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Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
ASOIAF and all of its characters belong to GRRM
I own nothing but the original characters I make.
"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 25: Planning for the Future
"What do I think?" Joffrey felt the weight of every eye in the throne room pressing down on him. The corpses lay in their blood-soaked sheets, the council waited with bated breath, and his father sat on the Iron Throne like a bear perched on a mountain of swords. "Isn't it obvious? This was a clumsy attempt to sow discord between the royal family and the Starks."
"A clumsy attempt?" The King's eyebrow rose.
"Six men in Stark armor ambush the prince. Simple enough. Effective, if it worked. My dear mother was ready to have Lord Stark in chains before the blood dried." Joffrey glanced at Cersei, who had the grace to look momentarily abashed. She'd been played, and she knew it.
"Its also obvious that these men are not Northerners. Their soft skin has not suffered from living in those icy temperatures for years. And by their smell alone, I could say they came from Fleat Bottom. They were skilled but not overly so. Mercenaries, no doubt. Hired swords brought into the castle by someone with a lot of influence."
Robert's fist slammed the arm of the throne. "WHO WOULD DARE?"
"Now that is the interesting question." Joffrey's gaze swept the room, lingering on Littlefinger's bland smile, on Varys's careful blankness. "Who benefits from chaos in the capital? Who profits when great houses tear at each other's throats?"
"Prince Joffrey." Pycelle's voice creaked like an old door. "With respect, this is mere speculation. We cannot know who commanded those men."
"No. The dead cannot speak." Joffrey's eyes flickered over the council members, noting the fear that lurked beneath their masks. He could name the guilty now, if he wished...a quick delve into their minds would reveal all. But that would expose his power too soon. Better to let them think they'd escaped. Better to hunt in private. "Which means the culprit gets away. For now."
The threat hung in the air like smoke.
"Your Grace." Varys's voice was silk. "What would be your verdict?"
Robert grunted. "Ned had naught to do with this. I'd stake my kingdom on it." He pointed a thick finger at his council. "You lot find me who did. And when you do—" His grin was terrible. "They'll wish they'd never drawn breath."
"You can rely on us, Your Grace." Littlefinger's bow was perfection itself.
"Naturally." Varys echoed the gesture. "My little birds will begin searching immediately."
"Good. Now it's late, and I'm tired." Robert waved a dismissive hand. "Someone get these things out of my throne room."
The guards moved quickly, gathering the dead. The council dispersed like roaches fleeing light. Soon, only the King, the Queen, Joffrey, and a handful of Kingsguard remained.
Robert descended from the throne and clapped Joffrey on the shoulder. It was a heavy blow that would have staggered a lesser boy. "You did well, son. And with a practice blade, no less." His eyes fell on the battered sword at Joffrey's hip. "We need to get you a real one."
"Already arranged, Father. Tobho Mott is forging it. I used my winnings from the melee." The second-place purse had been modest, but enough.
Cersei materialized at Joffrey's side, her hands reaching for him as if to check for wounds he'd already assured her didn't exist. "Are you certain you're not hurt? You should let Pycelle examine you—"
"I'm fine, Mother." He allowed her touch, recognizing it as one of the few genuine things she felt. "The Hound did most of the work."
Robert nodded thoughtfully. "I'll see him rewarded."
"Let him rest first. His wounds are serious." Joffrey had his own reasons for wanting Sandor alone and undisturbed.
"Go get some rest yourself, boy." Robert's voice carried something new. Pride, perhaps, or the first stirrings of it. "You've earned it."
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
It took Joffrey longer than he liked to shake the extra guards Cersei insisted on. By the time he reached the Hound's chambers, the hour was late and the corridors empty.
He found Sandor sprawled on a narrow bed, his massive frame making it look like a child's cot. Bandages wrapped his shoulder and leg, stained pink where blood had seeped through. A bottle of milk of the poppy sat on the bedside table, untouched.
The Hound's eyes opened at the sound of the door. "Who—"
"Your favorite prince." Joffrey pulled a chair close and sat, producing a waterskin from beneath his cloak. "Brought you something."
"If that's water—" Sandor's voice was a warning growl.
"Wine. The good kind." Joffrey handed it over.
Sandor took a long pull and spat it out violently. "This is shit!"
"Okay, I lied. I stole it from the barracks on the way here." Joffrey's smile was thin. "But I brought you something better." He produced a heavy leather bag and dropped it on the table. The wood groaned under the weight.
Sandor eyed it suspiciously. "What's that?"
"Tournament winnings. What's left after I paid for the armor I didn't wear and the new sword I'm still to receive. But the rest is yours."
"Why?" The question was flat, direct.
"I'm buying your silence. And your compliance." Joffrey leaned forward. "When they ask, you'll tell them you handled most of the attackers. I only did what I had to, to survive. You're the hero of the night. Spin it however you like."
Sandor's eyes narrowed. "I saw what you did. You cut through an iron shield like it was cheese. You took their heads off with a practice blade. That's not possible."
"No. It's not." Joffrey met his gaze steadily. "That's also something you can't ask about. Take the credit. Keep your mouth shut. The gold is yours."
The Hound looked at the bag, then back at Joffrey.
Joffrey leaned closer, his voice dropping. "Trust me when I say I have worse ways to earn your compliance. I'm being nice because whatever you may believe of me...I actually like you, Sandor."
