Disclaimer: 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 27: Revealing a Knight's Past
Inside the training yard of the Red Keep, the echoes of effort and guttural grunts filled the air.
Steel struck steel in sharp, ringing bursts that resonated off the surrounding stone, the sound carrying up the walls and out across the castle like the Great Sept's bells.
The training yard was already alive by the time the sun climbed high enough to spill over the battlements, its pale gold light cutting through the cool air and catching on polished armor, damp skin, and the edges of blunted blades.
Joffrey stood at the center of it, or rather—he moved through it.
There was no stillness in him now, no trace of the quiet composure he wore in the council chamber or the rigid control he carried as he watched his sister in tears being ferried away.
Here, in the yard, everything sharpened, every thought narrowed, and every feeling that had been held down—pressed tight behind duty and expectation—found release in physical exertion.
His sword came down hard, and Ser Balon blocked it.
The clash snapped through the yard as steel met steel with enough force to jar both arms, the impact sending a tremor through the knight's stance as he absorbed the blow and shifted his footing backward.
Joffrey didn't give him space to recover; he pressed forward immediately, stepping in with another strike, then another, each heavier than the last, forcing Balon to yield ground with each exchange.
The knight's boots scraped against the dirt as he gave way, his guard tightening, blade rising and falling in quick succession as he parried and redirected.
Now and then he attempted to push back against the king's assault—short, controlled counters aimed at the king's openings—but Joffrey met each one with immediate resistance, cutting it off before it could come close to touching him, and then immediately reclaiming the pace of the fight with relentless pressure.
Around them, the yard watched.
Ser Preston and Ser Mandon stood off to the side, bruised and finally breathing slower now that their own rounds were over. Their attention was fixed on the current exchange with expressions that betrayed their inner frustration at being bested by a youth half their age.
Joffrey had not rested between rounds, nor had he slowed down even slightly. That alone was enough to draw the surrounding knights' attention.
The interval approach he had forced into his training—fresh opponents, with no recovery, and constant pressure—had turned the sessions into something far harsher than the structured drills most knights relied upon. It wasn't elegant or traditional.
But it worked, and the results spoke for themselves.
Balon shifted again, his guard tightening as Joffrey drove him backward with another powerful horizontal slash. When their blades locked, steel grinding against steel as they pressed into each other's space, the knight allowed himself a brief, strained smile.
"You've much improved, Your Grace" he said, his voice edged with effort. "Since last—"
"Shut up and fight."
Joffrey didn't look at him as he spoke. His focus remained fixed on his opponent's chest, his grip tightening as he twisted his blade free and immediately stepped back into range, cutting off any attempt at further conversation.
Balon's smile vanished, and they resumed their match.
The pace quickened, each movement feeding into the next as the king's strikes came harder and faster than before. Sweat clung to his skin now, his golden hair damp and falling into his face, but his breathing remained controlled—deep and steady despite the rounds that had already come before.
Balon, by contrast, was beginning to feel it.
His breath came heavier now, his chest rising and falling more noticeably as he adjusted his footing again, taking another step back under the king's seemingly endless pressure.
He was the better swordsman, at least in a pure sense. His technique was cleaner, more refined. But the gap was narrowing quickly; it was an admission he would not have acknowledged nor believed just a few weeks ago.
The young king did not slow down. From the edge of the yard, Ser Barristan watched with a critical eye.
"Shorten your strike, your grace," he called out. "You're wasting movement on the recovery."
Joffrey adjusted immediately.
The next blow came tighter and faster on the reset, Joffrey shifted his stance without hesitation, immediately adapting to Barristan's correction. Balon's guard wavered under the change, forcing him to compensate and as a consequence give even more ground.
"Don't chase the blade," Barristan added. "Focus on controlling the center."
Again, Joffrey responded without question, his movements tightening further, his strikes angling in ways that forced Balon to react rather than just anticipate.
The exchange continued like that for several more breaths—pressure, adjustment, counter, correction—until Barristan raised a hand.
