The Young Lion
Act 1 Ch 24: The King of Flea Bottom
The following weeks went by without any incidents, at least compared to a potential assassination attempt on the king and his lady. Grand Maester Pycelle hadn't found much from his autopsy of the cut-throats' bodies, with the exception of a distinctive scorpion marking on each of the men's necks. Baelish was quick to inform Joffrey that the mark was the symbol of a sellsword company from Essos called the Brothers of the Sands, a group the king had never even heard of. Apparently, they were one of the elite companies, which helped explain how they were able to hold off both Barristan and Sandor for so long.
Baelish didn't have much more information than that on the group, claiming he didn't know much about Essos. Joffrey didn't believe him for a second and was almost certain at that point that Littlefinger was behind the attack, especially with how many times he kept bringing up that Varys himself was from Essos. Though the king decided to play along with the little charade, he privately asked Littlefinger to investigate Varys's doings and report solely back to him with his findings. With the queen and the snake pacified for the moment, Joffrey was able to give his full attention to his fledgling new army, which was proceeding less than he had hoped.
Over the course of the past several weeks, Joffrey would occasionally drop in to witness their progress. As he had ordered, his instructors had broken up the training schedule into three parts.
The first was an early morning training consisting of physical training and obstacle courses, which mostly consisted of running miles with sixty-pound weight vests, bodyweight and strength exercises, and various obstacles that required climbing and scaling.
The midday training was sorted into individual skill work, where recruits would train with various weapons, but with a core focus on the spear, shield, and short sword. Joffrey observed as Ser Aron Santagar walked the recruits through the basic spear techniques. The king had personally chosen the Red Keep's Master-at-Arms for the spear instruction specifically because of his Dornish heritage; Dornishmen were said to learn how to use the spear before they even knew how to walk.
Personally, Joffrey was quite happy with his choice as he watched the recruits stab the straw dummies with their spears. Moving down the line, he watched other recruits practice their short sword techniques on the wooden cross dummies. Each man executed five different attacks on the wooden post before moving to the back of the line.
The final training was by far the most important, especially since it was what was going to separate his army from any army that had ever fought in Westeros: formation and coordination training. Men who had grown used to being alone their whole lives were forced to learn how to coordinate and trust that the man standing next to them had their back. One of the cohorts was currently practicing this. Leaning against one of the metal railings, Joffrey watched as the instructor shouted out instructions to his men.
"Shield Wall! Form Up!" he shouted.
The young men scrambled, some tripping over their own feet as they scrunched in close to each other. One by one they covered the man to their left with their medium-sized wooden heater shields. They looked uneasy as Sandor slowly made his way out in front of the shield wall. Untying his longsword and tossing his greatsword off his back, the Hound smirked as he ran full speed at the wall. As expected, the half-burnt giant knocked down the first three rows of the feeble formation all by himself.
Joffrey watched as the recruits continued to lay sprawled on the ground, the air still knocked out of them. Shaking his head in derision, the king made his way back to the royal box as the embarrassed instructor shouted out orders.
"On your feet, you mongrels!" he screamed. "You just shamed yourselves in front of your commander!"
Many of the recruits watched the king's disappearing back as frustration and anger grew on their faces. One by one they picked themselves up from the dirt, retrieving their wooden shields and spears and standing at attention. The instructor waited patiently as the men reorganized themselves into five single-filed lines. Seeing everyone had quieted, he nodded his head as Sandor made his way to his side. Looking up at the eager giant, the instructor looked back toward his unit.
"Now again!" he ordered, and once again the men moved forward and interlocked their shields, bracing themselves for the smirking battering ram who began to once again run towards them.
Away from the screaming instructors, Joffrey slowly sat down in his chair inside the royal box and was slowly approached by one of his instructors.
"Your grace, I've brought you this week's report," the man announced as he stopped and saluted the sitting king.
Looking up, Joffrey took in the sight of the young knight who was handing him a stack of documents. He was tall, with a tanned, well-built physique. His eyes were deep-set, with short, dark brown hair. Though the most distinctive feature of the man was his left hand—or, more accurately, a lack thereof—with an iron fist where his hand used to be. Hence his moniker, Ser Jacelyn Ironhand Bywater.
When Joffrey had gone through the personal selection of each of his Royal Guards instructors, Ser Jacelyn's file had been one he'd found the most intriguing. He came from humble origins; his father was a common war levy from the Stormlands who apparently fell during the Rebellion. His son had taken after him greatly, and despite coming from a common-born background, he'd taught himself how to read and write. All were greatly impressive on their own, but what was most impressive was the man's strategic mind.
