Joffrey arrived at the small council chamber and took his seat, waiting for the other members to come. The first one to return was Tyrion, but his lips were curved in a mischievous smile.
"W-Who are you?" Tyrion yelped, pointing his finger at Joffrey. "I-I sent a boy… but… y-you're a man!"
Joffrey, initially frowning, chuckled at the later part. Indeed, he was a changed man now. "I almost considered putting your head on a pike there, Uncle."
"Ah, there's my sweet King Joffrey." Tyrion finally took his seat beside the King. "We find ourselves in need of a new Grand Maester, Master of Ships, Master of Law, Master of Coin, and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Yours truly has been juggling the roles of Hand and Master of Coin with the grace of a dancing bear until now. As for the Master of Laws, I've temporarily pressed Bronn into service, and as for Varys... Well, Varys remains Varys, doesn't he?"
Clack!
Right then, the door opened, and Varys glided into the room, his hands concealed within the folds of his robes, his steps measured and deliberate.
"Welcome back, Your Grace," his voice smooth as silk. "It gladdens my heart to see you hale and hearty."
Right after that, Bronn of Blackwater arrived. Unfortunately, no other members were appointed to the Small Council yet. But the door opened again, and Ser Arthur, the commander of the Golden Legion, entered.
"Ser Arthur shall be the Master of Laws from now on. Ser Bronn will serve as his second in command," Joffrey announced, inviting the dark-skinned Unsullied commander to take a seat beside him. None of the council's members resisted his decision. "But it remains a question of who to appoint as the new Master of Ships. The crown needs to rebuild its fleet, not as grand as the Redwynes, but it must return to its past glory—before my idiot uncles decide to play rebel."
Joffrey became silent after that, pondering deeply. "Where is Margaery?"
"In Highgarden," Tyrion replied, looking at Joffrey with somewhat conflicted expressions. "There's a certain poetry to shattered expectations when the coveted prize ends up in someone else's hands, isn't there?"
"Lady Olenna must be furious," Joffrey asked.
"Pff…" Varys chortled suddenly, holding his laughter. "More than furious, Your Grace. Lord Hand tried to pacify her, but she whacked him with her cane… quite a few times."
"Haha!" Joffrey let out a hearty laugh, not bothering to conceal his amusement. "Well, it's her granddaughter's fault for not being fertile enough, isn't it? I'll have to have a little chat with her about that later. But for now, get a raven sent to Lord Redwyne. It's his chance to serve the crown. Have him send a competent man to be my new Master of Ships."
Tyrion and Varys' faces turned to Joffrey at that command. They couldn't help but feel uneasy since inviting another powerful house of the Reach in the Small Council before inviting the main powerhouse—the Tyrells, was Akin to warning the Tyrells that the king wasn't happy.
"It shall be done, Your Grace." Varys agreed, however. He very much liked the stable and competent Joffrey and wished to see where the young King was leading his new strategy to.
"Ser Jaime has returned. So, he will take over as the Lord Commander of the King's Guard. That leaves a Grand Maester, but I don't want someone like Pycelle this time," Joffrey said, feeling helpless in this matter. "Uncle, find me a good, unambitious Maester."
Tyrion scratched his beard wearily and agreed. "As you wish, Your Grace."
"Fantastic. So how is the realm doing?" Joffrey slumped in his seat, looking all casual now that it was time for him to hear them out.
Tyrion was the one to report on that. "For once, the crown's coffers aren't gasping for air. However, we're not exactly swimming in gold just yet. The coffers are filling, albeit slowly. It's a climb, but one that promises rewards in due time. And with the war behind us, I foresee a surge in trade."
"Unless someone becomes too ambitious," Varys added.
"Who is it now?" Joffrey asked tiredly.
"The Ironborn," Varys revealed. "My little birds have brought it to my attention; They are planning to attack the Riverlands and the North in its weakened state. Balon Greyjoy, it seems, harbors ambitions as vast as the endless sea."
"Tsk, those pests!" Joffrey growled, angered by the new headache. "They should have been eradicated years ago. How many rebellions are we going to tolerate? Those saltfuckers…"
"We cannot affor—"
Joffrey raised his hand to silence his uncle. "I will deal with them once Westeros is truly united. For now, get those birds flying to every lord and lady up in the Riverlands and the North. They need to know those Ironborn pests are on their way."
