Game of Thrones(ASOIAF): The Sorcerer Prince

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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 28: The Harsh Truth

The Red Keep hummed with a different kind of chaos the next morning. Not the usual chaos of courtiers scheming and servants scurrying, but something darker...the chaos of fear, of uncertainty, of a death no one could explain.

Lord Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, member of the Small Council, one of the most powerful men in the Seven Kingdoms, had been found dead in his own establishment.

The body had been brought to the castle under the cloak of darkness, delivered to Maester Pycelle’s chambers for examination. The old man had poked and prodded, consulted his texts, stroked his beard, and finally thrown up his hands. No wound. No sign of poison. No cause of death could he name.

Adding to the mystery, Baelish had died in a locked room with a guard posted at the door. A guard who swore on his mother’s grave that no one had entered, that he’d heard nothing unusual, that the door had remained closed and bolted the entire time.

Pycelle, faced with the inexplicable, had done what old men do when confronted with mysteries: he’d declared it natural causes. A weak heart, perhaps. Some humor of the body gone awry. Never mind that Baelish had been young and healthy, never mind that he’d shown no symptoms of illness. The alternative...a murder performed by unknown means, in a locked room with a guard at the door, was too troubling to contemplate.

The official story spread through the castle: Lord Baelish had died of natural causes. A tragedy. A loss to the realm. How sad.

No one believed it. But no one could prove otherwise either.

”How awful,” Sansa murmured, her blue eyes soft with genuine sorrow.

Joffrey walked beside her through the gardens, the morning sun painting golden patterns on the gravel path. He saw the pity in her face, the sincere grief for a man she’d barely known. If she had any idea what Baelish had planned for her, or for her family, then she wouldn’t waste a single tear on him.

”Indeed,” he said mildly. ”It’s always sad when someone dies before their time. But life is full of uncertainties. We never know when our last day will come.”

Sansa’s eyes shone with that particular light he’d come to recognize, the look of a girl who’d decided someone was wise and noble and worthy of the songs she loved. ”That’s so true. So... philosophical.”

Joffrey suppressed a sigh. The girl had constructed an image of him entirely from the pages of her favorite books. In her mind, he was a chivalrous prince, a knight in shining armor, the hero of some romantic tale she hadn’t yet read. She talked endlessly of such things during their walks. About stories of gallant knights and fair maidens, of tourneys and true love.

He found it profoundly boring. But he hadn’t the heart to shatter her illusions. She was young, naive, and desperately in need of something beautiful to believe in. The world would teach her otherwise soon enough.

Even without Baelish’s schemes, war was coming. Joffrey could feel it building like pressure before a storm. The Targaryen girl across the narrow sea is growing stronger. The Martells in Dorne are nursing their vengeance for Elia and her children. Varys with his spiderwebs and his whispered plots, positioning pieces on a board only he could see.

And then there was the matter of his own birth and his two siblings. Tommen and Myrcella. It was only a matter of time before someone connected the dots just like Lord Stark did.

Someone will eventually discover that Robert Baratheon had no trueborn children. When that happened, the realm would bleed.

Joffrey knew his mother well enough now. For all her faults, and they were many, Cersei Lannister was as ambitious as a dragon and fierce as a lioness protecting her cubs. She would never surrender the throne. Never, the realm could bleed dry for all she cared. As long as goals were accomplished.

”Joffrey?” Sansa’s voice pulled him back. She tugged gently at his sleeve.

He blinked, focusing on her concerned face. ”Forgive me, my lady. I was lost in thought. What were you saying?”

”Only that my father has been acting strangely lately.” Frustration colored her voice. ”He’s always working...Arya and I barely see him. Not that she cares. She only talks about her dancing master.”

”And this is unusual?” He had the idea that Lord Stark was a very dedicated worker.

”Yesterday, he looked so upset. Angry, almost.” Sansa’s brow furrowed. ”He said the capital was dangerous, that perhaps we should return to Winterfell.”

Joffrey’s attention sharpened. ”He said that?. When exactly?.”

”Before the news of Lord Baelish arrived. It was very early in the morning, as we had breakfast.” She nodded. ”I got angry at him. For once, even Arya agreed with me. How could he suggest such a thing?” She paused. ”He even told me to avoid spending so much time with the Queen.”

”Does my mother request your company often?” He was not aware of this. The Queen has many eyes on him, but he felt the need to return the favor. His mother was not interesting enough to grab his attention.

Sansa nodded. ”She invites me for tea sometimes. We talk.”

”And what kind of things do you two talk about?” Joffrey kept his voice casual.

”Being a queen, mostly. What will my duties be when...” A delicate blush colored her cheeks. ”When we’re married.”

”I see.” He filed that away. ”Does she ask about your family? Your father, perhaps? Your siblings in Winterfell?”

Sansa’s eyes widened. ”How did you know? Yes, she asks about Bran sometimes. Whether he’s recovered, whether he remembers anything about his fall.” She paused. ”She seems very concerned about him. The Queen is so kind.”

And you are so blind...the Queen is just fishing for information, Joffrey thought. Mother is worried about what Bran might have seen.

”Eep!” Sansa jumped back, startled.

Joffrey followed her gaze. Ser Ilyn Payne stood a few yards away, his hollow eyes fixed on them, his hand raised in an abortive gesture. The man had a talent for appearing silently, for lurking at edges, for making everyone uncomfortable simply by existing.

