Disclaimer: Just in case nobody realized I don't own nor do I claim ownership of Game of Thrones, all characters and worlds belong to their real world respective owners. I'm just having some fun, that's all.
The Young Lion
Act 2 Ch 21: The King's Knives
Night had settled over the Red Keep, draping the castle in a quiet that only came in the late hours, when even the most restless courtiers had finally retired to their chambers. The torches along the corridors burned lower now, their flames flickering softly in the still air, casting long shadows that stretched and twisted across the stone walls.
Inside his chambers, Joffrey sat alone at his desk.
A single candle burned beside him, its light pooling over parchment and ink as he leaned back slightly in his chair. The events of the past few days weighed heavily on his mind, though his face betrayed none of it. His fingers tapped idly against the wood of his desk, his thoughts drifting between the council meetings, the city's administration, and the ongoing war.
He started turning the page of one of his parchments reading a proposal from Tobho, when a soft click echoed through the room, making the King's attention shift immediately.
Along the far wall, one of the stone panels slid inward with quiet precision, revealing a narrow passage hidden behind it. The movement was smooth and practiced, executed by someone who knew the mechanism well.
A figure slipped through, the panel closed behind her with a soft scrape of stone.
Upon seeing the silhouette, Joffrey's body relaxed as he recognized them immediately.
Senelle.
His attendant, paramour, and spy.
Joffrey rose from his chair as she approached, the tension in his posture easing slightly as his curiosity replaced his previous caution.
"You've chosen an interesting hour," he said, his tone low but not displeased.
Senelle dipped her head in greeting as she made her way toward him, her steps light against the stone floor.
"Forgive me, Your Grace," she said softly. "But this could not wait until morning."
Joffrey studied her for a moment, then extended his hand.
"What is it?"
She reached into her sleeve and produced a tightly rolled parchment, placing it into his palm without hesitation.
Joffrey unrolled it slowly, the paper crackling faintly in the quiet room.
Eight names.
Each accompanied by a location. His eyes moved across the list once, then again more carefully.
"And this is?"
The handmaiden's lips curved slightly.
"The last of your mother's agents within the city."
Joffrey's brow lifted faintly.
"Only eight?"
He had expected more, far more. Senelle stepped closer, her voice lowering slightly as she spoke.
"The rest were… persuaded."
There was a subtle note of satisfaction in her tone.
"It wasn't difficult," she continued. "Your mother has no power here anymore, and men like that rarely cling to loyalty when the ground beneath them begins to shift."
Joffrey folded the parchment once, then again.
"No honor among thieves," he murmured.
"None worth trusting," she agreed.
A faint smile touched his lips as he reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against her cheek.
"Well done," he said with a proud smile.
Senelle leaned into the touch, her lashes lowering slightly as she held his gaze. The distance between them closed. Her presence warmed against him as she stepped into his space.
Her voice dropped to a more sultry tone.
"Have I earned a reward?"
Her breath brushed lightly against his neck as her fingers traced along his jaw, slow and deliberate. Joffrey felt the shift in the moment—the tension in the air tightening, the quiet changing into something heavier.
Her lips found the side of his neck, lingering just long enough to draw a reaction before moving upward.
Joffrey didn't pull away, at least not at first.
His hand slid into her hair, fingers threading through the red strands as she moved closer, her lips brushing his. The kiss came naturally, and all too familiar. Something easy to fall into after the weight of the day.
For a moment, he enjoyed it.
Allowing himself a brief moment to forget the war, the council, the endless calculations that filled his mind.
But then—
Something flickered. Not in the room, but in his mind.
A different face suddenly appeared before him as memories flooded his head. It was soft, steady, but most of all kind.
Blue eyes watching him not with hunger, or expectation—but with something quieter. Something that had settled over him in the aftermath of battle, when the clash of steel had faded and the weight of his last life's end gripped him.
Then she appeared to soothe his pain. To comfort him in one of his darkest hours since he came to this world. Not out of self-interest, but simply because she cared about him and could see his pain that he kept hidden from everyone else.
Sansa.
The memory hit harder than he expected, and Joffrey immediately pulled back, breaking off the kiss. Senelle blinked, confusion flashing across her face as the moment broke.
"My king?" she asked, her voice tinged with surprise.
Joffrey stepped back, putting a deliberate space between them. He exhaled slowly, steadying himself, forcing his thoughts back into place.
