A great deal of Joffrey's day was filled with the blending of subtle learning and careful observation. Though he was but young of years, in mind he was as keen as any man's. He was aware that every act he did was, in part, with watched eyes; he must play the part of a child but prepare for the role of a king.
Cersei made sure he did not forget his future for a single moment. She would embrace him close, his head barely reaching her chin, and promise the boy power and greatness. Her ambition was a fire, and she wanted him to bear the flame.
"You will be the greatest king Westeros ever knew. No one will ever challenge your right to this throne, and you will rule with strength and wisdom."
Joffrey would nod, mimicking the expressions of understanding he had seen in others. Inside, his thoughts were a storm of his past and his present. He remembered the discipline of his old life, the clear lines of command and duty. Here in this world of politics and intrigue, those lines were blurred.
One afternoon, as he lay in his crib, he heard voices outside the door. It was Jaime and Tyrion, his uncles. Their conversation was low, but his keen ears caught every word.
"Cersei is relentless," Jaime was saying. "She speaks of nothing but Joffrey's future."
Tyrion's voice, always laced with a hint of sarcasm, replied, "And what future is that? A puppet king controlled by his mother?"
Jaime sighed. "She means well. She wants him to be strong."
"She wants him to be her puppet," Tyrion corrected. "We've seen what happens to kings who are ruled by others. Robert's a prime example."
Joffrey's hands clenched into fists at the mention of his father. Joffrey knew Robert was an incredibly strong man. From that lesson, Joffrey also learned that it would take more than that to rule the Seven Kingdoms.
Later in the day, Jaime came to the nursery. He picked Joffrey up to cradle him within his arms. "'Your mother has big plans for you,'" he said softly. "'But don't let her ambition blind you. A king must be more than a figurehead.'
Joffrey looked up at him, the boy-man, his eyes were blue, wide, and innocent. Inside, he absorbed each word and every nuance. Jaime was different from Cersei. He saw the world with a clarity that she lacked.
Growing up, Joffrey had taken to an exploration of more of the Red Keep. In the eyes of those all around, he was yet a child, but his mind was always watchful, always asking questions. He sat, watching just how the courtiers moved, how they spoke, how they could lie. He saw alliances and betrayals—subtle power dances being played up and down every corridor.
One night, Cersei brought him into the Great Hall. It was dark; the long room seemed to swallow up the sound of their footsteps. She picked him up and held him up, towards the Iron Throne—a monstrous chair, of twisted swords and pliant edges.
• Day, that will be yours, be yours," she said, with a fierceness within her voice. "You will sit there and rule all of Westeros.
Joffrey stared at the throne, jagged lines surrounded by smooth stone, as he could almost feel the weight of it, the responsibility and the power. He knew he would have to be strong, stronger than anyone else.
Days grew into months, and such days grew Joffrey. The pressure of his mother's ambition became like a background noise to him, continuous but not necessarily in any minute the immediate pressure. He learned to cope with it, to turn it to his best advantage. He practiced the art of listening; The drift — his angle behind the words.
One day, he stood in the courtyard, watching over the knights' training. The steel clashing, the men's yells, transported him back to his old life, the camaraderie.