After a midday meal of roasted quail and summer greens, Joffrey found himself wandering toward the Throne Room, which stood near the main gate of the Red Keep overlooking Aegon's High Hill.
Noticing the throng of commoners gathered outside the massive bronze doors, waiting to present their petitions to the crown, he felt a sudden impulse of curiosity. With a casual gesture to the Hound, he watched as his sworn shield carved a path through the dense crowd, smallfolk scattering before Sandor Clegane's intimidating presence.
By rights, the king should have been seated upon the Iron Throne at this hour, listening to the grievances and appeals of his subjects, dispensing justice, and pronouncing judgments. Such was the ancient compact between ruler and ruled.
King Robert, however, was clearly not a man to trouble himself with such tedious duties.
The hunt in the Kingswood across the Blackwater occupied most of His Grace's time and attention, while these mundane matters fell daily to Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, who shouldered the burdens his sovereign preferred to ignore.
Stepping into the cavernous chamber, Joffrey's gaze was immediately drawn to the fearsome Iron Throne that dominated the dais at the far end of the hall. Even from a distance, it commanded attention like no other seat in the known world.
Nearly three centuries past, Aegon the Conqueror of House Targaryen had unified the Seven Kingdoms beneath his banner. Balerion the Black Dread, mightiest of dragons, had spewed forth his infernal breath, melting the thousand swords surrendered by those who had bent the knee during the Conquest.
From this mass of twisted metal was born the Iron Throne—bristling with spikes, jagged edges, and half-formed blades—a physical embodiment of the power and peril inherent in absolute authority.
The Dragon King Aegon had famously declared, "A king should never sit easy," a sentiment that had echoed through the centuries.
The words had always sounded noble and profound. Yet now, confronted with this monstrous construction of fused steel, Joffrey suddenly comprehended the literal agony those Targaryen kings must have endured.
Unable to lean back against the daggers that protruded from behind, constantly wary of the razor-sharp edges that surrounded them—it amounted to nothing less than torture disguised as majesty.
Joffrey resolved silently that he would not submit to such discomfort. How could the seat of kings be such an instrument of suffering? He would replace it with something more befitting his dignity at the first opportunity!
Having examined the Iron Throne to his satisfaction, Joffrey became aware of the many eyes now fixed upon him. With practiced nonchalance, he strode forward across the center of the hall, where dragon-fire patterns had been inlaid within the crimson marble tiles.
The Throne Room was presently in recess, with the next group of petitioners awaiting their summons. Jon Arryn sat ramrod-straight upon the Iron Throne, his aged face betraying no hint of the discomfort he surely felt.
Two knights of the Kingsguard, Ser Mandon Moore and Ser Meryn Trant, stood impassive in their white armor and cloaks on either side of the elevated platform.
At the council table positioned below the throne's steps sat five members of the Small Council: Lord Renly Baratheon, Master of Laws, with his easy smile and fashionable attire; Lord Stannis Baratheon, Master of Ships, dour and rigid as always; Lord Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, whose mocking eyes missed nothing; Grand Maester Pycelle, his white beard reaching nearly to his waist; and Lord Varys, Master of Whisperers, plump hands folded demurely within voluminous sleeves.
The massive dragon skulls that had once adorned the walls on both sides of the chamber—from the largest (Balerion's, big enough to swallow an aurochs whole) to the smallest (no larger than that of a mastiff)—had long since been removed to the cellars, replaced with tapestries depicting King Robert's hunting exploits.
Beneath these woven scenes stood hundreds of knights, nobles, and ladies, arranged according to rank and precedence.
The general audience occupied the inner corridors flanking the main hall. Closest to the throne stood two imposing rows of City Watch guardsmen, each fully armored and draped in the golden cloaks that gave them their name.
"Your Royal Highness, Prince Joffrey," Lord Varys called out, his voice carrying a note of feigned surprise, "what brings you to grace our humble proceedings today?"
Joffrey maintained a carefully calibrated smile—charming yet touched with the foolish cruelty that "he" was known for.
"Nothing of consequence," he replied airily. "I merely took a fancy to observe these petitions. Best to learn in advance, would you not agree?"
The day he would sit upon the Iron Throne would arrive far sooner than any of them anticipated.
Joffrey calmly surveyed the assembled dignitaries before him.
The aged but still-vigorous Hand maintained an expressionless mien; his bald-headed uncle Stannis watched him with eyes sharp as flint; while the others presented varying degrees of apparent friendliness.
The Hand and his Uncle Stannis were unquestionably enemies, yet the others were no more to be trusted simply because they offered pleasant faces.
"My lords," Joffrey inquired with a hint of petulance, "is there no seat for me here? Surely the Crown Prince cannot be expected to stand like a common supplicant."
