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The Young Lion Act 2 Ch 2
🕑 Added 2025-11-10 23:16:46 +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 2: The Imp’s Arrival
“Oh please don’t get up,” Tyrion remarked, his voice dripping with a sticky layer of sarcasm as he waddled further into the chamber, his cutthroat Bronn trailing him like a shadow.
He strode forward with the confidence of a man who knew his value, despite the size of his stature. He stopped placing his hands on the polished oak table getting a better survey of the seated figures.
“Beloved nephew,” he continued, his tone saturated with mock affection. “We looked for you on the battlefield, where a king is supposed to prove their mettle, and you were nowhere to be found.” Finishing his jab with a humourless laugh.
Joffrey didn’t flinch, not allowing the slightest twitch of annoyance to cross his features. He maintained the same calm air of regal indifference, his expression smooth and as hard as the Valyrian steel dagger he kept at his hip.
“I’ve been busy,” he finally replied, his voice flat devoid of emotion. He let the silence hang in the air for a moment letting Tyrion’s annoyance build before he continued. “We can’t all spend our days drinking away the memories of our bad childhood, uncle. Someone has to actually run the kingdoms.”
The dwarfs smug grin faltered, his left eye twitching slightly at the unexpected insult. He opened his mouth for another snide remark, but his words died in his throat as he slowly took in the sight of the young king in front of him. It had been nearly a year since he’d last seen Joffrey, and the petulant youth had undergone a startling transformation.
He was no longer the soft pink-cheeked youth Tyrion remembered. Joffrey had grown several inches, now standing slightly shorter than Jaime. His black doublet, simple yet elegant, fit snugly over his shoulders that were undeniably broader, and arms that strained against the fabric. The changes weren’t just physical; the air around him was completely different. It was colder, more controlled, and utterly lacking the petulant spoiled sadism Tyrion had found revolting.
“I can see the tales of your death were unfounded,” Joffrey continued cooly, dragging his uncle out of his astonished appraisal. “Though that begs the question why are you here?”
Tyrion regained his composure, forcing his signature smug grin spreading back across his face. He pulled one of the chairs from the table, scraping it loudly against the stone floor. Before stopping it on the other head of the table, directly across from Joffrey, positioning himself as an equal rather than just another councilor.
“It’s been a remarkable journey, truly,” he continued as he settled into his chair. “I pissed off the edge of the Wall, I slept in a sky cell, I even fought in the Vanguard with my Hill Tribes, yes so many adventures.”
Slowly he reached out for the copper pitcher resting near the Grand Maester, intending to pour himself a healthy measure of Arbor Red. Only to find the pitcher's contents were clear and cool water, making an annoyed expression etched across his face.
“I meant what are you doing here?” The king repeated, feigning ignorance as he gestured broadly to the members and the chamber itself. “This is the Small Council, uncle, not one of your brothels.”
Tyrion’s smug smile returned as he addressed his nephew.
“Yes, well I do believe that the Hand of the King is permitted at all Small Council meetings.” He responded.
Ser Jacelyn, stiffened in his seat. “Lord Tywin is the Hand of the king,” he interjected, his voice sharp with annoyance at the dwarfs' attitude towards his king and commander.
Tyrion appraised the knight, his eyes lingering on the iron fist of his left hand.
“Yes, but in his absence,” he then reached down to his belt and pulled out a rolled up scroll offering it to the Spider.
Varys slowly unrolled the piece of parchment, his expression impassive as he did. Slowly he smoothed the creases of the paper and read its contents aloud, his soft voicing carrying across the vast chamber.
“I Lord Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West, and Hand of the King, name my son Tyrion of House Lannister to serve in my stead as Hand effective immediately. To ensure the safety and stability of the Capital until my return from the front.” Varys finished, rolling the scroll back up and handing it back to Tyrion.
Joffrey listened to the contents of the letter along with the others, though unlike them he wasn’t surprised. He figured Tywin would be displeased with his execution of the nobles, and more likely his refusal to hand over any of the Starks to secure Jaime’s release. He anticipated he would probably send someone to rein him and his mother in, not knowing that Cersei had been sent back to the Westernlands over a month prior. Though despite the insult of Tywin sending him a babysitter, Joffrey couldn’t have been more pleased with the choice. Tyrion, despite his many flaws, was the most politically astute of the Lannister children. Using his shrewd mind to make up for his lack of stature, which could prove invaluable to his future plans.
