GOT: The Golden Lion

Aren't you a fast one, Chataya? Joffrey inwardly smiled and nodded, permission for her entry.

Soon, the curvy, tall, dark-skinned woman entered the hall. Her graceful walk was so seductive that all the men there drooled at her shapely hips, while the women enviously compared themselves to her.

"Speak your mind, Chataya," Joffrey addressed her. Since she was a whore, he refrained from calling her 'Lady' as he would have done to most other women.

Chataya bowed her head first, then locked her burning hot sandalwood-colored eyes with the King. "Your Grace, I feel embarrassed to come here regarding this matter, but it's only you who can help me. An unruly guest has taken home in my brothel, and after spending nights of drinking and… being entertained, he refuses to pay."

Joffrey frowned, a ruse. "For such a puny matter you seek an audience with me? Woman, have you gone senile? You have wasted my ti—"

"It's fifteen thousand Gold Dragons, your grace!" Chataya interrupted.

The entire court gasped, and Joffrey fell silent for a moment. Frowning, he looked at Tyrion and whispered to him. "Who is the customer? Is it the Martell?"

Tyrion was as confused as the rest. "My guess is as good as yours, Your Grace. But the amount of gold is worth an entire village."

Joffrey sighed and looked back at Chataya. "Who is this guest? Can you reveal his name and origin?"

Chataya hesitated a little, acting perfectly as ordered by Joffrey. "H-He's a noble Lord, Your Grace… It's Lord Edmure Tully, the Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Trident."

The court not only gasped this time but also fell into loud murmurs. Sansa, in the distance, looked uncomfortable as the man was related to her.

"Where is he?" Joffrey asked.

"He's drunk and unable to move, Your Grace. We have taken good care of him these past few days. But he now refuses to pay, claiming he has no such money," Chataya replied, taking a more pitiful stance, her hands clasped together in front of her.

You did well, Chataya. Joffrey stood up and looked at Sansa for a very short moment. He hoped it'd scare her a little, an important aspect of their confusing relationship. Sansa must never learn to stand up for herself, or else he feared she'd become the foolish, but fearless proud Lady he remembered from his memories of the different life.

"Very well, I shall go and meet with him myself. I wanted to take a stroll around King's Landing and see how the people are living now… See if the sewers have been kept clean as per my order." He walked down the flight of stairs and approached Chataya, glancing at her sizable bosom with keen interest for a moment. "Walk with me."

Finally, Joffrey gave a look at his Kingsguard—Val, Sandor, and Jamie—the three led ten more Kingsguard and surrounded him. Of course, Val walked to his left as he liked her company.

Val, his beautiful prized possession. She was the one who calmed his sexual frustrations the most. No matter how hard he fucked her, she only gave him moans and demanded more. On top of that, she had already defeated Sandor once, but also lost once. She was yet to defeat Jaimie, though the rest of the Kingsguard had been tamed by her already.

Joffrey walked around the city, receiving greetings from the smallfolk. Visiting the docks first, he checked the managers there to weed out any corruption. Speaking with a few notable traders, and even the lowest of the lowest porters about their lives.

Although he couldn't help them with their hard lives, nor gift them money on a whim. He found solace in the fact that they weren't starving anymore. King's Landing had enough food now with the Riverlands at peace. The dependence on the Reach had decreased already.

Following that, Joffrey chose to take a stroll through Flea Bottom. Having learned his lesson from his previous life, he was careful about any riots.

"Much better than before," Joffrey muttered, unable to find waterlogging in the streets.

"New sewers do that," Tyrion barked, exhaustion in his voice. "Look at the ground, o' noble King."

Joffrey glanced down and noticed strange stone slabs at each interval. Each of them had holes in them. He wasn't dumb and realized they were meant to drain rainwater. The entire new sewage system was made under the road.

"Good job, Uncle." Joffrey looked at Tyrion with great appreciation. Making him the Hand was perhaps the best decision he had made. Tyrion did have his weakness, whores, but at the same time the man was competent.

Joffrey walked the narrow streets, at times arriving at major open areas. He greeted the crowd there, looking at the faces of everyone, but only looking for the one that mattered the most. Where are you? Where are you, traitor?

Joffrey walked almost all of Flea Bottom in search. Finally, with almost an hour passed, he noticed the old wrinkly face.