"Time!" shouted the legendary knight, the word cutting cleanly through the yard.
Both combatants froze mid-strike, their blades held in place for a heartbeat before lowering in unison. They stepped back, offering brief nods to one another as the tension of the exchange faded.
Balon bent slightly at the waist, drawing in deep, heavy breaths as he stepped away from the center of the ring, one hand coming up to wipe sweat from his brow. His arms were leaden. He could already feel the strain settling into his muscles and bones.
Joffrey, though drenched with sweat, did not show the same fatigue. His breathing remained calm, and controlled as he drew in air through his nose and released it slowly.
Balon made his way to the side, reaching for a goatskin and taking a long drink before stepping back into the shade.
Joffrey grabbed a towel, dragging it across his face and through his hair, pushing the damp strands back as he turned toward the remaining figure waiting near Barristan.
Sandor Clegane, who had stood to the side watching the previous three matches with his arms folded, used a straw to pick something from his teeth.
"Next," Joffrey said, pointing his training blade toward him.
Sandor didn't move immediately.
Instead, he shifted his weight slightly, his gaze flicking briefly toward the weapons rack before returning to the King.
"You ever think about picking something else up?" he asked. "There's more than one way to kill a man."
He gestured toward the rack as he spoke—maces, axes, spears, heavier blades that required different stances, different instincts.
Joffrey followed the motion with his eyes for a moment before tossing the towel aside.
"Under normal circumstances, you'd be right," he said. "If I'd started at six or seven, like I should have, I'd have the time to expand my arsenal."
He rolled his shoulder once, loosening the tension.
"But I didn't," he continued. "And I don't. I'm seventeen, and I'm well behind. If I split my focus now, I'd stay mediocre at everything instead of becoming proficient at one thing that actually matters."
"And Valyrian steel is the only thing that can kill those snow demons," he thought.
Sandor studied him for a moment, then gave a short nod; he couldn't argue with that.
Off to the side, Preston and Mandon exchanged brief glances, their expressions tightening with a combination of awe and irritation.
"Seems proficient enough to me." Preston muttered.
The king stepped back into position.
"No breaks," he added. "If I recover, the training loses its purpose."
Sandor exhaled through his nose, then stepped forward, this time reaching for a different type of sword.
The greatsword came free from the rack with a heavy clank, its weight settling into his hands as he tested the balance. It was longer, broader, far less forgiving than the bastard sword he usually carried—and far more dangerous.
Joffrey felt a familiar pain in his chest as he gazed at the long training blade.
A flicker of memory—steel descending in a blur, too heavy to stop, too fast to meet head-on—flashed through his mind. For a split second, his grip tightened just slightly, his breath catching as the image of the giant Northman who had come within an inch of claiming his life on the battlefield entered his mind making his breath hitch and pulse elevate.
He managed to steady himself, his hand brushed lightly against the wooden wolf necklace at his throat.
Taking a deep breath, he refocused his mind, refusing to let trauma dictate his actions, and slowly raised his sword.
Barristan's voice cut through the unseen tension. "Begin."
Sandor moved first.
The greatsword came down in a brutal arc, both hands driving it forward with enough force to shatter bone if it connected. Joffrey didn't try to meet it. Instead, he stepped aside, letting the blade pass within inches of his shoulder. He heard a low whoosh of air in its wake as he moved inside the line. Joffrey aimed a quick counter toward Sandor's exposed flank.
It never landed.
Sandor recovered faster than his size suggested was possible, pulling the blade back and angling it between them before Joffrey could close the distance.
Then he pressed forward; the reach advantage was apparent.
Swing after swing forced Joffrey backward, the greatsword carving space between them as the king adjusted, ducking and weaving, each movement calculated to keep him just outside the edge of the blunted steel. The blade passed close—too close—more than once, each near miss forcing a sharper reaction, a tighter step.
Eventually, he had to block.
