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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 18: The Spider's Secrets
The Iron Throne loomed above him, a ridiculous twisted mountain of melted swords, its shadow falling across the cold stone floor, making it look like the gruesome creation it was. Joffrey stood before it, studying the jagged edges, the cruel points that jutted out at every angle like a beast's teeth.
"How many times do you think my father has cut himself sitting on that thing?" Joffrey inquired.
Behind him, the Hound shifted his weight. "Don't care."
Joffrey glanced back. Sandor Clegane's scarred face was set in its usual scowl, but something darker lurked behind his eyes today. The reason wasn't hard to guess. Word had come that his brother was in the city. Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, had arrived for the tournament. The man who had held his brother's face in a fire when they were children.
Some family, Joffrey thought.
"There was a Targaryen King once," he said, pretending not to notice the Hound's foul mood and turning back to the throne, "who cut himself on the throne so often they called him King Scab. Behind his back, of course. To his face, they called him Your Grace and prayed he didn't light them on fire."
The Hound said nothing. His hand had drifted to his sword.
Soft footsteps on stone. Sandor tensed.
"Good morning, Lord Varys," Joffrey said without moving his eyes away from the throne.
A pause, then a silken chuckle. "Was I so obvious, Your Grace? I must be losing my touch."
Joffrey turned. The eunuch stood a careful distance away, his plump form draped in soft fabrics, his face a mask of pleasant neutrality. Sandor's glare could have curdled milk.
"You didn't lose your touch." Joffrey smiled. "My guard did. His hand went to his sword. Only one man in this castle moves quietly enough to startle the Hound."
Sandor grunted, displeased at being used as a measuring tool.
Varys's eyes crinkled with false mirth. "You are most observant, Your Grace." He looked past Joffrey at the throne. "Aerys the Second. King Scab, yes. Though few dared speak it. He was not a forgiving king."
"The Mad King," Joffrey said. "My less talkative guard lost his tongue under Aerys's command." He nodded toward Ser Ilyn Payne, standing motionless by the far wall, his hollow eyes fixed on nothing. "You served him. Was he truly as mad as they say?"
Varys's expression shifted, a flicker of something genuine passing across his features before the mask reset. "In his later years, yes. His mind... deteriorated. He committed terrible acts. The realm suffers still from the wounds he inflicted."
"The problem with giving one person too much power." Joffrey walked closer to the eunuch. "Don't you think?"
"That is the nature of monarchy, Your Grace. Some kings are remembered fondly. Others..." He spread his hands. "Are you suggesting a change, perhaps?"
Joffrey shrugged. "Not at all. The world isn't ready for that conversation."
"Then what kind of king would you be?" Varys's voice was silk wrapped around steel. "A diplomat? A scholar? Or perhaps one with an interest in conquest?"
There it is, Joffrey thought. The spider was spinning his web, trying to gauge this new, unknown quantity. His sudden change had made all of Varys's old information useless. Now he was scrambling for new one.
"It is too early to say, dont you think?." Joffrey smiled innocently. "My father is still young and strong. May he rule for many years."
"Of course." Varys's mask didn't slip, but something in his eyes flickered. Disappointment? Frustration? "Everyone wishes the King a long and prosperous reign."
"Everyone?" Joffrey met his gaze and pushed...just a whisper of Legilimency, a feather-light touch on the surface of the man's mind. Images flashed: a boy with silver hair, a woman with violet eyes, whispered prayers for a dragon's return. A chessboard with pieces moving toward a single goal: the restoration of a dynasty thought dead.
Varys flinched. For one heartbeat, his composure shattered. His eyes widened, and in them Joffrey saw a flash of something he doubted the eunuch had felt in years: fear. Cold, primal fear. As if he had looked into a mirror and seen something looking back that should not exist. The Spider, who traded in secrets and knew everyone's hidden truths, had just felt like he was the one having his secrets exposed.
"Is something wrong, Lord Varys?" Joffrey's voice was gentle, solicitous. "You look pale. Perhaps you're unwell."
"I... I am fine, Your Grace." Varys's voice was steady, but his hands trembled slightly at his sides. A bead of sweat traced a path down his powdered temple.
"You must take care of yourself, my lord." Joffrey stepped closer, his green eyes never leaving the eunuch's face. "We lost the last Hand to a sudden illness. The realm cannot afford to lose another valuable servant so soon."
Varys swallowed. "Your concern touches me, Prince Joffrey. I believe I will take my leave now. There are... matters requiring my attention."
He turned and walked away, his steps quicker than usual, not once looking back. He hadn't even stated why he'd come.
The Hound moved to Joffrey's side, watching the retreating figure. "The eunuch is dangerous, Prince. Making an enemy of him is foolish."