Joffrey had left explicit instructions for him to maintain distance, since Sansa found the mute so unsettling, and frankly, so did he. But the Hound was occupied with other matters today. Important matters. Matters that left Joffrey stuck with this walking nightmare.

Payne began making gestures, his hands moving in what was presumably an attempt at communication.

Joffrey stared at him blankly. He had no idea what the man was trying to say.

A young guard in Stark colors approached, saving them from further confusion. ”Prince Joffrey. Lord Stark requests your presence at the Tower of the Hand.”

Joffrey glanced at Payne, then back at the guard. ”You could have delivered the message yourself instead of sending my mute guard to wave his hands at me.”

The guard had the grace to look embarrassed.

”Very well. I’ll go immediately.” He turned to Sansa. ”Forgive me, my lady. It seems I must abandon our tea and pastries. Perhaps you’d like to invite my sister instead? I’m sure she’d welcome the company.”

Sansa brightened. ”I will.” She curtsied gracefully, and Joffrey took his leave.

The Tower of the Hand required traversing half the castle and climbing what felt like a thousand stairs. Joffrey cursed the Red Keep’s architects with every step. How did Pycelle manage this? The man could barely walk to the privy without wheezing.

At the door to Lord Stark’s solar, he found two familiar faces: Jory Cassel and Alyn, Stark men both.

”Jory. Alyn.” He nodded.

”Prince Joffrey.” They both seem pleased by being recognized. Jory bowed and opened the door. ”Lord Stark is waiting.”

Joffrey gestured to his mute shadow. ”Wait here.”

The solar was vast and high-ceilinged, with a circular table positioned near the tall windows at the far end. Lord Eddard Stark sat there, surrounded by stacks of paper, his face pale and drawn with exhaustion. The weight of the realm, Joffrey supposed...especially now that Baelish’s death had dumped even more work on the Hand’s shoulders. An unintended consequence for sure.

”Prince Joffrey.” Ned rose, offering a formal bow.

”You look spent, Lord Stark.” Joffrey approached the table. ”Have you considered asking for help? Even a Hand can delegate some of its work to others.”

Ned’s expression remained cold, but something flickered in his grey eyes. ”There are matters I cannot trust to others. Matters of... importance.”

Joffrey took the seat indicated. His gaze fell on a massive tome lying open on the table, it was a book with a title so long it could have served as a meal: The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, with Descriptions of Many High Lords and Noble Ladies and their Children. What a mouthful.

But Joffrey knew why Lord Stark could find that interesting.

”I have been investigating Lord Arryn’s death,” Ned began, his voice heavy. ”Since coming to the capital, I’ve searched for who killed him. And why...”

”And have you found answers?”

”I have no proof of the ’who’.” Ned met his eyes, then glanced at the book. ”But I believe I’ve found the why.”

Joffrey already knew the who and the why. But he suspected Ned’s investigation, guided and pointed by Baelish’s careful manipulations, had led him somewhere else entirely.

”Tell me your findings, Lord Stark.”

Ned hesitated. The mask of the cold northern lord cracked slightly, revealing conflict beneath. ”Joffrey, you... you are not the man I expected to find when I came south. You’ve been honorable. Loyal. You’ve helped me, advised me, and saved my daughter’s life. My house owes you a debt that can never be repaid.” He took a breath. ”Which makes this all the harder to say.”

”You discovered that I’m a bastard.” Joffrey’s voice was calm, conversational.

Ned’s face went slack with shock. ”You... you knew?”

Joffrey shrugged. ”My mother isn’t as clever as she believes. I’m surprised the King never noticed. I suppose he simply didn’t care to look.”

”But... the throne. You’re the heir.” Ned’s voice faltered.

Joffrey considered his response for a moment. He was curious about what this man would say if his answer was a resounding ”Yes”. Would he support his claim on the basis that he could be a good King?. Or would he support Lord Stannis?. Because, in the absence of any legitimate children, Robert’s second brother would be the next in line.

​

In the end, he decided to give him an honest answer. He deserved this much.

​

”No, Lord Stark. The truth is that I have no interest in sitting on that ugly chair and listening to people complain all day. I have other ambitions in life. Ambitions that would take me far away from here.”

Ned stared at him, clearly struggling to process this answer. Who refused a throne? Who walked away from ultimate power?

Before he could respond, Joffrey leaned forward. ”You told my mother. Didn’t you?” He felt the constant thought in his mind.

Ned nodded slowly. ”This afternoon. I spoke with her briefly. I wanted to give her a chance to flee with her children before I informed Robert.”

Joffrey’s calm demeanor vanished, replaced by something sharp and cold. ”You what?” He rose halfway from his chair. ”Where is the King?”

Ned blinked at the sudden shift. ”He... he left for a hunt. An hour ago. He’ll return in a few days.”

Joffrey stared at him for a long, terrible moment. Then he laughed...it was a sound utterly devoid of humor.

”No.” He shook his head slowly. ”No, Lord Stark. I dont think he will be coming back.”

Ned’s face paled. ”What do you mean?”

Joffrey met his eyes, and for a moment, Ned saw something in those green depths that made his blood run cold. Something ancient. Something terrible.

”Lord Stark.” Joffrey’s voice was soft, almost pitying. ”You just killed the King.”

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