The impact didn't just jar his arms—it shuddered through his collarbones and deep into his chest. Steel ground against steel with a low, predatory growl as Sandor's massive weight bore down. Before Joffrey could reset, Sandor's hand came off the hilt, reaching across the locked blades and grabbing a fistful of collar.
Then he tugged the king forward, slamming his forehead against Joffrey's.
The world snapped white for a second as pain burst across his vision, his balance breaking just enough for Sandor to knock his blade aside and drive a boot into his chest.
Joffrey hit the ground hard, but used the momentum to push back, rolling over his shoulder and springing back to his feet.
Around the yard, movement stirred—guards shifted forward and many hands tighted on weapons—but Joffrey's glare cut them off before they could interfere.
"Back off."
His tone was cold, and they obeyed.
Joffrey reset, lifting his blade again, his breathing tightening just slightly as he forced his focus back into place.
"Think."
From the side, Barristan's voice came again.
"When facing a longer blade, Your Grace, get in close; that's the safest place to be."
Joffrey nodded, adjusting into a lower stance.
Sandor stepped forward again, the greatsword rising for another overhead strike, but this time, Joffrey met it differently.
His deflection was tighter this time. He angled the blade just enough to redirect the force rather than absorb it, stepping in immediately, closing the distance before Sandor could reset.
The sudden shift changed everything, now the length of the greatsword worked against Sandor.
Sandor tried to compensate, drawing back, bringing the pommel up in a quick counter, but Joffrey leaned away just enough for it to pass harmlessly before snapping a quick kick into the side of the Hound's calf was like striking a tree trunk.
Sandor barely reacted.
The fight continued, the pressure shifting, distance closing and opening in tight bursts— Joffrey kept returning to it.
Another kick, and then another.
Inside.
Then outside.
Each one placed deliberately, targeting the same point with quick precision. It didn't look like much, at least not at first.
But repetition did the work, and it started to show. The muscle started to tighten and swell as it damaged the peroneal nerve; quickly the muscle began to fail.
Sandor's stance shifted almost imperceptibly, weight adjusting as he compensated without fully realizing it. By the time he understood what was happening, the damage had already been done.
His leg wasn't responding the same way, and Joffrey knew it. The momentum of the match instantly shifted.
The Hound found himself giving ground now, forced onto the defensive as the king closed in tighter, smothering the space, denying him the room needed to bring the greatsword to bear effectively.
For the first time, uncertainty flashed in the half-burnt giant's face but then—
"Time."
Barristan's voice cut through the moment, making both men stop.
Sandor looked down, his foot scuffing the dirt as he tried to coax life back into the deadened limb. He flexed his calf once, then again, before his eyes snapped back up to Joffrey with a newfound wariness.
"You tricky little fucker."
Joffrey only smiled slightly.
"Patience and knowledge are the only counter to superior skill," he said.
Sandor just huffed, going to drink wine out of his goatskin, while Barristan's expression softened just slightly as he nodded.
"Well said."
Joffrey rolled his shoulder, resetting his stance, readying himself for the final round—then a familiar whistle cut through the yard.
Everyone's head turned.
Boots struck stone as a figure descended the steps, white armor catching the light with each movement. He looked stronger than before, the hollow gauntness of captivity replaced with something sharper, and more alive.
Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, had stepped onto the scene.
Joffrey's grip tightened slightly on his blade as he turned to face him.
"Well," he said, a faint edge returning to his voice, "hello, uncle."
His eyes moved over the Kingslayer, measuring.
"Have you come to train?"
It wasn't obvious—not in the way men spoke or moved—but it lived in the way attention shifted, in the way the rhythm of the yard seemed to freeze around him.
Even the clatter of steel and murmur of voices dulled slightly as the Kingslayer stepped forward into the open space, his presence drawing focus the way a bloodstain on white silk did.
"Well," Joffrey repeated, the something unreadable curling at the corner of his mouth, "have you come to train?"
