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The Young Lion Act 2 Ch 3
🕑 Added 2025-11-10 23:18:34 +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 3: A Scandalous Meeting
Hours passed into the evening. The light filtering through the narrow windows of the King’s Solar had slowly become dimmer, with long shadows dancing across the walls and the piles of maps and parchments. The air was thick with the sound of scribbling and the scent of ink. Joffrey and his new Hand, Tyrion, remained hunched over the massive oak desk, surrounded by stacks of organized governance affairs.
Tyrion had, throughout the meeting, attempted several probing inquiries into his nephew’s dramatic personality change from their trip to the North. He’d tried humor, then direct questioning, and finally feigned concern, but Joffrey remained an enigma, offering only slight hints and annoying half-truths.
“The North simply changed me, Uncle,” He lied through his teeth at one point in the conversation, his eyes somewhat distant. “Seeing the sheer scale of the realm, the struggles, the pain—it...clarified some things. When you stand on the threshold of death, the small petty squabbles seem all so pointless.”
“Indeed,” Tyrion concurred, swirling his wine in his cup. “But usually, such clarity leads to piety or complete indulgence. Not organization or...organized sanitation protocols.”
Joffrey didn't comment, just giving his uncle a rather unsettling smile and steered the conversation back to the financial crisis of the Crown.
Currently, the pair were deep in the industrial reports, specifically from his Overseer Tobho Mott's on the newest Beehive Ovens, and the recent buyouts along the Street of Steel, which had recently bought the four remaining blacksmith shops, making the final steps into turning the street into a centralized state-run industrial sector.
“Why have the smiths work in eight-hour intervals, Joffrey?” The dwarf asked before taking a deep satisfied sip from his cup. “By the standard, they work until the job is finished. It’s expected.”
“Eight hours is the perfect amount of time before productivity goes down and fatigue settles in,” the King responded without looking up from the documents, his quill scratching a quick note in the margin of a ledger. “And by breaking the work up into three shifts—morning, afternoon, and night—we guarantee around-the-clock productivity. The forges never cool. The hammers never stop.”
Tyrion’s eyes widened slightly upon hearing the intelligent and almost clinical answer. It was pure pragmatism disconnected from tradition or sentiment. “Is that why you pay them hourly instead of a set amount?”
“Yes. By tying money and the shift length together, it ensures they’ll want to work the full shift,” he confirmed as he took a sip of water he kept on his desk.
“Smart,” he complimented, a genuine hint of approval in his tone. The King just accepted the praise as a statement of fact.
They eventually moved on, transitioning from the innovations of the industrial sector to the grim discipline of the King’s new military. Joffrey began analyzing his Master of War, Ser Jacelyn's reports on the new batch of recruits. The surge was immense; nearly ten thousand young men from Flea Bottom were attempting to earn the brand, mostly driven by the promise of food, shelter, and purpose.
This sudden demand had prompted Joffrey to extend the selection process from eight weeks to twelve and significantly ramp up the physical intensity, adding elaborate obstacles that required teamwork and coordination. Joffrey’s strategy was simple: turn the pain of the downtrodden into a fanatical devotion. Everything good in their lives, they owed to him, their savior. This cult-like devotion would lead them to fight and serve with a ferocity no obligated Men-at-Arms could ever match.
Tyrion leaned over the deployment charts, noting the unusual formations and weapons in the reports.
“For these peasant soldiers of yours, why is their main weapon a spear and shield?”
“Well, first off they’re not peasant soldiers anymore, they’re my Sabers,” Joffrey said sharply, looking up from his paperwork, his gaze demanding respect for his new army. “As to your question, I based them off of the Ghiscari soldiers of the Old Empire of Ghis.” He delivered the lie smoothly, the historical reference designed to both impress and deflect.
Upon hearing the name, Tyrion perked up, a familiar academic curiosity sparkling in his eyes. “The Ghiscari? The ones that got wiped out by the Valyrian Freehold?”
“Indeed,” he nodded, taking another sip of water. “The only soldiers to ever hold their own against the sister-fuckers and their dragons, not once but five times.”
Tyrion scoffed at his nephew's words. “You do realize they lost in the end right?”
“Yes, after the Freehold was forced to go all out and unleash three hundred dragons that made Balerion the Black Dread look like a firefly." Joffrey countered, a touch of ridicule in his voice as he imagined the scale of the ancient war. “I think anyone would have lost under those circumstances. And it’s not like there are any more dragons for us to worry about.” His mind wandered to the thought of Daenerys Targaryen and her children.
Tyrion couldn’t help but nod in agreement with the King’s logic, inwardly impressed by the depth of his historical knowledge, even though he still doubted that a peasant with a spear could ever defeat a Lord's trained Men-at-Arms.
