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The Young Lion Act 2 Ch 5
🕑 Added 2025-11-24 14:00:23 +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 5: The Consequence of Innovation
The walk from the training yard to the Red Keep’s stables took Joffrey and his escort past the kitchens, where the warm, yeast smell of baking bread mingled briefly with the sharp scent of the sea air before they descended toward the yard where the horses were kept.
As they entered the stables, a different set of smells enveloped them: the dry, sweet scent of fresh hay, the pungent, earthy musk of the animals' manure, and the warm, comforting smell of riding leather. The sounds were a constant, low murmur of hooves on stone, with the occasional high-pitched whinny from a nervous mare, and the rustle of straw as the stable boys worked.
Joffrey paused near the row of stalls dedicated to the castle’s mounts. He spotted the elk he had gifted Tommen back in the North when he and Sandor hunted its mother. It was a young beast still shedding its winter coat. Its new antler nubs, covered in soft velvet, were beginning to sprout. Tommen adored the beast, spending hours feeding it oats and talking to it, a harmless pastime that Joffrey encouraged, wanting only for his brother to be happy.
His gaze moved to a spacious, separate kennel built of sturdy oak and iron bars. Inside was Lady, his future queen’s beloved direwolf. The large grey wolf lifted her head as Joffrey approached, her eyes locking onto his. A low whine escaped her throat—a sound of recognition, not aggression.
The King walked right up to the bars, letting the wolf smell the leather of his riding gloves and the linen of his tunic to ensure she knew exactly who he was. Lady pressed her head against the iron. Joffrey reached through the bars, his fingers finding the thick fur behind her collar. He scratched firmly, and the direwolf leaned into the touch, a deep, satisfied rumble vibrating in her throat.
For a brief moment, the familiar scent of the dog and the feel of the thick fur made Joffrey recall his past life, remembering a German Shepherd named Max, a loyal beast his father had given to him as a pup. The memory brought a sharp, unexpected pang of grief, a reminder of the unconditional loyalty that had cost his first friend its life. Joffrey quickly suppressed the emotion, his jaw tightening, before he withdrew his hand, his face steeling back into the King’s mask once more.
The stable boys brought forth his personal stallion, a magnificent beast of chocolate brown with a contrasting white mane and tail, which the original Joffrey had named “Glory.” The horse was powerful and intelligent. Joffrey stroked the horse calmly along its warm side. Glory leaned its massive head down towards him, and Joffrey held its head in his hands, pressing his forehead against the soft velvet between the horse’s eyes. He felt the animal's steady, massive heartbeat beneath his touch.
He then moved to the saddle, pulling on his riding gloves before swinging himself up atop the powerful horse.
One by one, the others accompanying him mounted as well. Ser Barristan mounted a gray mare, while Sandor was perched atop a black stallion bigger than Glory. His uncle needed assistance mounting his horse due to his stature, and even Varys rode atop a smaller, slimmer mare with his robes hanging down its sides.
Joffrey had briefly considered inviting Sansa as well. But she was currently deep in one of her personal queen lessons Joffrey had arranged—lessons that went far beyond anything menial like sewing and courtly manners, and instead delved into administration, logistics, and the responsibilities of the Crown. He encouraged her to think independently and embrace the intelligence he knew she possessed.
Ser Barristan’s clear voice cut through Joffrey’s thoughts.
“Are you ready, Your Grace?”
Joffrey nodded, pulling on the reins.
“Yes, I am. Is everyone else?” He asked as he looked over those accompanying him, most shaking their heads.
As they began to move, Tyrion, after adjusting his seat, leaned toward Joffrey, letting out a theatrical sigh.
“I’m guessing we won’t be able to stop at any taverns or brothels, Your Grace? I’ve packed my own refreshments, of course.”
The King didn’t respond to the obnoxious quip. He simply rolled his eyes, a tiny expression of annoyance, and nudged Glory forward. The rest of the men—Ser Barristan, Sandor, and even Bronn—ignored the dwarf’s remarks. Their attention focused entirely on the King’s retreating back.