When he had gone over the training material with each of the war veterans that would serve as his instructors, Jacelyn had been the first, and frankly the only one, to understand the power that such tactics could wield. Not only that, but after barely reading the treatise he'd written the older knight had spotted the various weak points and better applications of each of the formations after only seeing it once.
Joffrey was flabbergasted that such a brilliant mind of war had remained unnoticed for so long, but as the two became closer and Ser Jacelyn felt comfortable enough, he was finally able to get the answer to his question. Apparently, Jacelyn had sailed with the rest of the kingdoms to the Iron Islands during the Greyjoy Rebellion. It was there that he'd devised the best form of attack to storm the individual Iron Islands, including Pyke, where he'd helped lead the foray. Unfortunately, some Greyjoy had claimed his hand, and he'd been dragged away from the battlefield. After coming to his senses, he'd discovered to his horror that Mace Tyrell and Paxter Redwyne had taken credit for his strategy.
Bitterness and frustration filled the man's heart even when his father, Robert Baratheon, had tapped his shoulders with his blade and officially knighted him. From that day forward, Jacelyn spent his days doing basic guard work and drinking cheap ale from taverns until Joffrey's petitioners came to him, asking for his service once again. Upon being asked by the King himself to lend him his sword, Jacelyn felt the drums of valor beat inside his chest again.
The pair still chuckled at the memory of when a half-drunk Jacelyn had tried to offer the king his sword. It had taken all of his willpower not to fall face-first onto the floor as he kneeled and then an extra bit not to puke on his shoes.
"So what's the latest, Vice-Commander?" he asked as he flipped through the well-prepared document.
"Nothing much, Commander," he replied as he read through his own copy. "We've had another two hundred or so quit this week."
"Well, that's to be expected," Joffrey shrugged, having already known many wouldn't put up with such harsh training unless they really wanted to be there. Flipping through to another page, Joffrey noticed something interesting. "Seems there's been a rise in disciplinary action."
"Yeah, some of the recruits just can't get it through their heads that they can't sneak food without us catching them."
The king nodded, hearing his right-hand's words. Personally, he couldn't really blame the recruits for wanting to hide some extra food, especially after what he saw in the bowls of brown that they were eating in Flea Bottom. Though he understood he needed to teach the men discipline if he wanted his army to achieve his vision, which meant establishing rules and then consequences for breaking said rules.
"Anything else?" he asked, wanting to change the subject.
"Nothing much, a few squabbles and brawls here and there, but nothing that a little corrective training can't fix."
Joffrey was just about to ask him what he meant by "corrective training" when a ringing bell filled the stadium. Looking down from the royal box, the pair watched as various recruits from different squads and cohorts walked out of line or formation and made their way over to the large bronze bell and began to ring it.
One by one, each former recruit took his time to ring the bell as their former brothers watched on, disappointed. Once they all finished ringing the bell, an instructor made his way over to the former recruits.
"Alright, follow me, you disgraceful piles of shit," he said nonchalantly as he led the group of fifty men away.
After collecting their personal belongings, they were escorted out to the main gate where they were ordered to turn in their equipment and weapons. Once they finished, the group was told they were allowed to keep their new clothes and to be on their way. Seeing all of this, Joffrey glanced up at his Vice-Commander, who was still standing at his right.
"Looks like you have some paperwork to update," he commented as he handed the documents back to Jacelyn.
"So it would seem," he agreed as he shook his head in annoyance.
Suddenly, another burst of noise got the pair's attention.
"Knock it off, you twats!" an instructor screamed as two young men continued to tussle and fight with each other after their spar had concluded. "The match is over! Sheath your steel!"
Other instructors ran over to assist in breaking the two up. The king simply looked up and, without saying a word, nodded his head for Jacelyn to go assist. The Vice-Commander immediately made his way down the stadium steps and over to the sparring circle. Joffrey just poured himself a small glass of wine and sipped as he watched the instructors and recruits regain order.
"Seems like everything is proceeding as expected," he thought as he sipped the small glass. "Now I can only wait for the next player to come to me."
o-O-o
It was late into the night, past the hour of the owl, and Joffrey was wide awake as he sat at his desk drawing up finishing touches for his men's equipment. A certain serene silence hung in the air as the king brought images to life with his quill. The only noise that could be heard was the scratches on the paper, the occasional tapping of ink, and the kindling pops coming from his burning fireplace. As the king wiped away a dab of excessive ink from the parchment, a knock came from his door.
