothers.”
“It will be ready, Your Grace.” Jacelyn replied, banging his chest in salute.
o-O-o
The pair returned to the city once Tyrion was mounted on his horse. Tyrion rode in silence, the rhythmic clopping of the horses’ hooves accompanying his internal thoughts. He had remembered the rotten boy's past cruelty, but the man riding beside him didn't resemble him at all, and for the first time, he was starting to see it. That rotten boy would never have saved a mere smith’s life, or inspire such loyalty in men.
“Perhaps,” Tyrion thought as he looked at his nephew. “Perhaps I’ve been blinded by past actions. Perhaps he has changed for the better.”
The pair returned to the castle with Joffrey taking his first step in winning his uncle to his side.