“I’d like to see these recruits for myself,” he finally said.
The king looked slightly surprised by the request. “I’ll be visiting the training grounds later this week. You may accompany me at that time,” he responded.
Tyrion also noted that the Royal Guards had completely absorbed the duties of the Gold Cloaks, whose eight hundred survivors remained in the dungeons. All of them were well fed and cared for, but just simply tucked away. Joffrey had hinted he had a future plan regarding the use of the Gold Cloaks.
The meeting went well into the evening, disrupting Joffrey’s personal combat training. After ensuring Tyrion was up to speed on the current affairs of the realm and the immediate priorities, the dwarf decided to call it a day.
“Well, I think that’s enough for one day,” Tyrion said, as he hopped off his chair. He then stretched his arms with an exaggerated stretch.
“We’ll pick it up tomorrow at the Council meeting. Be there on time and try not to be drunk,” Joffrey said sternly, as he narrowed his eyes.
“You think I’d be drunk by early morning?” Tyrion asked, feigning outrage. But Joffrey just gave him a blank unimpressed look. “Fine! I’ll do my best, but I make no promises.”
The king just rolled his eyes, a flicker of exasperation crossing his face. Tyrion, in a final act of defiance, snatched up the untouched pitcher of Arbor Red as he waddled out of the room. The door closed with a soft thud, leaving Joffrey alone amidst the maps and ledgers.
Joffrey returned to his work, the silence of the Solar settling around him like a wet blanket. After several minutes of focused writing, he leaned back into his desk chair. He slowly lifted his gaze, not towards the ceiling, but at the corner of the room where the shadows seemed the darkest.
“You can come out, Varys,” he said, his tone flat, devoid of any surprise.
“So, your Grace? What do you make of him?” Varys asked, his voice a soft murmur.
Joffrey slowly peeled his eyes away from the ceiling, staring into the eunuch’s eyes before he answered.
“I think he has potential as a future partner,” he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. “He’s intelligent enough, that’s for sure. He grasped the logic of the labor shifts instantly, and he even gave some good advice on the city’s wall security.”
“But?” Varys urged him to continue, seeing his hesitation.
“But, he drinks too much, trying to numb the pain of his horrible childhood and my grandfather’s petty cruelty.” Joffrey sat forward in his seat. “That could prove to be a liability for us going forward. A sharp mind clouded by too much wine is merely a blunt instrument.”
Varys looked on, nodding his head slowly in agreement. The Spider was still reserved, watching Joffrey’s every move. The king’s dedication to the smallfolk and his ruthless efficiency had impressed Varys, but the eunuch was a cautious player, keeping a slight distance in case the ship veered off course. Joffrey was fully aware of this. He needed the Spider’s complete loyalty, which meant he needed to treat him as a true confidante.
“What would you have me do, your Grace?” Varys asked, drawing the king out of his inner thoughts.
“I want you to gain his trust and earn his confidence. He respects your intellect and your position as an outcast.” He looked directly into Varys’s eyes. “If he proves himself worthy, if he can control his vices and make himself useful, then we’ll bring him into our fold. He will be invaluable when I need to deal with the Lord of the Westernlands and Tywin Lannister.”
“Why not earn it yourself?” Varys asked curiously.
“He already has a negative opinion of me, and it would be twice as hard to reverse it in the time it would take you.” The King’s lips curled into a faint, self-deprecating smile. “He looks at me and all he sees is the cruel boy who enjoyed the suffering of others. You, however, he’ll see as a fellow pragmatist, a survivor of the game like him. He’ll open up to you in ways he never would with me.”
Varys nodded, accepting the King’s command. “As you wish, your Grace,” he finally said.
“Good, now leave me. My next meeting is on its way here,” Joffrey finally said, straightening the documents on his desk.
The Spider stopped midway to the passage, turning back. “Just out of curiosity, your Grace,” he said, drawing the King’s attention. “What happens if he proves to be unworthy? If his past abuses and his love of wine are stronger than his sense of duty?”
Joffrey’s face hardened immediately. The subtle warmth of the past hour evaporated, replaced by a terrifying arctic indifference. He looked directly into Varys, his green eyes as cold and sharp as steel.
“Then we’ll toss him into the sea,” he said with a tone so cold it made the Wall seem warm. “We don’t have time for any more obstacles, Varys. If he stands in the way of our vision, if he becomes a liability, then he must be removed, family or not. I have already exiled my mother; an uncle is a far smaller inconvenience.”
Varys gulped slightly at the lack of emotion in the young King’s words. “R-right, your Grace,” He stuttered, quickly retreating into the darkness of the passage. The stone wall slid shut with a soft thud.