Joffrey trotted Glory toward the Red Keep’s main gate, the others falling into formation behind him, leaving a bewildered Tyrion behind.
“What?” He asked, confused, looking around only to find Varys beside him. “Was it something I said?”
Varys merely offered a slight shrug, his face unreadable, before following the King at a steady pace. Tyrion huffed, adjusted the bridle, and after a moment of frustration, urged his mount to catch up.
o-O-o
The procession moved out from the Red Keep, the heavy iron gate groaning as it was raised. Glory’s hooves clopped steadily on the cobbled stone streets as they descended into the city below.
The change in King’s Landing, even after only six weeks of Joffrey’s focused rule, was palpable. The air, though still carrying the underlying, unavoidable scent of the crowded city—a mix of woodsmoke, cheap wine, and distant sea salt—was noticeably cleaner. The lingering, pervasive smell of human waste, a constant reminder of the lack of sanitation, was already slightly diminished. Joffrey had commanded his Royal Guard to enforce strict sanitation laws and had begun the process of clearing the most egregious piles of waste that had choked the alleys for decades.
As they rode through the streets, the architecture was still a haphazard jumble of mismatched stone and wood, houses leaning precariously close to one another, a legacy of three centuries of unchecked growth. Joffrey looked at the cramped dwellings and reaffirmed his future plans, which entailed renovating the entire city, creating proper roads and alleys, as well as buildings not stacked on top of one another. He mentally noted that this massive and rather complex endeavor would require the unique skills of his new Hand, Tyrion.
The commoners lining the streets were the most striking difference. These were the people who had been oppressed and neglected under Robert's rule, and before that had been terrorized by the Mad King. Now, despite the current five-way civil war and the Tyrell’s blockade, they looked healthy, their faces fuller, their clothes mended and clean. They were not just surviving; they seemed to genuinely be content.
When the crowd spotted the golden-haired King and his escort, a swell of noise rose up. A chorus of cheers erupted, a genuine, heartfelt sound of applause. People waved their hands, shouting praises and encouragement. Some parents quickly hoisted their children onto their shoulders so they could see the young King better.
Joffrey’s King mask—the cold, stern, and stoic expression he maintained in court when dealing with his advisors and nobles—faded. A happy, genuine smile touched his lips as he lifted his hand and waved back at some of the crowd.
Ser Barristan Selmy rode slightly behind him, his posture ever impeccable. The old knight watched the commoners’ reaction with deep satisfaction. He was deeply happy to be finally serving a good King, one who prioritized the lives of the smallfolk over the vanity of the nobles.
Sandor Clegane, riding his massive black stallion, remained impassive. He couldn't care less about the cheering masses; for him, he was simply doing his job as the King’s sworn shield. He was, however, marginally happier that the twat he guarded had stopped calling him "dog" and had started treating him with a measure of professionalism. It was a change he hadn’t asked for, but was certainly appreciated.
Tyrion, trotting along on his mount, watched the scene unfold with a mixture of shock and grudging admiration. “The boy is loved,” he thought, the realization hitting him with the force of a warhammer. “Not feared, not tolerated, but genuinely loved. He spent six weeks undoing years of the Crown’s neglect. Breadlines, the enforced sanitation, the new peasant army from the slums…this boy is more competent than I thought.” Tyrion frowned, adjusting his seat. He had come to the city ready to smack sense into his bloodthirsty nephew, yet found himself witnessing a miracle. “The commoners are happy and healthy. How did he do all of this?”
Varys, riding near Tyrion, observed the scene with a quiet elation. “The realm is healing,” he mused. The cheers were music to his ears, confirming the success of their collective efforts. “He is a king focused on what's actually important: the people.”
Eventually, they reached the former Street of Steel, now rebranded as the Industrial Sector. The area was a hive of controlled activity. The rhythmic clang of hammers was a constant, but it was organized, not chaotic. The once independent shops now worked in unison, their output directed by the central authority of the Crown.