He deliberately coupled his polite request with a touch of entitled impertinence—a performance that would have been more convincing without the final remark. The subtle shift in expression across several faces confirmed his success.
Jon Arryn spoke from the throne, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "Prepare a seat for His Royal Highness—the one embroidered with the crowned stag."
The King's stag—but you bear none of his blood, do you, Joffrey Waters? Jon thought bitterly. Bastards born in the Crownlands were uniformly given the surname Waters, though Arryn was not entirely certain if that convention applied to the product of twin siblings.
He could only remind himself that now was not the moment for such confrontations.
Though he had confirmed the truth of Joffrey's parentage beyond reasonable doubt and privately committed himself to supporting Stannis as the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, Jon still needed to maintain appearances for the present.
The Hand of the King suppressed his disgust with practiced skill.
Once he secured conclusive evidence that not even Robert could ignore, and managed both the king's volatile temper and the inevitable Lannister response, the realm might yet be cleansed of the stain of incest and restored to its proper course.
He offered a silent prayer that the documents he planned to review on the morrow would provide the final piece of this dangerous puzzle.
Joffrey settled into the solitary chair positioned between the Iron Throne and the council table, assuming the role of observer. This arrangement tacitly indicated that he was not entitled to voice opinions during these proceedings.
The herald's voice rang out across the chamber: "Let the petitions resume!"
A delegation of merchants entered, bowing deeply before kneeling at the appropriate distance from the Iron Throne.
"My lords, we five represent the weaponsmiths of the Street of Steel," their spokesman began. "Of late, we have encountered..."
Joffrey allowed his attention to drift.
In practice, the Throne Room primarily served as the judicial and administrative center for King's Landing itself, adjudicating matters concerning its hundreds of thousands of citizens rather than functioning as the true seat of power for the Seven Kingdoms that he had envisioned.
His primary purpose in attending was to observe his future opponents in a formal setting before departing King's Landing, gaining insight into their public personas and political methods.
After listening to the petition, the Master of Coin, Littlefinger, was first to respond, his tone conveying aristocratic boredom tinged with amusement.
"The price of pig iron has doubled, you say? Surely you don't suggest the Iron Throne bears responsibility for this? Or perhaps you expect the royal treasury to provide subsidies for your enterprises?"
The lead merchant shook his head with frantic haste. "We would never presume such a thing, my lord! It's merely that the market has maintained remarkable stability for so long, and this sudden change suggests deliberate manipulation."
The Master of Laws, Lord Renly, chuckled softly. "Varys, it would seem this falls within your purview. Have your little birds chirped any secrets regarding this matter?"
The eunuch caressed the smooth, sea-blue silk of his robe and responded with affected nonchalance. "Perhaps our estimable Lord Petyr might also enlighten us with his considerable knowledge of such matters."
Joffrey's lips curved in a subtle smile. Littlefinger was being implicated, however delicately. Interesting.
Yet Baelish feigned complete ignorance of Varys's insinuation. "How curious that you should think me better informed than our master of whispers. The Spider's web extends far beyond my humble reach."
A charged silence descended upon the chamber.
After a brief interval, the Hand of the King rose from the Iron Throne, wincing almost imperceptibly as he extricated himself from its cruel embrace.
"Very well," he pronounced. "In the name of His Grace King Robert, first of his name, Lord Petyr shall be responsible for restoring the price of pig iron to acceptable levels within a fortnight. Does any member of this council wish to register an objection?"
Lord Petyr bowed with practiced grace and accepted the directive.
"As you command, my lord Hand. Your humble servant shall spare no effort to uncover those responsible for this market disruption and restore conditions favorable to the artisans of the Street of Steel."
The merchants, having secured neither immediate relief nor concrete promises, had little choice but to withdraw with expressions of perfunctory gratitude.
Joffrey observed the proceedings with growing clarity.
The Throne Room was engaged in elaborate political theater. The outcome of the weaponsmiths' complaint had been predetermined. So long as Littlefinger retained his position and influence, this minor inconvenience would necessitate only a temporary adjustment to his schemes.
The merchants, lacking the political acumen to perceive these undercurrents and having no powerful patron among those present, must simply endure their hardship for the present.
As subsequent petitions were heard, Joffrey watched with cold assessment, gaining valuable insight into the complex web of feudal interests, conflicts, and intrigues that characterized the realm.
Disputes regarding the boundaries of agricultural land; compensation for injuries sustained in tavern brawls; a knight demanding satisfaction for perceived insults; two minor lords of the Crownlands accusing each other of territorial encroachment—the parade of grievances continued until the setting sun cast long shadows through the tall windows, bathing the crimson floor tiles in golden light.
The final petitioning party was admitted to the chamber.
"My lords, I implore you to grant us justice," cried a middle-aged woman arrayed in garments that, while once fine, showed signs of hasty maintenance. She knelt before the throne, her hands clasped in supplication.