Jaime's smile came easily, familiar in a way that felt almost out of place after so long. It carried none of the bitterness or restraint one might expect from a man freshly returned from captivity. If anything, captivity had stripped away some of the vanity, leaving a man who looked less like a knight and more like a naked blade—honed, hungry, and dangerously bright.
"Yes," Jaime said, rolling his shoulders once as he stepped fully into the yard. "I think it's time I got my edge back. Especially if Stannis is on his way."
Joffrey's expression shifted, just slightly.
"Has the Grand Maester cleared you?" he asked, his tone neutral but not without weight.
Jaime scoffed under his breath.
"I think I know my own body better than that old ferret," he said, dismissing the concern with a flick of his hand as though it were beneath him.
The king watched him for a moment, a brief flicker of hesitation crossing his face. He could order him to rest, and probably should. That would be the safer choice. But the man standing in front of him didn't look like someone recovering.
He looked like someone eager for combat.
"Very well," Joffrey said at last.
He turned slightly, reaching for the towel he had discarded moments earlier, dragging it across his face and through his hair as he stepped aside to give Jaime space.
Jaime made his way into the yard.
His gaze moved slowly, deliberately, taking in everything around him with a quiet thoroughness that spoke more of habit than curiosity. He noted the positions of the men, the layout of the yard, the weapons resting in their racks.
Then his eyes lingered briefly on Preston and Mandon, both still marked by the aftermath of their earlier rounds—split lips, darkening bruises on their faces.
He looked at Sandor next.
The Hound stood off to one side, his weight subtly shifted, favoring his left leg despite the effort to hide it. Jaime's gaze lingered there for a fraction of a second, taking in the imbalance, the reason behind it not difficult to piece together.
Then his attention returned to Joffrey.
For the first time since stepping into the yard, Jaime assessed the boy-king; what he saw made him pause in a way that he did not show openly.
The boy he remembered was gone, and in his place stood something else.
He was taller now—nearly reaching Jamie's height— and broader too. The narrow frame filled out with muscle that strained against the fabric of his training doublet. There was a new kind of presence to him now. Not just in the physical sense, but in the way he held himself. It wasn't just the height or the breadth of his shoulders. It was the weight of his gaze and the stillness of his hands—a cold, calcified authority that Jaime had only ever seen in his father Lord Tywin.
Jaime's eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but in something closer to curiosity.
"What happened to you?" he wondered.
"You've taken your martial training seriously," Jaime said, his tone genuine. "Your father would have liked that."
Joffrey's expression did not change, but something flickered behind his eyes at Jaime calling Robert his father—it was brief, and gone before anyone could notice.
"Thank you," he said simply.
Jaime nodded once, then reached up and unclasped the white mantle from his shoulders, letting it fall into the waiting hands of a nearby squire. Without it, the new armor he wore caught the light more cleanly—pearl-white plates shaped for mobility rather than bulk, lighter than traditional Kingsguard armor, but no less striking.
"How about a few rounds?" Jaime asked, turning back to Joffrey.
There was no arrogance in the offer.
The King paused at the offer; he'd only briefly seen the fight once in the north with Jon Snow, and even then he could tell the knight hadn't taken it seriously.
Dumb and Dumber really nerfed him in the series, Joffrey thought, memories of his other life momentarily bleeding into the present.
Now he would have the chance to see for himself. It took him all of ten seconds to decide.
"Fine," he said.
He stepped back into the center of the yard, lifting his training sword and settling into his stance. Across from him, Jaime did not mirror the motion with the same rigidity. He stood loose, almost relaxed, his grip on the blade light. His casual posture would have looked careless on anyone else. Joffrey recognized it as the posture of a man who didn't need to get ready, because he was never unready.
Barristan's voice cut through the quiet. "Begin."
Joffrey moved first as usual.
He closed the distance quickly, his blade coming down in a clean, heavy arc, aimed to test rather than finish. Jaime met it with one hand, his sword rising to intercept with minimal movement.