Joffrey and his escort dismounted. Stable boys rushed forward to take the reins.
The King walked toward the center of the yard where Overseer Tobho Mott, a large older man with broad shoulders despite his age, was directing a team of smiths.
Tobho spotted the King and immediately stopped his work, a wide, proud smile spreading across his face. He greeted Joffrey warmly, not with a bow, but by clasping forearms like an old friend.
“Your Grace! I’m so glad you could make it!” Tobho’s voice boomed, smelling strongly of iron and coal smoke.
“Of course I made it, Tobho. I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Joffrey replied as he released his grip. “It looks even better than the last time I was here.”
“It is better, Your Grace. We are hitting your shift quotas ahead of schedule. The new organization has increased productivity by nearly a third already.” Tobho unrolled a piece of parchment from a loop on his belt. “Here are the latest reports on the steel output, including the new alloys we were experimenting with for your Sabers’ armor.”
They walked further into the sector side-by-side while Tobho continued his report. Joffrey nodded and made sure his employees were being paid on time, which Tobho assured him they were.
“The smiths are happy, Your Grace,” he assured the young King. “They know their work is important. But you came to see the prototype, didn't you?”
Which Joffrey nodded, amused by his Overseer's childlike enthusiasm.
“Well, follow me, Your Grace,” he gestured with his hand. “Right this way.”
Clang Clang Clang
The deeper they walked into the Industrial Sector, the louder the environment became, the constant banging of hammers against steel filling the air. They passed massive stacks of newly forged iron beams, destined for the city’s future renovation projects. Further on, specialized teams were working on advanced weaponry for Joffrey’s army: articulated spring steel armor plates, lever crossbows, and even modified scorpions designed after the Korean hwacha that was capable of firing hundreds of arrows in a single volley, their mechanisms still covered by canvas.
Joffrey ignored the fascinating projects, his focus fixed on the water wheel prototype. He knew the importance of these weapons, but the water wheel represented the fundamental shift in the realm’s economy.
Tobho led them to his old, cavernous shop, which now housed the prototype. The massive space smelled of fresh-cut wood and heavy oil.
As they entered, Joffrey and his entire escort—Barristan, Sandor, Tyrion, Bronn, and Varys—all stopped, awed by the sheer size of the machine.
The water wheel itself was a giant wooden construct, easily twenty feet in diameter. It stood connected to a complex system of cams and levers designed to lift and drop three massive iron trip hammers. These hammers, each weighing hundreds of pounds, were intended for forging the largest pieces of iron necessary for shipbuilding and large-scale construction.
Tyrion squinted at the mechanism, unconvinced.
“A marvelous piece of woodwork, Tobho, but without a source of water, it’s just a giant piece of wood.”
Tobho chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound.
“Ah, Lord Hand, that is why his Grace is a visionary, and we are but simple smiths.” He stepped closer to the wheel, his excitement evident. “The power source is irrelevant to the principle. This simple tool is revolutionary. Once we harness a proper water source, or even steam, these trip hammers will work tirelessly, day and night, requiring only a handful of men to manage the metal. It will nearly triple our productivity on heavy forging alone.”
Joffrey nodded, allowing Tobho to be the one to explain the wheel's importance. The water wheel represented the fundamental shift in the realm’s economy—the move from agrarian feudalism to industrial power.
“Seeing is believing, I suppose,” Tyrion muttered, still skeptical, though his eyes were fixed on the intricate system of the cams.
Since they lacked a flowing water source, a team of four stout mules, harnessed to a circular mechanism, stood ready to provide the initial spin.
“Ready, lads!” Tobho shouted.
With a crack of a whip and the grunts of the mules, the wheel began to turn.
A low groan of wood under immense pressure filled the shop, followed by the satisfying creak of the cams engaging and beginning to turn. Then came the sound Joffrey had been waiting for: the powerful, earth-shattering whomping of the trip hammers that lifted and dropped in unison, pounding rhythmically against the metal on the anvil with incredible, sustained force.
