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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
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"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 29: Accelerated Plans
"Me?" Ned Stark's voice rose with confusion, his grey eyes narrowing. "I killed the King? That's madness. I haven't—"
"You still don't see it, do you?" Joffrey interrupted Lord Stark, his voice sharp with an annoyance that went through the room like a blade.
All his careful planning and his methodical preparation for the inevitable war were now being threatened to crumble because of this man's stubborn honor. While he should have had at least a year of time, now it may have been reduced to mere days.
Ned's brow furrowed deeper. "See what? Speak plainly, boy."
"Lord Stark." Joffrey's voice was cold now, the voice of someone who had seen centuries come and go. "You have gravely underestimated my mother. You placed her between a sword and a wall and expected her to simply accept it? To flee quietly with her children like a whipped dog? That woman would burn the Seven Kingdoms to ash before she surrendered anything she considered hers."
Ned's face hardened, the Lord of Winterfell rising to meet the prince's gaze. "I gave her a chance to escape. Your brother and sister are innocent in this. They don't deserve to suffer for their mother's sins. If she refuses to go, then Robert will—"
He stopped. His eyes went wide, the color draining from his face as the truth crashed over him like a wave of icy water. Ned Stark finally saw his mistake.
"Too late for regrets now. What's done is done." Joffrey rose from his chair, the legs scraping against the stone floor with a sound like a death rattle. "The war has already begun. I had hoped to delay it, to prepare, to be ready when the storm finally broke. But you've forced my hand." He moved toward the door, then paused, his back to the Hand of the King. "I believe we have nothing more to discuss."
"Prince Joffrey—" Ned started, rising, his hand outstretched.
Joffrey turned, and for one frozen moment, Ned Stark looked into eyes that held something no boy of twelve should possess. Something ancient. Something cold. Something that had watched empires rise and fall and found them all wanting.
"Prepare yourself, Lord Stark." The words fell like stones into still water. "What's coming will make Robert's Rebellion look like a tourney melee." He walked out without another word, leaving Ned standing alone in the solar with his guilt and his dawning horror and the weight of a kingdom crumbling around him.
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Three days later, Kevan Lannister rode through the Lion Gate.
Joffrey's great-uncle, father of the trembling Lancel, arrived with a modest escort and took his place in the Small Council as the new Master of Coin. The appointment had come from Casterly Rock. Tywin Lannister's suggestion was swiftly approved by Cersei, who was also quick to take credit for the idea while her father's shadow loomed over every word.
Lord Stark had wanted to protest. The position should be debated, filled by proper process, and discussed by the full council. But his influence had withered in the King's absence. The other council members offered no support for him. Varys with his silences and his watching eyes, Pycelle with his bobbing head and his Lannister chains, Renly with his studied indifference and his private ambitions. So Ned held his tongue, planning to raise the matter when Robert returned.
Joffrey caught his eye across the council table as they filed out. The prince looked at him for a long moment. A look that carried the weight of unspoken things, then turned and walked away without a word. They hadn't spoken since that night in the solar.
At that time, neither of them knew this would be their last council meeting together. Neither of them knew that before the next one, the world would change forever.
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Later that day, a knock came at Joffrey's door.
"Your Grace." The voice was soft, familiar. Saera, the maid appointed by the Queen.
Joffrey set down his quill, the letter he'd been writing half-finished. "Come in."
Saera entered, her pretty face arranged in its usual pleasant expression, her honey-coloured hair pinned neatly beneath her servant's cap. She curtsied gracefully, then glanced back at the door where a shadow waited beyond the frame.
"Prince Joffrey, forgive the intrusion. Lord Kevan Lannister, the new Master of Coin, wishes to speak with you."
But before she finished speaking, her fingers moved in a subtle gesture, it was their agreed signal. She reached into her bodice and produced a folded parchment, warm from her skin. She handed it to him with downcast eyes, her cheeks flushing pink.