The impact from the king's blow pushed him back a step, though not much, but enough to get the knight's attention.
Jaime's brows lifted slightly.
Joffrey pressed immediately, not allowing the moment to settle. His strikes came in succession, each one feeding into the next, driving forward with the same relentless pressure he had used against Balon. The rhythm was familiar now—refined through repetition.
The Kingslayer responded calmly.
Each strike was met, redirected, absorbed with one motion. His blade moved with an economy that bordered on effortless, turning aside Joffrey's offense as though it were a routine.
One hand— that was all he used. One hand. The other rested casually at his side, as if he were taking a stroll through the gardens.
Joffrey immediately noticed, prompting him to put more speed behind his attacks, driving them faster and harder.
He shifted angles, altered his timing, looking for the smallest opening—anything that might break through the defense that seemed to close itself before he could reach it.
He found none.
Jaime watched him as they moved, his expression almost thoughtful as he studied the boy's form, and the intent behind each strike.
"Controlled," he noted silently. "And straightforward."
Joffrey's frustration began to creep in.
He pushed harder and Jaime let him until—their blades locked.
For a moment, they stood there, pressure meeting pressure as steel ground harshly between them.
"You've gotten strong," Jaime said, conversationally.
Then he moved, and it was like a blur of silver; In less than a heartbeat he hit Joffrey with three strikes. One to displace the guard, the second to open his central line, and the third to seal the king's fate.
Joffrey felt the world tilt before he understood why, his blade forced aside, his stance broken just enough and then—the tip of Jaime's sword rested against his throat.
Silence filled the yard.
The King didn't move or speak. It had ended before he could even react.
"Again?" Jaime asked.
Joffrey blinked once, then nodded both returning to the center to reset.
This time, Joffrey was more cautious. His movements tighter, his approach more measured as he probed with his attacks instead of just overcommitting. He looked for patterns now, for tells, for anything that might give him an edge.
Jaime adjusted without effort.
The second exchange lasted slightly longer, but it ended the exact same way, with his steel at his throat.
"Again?" he offered, and Joffrey nodded.
And again.
And again.
Time began to blur.
Each round played out differently in the details—small adjustments, subtle shifts in approach—but the outcome remained unchanged. Jaime dismantled him with quiet efficiency, breaking through his defences as though they had been designed to fail. Each encounter ending the same; with Jaime's blade at Joffrey's throat.
Slowly Joffrey began to understand.
It felt like fighting multiple opponents at once. Every movement he made was answered, anticipated and countered before he could make it. There were openings—he saw them—but by the time he moved to exploit them, they were gone, replaced with a trap he'd inadvertently walk into, forcing him to adjust again.
He had been outmatched before, but never like this.
"He could have killed me anytime he wanted to…" Joffrey thought, his chest heaving with exhaustion. He isn't fighting me. He's dissecting me.
Joffrey reset for yet another round.
Barristan watched from the side, his expression unreadable, though something like memory flickered behind his eyes.
Jaime, for his part, was quietly impressed.
"Two years," he thought. "And he's come this far?"
The boy's technique wasn't perfect. His instincts still lacked the refinement that came from years of real combat. But the foundation was there. Stronger than it had any right to be considering the time.
Looks like he inherited more than just my good looks, Jaime mused inwardly.
Barristan stepped forward slightly. "Time—"
"One more," Joffrey said, lifting a hand.
The old knight paused, then nodded.
Jaime smirked. "Of course, Your Grace."
They took their positions once more.
Joffrey's breathing steadied, his mind narrowing as he searched for something—anything—that might break the pattern.
Something unexpected, he thought, his pulse a steady drum in his ears. Don't fight the man. Fight his expectations.
Then Joffrey moved.
The clash came quickly, their blades meeting again as they exchanged strikes in rapid succession. This time, Joffrey didn't push immediately. He let the rhythm build, let Jaime settle into it, let the familiarity of the exchange take hold.
When he finally saw his chance, he went for it.