With the Spider gone, Joffrey resumed his work. Suddenly, light, slow footsteps reached his door, stopping just outside.
Knock Knock Knock
Three sharp taps echoed on the other side of his oak door.
“Yes, who is it?” Joffrey asked, his focus still on the parchment.
“It’s your handmaiden, your Grace,” Ser Barristan said through the door, his voice muffled by the thick oak. “She’s brought your evening meal.”
“Oh, excellent, send her in,” he said, sitting up straighter.
The heavy door opened, and his secret paramour Senelle made her way inside. She wore a deep green velvet gown that emphasized her voluptuous figure. She carried a heavy silver tray.
“Your Grace,” she said, curtsying a little too deeply, making her full breasts jiggle invitingly beneath the fabric.
“Senelle, perfect timing. I’m quite hungry,” he said, as he shamelessly stared at her chest.
“I’m sure you’re quite the insatiable boy after all,” she said, her eyes meeting his with a knowing look.
She set the tray down on a small, round side table and made her way over to him.
“Any word from the Westerlands?” He asked, leaning back, the shift in his tone immediate.
“No, apparently your mother’s rage knows no bounds, and she’s begun punishing servants for the slightest mistake.” Senelle’s face was composed, but a slight hitch in her voice gave away her disdain for the former Queen's actions. “The commoners of the castle have begun calling her Maegor with teats behind her back,” she giggled a little.
“Has she made any requests of you?”
“No, it’s still the same commands as before; monitor you and Lady Sansa’s behavior and report back to her. Oh, and apparently I’m supposed to interrupt any intimate moments the two of you might have.” She said with a malicious smile.
Joffrey laughed slightly at the utter futility of Cersei’s attempts. “Well, she doesn’t have to worry about that, at least not anytime soon,” he said.
“Indeed. Doesn’t she realize that no little girl is going to be able to handle that insatiable cock of yours.” She said with a lewd grin as she shamelessly stared at the growing bulge near his crotch.
The King gulped slightly as he adjusted himself in his seat.
“Just keep feeding her the information I give to you, and tell me immediately when she gives you a direct order,” he said in a serious tone. “My mother is not a patient woman. She’ll be making a move soon, and knowing her it’ll be a dumb but vicious one.”
“Of course, your Grace.” She bowed her head, then turned to arrange his meal. She bent considerably at the waist, her heart-shaped arse swaying invitingly in his direction. The move was a deliberate, silent offering.
Feeling his desire stir, Joffrey got up from behind his desk and slowly approached her from behind. Arriving behind her, he breathed into her ear softly, his warm breath giving her goosebumps.
“That looks delicious,” he said in a husky whisper as his thick, strong arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her back against his solid frame.
“Does it, your Grace?” She asked in an equally husky voice as she rubbed her butt against his crotch.
“Yeah, and the food looks good too,” he said as his hands left her waist and reached for her breasts, groping them through her gown from behind.
“Oh my! Your Grace, how inappropriate. I’m your maid.” Senelle said with a faux scolding tone, though her hips continued to grind against his crotch even faster.
“You’re right, you’re my maid, and maids must serve.” He responded, his fingers circling her nipples through the velvet.
“I suppose you’re right…” Senelle said with forced resignation as her butt continued its teasing, a slight moan escaping her lips. She then reached up and slowly pulled the neckline of her gown down, freeing her breasts from their confines. “If this is what you desire from your servant, what choice do I have but to obey?” She said with a coy tone as she slowly turned around to face him, her eyes holding a certain challenge to them.
Joffrey reached and began to untie the laces of his own breeches, his breath becoming more and more husky. Suddenly a knock came at his door.
Knock Knock Knock
The sharp, insistent sound echoed in the stone room, cutting through the building tension like a knife.
“What is it? I’m eating!” Joffrey shouted, his voice laced with raw anger at the sudden interruption.
“It’s Caspen, your Grace,” Ser Barristan responded calmly. “He says he brings urgent news.”
“Fuck!” Joffrey muttered to himself. He couldn’t dismiss an urgent message from his most reliable assistant. “Hang on just a moment!”
He looked at Senelle frantically, who stood before him, her breasts still exposed and his breeches half undone.
“Senelle, I need you to use the hidden passage, we’ll pick this up later at a—”
But she stopped him with a finger to his lips, silencing his frantic command.
“Shh,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with mischief, leaning in close. “I have an idea.”
She took the plate of food and moved it to his desk. “Come, please sit, your Grace.” She said with a lewd grin, pushing him gently into the large leather chair.
He did as she suggested. “Pardon me, your Grace.” Then to his shock, she dropped to her knees and without a moment’s hesitation crawled under his large wooden desk, disappearing into the shadows beneath the heavy wood.
Before he could say anything, the knock came again.