The operation was hypnotic. Joffrey clapped Tobho on the back, beaming.
“Excellent work, Tobho! It is running perfectly.”
But the moment of triumph was short-lived.
Suddenly, a sharp metallic snap cut through the rhythm. One of the iron pins connecting a cam to its lever snapped. A loose piece of metal shot out, narrowly missing the head of a nearby worker.
The trip hammer connected to the broken cam began to malfunction, rising too high and dropping unevenly, becoming visibly unstable. The whole mechanism began to shake with terrible rattles and shudders.
“Stop the wheel! Stop the wheel!” Tobho roared, frantically signaling the mule drivers.
The drivers scrambled to halt the mules. The great wooden wheel slowed with a loud, protesting screech.
But it was too late. Before the wheel came to a complete stop, the unstable trip hammer, now completely detached from the cam, swung wildly and crashed down.
A gut-wrenching, high-pitched scream of pure agony filled the silence that followed the crash.
The trip hammer had fallen, crushing the shin of a young smith who’d been standing too close, preparing the metal.
The young man was pinned, his body arching in an impossible position, his hands clawing at the hunk of iron pressing into his leg.
The workers froze for a stunned moment. Then several moved, shouting, trying to lift the immense weight.
Joffrey didn’t hesitate. He pushed past the sudden barrier formed by Sandor and Ser Barristan, who had instantly shielded him with their bodies.
“Help him!” Joffrey yelled, his voice cutting through the panic.
He rushed toward the fallen hammer, grabbing the edge of the cold, heavy iron. He strained, his muscles burning, adding his weight to the efforts of the smiths. Sandor, seeing the King’s action, immediately joined him, his massive strength invaluable. Ser Barristan, abandoning his defensive posture, also grabbed the iron, and with a combined, agonizing heave, they managed to lift the hammer enough for the workers to pull the young man free.
The smith’s leg was an unnatural, bloody mess. He was writhing, letting out short, choked sobs of pain.
Joffrey immediately tore off his sword belt, dropping the heavy leather and gold to the dusty floor. Relying on his first aid training from his previous life, he used the belt to tie a tight, makeshift tourniquet high on the young man’s thigh, just above the wound. The bleeding immediately slowed.
“Hold him steady!” Joffrey commanded, his hands moving quickly and efficiently.
Sandor Clegane, his face grim, knelt and used his own massive body to hold the flailing, screaming smith down.
“Easy, lad. Easy.” Sandor grunted, holding the boy’s shoulders until Joffrey finished setting his broken knee. With a final, shuddering breath, the young man passed out from the shock.
Joffrey quickly examined the leg, noting the compound fracture. He worked with Sandor to gently set the leg as straight as possible, using a piece of spare timber as a makeshift splint.
He straightened up, his chest heaving, his immaculate black riding gloves stained crimson. He internally cursed himself for his negligence and complacency. “I got complacent with the success! How could I not have a medical team on standby with such a dangerous project?!” he thought.
“Tyrion! Varys!” Joffrey barked, his voice sharp with urgency. “Find a wagon! Now! We are taking him back to the Red Keep for the Grand Maester.”
Tyrion and Varys, shocked out of their stupor by the sudden, violent turn of events and the King’s decisive action, scrambled to obey.
Eventually, a small, flat-bed wagon was procured. Sandor, with surprising tenderness, loaded the unconscious young man onto the back, cushioning his head with a thick leather jacket.
Joffrey turned to Tobho, whose face was pale with guilt and shock.
“Tobho, I apologize, but we must leave. We will send you and your team word on his condition as soon as we have it. We will discuss the malfunction later. For now, see to your men, and secure the machine.”
Tobho and the surrounding smiths bowed, their faces etched with gratitude.
“Thank you, Your Grace. Thank you.”
Joffrey remounted Glory, ignoring the blood on his clothes and gloves. He turned his horse and followed the slow, bumpy wagon back toward the Red Keep, the silence of the returned journey heavy with the consequences of innovation.
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Angus
Thanks for the chapter!
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