Knock Knock Knock
"Yes, what is it?" Joffrey asked, slightly annoyed his peace was being disrupted.
"It's Lord Varys, your grace." Ser Arys Oakheart responded. "He wishes to speak with you."
Wow, that was faster than I expected, he thought.
"Just a moment," he actually said as he began to clear his desk of his designs. Once everything was put away, he took a seat behind his desk. "Okay, send him in."
The wooden door opened, and in walked the elusive eunuch of the Red Keep and his Kingsguard. The bald, plump man made his way before the king's desk, stopping a few feet from it.
"Your grace," he said as he went for a dramatic bow at the waist.
"Lord Varys," Joffrey tilted his head as a sign of respect before turning his attention to his Kingsguard. "You may leave us, Ser Oakheart. Thank you."
The Kingsguard didn't say a word, just banged his fist against his breastplate and promptly made his way out of the chamber, shutting the door behind him and leaving the King alone with his Master of Whispers. The spider carefully observed the young King, inspecting him closely as the King did the same. He was dressed in his usual style of robes—this time burgundy—and he wore his signature style of perfume as well. His effeminate appearance was rather disarming, lulling many into believing he was harmless, but Joffrey knew better.
"So Lord Varys, what brings you to my solar at this ungodly hour?" he asked, his tone both annoyed and slightly surprised.
"I apologize for disturbing you so late, your grace, but I was hoping that I might speak with you in confidence."
Joffrey didn't respond, just staring blankly at the foreigner, who was a little unsettled by his gaze.
Cough.
Varys coughed into his hand to try to ease the tension in the air.
"May I sit, your grace?" he asked as he moved forward to take one of the seats across from the king's desk.
"No," he responded coldly, stopping the spider from sitting down in his chair. "Come, Lord Varys, I've heard how you're such a clever man, so let's skip all of the pretentious games and get to the point, shall we? Now answer my question, why are you here?"
"I'm here to inform you of some rather distressful news I've learned that I wouldn't feel comfortable sharing with the other councilors."
Joffrey nodded his head quietly before he gestured with his hand for the spider to take a seat, which he promptly did. As the spider made himself comfortable, he gazed and analyzed the room and the King himself. Gazing upon the King's desk, the eunuch couldn't help but notice the piles of paper the King had neatly stacked at the left corner. That, combined with the nearly burnt-out candlestick and still-wet ink, made the Master of Whispers realize just how much extra work the King was doing, even outside of Small Council meetings.
Curiosity nearly got the best of him, and he was half-tempted to take one of the pieces of parchment with him so he could learn what he was working on. He already knew about his little army recruitment program, but so did half of the castle. Many laughed at such notions of forming an army out of a herd of street rats. In fact, servants and noblemen alike had begun to call the king "the King of Flea Bottom" behind his back. Though Varys knew differently, and although he couldn't get any of his little birds inside the Training Grounds to see for himself, in his stomach, he knew something was brewing in the air.
"So what's this distressful news you've come to tell me?" His words shook the spider out of his internal thoughts.
"If the wrong ears hear what I'm about to tell you, your grace, off comes my head." He said, his usual wistful, effeminate tone turning serious. "Then who would mourn poor Varys then? North, south, east, and even west, no one sings songs for dead spiders."
This sounds a lot like his little speech to Ned Stark when he told him about Jon Arryn's death, he thought to himself as he remained silent.
"So I've heard," he responded, nodding his head for the spider to continue.
"But there are things you must know, and I'm afraid they can no longer wait." He paused, trying to gather himself. "There is currently a plot inside your court to have you deposed from your throne."
Joffrey's eyes widened slightly, but his stoic expression remained impassive as he spoke coldly.
"What do you know?"
"My little birds have informed me that not everyone is happy with the new arrangements that your reforms have brought on."
The King sat back into his chair, his eyes looking the spider up and down as if trying to discern whether or not he was telling him the truth.
"I'm assuming you have names?"
"It's difficult to say," he remarked, his tone returning to a more coy, mischievous one. "So many names, so many faces. It's very difficult to keep track of them all."
Joffrey found himself getting annoyed by the plump little man's attitude, but he knew he couldn't show it on his face.
"How long exactly has this been going on?"