"Val," he whispered to his cherished Kingsguard. "You see that old man on the right? White clothes, bald head, furious eyes? I want you to take Ser Clegane and grab him. Bring him to the dungeons. Don't make noise, and be quick."

Val subtly nodded and walked over to Sandor. She waited for Joffrey to leave before going ahead with the mission.

Meanwhile, Joffrey arrived at Chataya's brothel. Accompanied by Tyrion, Joffrey entered the small room and found Edmure Tully sleeping on the bed, mumbling nonsense, and empty bottles lying all around the room.

Joffrey sighed, rubbing his face. "Can Riverrun afford to pay this bill?"

"Not at the moment," Tyrion answered. "This fish isn't known to be very smart."

"Then summon the fish that has some brain. I remember he has an uncle? Doesn't he? Send a raven summoning him. Until then, lock this one in the guest house," Joffrey ordered and looked at Chataya. "I will pay the bill, Chataya."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

Looking sad, dejected, and angered, Joffrey left the brothel and walked back towards the Red Keep. Even Tyrion was unaware of what Joffrey was cooking, leading to his own frustration with managing the coffers.

"Your Grace, the wedding is expensive. I'm afraid we can't feed this fish." Tyrion warned Joffrey.

Joffrey, still smiling, just strolled back to the Red Keep. "Don't worry, Uncle. Everything is under control… everything."

"..."

Tyrion had no darn clue what Joffrey was saying. In all honesty, he didn't have the energy to care either. This Joffrey was clearly not the dumb brat he once knew.

####

As the night approached, Joffrey entered the castle's dungeon with Val and Sandor leading him. There were a few other prisoners kept there that wailed all the time.

Amidst that, Joffrey was soon led to a locked cell with the same old man from Flea Bottom. The man was naked, his arms tied up against the wall, and bruises covered his entire being.

"Hello, High Sparrow." Joffrey walked inside the cell. "Val, give me your dagger."

The old man stared at Joffrey with terror in his eyes, unable to understand why this was happening. He had been careful all this time to never share his plans or thoughts with any. So how did this boy King know his future title?

"W-Who are you?"

"Your death, you filthy beggar," Joffrey replied and stepped forward.

Bam!

He jabbed the dagger straight into the old man's neck and pulled it out to allow the blood to spray everywhere. He had zero tolerance for his enemies, and even less so for someone as dangerous as the High Sparrow.

"That was quick," Val muttered. "I thought you'd be interrogating him."

"No need, I already know his crimes," Joffrey replied dismissively and handed the dagger back to Val. "If this man was to be left alive… Insanity would have plagued this land. Let's go."

Joffrey ensured the man was dead before turning around and heading back upstairs.

"Heeeeelp!"

"Someone?!"

"Please save me!"

Joffrey frowned, feeling like he knew this voice. "Who's this crying pig?"

"The one we brought from the North. Theon?" Val answered, already accustomed to her role as a Kingsguard.

"Theon Greyjoy?" Joffrey remembered the prisoner he had brought. "I had forgotten about him. Where is he? Bring me to him."

Sandor grunted and led the way into the dungeon paths. Damp and cold, devoid of much light. Soon after they arrived at an isolated cell, inside stood Theon Greyjoy, tied to the wall with his hands and knees apart, multiple bruises still covering his body.

"Your Grace! Please, I'm innocent! I didn't help the Boltons!" Theon cried at the sight of Joffrey.

"You can still speak?" Joffrey exclaimed with a sneer. "I remember ordering them to break you apart. Too bad, I'd have let you go if… Forget it, you're useless to me."

"Nooo! No, please don't go. I-I'll do it! Anything you say, I'll do it!" Theon pleaded, crying real tears.

Joffrey fell silent and stared at Theon's face for a very long time. His silence tormented Theon's heart. But Joffrey stayed mum for far too long. "Hmm… I want you to go home and lay a trap against the Iron Islands, against your house, and bring your sister to me. I'll make you the new ruler of Castle Pyke for it."

"I'll do it! I-I'll do it, Your Grace!" Theon agreed immediately.

Joffrey sneered and stepped back, turning around to leave. "I know a traitor when I see one. Too bad… I think you need a little more education before you become obedient. Let's go, Val."

The swords and steel of their armor clanked. They all returned to the ground floor of the Red Keep amidst Theon's distant cries.

It was evening, so Joffrey returned to his solar since dinner was still a few hours away.