"It was this vile bastard and his whore of a mother!" she exclaimed, pointing with trembling finger at a mother and son who stood embracing nearby.
"All decent folk understand that a life demands a life in payment. There should have been no need to trouble such noble lords as yourselves, yet this ill-born whelp threatened violence with a blade, insisting that the Iron Throne render judgment before he would consent to justice."
"He even attempted to bring the knife into this sacred hall!"
The clerk stationed at the council table provided a succinct explanation for the benefit of the Small Council.
The murdered man, one Ser Alf Rollysford, had been the husband of the petitioning woman.
Alf had met his end in the chamber of a prostitute named Loryn while visiting an establishment in the Street of Silk, dispatched by a single knife thrust to the heart. The woman had already confessed that she had acted in response to unbearable cruelty at the knight's hands.
Rumors circulated that Ser Alf had indeed harbored certain unspeakable proclivities.
Joffrey assessed the mother and son with careful scrutiny.
The mother's beauty had faded with time and hardship, her skin bearing the dull pallor common to those who rarely saw the sun. Her threadbare linen garments did little to conceal the various bruises and scars that marked her flesh.
Though she stood accused of murder, she spoke with the detached composure of one recounting mundane occurrences, suggesting a life filled with experiences that had long since deadened her capacity for fear.
The son, a youth of perhaps fourteen or fifteen years, clasped his mother's arm with desperate intensity. His face alternated between sullen defiance and dull resignation, while his reddened eyes betrayed a fierce hope that refused to be extinguished.
Lord Varys sighed theatrically, his soft hands fluttering before his chest.
"Oh, what a lamentable tragedy! But alas, the law permits no accommodation for sentiment, however compelling. One can scarce bear to contemplate it. What wisdom might our learned Grand Maester offer in this delicate matter?"
The octogenarian Grand Maester Pycelle kept his head bowed low, as though the weight of the maester's chain around his neck—composed of two dozen metals, each symbolizing a different field of study—proved too burdensome for his frail shoulders. His posture suggested either deep contemplation or imminent slumber.
"Hmm, indeed, the law is quite specific in such cases. This particular circumstance, ah, likely admits no exception. However, the final determination must surely rest with Lord Renly, um, and his interpretation of the relevant statutes."
The Grand Maester's halting delivery left listeners wondering whether senility had begun to claim his faculties.
The Master of Laws, Lord Renly, furrowed his brow, hesitating before he spoke: "The law is undeniably strict, yet we must acknowledge that the circumstances appear complex. Perhaps Loryn might be permitted to atone for her transgression through lifelong servitude, thus avoiding the creation of further suffering."
The kneeling youth raised his gaze toward this unexpected advocate, hope blazing more fiercely in his eyes.
The handsome and outwardly compassionate Renly evoked memories of King Robert in his prime—a man who had possessed an innate talent for winning hearts and inspiring devotion.
Lord Stannis had always regarded his younger brother's flexible approach to legal matters with undisguised contempt.
"The law is immutable!" he declared, his jaw clenched tight. "Evil deeds cannot be offset by circumstance, and those who commit murder must forfeit their own lives. Moreover, is such violence not commonplace among those who sell their bodies? Her profession provides no mitigating factor—quite the contrary!"
The youth turned his head with mechanical stiffness, fixing Stannis with a baleful stare. As his lips parted to speak, his mother swiftly embraced him more tightly, silencing whatever dangerous words might have escaped.
"Kind lords," she interjected, her voice surprisingly steady, "I freely confess my guilt. I ask only that you show mercy to my innocent son. His threats sprang from terror alone—he never truly intended harm to any man."
Lord Renly made no further plea for clemency.
After a moment's contemplation, the Hand of the King rose to his feet, his expression grave.
"Guards, approach. In the name of His Grace King Robert, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I sentence the confessed murderer Loryn to death, the sentence to be carried out forthwith."
"This concludes today's petitions."
Joffrey observed as the mother whispered a few final words into her son's ear before following the executioners from the Throne Room without resistance, her destination the outer wall of the Red Keep where such sentences were typically administered.
The day's proceedings having concluded, the assembled dignitaries and spectators gradually dispersed.
Lord Renly sighed audibly as he departed, pausing to toss a gold dragon toward the now-solitary youth—a gesture of compassion or perhaps mere self-satisfaction.
The rigidly principled Stannis responded with a contemptuous snort as he passed.
Prostitutes and bastards have no rightful place in a well-ordered realm, he thought bitterly. The law is the law, and I am Robert's legitimate heir, not that abomination whose very existence offends the gods!
Joffrey walked at a measured pace, his expression betraying nothing of his thoughts.
He passed the huddled, motionless figure of the youth without acknowledgment.
Perhaps, he mused, another layer of insurance might yet be added to my plans.