Joffrey lunged, his blade driving forward in a direct thrust toward Jaime's chest. The Kingslayer saw it immediately.
He stepped aside, deflecting the strike cleanly, already moving into his counter, but then—Joffrey released his grip on his sword.
His right hand let go of the hilt as his left took over, catching the blade in a reversed grip mid-motion, turning what should have been a committed thrust into something else entirely.
The angle changed and Joffrey's blade came down toward Jaime's exposed throat.
For the first time—Jaime reacted.
His sword snapped up, intercepting the strike just before it landed, the impact sharper than any before it. The moment stretched, the yard going still as something lethal flickered beneath the surface of the exchange.
The Kingslayer moved.
The reversal came instantly—his blade sliding along Joffrey's, disarming him with practiced precision before his foot swept out, taking the king's legs from under him.
Joffrey hit the ground hard.
Before he could rise, Jaime's sword hovered just above his face, close enough that he could smell the tinge of metal.
Silence filled the training yard, and Jaime's expression had changed—just slightly. His hand rose, almost unconsciously, brushing the side of his neck where the strike had nearly landed.
Then the moment passed, and the familiar smirk flickered back into place.
"Another round?" he asked sarcastically.
Joffrey laughed, a short, breathless sound that broke the tension cleanly.
"I think that's enough for today."
Jaime extended a hand, and the king took it, allowing himself to be pulled back to his feet.
"Well fought," Jaime said, his tone carrying something more genuine now.
"Thank you," Joffrey replied.
He retrieved his training sword, returning it to the rack with a steady hand before moving to the side. The water from the goatskin was cold, washing away the grit of the yard and the dryness in his throat. As the adrenaline receded, his breathing slowed, leaving him with the quiet, thrumming ache of progress.
Across the yard, the others watched the pair and were once again reminded how high the bar for swordsmanship truly was.
o-O-o
The yard eventually emptied after the king had dismissed most of them.
Where moments before the courtyard had rung with the clash of training blades and the barked corrections of seasoned knights, there was now a lingering stillness, broken by the faint creak of leather and the distant sounds of the keep going about its day.
Dust still hung faintly in the air where boots had churned the ground, and the scent of sweat and worn wood clung stubbornly to the space, refusing to fade as quickly as the men who had left it behind.
Joffrey remained seated on the low stone bench near the edge of the training ring, his chest rising and falling in steady, controlled breaths as he recovered from the exertion.
The goatskin rested loosely in his hand, its contents sloshing softly as he lifted it once more and drank deeply. The water was lukewarm now, tinged faintly with the taste of leather, but it did its job all the same, washing away the dryness in his throat.
When he lowered it again, he tipped the remaining water over his head.
It ran through his hair in a cool rush, spilling down his face and neck before soaking into the fabric of his training doublet.
The sensation pulled a quiet breath from him as the lingering heat began to fade, chased away by the sudden chill that crept along his skin. He dragged a hand back through his damp hair, pushing it away from his face as droplets slid along his jaw.
At some point, Jaime had taken a seat beside him. Joffrey hadn't noticed when.
The Kingslayer leaned back slightly on the bench, one arm resting loosely against his knee as he watched him with a look that was far less guarded than it had been earlier. There was curiosity there still, but something else had joined it now—something quieter, more thoughtful, as though he were re-evaluating what he had just seen.
"You've improved," Jaime said at last, his voice carrying easily in the quiet. "More than I ever imagined."
Joffrey didn't look at him immediately. Instead, he let the last of the water drip from his chin before wiping his face with the back of his hand, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead.
"Where did I leave openings?" he asked, turning his head slightly. He held out the goatskin without looking, the gesture almost absent-minded. "There were too many."
Jaime took it, lifting it to his lips before answering. He didn't rush the response, letting the silence stretch for a moment as he considered the question in full.
"Your aggression isn't the problem," he said eventually, lowering the skin and rolling it between his fingers. "It works for you. Most men your age hesitate—they think too much about what comes next instead of committing to what's in front of them. You don't."