I've yet to see Arya today. I hope she sleeps with Sansa tonight. Joffrey mumbled and approached his solar.

"Your Grace!"

Tsk, this scheming, smirking bitch. Joffrey cursed at the sight of Margaery, her smirk even more annoying to him than before.

"Y-Your Grace…"

Joffrey didn't spare her a glance and walked past her and entered his solar. His brows creased together, his face annoyed. He wasn't acting angry anymore but was genuinely angry. Margaery Tyrell was a pawn in his plot, and she betrayed his trust.

"What is this?" He noticed a folded parchment on his table. It bore the sigil of the Night's Watch. "Jon?"

With rushed fingers, he unfolded the parchment and read it. But instead of excitement, his shoulders fell in disappointment. It was just a letter to inform him that Jon Snow has yet to return from the expedition deep into the North.

Frustrated, Joffrey almost forgot all the victories he had earned recently.

Knock! Knock!

"Your Grace, please hear me once."

The very voice of Margaery enraged him, burning in his heart like a blazing pyre. He once liked Margaery as a useful tool and a beauty. Now, he saw no use in her, nor did her beauty entice him much.

"You may enter," he ordered.

The door opened quickly and Margaery rushed inside before Joffrey could change his mind. She closed the door behind her and took a few more steps toward the young King's table.

She even dresses like a whore now. Joffrey sneered at her choice of attire. A green coloured thin, sleeveless gown that was too tight for her.

Her hips protruded out in the back, her waist wide, while the neck was deep and plunging, revealing her front till her midriff, only hiding her handful breasts.

"You betrayed me," Joffrey sternly said, cold and unflattering.

Margery became nervous. She remembered the first time she met with Joffrey in his room. It was an almost similar situation, but back then she could still see lust in his gaze.

But now, there was only coldness. She felt her body go frigid but her skin was sweating. Her hair was done beautifully, silky and loose, but she felt tingles underneath them.

This time she had no plan. No trick to sway the King. Even her grandmother had simply told her to… Do anything you can to receive the King's forgiveness.

Margaery gulped, never having seen Joffrey this angry before. "Y-Your Grace, I wouldn't ever think of betraying you… I love you, Your Grace. I'm your queen to b—"

"Lies!" Joffrey bellowed and jumped to his feet, the chair behind him falling back with a thud. He walked around the table and approached Margaery, scaring her enough that she took steps back. "If you are to be my queen, then why don't I have an heir in my arms yet? Why didn't you birth my offspring?"

Margaery knew this matter would be brought up. "I-It wasn't my decision, Your Grace. I really wanted to have your blessing take life in me, I really did. But… It was my Grandmother who made me drink the moon tea… I swear in the nam—"

"And?" Joffrey approached her and stopped there, staring at her face coldly. Both his arms lay crossed, never touching her. "I am the King, am I not? Is my order beneath the word of your grandmother? You… You have ruined me, Margaery Tyrell… I wanted you to birth me an heir, my firstborn—not Sansa!"

Margaery's heart sank into the deepest void. Tears arose from her eyes, her head shaking nonstop. "I-I ask for your forgiveness… Please give me a chance, Your Grace."

Joffrey sneered and stepped back to his table. Instead of approaching his chair, he sat down on the table, arms crossed, eyes fixed on Margaery's form. "Tommen?"

So I was right. Joffrey noticed the faint flinch on Margaery at the name of his younger brother.

"You must have hoped, perhaps prayed to the Seven for my death. For the young, naive King to die in his battles in the North," Joffrey said, reading the situation better than Margaery or Olenna had expected. "You returned to the Reach in hopes of maintaining the illusion of your purity. In the hopes you'd get to marry Tommen after my death? He's easier to control, isn't he? I can understand your vile plot… I'd have done the same."

Horrified, speechless, scared—Margaery lacked any words to say. In no circumstance could she foresee any words able to pacify Joffrey.

"But… A word is a word," Joffrey added. "I have no choice but to marry you… a loveless, heartless marriage with the woman who betrayed me."

"N-No… Your Grace." Margaery cried, tears sliding down her face.

Joffrey scoffed. "Now, strip."

Margaery felt her knees go weak. Her heart raced in confusion. "Y-Your… Your Grace? What do you mea… This is unnecessary… I am your wife to be… We can do this on our first night togeth—"

"Strip!" Joffrey repeated, glaring at her. "Or leave!"

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