"Is that how it looked like?. But I'm afraid that some things can't be avoided." Joffrey watched until Varys disappeared through the doors. "We'll make plenty of enemies before this is over. Are you looking forward to taking a few heads?"
The Hound's grin was ugly and feral. "Aye. That sounds less boring than standing guard."
"Good." Joffrey headed for the doors. "Then let's go for a walk through the city. I want to stretch my legs."
The Hound groaned.
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From the second-floor window of the establishment, Joffrey had an excellent view. Below, the Street of Steel stretched toward Fishmonger's Square, and beyond that, the docks bustled with activity even in the fading light. Ships from half of Westeros and half of Essos crowded the harbor, disgorging merchants and goods for the coming tournament.
"It's lively down there." Joffrey took a sip of wine. "Look, they're bringing animals in cages. Are they putting on a circus?"
"What is a circus, my prince?" The woman who poured his wine was copper-skinned and dark-haired, with eyes that promised pleasures beyond pouring drinks. She wore a thin red dress that left little to the imagination.
"Entertainment. Trained animals and such. You may have seen something of the sort and call it a diferent name." He spotted great iron cages rolling off a ship. There were tigers pacing within, and two massive black bears that seemed larger than any bear had a right to be. "Were bears always that big?"
"I wouldn't know, my prince." The woman leaned closer, her perfume heavy and sweet. "In Dorne, the largest beasts I've seen are mountain goats."
"Dorne." Joffrey nodded. "I've read much about Dorne."
Even as he spoke, his eyes never left the window. Dusk was falling, but a simple charm kept his vision sharp as noon. Magic was so useful. He almost pitied the muggles of this world, stumbling through the dark.
"So, my prince..." The woman's hand drifted to his thigh, fingers tracing lazy circles. "Other than drinking and talking, would you like to do something else? I'm very skilled at many things."
Across the room, the Hound's armor clinked as he shifted uncomfortably.
"Will he be joining us?" she asked, glancing at the scarred giant.
Joffrey laughed at the expression on Sandor's face. He drained his cup and set it down. "No. He won't. And tonight, I came only for the wine and the view."
The woman pouted, tugging at her neckline until one dark nipple peeked free. "Are you sure, my prince? I would not disappoint."
"I'm sure." He held out his cup for more wine and returned his attention to the window.
It wasn't fear of pox, plague, or whatever disease this woman could have, that stayed his hand. His magic could handle such things easily enough. But he had not come here for pleasure. He had come to watch. To wait.
A few minutes passed. Then—
"There." He rose, pulling a heavy purse from his belt and dropping it on the table. "Payment for the drinks. And for your company."
"You're leaving already?" The woman's disappointment was genuine.
"Business to attend. Perhaps I'll visit again." He offered her a playful wink and moved to the window.
"Wait! Not the window!" The Hound's protest came too late. Joffrey was already through, dropping silently to the street below.
"Damn it all!" Sandor cursed and ran for the door, his heavy boots pounding on the stairs.
Joffrey landed lightly and crossed the street. Across the way, a large man was pulling a cover over his shop window, preparing to close for the night.
"Excuse me," Joffrey called.
The man glanced over his shoulder. "Very sorry, my lord, but we're closed for the day. If you need repairs or a new blade, come back in the morning."
"I'm not a lord." Joffrey stepped into the fading light. "Just a prince who requires your services. And your discretion, Master Mott."
The man was Tobho Mott, master armorer, one of the finest in the city. Hearing his words, he turned fully. His face went through several shades of pale before settling on a sort of panicked recognition. His mouth opened to speak the title.
Joffrey raised a finger. "Discretion, please." The street was nearly empty, just as he'd planned. "May we speak inside?"
"Of—of course, Your Grace." Mott fumbled with the cover, then hurried to unlock the side door.
The Hound arrived at that moment, red-faced and breathing hard, his boiled leather armor creaking with each gasping breath.
"He's with me." Joffrey gestured. "Come on, hurry."
They slipped through the side door into the warm, smoky dimness of the forge. The air smelled of coal and metal and sweat.
"We're closed!" a young voice called from within. A moment later, a boy appeared from behind a rack of half-finished blades—tall and strong, with black hair and striking blue eyes. He stopped short when he saw them.
"Gendry, shut your mouth!" Mott hissed. "You're in the presence of a prince."
"What?" The boy's eyes went wide.
Joffrey studied him. There was something familiar about that face, though he couldn't place it. The same strange recognition he sometimes felt when looking at... at whom?
One mystery at a time.
He turned to the armorer. "I need a full suit of armor, Master Mott. I'm told you're the best in the city."
Mott straightened, professional pride overcoming his nerves. "You've heard correctly, Your Grace. What did you have in mind?"
"Something that keeps my body and identity safe." Joffrey smiled. "I'll be entering a tournament."
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