He glanced at him then, his tone shifting just enough to carry weight.
"But you outrun yourself sometimes. When you transition between sequences you leave small gaps. They're not obvious, but they're there. Against someone who knows where to look…" He gave a slight shrug. "That's all it takes."
Joffrey nodded slowly, absorbing the words without argument.
"Make the transitions cleaner and tighter," Jaime continued. "You want the next strike to begin before the last one fully ends. Right now, there's a fraction of a pause. That's where I step in."
Joffrey took the goatskin back, drinking again before setting it down beside his foot.
"I see," he said quietly. "Thank you for pointing it out."
Jaime watched him for a moment, the faintest hint of surprise touching his expression.
"You take criticism well," he said.
Joffrey huffed softly, not quite a laugh.
"I don't have the luxury of stagnation," he replied.
The simplicity of the answer lingered between them for a moment before the conversation shifted, not abruptly, but with the natural pull of something left unresolved.
"She'll be fine," Jaime said, his voice quieter now.
Joffrey didn't ask who he meant.
"Myrcella," Jaime added anyway, as though to make it easier.
Joffrey's jaw tightened, though he kept his gaze forward.
"I didn't expect you to approve," he said after a moment.
Jaime leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs as he looked out across the empty yard.
"It's not about approval," he said. "It's about understanding why."
There was a pause.
"Tyrion told you," Joffrey said.
His 'uncle' nodded once.
"He didn't hide it. He's been carrying it since it happened. He thinks he overstepped, and that you'll make him pay for it."
Joffrey let out a slow breath, reaching down to nudge the goatskin lightly with his foot.
"I'm not exiling him," he said. "If that's what you're worried about."
The knight's shoulders eased just slightly at his words.
"He did what made sense from where he stood," Joffrey continued. "Dorne was the cleanest, most logical move available to him. I should have explained my plans for Myrcella to him and then none of this would've happened."
Jaime turned his head, studying him again.
"That's not something I expected to hear," he admitted.
Joffrey rolled his eyes faintly.
"Let me guess," he muttered. "You expected me to lash out."
He didn't answer the King directly, but the look he gave him was enough, making Joffrey exhale through his nose.
"Here we go," he thought, already knowing where the conversation was turning.
"You sent her away," Jaime said after a moment, his tone shifting. "Your mother."
Joffrey's face became a mask of cold, Lannister gold—unreadable and immovable.
"I had to."
Jaime's brows drew together and his voice lost its ease. "Why?"
The king didn't look at him this time. His gaze remained fixed ahead, his voice flat, almost detached.
"Because she is an impulsive imbecile—one who nearly destroyed everything I've been trying to build."
The bluntness of it made Jaime's jaw tighten.
"She's still your mother," he said, his tone edged now.
Joffrey turned then, meeting his eyes without hesitation.
"And that is the only reason she is still alive," he said.
The words hit harder than anything before them. Jaime's expression shifted, the offense fading into something sharper as he searched his nephew's face.
"What did she do?" he asked quietly.
Joffrey didn't hesitate. "She tried to have Sansa killed."
Silence immediately followed, filling the space between them.
Jaime looked away, his gaze dropping as the implication settled in. There was no point in denying it, not when the truth fit so easily with what he already knew of his sister.
Ser Barristan approached then, offering a fresh towel as Joffrey poured more water over his face. The king took it without looking, dragging the cloth across his skin as the coolness chased away the last of the heat from training.
"Perhaps there is truth to it," Barristan said. "Treason running in blood."
The words landed with quiet force.
Jaime's head turned slightly, something like hurt flickering through his expression before it settled into something more controlled.
Acceptance.
The same acceptance he'd had for the last seventeen years, as all the knights of the realm looked at him with disdain as an oathbreaker.
But then the king spoke up.
"Ser Barristan apologize," he ordered.