"There's work to be done," he said, lifting the folded parchment slightly. "This can't wait."
Senelle tilted her head, her expression shifting as she studied him.
"It can," she said lightly, stepping forward again. "Morning would make no difference right now. Come, let us enjoy ourselves."
Her hand reached for him again, but this time Joffrey caught her wrist firmly. Not enough to hurt her, but enough to know he meant it.
Her brows drew together slightly, surprise flickering behind her eyes. The king's voice remained calm, but it left no room for argument.
"These men are a threat inside my city," he said. "If either of my uncles moves sooner than expected." He paused letting the implications settle in. "I cannot afford to have enemies waiting behind my walls."
Senelle held his gaze for a moment longer, then slowly relaxed.
"…As you wish, Your Grace."
There was a hint of disappointment in her voice, quickly hidden behind a softer expression as she withdrew her hand.
Joffrey released her.
"I'll make it up to you," he said, quieter now.
His words earned him a small smile.
"I'll hold you to that."
He leaned forward briefly, pressing a light kiss to her cheek. She lingered for a moment, then turned toward the hidden passage. Her steps slowed deliberately as she moved away, her hips swaying just a touch more than necessary.
A parting gesture of what he was refusing, which made him roll his eyes with amusement. The stone panel slid open once more, then closed behind her, leaving the room silent again.
Joffrey stood there for a moment completely still. Then he shook his head slightly, pushing the lingering thoughts aside.
"Work." He thought. "Back to work."
He crossed the room and pulled the door open. Outside, one of his newest Kingsguard stood at attention.
Ser Balon.
The knight straightened immediately.
"Your Grace."
"Wake Ser Jacelyn Bywater," Joffrey ordered.
Ser Balon didn't hesitate.
"At once, Your Grace."
As the knight moved to carry out the order, Joffrey stepped back into his chamber, the parchment still held loosely in his hand.
Eight names.
Eight problems.
And by morning—
None of them would exist.
o-O-o
The corridors of the Red Keep had fallen into that deep, late-hour quiet where even the guards spoke in lowered voices and footsteps carried farther than they should. Torchlight guttered along the walls, leaving long stretches of dimness between each flicker of flame, turning the passageways into alternating bands of stone and shadow.
Joffrey walked at a measured pace, the folded parchment resting between his fingers, while Ser Jacelyn Bywater walked beside him. The commander had read the list the moment he arrived, his eyes moving quickly, efficiently, committing each name to memory.
"These men need to be taken tonight," Jacelyn said under his breath. "Seized before they can slip away. We can have them in chains before the hour is out."
Joffrey didn't slow.
"No."
The answer came easily, without hesitation.
Jacelyn glanced at him, frown deepening.
"No, Your Grace?"
Joffrey's gaze stayed forward, fixed on the corridor ahead as the torchlight thinned.
"If they vanish all at once," he said, voice low and steady, "it becomes a pattern and will alert certain 'people'." His mind drifted to his mother who was still exiled to the Westerlands.
Jacelyn's jaw tightened at the king's words.
Joffrey finally turned his head slightly, just enough for Jacelyn to catch the look in his eyes.
"This needs to remain quiet."
Jacelyn exhaled slowly, understanding beginning to take shape.
"You want them… removed?"
"I want them written off," Joffrey corrected.
They eventually came to a stop.
The corridor ahead narrowed into a darker stretch, a shallow recess cutting into the wall where the light barely reached. To anyone passing by, it would have seemed empty—just another unused pocket of stone in a castle full of them.
Joffrey stepped closer to the edge of that darkness, and then he spoke.
"Come out."
For a moment, nothing happened, but then the shadows shifted.
Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just… movement where there had been none. A figure separated from the darkness, then another, and another, until a dozen shapes stepped forward into the thin torchlight, their presence revealed only by the way they absorbed it.
Dark clothing, fitted, and silent.
They moved like they belonged there.
As one, they stepped forward and knelt. Joffrey let his gaze travel across them taking in their appearances.
His Royal Daggers.
He had built them carefully, pulling from the worst—and best—his city had to offer. Thieves who could vanish in plain sight. Killers who understood patience. Men and women who knew how to slip through cracks where soldiers could only break down doors.
His eyes lingered briefly.