"I've been told the fires have been burning since the start of the war. Though it would seem your policy changes have only managed to fan the flames, turning it into a full-scale inferno."
"So for more than a month you've known about this, and you've waited until now to tell me?"
"I needed to be sure the information was valid before bringing it to your attention. Accusing one lord is one thing, but to accuse half of the court is a death sentence if I was wrong," he defended.
"But you're sure now?"
Varys nodded his head in confirmation.
"Then why not tell me this in the morning with the Small Council members?"
"Because one of the leading defectors sits in one of the council seats. Of that much I'm certain."
Joffrey narrowed his gaze and spoke a single word, "Who?"
"Lord Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin," he replied immediately.
"Littlefinger?" Joffrey pretended to laugh when Varys cut him off.
"Perhaps you'll laugh, your grace, but I know him better than most, and this is the truth. Littlefinger is one of the most dangerous men in Westeros. He has half of the city in his pocket, including the entire force of Gold Cloaks."
It was a rare sight to see the Master of Whispers so serious about any topic, though the spider was only telling him what he knew already. From the start, Joffrey knew Littlefinger was going to be a problem and was going to have to get rid of him. The same could be said for the dowager queen, whose vanity and lust for power nearly cost him and his future lady their lives. Though the one who truly interested him from the start was the spider himself.
It mostly stemmed from inconsistencies between his show counterpart and his book counterpart. In the show, he was a schemer who worked behind the scenes constantly trying to find a true and righteous ruler for the Realm and the people of Westeros. He wasn't driven by personal ambition like his mother or Littlefinger, but out of necessity and a naive ideal of a "good" king. Which was why he was secretly working behind the scenes to destabilize the realm and put the Targaryens back on the throne.
Despite all of the dangers that came with utilizing such a person, the king knew the benefits far outweighed any potential risks. So, with that in mind, Joffrey had set out to turn his own ideals against him and embody the very concept he was striving for: a "good" king.
"Would your little birds be able to discern the identities of any of these other traitors?"
"It will be difficult and may take some time, but yes, I'm sure I could get some names for you."
Joffrey took a moment to ponder all of his options before he slowly looked up at Varys.
"Very well," he finally said. "When all of your little birds sing you their songs, I want you to bring all of your findings to me and me alone. Is that understood?"
"Of course, your grace." The eunuch bowed his head.
Joffrey then stood up from his desk and saw his Master of Whispers out. Now alone in his chamber once again, the king made his way over to one of his cabinets and brought out a fresh bottle of Arbor Red along with a glass. As he sat at his desk and poured himself a drink, he thought over the ending of the meeting. He knew Varys was only telling him anything in an attempt to earn his favor and trust, but he also knew he needed to get the spider on his side if his plan was going to succeed.
As long as those pirates do their job, then the eunuch won't have a choice but to support me, he thought as he took a sip from his chalice. As soon as I have those names in my hand, it will be time for me to use "that" from The Prince.
At the same time the king was forming his own plans, the spider was concocting his own. He knew this was a golden opportunity to get rid of the scourge that was Littlefinger from the kingdoms, and after learning that the money-grubber had tried to pin the assassination attempt on him, he was more than happy to return the favor. It also posed a chance for him to test the new king's character, who'd already displayed his courage, intelligence, and more recently, his compassion that extended even to the smallfolk—terms he'd never have associated with the sadistic prince a year ago. But whatever had happened to him in that bed had changed him for the better.
With all of his policy changes and new innovations, Varys had begun to wonder if Joffrey might be the best ruler for the sake of the Realm. That was if his initial plan fell through, which immediately reminded him that he needed to write a letter to Illyrio and update him on the current situation. He'd tried to write a letter to Connington, but he'd lost contact with the Shy Maid a few weeks prior. The spider had figured they were just stuck in some secluded part of the Rhoyne, but he needed the knight to know the current state of things when they eventually resurfaced.
So with those thoughts in mind, the spider sat down at his own personal table and after removing his rings and other jewelry, began drawing up a letter to his oldest friend and partner in crime.
High and welcome to my first official story. Since I'm new I'd appreciate some praise and a little interaction, just trying to get to know my audience you know. Anyway with that in mind I'd appreciate you taking the time to leave a review and some critique, and I'll do my best to read them.
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Current chapters and stories available are:
~The Young Lion Act 2 Ch 3
~Highschool DxD: The Cursed King of Kuoh Ch 4