"You're not Joffrey." The words came out flat, certain. "What are you?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. So why even ask?." Joffrey shrugged.
Silence stretched between them.
Joffrey considered his options. A simple Imperius would make the Hound a slave...obedient, but hollow. Useful to kill things, perhaps, but not what he wanted. He wanted someone loyal. Someone who chose to stand at his side. Not a mindless puppet. He already had one of those.
"If gold doesn't move you, name your price. I'm sure we can reach an agreement that benefits us both."
Sandor stared at him for a long, long moment. Then he reached for the wineskin...the bad one and took a long swallow, grimacing. "Let me think on it."
Joffrey nodded and rose. "Take your time." At the door, he paused. "Oh, and Sandor? If anyone asks, I was never here."
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
Three days later.
The knock came early, before breakfast, before the sun had fully cleared the walls. Joffrey set down his quill...he'd been writing, always writing, recording observations and theories in a code no one here would crack.
"Come in."
A girl entered, young and pretty, with long blonde hair and the careful posture of someone trained to serve. She bowed deeply, eyes on the floor.
"Prince Joffrey."
Joffrey studied her. Not one of his usual attendants. "Are you new?"
"Six months in the castle, Your Grace." Her voice was soft, well-modulated.
"You can look at me when you speak."
She raised her eyes. They were blue, pretty, and full of the surface thoughts he skimmed effortlessly. True enough: she'd been here six months. Introduced to the Queen by a lady from Stonehelm. Sworn to serve, and to report.
Another spy. Mother was worried about him, and this was her way of showing it.
"What's your name?" Joffrey inquired.
"Saera, if it pleases Your Grace." A perfect curtsy, practiced a thousand times.
"From Volantis?"
Surprise flickered across her features before she suppressed it. "How did you know, Your Grace?"
"Valyrian name. Blonde with clear eyes. Volantis has the highest concentration of blonde people with Valyrian blood these days." He smiled slightly. "I read a lot. Also, your accent still needs some work."
"Your Grace is as clever as they say." The compliment was smooth and professional.
"Who wishes to see me so early?"
"A young blacksmith. He says he represents Tobho Mott, from the Street of Steel. He brought something you requested."
"Ah. Let him in."
She bowed and withdrew. A moment later, a tall boy with short black hair and powerful shoulders entered, carrying a long bundle wrapped in oilcloth. Behind him came Ser Ilyn Payne, hollow-eyed and silent.
Joffrey glanced at his mute guard. "Ser Ilyn, you can wait outside."
Payne pointed at Gendry, question in his eyes.
"He's not a threat. I wish to speak with him privately."
With obvious reluctance, Payne withdrew.
Joffrey muttered under his breath, "I miss the Hound." His usual shield was still recovering, leaving him with the scary mute who never blinked.
"Your Grace." Gendry attempted a bow, clumsy but earnest.
Joffrey gestured at the circular table where he often dined. "Let's see it."
Gendry laid the bundle on the table and unwrapped it. Steel gleamed in the morning light...a longsword, simple in design but beautiful in execution. Joffrey lifted it, testing the weight. Heavier than the practice blades, thicker through the spine, built to endure. Castle-forged steel, sturdy and reliable.
He drew it fully, letting light run along the edge. Perfectly balanced. Strong. A blade that wouldn't shatter when he channeled power through it.
"Tell Master Mott I'm satisfied. Very satisfied."
Gendry nodded, relief evident. "He'll be glad to hear it, Your Grace."
"Don't leave yet." Joffrey set the sword aside and moved to his desk, retrieving a folded parchment. "I have something else."
Gendry took it, frowning at the unfamiliar marks.
"A design for a new armor. Measurements are included. Tell Mott I need it in two weeks...I'll pay extra for speed."
Gendry tucked the parchment away. "I'll deliver it, Your Grace."
"One more thing." Joffrey returned to his desk, took fresh parchment, and began to write. Gendry waited in confused silence, not daring to speak.
When the letter was finished, Joffrey folded it, sealed it with wax, and retrieved a handful of gold coins from a leather bag on the table. He glanced at the door, then approached Gendry.
"This is for you." He pressed letters and coins into the boy's hands.
Gendry's eyes went wide. "Your Grace, the sword was already paid for—"
"This isn't for your master. I said that this is for you."
"For me?" Suspicion darkened Gendry's face. Even a bastard blacksmith's apprentice knew nobles didn't give gold to smallfolk without reason.
Joffrey almost laughed. He resisted the urge to read the boy's thoughts. "Nothing nefarious. I have no interest in men. The reason is in the letter."
"I... I can't read, Your Grace." Embarrassment colored his cheeks.
"Then have Mott read it to you. When you're alone. And when you understand the contents, destroy it. Tell no one, if you value your life."
Gendry paled. "My life?"
"Yes. You'll understand eventually. Now go and hide that well. Leave quickly. Before too many eyes see you."
If the Queen were to see this young man, he would never leave the castle alive. Luckily, her young spy was unlikely to make that connection and would just talk about some young blacksmith delivering a sword for the Prince.
Gendry stuffed coins and letters into his clothes and hurried out.
Joffrey followed to the door. "Ser Ilyn—escort the young man out. Through the back gate, if you please."
Payne nodded and fell into step behind the bewildered apprentice.
Joffrey closed the door and leaned against it, a slow smile spreading across his face.
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