"It shall be done, Your Grace."
Joffrey then looked at Bronn. "Take Ser Arthur to the finest blacksmiths in the city. My Golden Legion needs a fresh batch of armor, and it better be the finest. And don't you dare try any of your shady tricks. Get him the best deal, or it's your head."
Bronn threw up his hands in mock surrender. "I'm a proper, noble knight now, Your Grace. No more dodgy dealings for me."
"Good. Let's end the meeting then."
With Joffrey's dismissal, everything but Tyrion got up and left the room. Then, Joffrey also got up to retreat to his solar and plan out some future actions.
"Are you really set on inviting the Redwynes, Your Grace?" Tyrion piped up just as Joffrey was making his exit. "Bringing them into the mix is like tossing wildfire on an already burning wound with the Tyrells. Not sure we can handle that kind of heat."
With an expression of irritation and his arms folded behind his back, Joffrey glanced at his uncle again. "Uncle, I fucked Margaery just as much as Sansa, yet only Sansa birthed a babe. Surely, even you can figure out why."
"Moon tea?"
"I ordered her not to," Joffrey spat out, his voice dripping with disdain. "Seems someone isn't content with the king they've been blessed with. I'll see you at the dinner feast, Uncle."
####
Knock! Knock!
With hours left for the dinner feast, Joffrey chose to retreat to his solar and do some work. But then a knock came on the door, and he quickly straightened his back. "Enter."
The door opened, and an old woman walked in, her form proud, her clothes regal. The iconic pill-box hat and veil was still right atop her head. But her face didn't hold the calm that she usually had. Replaced with a visible fury, an expression much against her political self.
"Take a seat, Lady Tyrell," Joffrey drawled lazily, barely bothering to gesture towards the old woman. He lounged in his chair, making no effort to rise and offer any semblance of respect. "I've been waiting for you."
Olenna strolled forward and sat down on the visitor's seat. She kept glaring into Joffrey's blue eyes, expecting the young King to speak. However, she failed to stay patient. "You have sullied the honor of my granddaughter! You have sullied the name of my great hou—"
"You sold her to Renly first. You—ugh…" Joffrey cut her off, but then his face twisted for a moment before he composed himself. "Let's not pretend we're clueless here. All you care about is seeing your precious little flower wear the crown next. You'd marry her off to anyone if it meant getting your way."
Olenna breathed deeply, hearing the young king like this for the first time. There was more authority, more pride, and more power in his expressions. "Despite knowing that, you spawned a bastard with the Stark girl."
"I wanted Margaery to birth me my heir first. Yet she remains barren," Joffrey replied, eyeing the woman maliciously. "Could it be the little Rose cannot bloom—"
"I fed her the moon tea," Olenna cut in sharply, not allowing Joffrey to finish his words. "I made sure she's not with your babe."
"Even after I specifically told her not to drink it?" Joffrey glared at her, finally finding the reason why a part of his plan didn't succeed.
You old, scheming whore! Joffrey was booming with fury in his heart.
"Can't have her womb filled before the knot is tied, Your Grace," Olenna said, regaining her own composure, as if she gained a victory by making Joffrey angry. "I'll let the matter of Sansa Stark pass. You have done well giving a Stark name to the bastard. But the marriage cannot be delayed any—"
"I swore to Margaery that once I squashed that blasted war, we'd tie the knot. And now that I've done just that, why wait any longer?" Joffrey straightened himself up, his regal demeanor returning. "Pick a date, Lady Olenna. I'm ready to say our vows."
Olenna fell silent for a short while, staring at Joffrey. She kept a faint smirk on her lips, as if scheming, or trying to read the young King.
But she eventually stood up. "In one week!"
With that, the old Queen of Thorns left the room. Joffrey slumped back in his seat as soon as the door closed, and he looked down between his exposed legs. Long red hair, red lipstick, red eyes, skin paler than ash, and her stoic mature charm everpresent, but currently with a smile, for it was her pleasure to please her lord.
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