Mia, poised and composed even on one knee, her beauty sharpened into a weapon long ago. She had ended more rivalries in merchant districts than most wars ever did, her poisons cleaner than any blade.
Nearby stood Lyra, smaller, quieter, her face forgettable in the way that made her dangerous. She had worn more lives than most people had names, slipping into noble houses as easily as a servant carrying wine.
And at the front—
Bronnar Kedge.
He stood still, solid, and observing.
Joffrey unfolded the parchment again.
"I have work for you."
No one spoke, nor did they need to.
He began listing the names. Each one was clear, followed by where they could be found.
"These individuals are to be removed," Joffrey said once he finished, folding the parchment back into his hand. "But not as enemies. Not as traitors."
His gaze hardened slightly.
"As accidents."
A faint shift moved through the group—not hesitation, but focus sharpening.
"No bodies in alleys with their throats cut. No disappearances that invite questions," he continued. "A fall from a balcony. A sickness that comes too quickly. A fire that spreads a little too far."
He let the silence stretch.
"And you will not do it all at once."
That was the important part.
The king stepped forward slightly, his voice lowering.
"This needs to happen over the course of days if not a week. One by one. Spread out. No patterns. No connections."
His eyes moved across them.
"I don't want anyone to realize what's happening. No questions and no loose ends."
Bronnar rose slowly to his feet.
"It will be done," he said.
There was no doubt about it. No bravado either, only certainty. He placed a hand lightly against his chest.
"We are your knives, Your Grace." His voice dropped. "We work in the dark to serve the light."
From the shadows behind him, the others repeated it.
Low and unified. A quiet oath carried on breath rather than volume.
"We work in the dark to serve the light."
Joffrey nodded once, satisfied. "Good."
He turned slightly, already finished with them.
"Now see it done."
They didn't leave all at once.
They simply faded away into the shadows
One stepped back. Then two.
Then they were gone.
The shadows swallowed them completely, leaving the corridor as empty as it had been before. Only the torches remained, their flames flickering as though nothing had disturbed the air at all.
Jacelyn stood still for a moment longer, eyes fixed on the space where they had been.
"…No arrests," he murmured. "Or witnesses."
Joffrey began walking again, while Jacelyn fell into step beside him.
The king didn't look at him nor did he have to.
"There won't be."
Was all he said as they continued to walk side by side down the corridor which stretched ahead, quiet and undisturbed.
And somewhere in the city below—
Eight lives had just run out of time.
o-O-o
The work began as soon as they left the Red Keep. The King's Knives were the scalpel to handle the disease that plagued his city. They did not have horns, or banners. Or even iron boots marching through the streets.
They had silence, as they handled the jobs that the king's Royal Guards couldn't be seen handling. The kind that ended tragedies before they could even occur.
The Royal Daggers moved like they had never left the shadows.
Those who now served Joffrey had once been the worst of the city—cutthroats from the pits, thieves who could slip through locked doors like mist, killers who knew how to end a life without leaving a mark. They had survived the purge that had swept through King's Landing, not by strength, but by bending when others broke.
They had knelt.
They had sworn.
And in return—
They had been given a new purpose that put their unique talents to good use.
Now they moved again, not as scattered criminals, but as something sharper. Directed, and controlled.
But most of all invisible.
The first death passed completely unnoticed.
A tavern, thick with smoke and laughter, swallowed the sound of complaints and drunken boasts. A man sat hunched over his cup, voice rising now and then as he spoke too loudly about things he should have kept to himself.
No one cared.
At least not until someone chose to.
A woman approached him—drawn in close by the heat of the room, her presence cutting through the dull rhythm of drink and noise. Fabric clung where it needed to, slipped where it should, catching eyes without effort.
"Got a lot on your mind?" Mia asked.
The man blinked, his irritation faltering as he turned, stunned silent by one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen.
She didn't wait for his answer.
She circled him instead, close enough for her presence to settle over him, then took the seat across from him. One leg crossed over the other, slow and deliberate.
"You want another drink?"
Her foot found his underneath the table. The contact started light and then it wasn't.
The man's thoughts unraveled quickly after that. With the mug she slid toward him went unquestioned. Then her smile that followed holding his attention longer than it should have.
By the time they found themselves outside, the world had narrowed to something simple. Breath, touch, and want.
"You're so beautiful," he muttered, words thick and uneven.