“Well I believe that’s enough for one day,” The king finally spoke, breaking the tense silence that had befallen the room. He slowly addressed the rest of his council, his voice regaining its calm, authoritative tone. “You all have your orders. Lord Lark, continue to broaden our trade networks. Lady Ros, ensure the coffers remain full and the breadlines stocked. Ser Jacelyn, continue the preparations on the next batch of Royal Guards, I’ll be inspecting them later this week, and I expect to see results.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the councilors responded as one, their voices echoing with clear deference and respect. Tyrion’s eyebrows rose slightly at the unified admiration.
“Good. We’ll reconvene at the same time tomorrow. Now, leave us.”
The councilors rose from their individual seats, each bowing their heads to the king and begrudgingly to the new temporary Hand before making their way out of the chamber. Pycelle shuffled out his long robes sliding against the stone floor. Varys slipped away, his gaze meeting Joffrey’s for a fleeting moment, a silent understanding of their shared agenda.
Sansa was the last to leave. She paused beside the king’s chair, her usual timid demeanor replaced by a shy girlish affection. She lightly brushed her hand against his cheek, which Joffrey caught. His expression softened momentarily, and brought the back of her hand to his lips, pressing a gentle tender kiss against her knuckles.
“Until tomorrow, my Lady,” He muttered, his voice low enough only she could hear him.
“Until tomorrow, Your Grace,” she whispered back a faint genuine smile gracing her lips before she turned and strode out of the chamber. The heavy oak doors closing behind her with a soft thud.
With the chamber doors shut, only Joffrey and Tyrion remained in the chamber. Joffrey did not move, still enjoying the brief exchange of affection. Tyrion, after a moment, pushed his chair back and waddled like a duck around the rectangular table until he stood directly beside the king. He sat down again sitting directly to the king’s right, he then leaned over his eyes fixed on the copper pitcher. The King however reached the pitcher first, grabbing it by its handle and setting it just outside the dwarf’s reach.
“The Stark girl is becoming quite the beauty I see,” He commented, trying to ignore the pitcher that he knew contained wine, letting his eyes drift to the path Sansa had left. “I bet you can’t wait for your wedding night huh? Pulling off those gowns and seeing what lays beneath?”
Joffrey’s gaze snapped to his uncle’s face, the warmth he’d shown Sansa a moment ago vanishing instantly, replaced by a cold steel gaze.
“If you dare to leer at her with those disgusting eyes of yours, I’ll have them removed,” Joffrey warned, his voice dangerously low, completely devoid of any youthful bluster. It was a simple statement of intent by a man who had every intention of following through.
Tyrion swallowed hard hearing his nephew’s words. The threat was not delivered with any of the histrionics he’d expect from the brat, but with a flat absolute certainty that convinced him Joffrey wasn’t bluffing. Still, he refused to show any fear, maintaining his signature grin though it slightly strained around the edges.
“Though, I’m curious uncle,” Joffrey continued shifting the topic, the threat receding slightly but with clear danger still present in the air. “How exactly did you convince grandfather to pick you as his stand in? I thought he would’ve chosen Ser Kevan to serve instead?”
“Sorry to disappoint but it wasn’t anything on my end, I’m afraid,” Tyrion remarked, his eyes continuing to drift longingly towards the wine pitcher. “I’m afraid this is all on you and the consequences of your choices.”
“Me? What exactly have I done to warrant such a response?”
“Oh, I don’t know, let me think,” Tyrion drawled, ticking off the offences on his fingers one by one. “Perhaps refusing to hand over any of the Starks so we could secure your uncle Jaime’s release? Or perhaps executing over twenty noblemen in a public display of brutality?” His voice carried a hint of scorn for the perceived stupidity in his nephew's actions.
“It was necessary,” Joffrey shrugged, unbothered by his uncle’s accusations.