Joffrey tucked it into his pocket without looking at it. The Hound's report. He'd read it when he was alone. The tension in the Red Keep grew thicker by the day, and he could no longer move about the castle as freely as he wished. Saera had become his messenger, his eyes and ears in places he couldn't go.
He moved close to her, cupping her warm cheek in his palm. "Thank you," he murmured, his lips near her ear. "Come back in two hours. Bring dinner." A pause. "And dessert."
After performing many tests using this girl, he learned that a mild compulsion was more than enough if the person in question was infatuated with him. No need for unforgivable curses like how he did with Valena.
The issue with the Imperio Curse is that it deteriorates the mind of the victim. And it's especially harmful when used on Muggles. Joffrey learned this the hard way with poor Valena, who could barely speak after being under the curse for far too long.
However, a compulsion can be maintained with no visible issues, making it a preferable option for long-term use.
Saera's blush deepened to crimson. She curtsied again and hurried out, nearly colliding with Kevan in the doorway.
The older man watched her go with a knowing look, the look of a man who remembered being young, then entered and bowed. "Thank you for receiving me, Prince Joffrey."
"Please, Uncle." Joffrey gestured to the round table where he often took his meals, its surface scarred from years of use. "We're family. No need for titles in private. Sit, and tell me what brings you here."
Kevan settled into a chair, his manner straightforward and open. This was a stark contrast to the usual denizens of the Red Keep with their plots and their schemes and their hidden daggers. "It's been many years since I last saw you, Joffrey. You probably don't remember—"
"I remember enough." Joffrey took the seat across from him. "You're Lord Tywin's brother. You commanded the Lannister forces during the Greyjoy Rebellion with distinction. You have three sons and a daughter...Lancel serves the King, Willem squires at Casterly Rock, Martyn trains with the master-at-arms, and your daughter Janei is still a child. You've served as your brother's right hand for decades, trusted above all others." He smiled slightly. "I read. And I pay attention."
Kevan blinked, then laughed softly, a genuine sound of surprise. "The reports from Casterly Rock mentioned changes, but this..." He shook his head. "My brother Tywin and I have been hearing much about you lately. He's impressed. And Tywin is not easily impressed by anything."
"Rumors are just rumors, Uncle. What exactly have you heard?"
Kevan proceeded to list them, like the sword training that had transformed a soft prince into a capable fighter, the tournament where he'd fought as a mystery knight and nearly won, the bear incident, where he'd saved the Stark girl, the council meetings where he'd spoken with wisdom beyond his years, the attack in the yard where six men had died and he'd walked away unscathed.
Each item came with questions hidden beneath simple statements, a gentle probing designed to measure the boy before him.
Joffrey answered easily, giving nothing away and revealing nothing he didn't wish to reveal.
Finally, Kevan leaned forward, his blunt face serious. "I'll be honest with you, Joffrey. One reason I came is that your grandfather wants to measure you. He's too occupied at Casterly Rock to come himself, but he's... curious about his grandson."
"About what kind of king I'll make?" Joffrey supplied.
Kevan nodded, surprised by the directness. "Yes. Exactly that. He wants to know what sort of ruler you're becoming. Whether you're ready for what's coming."
"The King is young and strong." Joffrey's voice was bland, carefully neutral. "This seems a distant concern, Uncle."
Kevan accepted this with a nod, but Joffrey caught the flicker in his surface thoughts. Tywin had heard something. Not the full truth, perhaps not even the half of it, but enough to suspect that Robert's days might be numbered.
Cersei hadn't written to her father about her conversation with Stark. She wasn't that foolish, but Tywin had ways of knowing things. Ravens flew faster than riders, and little birds sang in every keep in the Seven Kingdoms. And once Tywin knew, he would prepare. Tywin Lannister always prepared.
They spoke a while longer, Kevan asking careful questions about the court, about the council, about Joffrey's studies and training. Joffrey gave careful answers. Truthful, but not the whole truth. When his uncle finally rose to leave, Joffrey walked him to the door with the courtesy expected of a prince.
Once alone, he returned to his desk and unfolded the Hound's message.