She let him believe it mattered.
Letting him lean in closer to her body.
Letting him enjoy the lust-filled moment.
Her hand rose behind her head to her bound hair, fingers slipping through it as though she was adjusting a loose strand.
Then a thin needle of steel slid free.
The motion that followed was quick and precise.
As their lips were locked deep in another passionate kiss, she plunged the needle in from the back of his neck. His body stiffened once—eyes snapping open—before the strength left him completely. He folded to the ground, breath caught somewhere it would never leave.
She stepped back, wiping her mouth with a small cloth, her expression already cold and empty.
Mia then turned and left him there, opening the tavern door, briefly spilling noise into the alley, before shutting again.
By morning, the man's death was attributed to excess. Drink, weight, and a heart that had given out after one indulgence too many.
No marks, no struggle, and nothing to question.
The second was much louder.
The docks rarely slept, even in the early hours. Men shouted, ropes strained, crates shifted from ship to shore in an endless rhythm of labor. It was the kind of place where accidents happened often enough that no one questioned them anymore.
A man stood beneath a suspended crate, adjusting its weight as others worked around him.
Above—
A flicker of steel cutting clean through the tense rope, making it snap, and the crate to drop.
The man barely had time to lift his head before the weight crushed him into the wood beneath. The impact echoed, sharp and final, sending nearby workers rushing forward in alarm.
Voices rose, feet scrambled, and people shouted for help.
In all the chaos no one noticed the figure already moving away from the scene, slipping into the flow of bodies as though he had always been part of it.
By the time the shouting reached its peak—
He was already gone.
Another accident, and another life ended by nothing more than bad timing and worse luck.
The third came with smoke.
A villa along the riverbank stood quiet in the night, its lights dimmed, its doors closed. Wealth had built its walls, but comfort had dulled its vigilance.
A door opened.
Silently.
A small object rolled across the polished floor inside, releasing a faint haze that spread without scent, without warning. It slipped beneath doors, through cracks, into lungs.
Sleep immediately followed.
Heavy and unexpected.
The figure moved through the house with care, checking each room in turn. Where children lay, doors were opened. Where servants slept, paths were cleared.
No voices were raised.
No one stirred.
Only one door remained closed.
Barred shut.
The torch caught quickly.
Fabric burned first, then wood, then everything else. Flame climbed walls and devoured air, turning quiet into chaos long after the one who lit it had already slipped away.
From the river, the house burned bright against the night sky.
By morning, the story was simple.
A fire.
Tragic, but not uncommon.
Most had managed to escape, but some had not been so lucky. And no one thought to ask why the doors had easily opened for some—
And not for others.
o-O-o
Days passed.
Not enough to draw attention, but enough to blur the edges.
A fall from a staircase. A fever that came on quickly. A misstep in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Each one isolated. Each one explained away before anyone thought to connect them.
The daggers had accomplished their mission. There was no pattern, no trail, only quiet execution.
Back in his chambers, Joffrey sat alone as the final report was placed before him.
The parchment was simple.
Eight names, and all of them had been crossed off.
He read it once. Then again.
The candle beside him flickered, its light catching the edge of the paper as he leaned back slowly in his chair. His fingers tapped once against the wood, then stilled.
A quiet breath left him.
"Good."
The word was soft, filled with satisfaction that a thorn had been removed from his side. The last of his mother's eyes within the city had been closed.
For the first time since taking the throne, the walls of King's Landing belonged entirely to him. No whispers slipping past him. No hidden hands working against him from within.
Control.
Not absolute, but close enough.
His gaze drifted toward the window, where the city stretched out beneath the night, unaware of what had just been erased from within it.
He could move more openly now. Not carelessly, but with much more freedom.
o-O-o
Far away from the capital, the stormlands lived up to their name.
Clouds rolled low and heavy across the sky, their dark bellies swollen with rain that had not yet fallen. The wind carried the scent of salt from the sea, sharp and restless, tugging at cloaks and banners alike as two armies faced one another across open ground.
Between them—
A narrow stretch of earth left deliberately empty.
A place for kings to speak.
On one side, the host of Renly Baratheon stood in ordered lines, their banners bright even beneath the dim sky, green and gold snapping in the wind. Knights in polished armor shifted in their saddles, the weight of numbers sitting comfortably behind them.