“Necessary?” Tyrion scoffed. “You had twenty nobles beheaded before the entire city. Now the entire Vale has risen up against us. Lysa Arryn, as mad as she is, has declared her son The King of the Mountain and the Vale, and currently has an army nearly forty thousand strong mobilizing. And you call that necessary?”
“Littlefinger was a snake, and had the others under his thumb, they threatened to poison all I planned to build,” Joffrey explained, unbothered by one more kingdom joining in the rebellion. “He and those that followed him to his grave were planning to betray me the moment Stannis or Renly’s armies were at our gates. I saw an opportunity to rid my court of corruption and send a message to the ones smart enough to remain hidden about the price of treason.”
Tyrion immediately became quiet. He had assumed the executions were just another sadistic indulgence, for the boy king to feel powerful. But Joffrey’s explanation proved it was a cold, calculated strategy. He didn’t kill them out of rage, but political necessity, using the public bloody spectacle as a brutal deterrent.
“It seems his mind has matured along with his body,” Tyrion thought, looking the boy king up and down again. “Perhaps this won’t be a total disaster after all.”
“I still think you could have handled it with a bit more discretion,” Tyrion actually said, pushing back slightly. “Now we have another king to deal with, and one with forty thousand swords at its back.”
“If it was discreet, it wouldn’t have been much of a message now would it?” Joffrey dismissed his concerns with the wave of his hand. “Besides, I’m not concerned about some stillborn lamb or his neurotic mother. Or even the Young Wolf for that matter.”
“Oh really?” The dwarf asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “The young man who has yet to taste defeat on the battlefield, who crushed half of your grandfather’s army and holds your uncle captive, doesn’t concern you? You do realize what awaits us if we lose the war right? The sack of this city, the end of House Lannister, and a very short walk to a bloody stump.”
“Then we won’t lose,” Joffrey responded in a very matter-of-fact way.
Tyrion just stared at the young king unsure if he was looking at an arrogant fool or an idealistic idiot. The sheer confidence and certainty radiating from the new king was a little unnerving.
“By the way, where is your mother at?” Tyrion asked, switching the subject, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I haven’t smelled her stench since I arrived.”
Joffrey chuckled internally at his uncle's clear disdain for Cersei.
“I sent her back to Casterly Rock over a month ago, Tyrion. She is forbidden from returning to the capital for the remainder of the war. And possibly beyond.”
Tyrion’s mouth hung open slightly. He had expected Cersei to be the one pulling the strings from behind the scenes, as Joffrey served as a figurehead.
“Why?” Was the only word he managed to speak.
“Because she’s a paranoid fool who nearly ruined all of my future plans by having Sansa killed,” Joffrey said, his annoyance clear in his voice. “She mistook my throne for her own, and I can no longer turn a blind eye to her petty indulgences.”
The dwarf slowly started seeing the young king in a new light. He’d know for a while the boy had undergone some kind of change of epic proportions. Though he’d underestimated the degree of his change. Not only had he stood up to his halfwit mother, but he went so far as to banish her for political reasons, protecting the Starks in the process. He had made a rational decision, a strategic decision.
The pair sat in utter silence for a moment, the only sound was the soft creaks of the heavy oak table. The king finally reached for the wine pitcher he’d denied Tyrion moments earlier.
“So, it seems you’ll be acting as my Hand for the time being,” Joffrey commented, his expression an unreadable mask as he filled the eager dwarf’s cup with a generous portion of Arbor Red.
“So it would seem,” Tyrion responded, his focus entirely on the win cup that he immediately snatched up the moment Joffrey pulled the pitcher away.
Joffrey then slowly poured himself a glass as well, though of a much smaller quantity.
“You are here to advise me.”
“Only here to advise,” Tyrion agreed, taking a satisfied sip of the wine. The complex textures and flavors dancing on his tongue. A brief moment of pure indulgence amidst the complex political landscape.
Finally, the king broke the silence.
“Then you can assist me with some of the mountain of paperwork back in my chamber. Come.” Joffrey rose, taking the pitcher of wine with him.