His brow furrowed as he read.
Things were not going well. The Hound, for all his skill with a sword and his willingness to bloody it, was out of his depth arranging ships and crews with such short available time. The task required a different kind of cunning, the kind that knew which captains could be trusted, which sailors would keep their mouths shut for gold, which harbors asked few questions and remembered even fewer faces.
He needs help, Joffrey thought, reading between the lines of Sandor's frustrated scrawl. And I'm running out of time.
He held the letter in his palm and whispered a word. Green flames consumed it, leaving only ash that drifted to the floor like snow.
"So many things to see in this world." He watched the last embers die. "I can't wait to get started."
But first, there was business to conclude in this castle. And one more person to recruit.
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"This is delicious!" Tyrion set down his cup with obvious satisfaction, licking his lips.
Joffrey smiled, refilling it from the bottle at his elbow. "Arbor Gold. An excellent year, they tell me. From the Reach, from a vineyard that's been in the same family for four hundred years." He gestured expansively. "I have a whole case in my room. I'll send a few bottles your way. Consider it a gift between favorite uncles and favorite nephews."
Tyrion's mismatched eyes narrowed with amused suspicion. "Nephew... are you trying to buy me?"
"You're my favorite uncle. Why would I need to buy you?" Joffrey glanced around the modest chamber...smaller than Tyrion deserved, tucked away in a corner of the keep. "Though I do wonder why you chose this room. There are larger ones available, better appointed, closer to the action."
"Because." Tyrion took another long drink, savoring it. "This is the furthest from your mother's chambers. Which makes it the best room available. But please, dont tell her that." He set down the cup. "Now...what you really want?. I know you didn't invite me here to discuss vintages."
Joffrey leaned forward, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur. "Two things. First, your discretion."
Tyrion's eyebrows rose toward his hairline. "Intrigue! First a brothel, now secrets and whispers. And here I thought you were becoming the next Arthur Dayne...all honor and chivalry and songs written about your deeds." He shook his head in mock disappointment. "Alas, it seems you're a Lannister after all."
"Can you keep a secret between us, Uncle?"
"That depends entirely on the secret. A few bottles of wine only buy so much discretion."
"This is just the beginning." Joffrey's voice softened, and Tyrion felt an odd sensation, a gentle pressure behind his eyes, a subtle fog in his thoughts, like the first hint of sleep stealing over a tired man. "I can offer much more than wine."
Tyrion blinked, shaking his head slightly. The sensation passed. "Well. I'm intrigued despite myself. What do you need from your beloved uncle?"
"A list of items. I need them procured quietly, no one knowing they were bought by me, no one tracing them back to this room or this conversation." Joffrey paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "Most importantly, two large ships. Sturdy and fast, capable of traveling from Westeros to the far ends of Essos without foundering. Deep-keeled for rough seas, well-armed for pirates, with captains who know the eastern waters."
"Ships?" Tyrion's eyes widened, all trace of amusement vanishing. "Two ships? Those aren't cheap, Nephew. Even with your mother's generous allowance—"
"I have the coin." Joffrey's voice was flat, certain. "I need someone who knows how to spend it without drawing too much attention. Someone who understands merchants and harbormasters and the difference between a captain who'll keep his word and one who'll sell us to the highest bidder."
Tyrion considered this, stroking his chin where his beard would be if he could grow one. "I could speak with some people. Merchants I've dealt with in the past, captains I've trusted with my life...such as it is." He met Joffrey's eyes. "But the city is dangerous for a small man like me to wander with bags of gold. I'd need protection. Someone who looks like he'd eat anyone who tried to interfere."
Joffrey smiled, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips. "I have just the man for that. He's busy at the moment, but he'll be available soon. And he has... let's call it a personal interest in seeing this succeed."
Tyrion studied his nephew for a long moment, seeing depths he'd never suspected. "You're not at all what you seem, are you, Joffrey?"
"No, Uncle." Joffrey raised his cup in a toast. "I'm not. But then, neither are you. Here's to surprising everyone."
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