Knock Knock Knock
“Your Grace?” they called out.
“Send him in,” he hurriedly said, trying his best to sound composed, pulling his tunic down slightly to cover the bulge in his breeches.
The door opened and in walked his daily assistant Caspen. The young man held his usual binder and wore a wide, excited grin on his face.
“Greeting, your Grace,” he said excitedly as he bowed his head.
“Greetings Caspen. To what do I owe the pleasure?” His voice was tighter than usual, still annoyed by the interruption.
Caspen misunderstood and quickly apologized. “I apologize for interrupting your meal, your Grace, but I bring urgent news.”
As the youth spoke, Senelle began her little game beneath the desk. She slowly reached out a hand and began to rub Joffrey through his breeches, a feather-light touch that made him jolt.
“Are you alright, your Grace?” Caspen asked, seeing the sudden redness of the King’s face and the slight movement of his body.
Joffrey cleared his throat roughly before speaking. “I’m fine. What do you want, Caspen?” He asked a little more sternly.
“Oh, right. I’ve just received word that your water wheel prototype is officially operational,” he said proudly.
“Really?!” Joffrey grew excited, the news momentarily distracting him.
“Yes, look.” He unfolded the designs and displayed them onto the wooden desk. As he spread out the sheet, Senelle reached out and began unfastening the drawstrings of his breeches. Slowly, her hand moved inside and freed him.
“With the water flow here, we will be able to increase the productivity of your industrial sector by at least fifty percent, and that’s just with one wheel alone.” Caspen continued, completely oblivious.
“Yes, with this, we can focus our manpower on other, steadier projects,” Joffrey huffed, his breath becoming more ragged as Senelle took him into her mouth. She tortured him using her tongue, driving him to the brink.
“Indeed,” Caspen nodded as the king started to sweat. “Overseer Tobho is holding a demonstration tomorrow and wanted me to ask if you’d like to be there.”
“That sounds great,” he huffed again, leaning back further into his chair. “Please tell him I’ll be there. Also, I want you to inform Lord Varys as well. I’d like to have him there.”
“Of course, your Grace.” Caspen then looked at the king who was shifting uncomfortably in his seat, trying hard to suppress a moan. “Are you sure you’re alright, your Grace? You look flushed.”
“I-I’m fine,” he stuttered, the sensation below intensifying. “Just tired from the yard, that's all.”
“Oh, I see,” he nodded his head, satisfied with the explanation. “Well, I leave you to your meal, your Grace, sorry for disturbing you.”
“No, no it’s fine. Good work, Caspen.”
Caspen bowed his head and left. The door slamming behind him was the perfect cover for Joffrey’s deep guttural groan.
Leaning back into his chair, Joffrey panted slightly, his eyes closed. Soon Senelle crawled out from beneath the desk.
“How was that, your Grace? Do you feel refreshed?” She asked with a sultry tone and sly smirk.
“Dammit, Senelle, we could have been caught!” He snapped at her, half angry and half aroused.
“That’s part of the fun, your Grace,” she responded as she licked her lips, her eyes taking on a more predator glint.
“What am I going to do with you?” he asked rhetorically, but a small smile crept back on his face.
“You’re right, I’ve been a bad girl. Perhaps you should teach me a lesson?” She asked, her hand moving to the hem of her skirt. She lifted it, revealing her complete lack of small clothes and a moist, dripping slit.
Joffrey didn’t need any further encouragement. He got up from his chair, his body rigid with desire, and made his way over to her. His lips clashed against hers, and their tongues intertwined. He then picked her up with shocking strength and set her down on his desk, scattering the delicate water wheel designs and Tobho Mott’s reports onto the ground. Senelle wrapped her legs around his waist as Joffrey took her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard.
Moments later, he thrusted all the way inside of her, the sudden deep penetration making her moan loudly.
“See,” she said between gasps as her voice became ragged. “An insatiable cock belonging to an insatiable naughty boy.”
Joffrey just pinched her nipple between his teeth as he continued to thrust inside her, the rhythm quickening, making her moan more and more as she wrapped her legs tighter around his waist and started to roll her pelvis in sync with his. The sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin filled the quiet bedchamber.
Outside the chamber, Ser Barristan Selmy stood motionless. He could hear the distinct sounds of heavy breathing, moaning, and the rhythmic slapping filling the air, making him slightly uncomfortable.
“Ah, the thrills of youth,” he thought to himself, staring resolutely at the gargoyle carved into the wall. He shifted his weight slightly, adjusting his white cloak and made sure no one came near the solar now that the king was preoccupied.
Comments
Ekko
Ser Barristan is a real one, best knight. The Smut parts are very well done. It's not a GoT Fic, without them but they also can't take over the story. The balance you found is good imo