Tyrion looked surprised but quickly hopped down from his chair grabbing his still half filled cup. He slowly followed after his nephew. Just as they were about to exit the Small Council chamber, Joffrey stopped, his hand resting on the heavy oak door. Slowly, he turned and looked down at his dwarf uncle, and for a brief moment, the cold stoic mask slipped. His expression softened slightly, like rock soft rather than steel, almost sincere.
Almost.
“I want you to know I am happy that you’re not dead, uncle,” Joffrey said softly, a genuine warm tone entering his voice that left Tyrion stunned. It was the voice of Daniel Ross, the man who valued intelligence and loyalty, speaking to the one person in the Lannister family who’d earned his respect.
Almost instantly the expression vanished. The mask fell right back into place, and Joffrey continued his way out of the chamber, leaving a shell shocked Tyrion behind.
“Seriously, what happened to him in that coma?” Tyrion thought to himself. He took a long confused gulp of his wine, hoping the alcohol would help him make sense at the enigma that was his nephew. “Its almost like some spirit has taken over his body or something?”
“Ha!” He laughed as he gulped down the rest of his drink. “Like that would ever happen! That’s just a bunch of nonsense.”
He then slowly waddled after his nephew not knowing how close to the truth he actually came.
o-O-o
The walk from the Small Council chamber to the King’s private solar was a journey through the very heart of the Red Keep. A castle that had been built upon fire and blood diving deep into the red sandstone of the hills beneath King’s Landing. The place of Aegon the Congueror’s landing.
Joffrey strode with long measured steps, his black doublet a stark contrast to the red stone crimson walls. Tyrion, who was forced to waddle quickly after him, quickly found himself rather breathless.
“Must you walk like a man expecting an assassin to pop up around the corner?” Tyrion complained, his armor suddenly feeling like a hundred pounds. “Your legs are longer than my body now, dear nephew. How about a little decorum for your new Hand?”
“Efficentcy, dear uncle,” Joffrey replied without slowing his pace a bit. His voice echoed slightly in the vast corridor. “Time is a resource we can’t afford to waste. We have a war to win and kingdoms to look after.”
The corridors of the Red Keep were wide and high, lined with ancient tapestries depicting the triumphs and defeats of past kings. The air was cool, carrying the faint earthy smell of old stone and dust.
As they passed, servants, guards in their standard black and gold armor, and minor courtiers made way for the duo. Bowing, saluting, and straight up kneeling to them as they walked. There was a palpable difference in their deference now. It was no longer frightened or intimated respect given to the spoiled prince of old, but a wary genuine reverence for a King who’d proven himself as ruthless as he was charitable.
“Remarkeable,” Tyrion commented, watching a maid nearly trip over her gown in her haste to bow to the king. “They fear you, nephew. They truly fear you.”
“They respect my uncle,” he corrected quickly. “Though as a wise man once said, given the choice it’s better to be feared than loved.”
Before Tyrion could ask what wise man said, they stopped before a heavy unmarked oak door that was guarded by two Royal Guards and one Kingsguard who happened to be Ser Barristan this shift. Staring up at the two rather stoic intimidating soldiers, Joffrey continued.
“But I prefer loyalty forged through progress not fear.” He said as he saluted the guards who returned the gesture and pushed the door open for him while standing at attention.
The King’s private solar was not the luxurious, velvet draped pleasure den Tyrion imagined it would be. It was a workspace for lack of a better word. The room itself was large, dominated by a massive unvarnished oak desk that sat near an arched window that overlooked the city’s bay. The furniture had been kept to a minimal, a few functional leather chairs, a large map table covered by military strategic points, showing Joffrey had been closely monitoring the pace of the war. Floor to ceiling shelves that were filled with meticulously organized ledgers and scrolls labeled for modern precise efficiency.
Tyrion’s eyes widened slightly as he took in the strange scene. The air smelled of ink and fresh parchment, not wine or perfume.
“Goods, nephew, what have you done?” Tyrion asked as he whistled. “This looks less like a King’s chamber and more like a Maester’s office in the Citadel. Where is all the gold? The gems and jewels?”