Renly himself sat tall upon his horse, clad in a gleaming emerald suit of armor, the antlered helm resting beneath his arm. He looked every bit the image of a king men would follow—confident, composed, smiling as though this meeting were little more than an inconvenience before an inevitable victory.
At his side sat on her own horse was Brienne of Tarth, rigid in her armor, her gaze locked forward with unyielding focus. On his other flank, Loras Tyrell sat with equal poise, though the tension in his posture was far less subtle.
Across the field from them sat the older Baratheon brother—
Stannis.
Stannis Baratheon sat astride his horse with none of his brother's flourish. His armor was plain, his expression carved from something harder than stone. Where Renly shone, Stannis endured.
Beside him sitting on his own horse was his hand, Ser Davos Seaworth, his weathered face tight with unease, and slightly behind them—
Melisandre.
The red priestess cut a stark figure even among soldiers. Her crimson robes moved with the wind like living flame, but there was something different about her now. The burn that marked her skin ran dark and jagged from her chest to the base of her throat, a scar that no careful dressing could fully conceal.
She had called it a punishment from her Lord. And where once her presence had been commanding—
Now it was quieter.
She spoke less, and watched more. The fire in her eyes had not gone out completely but now—
It flickered.
The two brothers met in the space between armies.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Only the wind moved between them, tugging at cloaks and carrying the distant murmur of waiting soldiers. Then Renly smiled.
"Brother," he said lightly, as though greeting a guest rather than a rival. "I'd ask how you've been, but I imagine the answer would be as grim as ever."
Stannis did not return the smile.
"You wear a crown that is not yours," he said simply.
Renly's grin widened.
"And you claim one no one will give you."
He shifted slightly in his saddle, glancing past Stannis toward the smaller host gathered behind him.
"You've always had a talent for making enemies, Stannis," Renly continued. "It's almost impressive. No friends, no allies… just you and your stubbornness."
His tone sharpened slightly.
"A man alone can do very little."
Stannis's gaze didn't waver.
"I am not alone."
The words came flat and filled with certainty.
Renly let out a soft laugh, shaking his head.
"You have five thousand men," he said. "I have more than six times that."
He leaned forward slightly, voice lowering.
"By sunrise, this will be over."
Stannis held his gaze.
"By sunrise," he said, just as quietly, "your men will be bending the knee to me."
The wind suddenly shifted. Something in the space between them tightened. Renly opened his mouth to laugh again—
Then he stopped.
It was subtle, a flicker nothing more, but there was something in Stannis's eyes.
It wasn't anger or bravado, something much more dangerous than that.
Certainty.
And for the briefest moment, Renly felt it.
That quiet, crawling sense that there was something he did not see. Something moving beneath the surface, just out of reach, just beyond understanding.
The feeling passed quickly.
He straightened, pushing it aside with a dismissive breath.
"I suppose we'll find out," he said, his tone was lighter again, though the edge hadn't fully left it. "I'll see you on the battlefield, brother."
Stannis said nothing.
He simply turned his horse, and made his way back toward the fortress.
As he rode away, Melisandre lingered for just a moment longer, her gaze lingering on Renly. The wind caught her robes, the red fabric twisting around her like flame as she studied him with something deeper than simple judgment.
Then she spoke.
"Look to your sins, Lord Renly for the night is dark…"Her voice was quieter than it had once been. "…and filled with terrors."
The words carried on the wind, settling into the silence she left behind as she turned her horse and followed Stannis back toward Storm's End.
Renly watched them go.
For a moment longer than he intended.
Then he turned as well, riding back toward his camp, his banners waiting, his army stretching far beyond the horizon.
Confidence returned quickly, as it always did.
Because numbers mattered.
Because strength mattered.
Because he had everything his brother did not, and yet—
As the sun dipped lower behind the clouds, casting the field into shadow—the brief flicker of unease lingered and remained unanswered.
o-O-o
Far away, in another city, a different king sat behind stone walls, unaware of the moments unfolding.
The board was shifting again.
Because the coming dawn would not bring battle.It would bring something else. Something quieter and unseen. And when it was done—
One king would fall without a sword ever touching him.His army would change banners before the day was out.
And then the path to King's Landing would open.
The War of Five Kings was coming to a close. Drawing inward towards one single point. A collision that would decide everything, and when the dust finally settled—
There would be only one king left standing.
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