Barristan blinked. "Your Grace I—"
"Now," Joffrey commanded. The word wasn't a request; it was a cold, sharp edge that cut through the lingering heat of the courtyard.
Barristan inclined his head stiffly.
"My apologies, Ser Jaime," he said.
The words were spoken, but the weight behind them was lacking and Joffrey could see it plainly. He decided to address it.
Joffrey rose from the bench, stepping forward until he stood between them, his gaze settling firmly on Barristan.
"Why?" he asked.
Barristan frowned slightly.
"Your Grace?"
"Why do you look down on him?" Joffrey pressed. "With such utter contempt."
Barristan hesitated, the answer clearly at odds with the situation he found himself in.
"A knight's duty is to uphold his oaths," he said at last. "Without question."
Joffrey tilted his head slightly.
"Even when the king you serve is mad and orders you to kill innocent men?"
Barristan's jaw tightened.
"Yes." The answer came slower this time, heavier. "Even then."
The answer hung in the air, heavy and stagnant. Joffrey leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt louder than a shout.
Joffrey studied him for a moment, then asked quietly, "Even if that oath demands the deaths of thousands?"
Barristan didn't answer immediately, clearly not understanding. Jaime shifted beside him, clearly uncomfortable, his gaze fixed somewhere else.
"You really don't know, do you?" Joffrey asked after a moment.
Barristan frowned. "Know what?"
"The last command of the Mad King."
Confusion crossed Barristan's face. Jaime froze like stone as he looked up at Joffrey with shock. Seeing the chance to rectify a misunderstanding, Joffrey turned and began making his way out of the training yard.
"Come with me," he ordered.
He didn't wait for a reply as he made his way out of the Yard and back into the Red Keep with Jaime and Ser Barristan following in his wake.
o-O-o
The path down to the depths of the castle was both chilling and quiet.
The light dimmed with each step as they passed beneath the Red Keep, moving beyond the cells where men were kept, and into places where fewer still had reason to go. The torch in Joffrey's hand cast flickering shadows along the stone walls, the air growing heavier as they descended.
As they walked, he spoke.
"While you were away with Prince Rhaegar, the King grew worse," he said. "More paranoid, and unstable. He had the pyromancers place caches of wildfire throughout the city."
Barristan stopped for half a second. "What?"
The faint green glow ahead answered him before Joffrey needed to.
"Rhaegar fell," Joffrey continued. "The war was lost, and when it became clear that the city would fall…" He glanced over his shoulder at Jaime. "He gave the order."
They stopped before the old caches of wildfire.
The jars sat there in silence, their contents glowing with an unnatural light that cast sickly green shadows across the chamber.
He meant to burn it all," Joffrey said, his voice barely a whisper. "To turn the capital into a pyre and take half a million souls with him to the grave.
Barristan stared at the baleful jars, the green light reflecting in his eyes. He looked like a man seeing a ghost.
Joffrey slowly turned to him, the torchlight catching the gold of his hair. "If he had ordered you to light the fuse, Ser Barristan... would you have done your duty?"
"If he had given you that order," he asked, "would you have obeyed it?"
Barristan didn't answer, and for the first time, a flicker of doubt clouded his eyes and entered his heart. The king stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder.
"He chose to stop him," he said. "And whatever else you might believe… that was not dishonor."
Barristan's gaze shifted slowly toward Jaime. Something changed in his gaze as he looked at his fellow knight.
Not completely, but enough.
The old knight stepped forward, placing a hand on Jaime's shoulder, the gesture quiet but meaningful. No words followed, nor did they need to, just a respectful head tilt between two peers.
Joffrey then turned back toward the stairs.
"We should return," he said. "I have other matters to attend to today."
He began to walk and behind him, Barristan followed.
Jaime lingered only a moment longer, his expression softer now, something unguarded slipping through the mask of arrogance he was forced to wear for the last seventeen years before he turned and followed as well.
Ahead, unseen by either of them, Joffrey allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile.
Another piece had fallen into place.
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