Joffrey just ignored him, walking straight to his desk. The desk itself was a testament to his industrious nature. On one side sat stacks of proposals concerning the new industrial sector Tobho Mott was overseeing. On the other, reports detailing the logistical nightmares of trying to move grain through war-torn regions. He quickly gestured to one of the stacks of paper.
“Sit, uncle. Start with the Lys trade agreements. Distar has secured a few new trade routes through the south, but the new tariffs need to be reviewed.”
Tyrion sat in the chair Joffrey indicted, the leather a little firm beneath him. He glanced at the sheer volume of paper. It was an astonishing amount of work that was both detailed and categorized.
“This is as much work as father,” Tyrion thought, a cold shock running down his spine. “This boy king is managing the entire capital, raising an army, and reorganizing the trade industry. He’s not indulging in his sadism, he’s indulging in actual governance.”
“I assume the accounts are in better shape than when Littlefinger was juggling the numbers?” Tyrion actually asked as he picked up one of the reports.
Joffrey sat down across from him, leaning back slightly, his hand rubbing his chin.
“We recovered much of what he stole, and Lady Ros has proven herself far more competent Master of Coin than Baelish ever was. However the Crown’s debt is a beast you’re not yet acquainted with, uncle. The war, my father’s spending, the breadlines and innovations…We’re losing more gold than a man loses blood from a sword wound.”
“Losing gold?” Tyrion frowned at the King’s words, cutting through his usual witty charm. “Even Casterly Rock’s gold?”
“We’ll get you up to speed in our next council meeting,” the King responded, ending the talk of the debt immediately.
The king then reached for the side of his desk and rang a small brass bell. The sound was sharp and carried through the air. A moment later a young man, barely older than Joffrey, with sharp eyes and an efficient manner entered the King’s solar. It was Caspen the King’s personal assistant.
“Your Grace,” The young man bowed deeply.
“Caspen,” Joffrey commanded. “Clear my schedule for the next few hours. Inform Ser Jacelyn I shall review the new defense weapons tomorrow morning, not today. And then bring us a light meal, some bread and cheese and meat. Also some wine though make sure it’s diluted heavily. We are going to be here for a while.”
“At once, Your Grace.” He once again bowed deeply and swiftly exited the chamber.
Tyrion watched the exchange, impressed by the efficiency and clarity of the command. The king didn’t waste a single word.
“Diluted wine?” Tyrion nearly scoffed while raising a brow in annoyance. “A king shouldn’t be seen as self-denying, nephew. It sets a bad precedent.”
“A king should be clear headed when making decisions that impact the lives of literally thousands,” Joffrey countered, opening the first stack of paper. “You may drink as much as you like on your own time, but while you serve as my hand, and sit on my council I expect you to be stone cold sober. Now the Lys reports. We must secure that trade agreement if we want to continue our city’s food supply during the Tyrell’s blockade.”
Tyrion sighed heavily but his frustrations were superficial. He got comfortable in his chair as he spread the scrolls out before him. He was the Hand of the King, working beside a boy king who against all odds was actually working.
“Very well, your grace,” Tyrion conceded, his voice reassuming its professional tone. “Tell me, what is this blast furnace and why is it categorized under Crown’s Assets?”
Joffrey offered no explanation to his uncle’s question. He merely pointed to the top line of the Essos Lys report.
“Focus, uncle. The tariffs.”
And so, the King and his reluctant alcoholic Hand sat across the large oak desk, beginning their quiet, trying task of governing a country that was currently ready to be split in a six way civil war. The only sound escaping the solar was the sounds of quills scratching against soft turning parchment.
Comments
Ekko
Love that you build the scene with Tyrion out more. In the original the exchange between Uncle and Nephew were too short and felt like it was just there for the sake of it. Now Tyrion and we get an insight into the king's day to day and mindset. Love the descriptions, where Tyrion's expectations got broken one after the other.
Ekko
“Goods, nephew, what have you done?” Tyrion asked as he whistled. “This looks less like a King’s chamber and more like a Maester’s office in the Citadel. Where is all the gold? The gems and jewels?” ->“Gods, nephew, what have you done?” Tyrion asked as he whistled. “This looks less like a King’s chamber and more like a Maester’s office in the Citadel. Where is all the gold? The gems and jewels?”
