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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 17: The Small Council
The scratch of a quill on parchment filled the quiet of the chamber. Joffrey paused, reading over the words he had written. A list of observations, theories about the magic he'd sensed, and notes on the political landscape. Knowledge to be hoarded, like a dragon's gold.
A knock at the door.
He didn't look up. "Yes?"
The door opened. A young man with golden hair, pretty as a maiden, stepped inside and bowed low. "Your Grace."
Joffrey's eyes lifted. Something stirred in the fragmentary archives of Joffrey's memories. "I know you."
The young man kept his gaze downcast. "I am Lancel Lannister, Your Grace. We are cousins."
"Kevan's boy." The pieces clicked. Son of his uncle Kevan, brother to Tywin. But the resemblance to the other Lannisters ended with the hair. This one had none of their hard edges, their cold confidence. He radiated fear like a scent.
"Why are you afraid of me, cousin?"
Lancel's head snapped up, a flash of defiance in his eyes, but it was soon gone, replaced by that same rabbit's terror. "I-I am not afraid, Your Grace."
The lie was plain, but Joffrey didn't need him to speak truth. The question alone had done its work. Surface thoughts, easily skimmed when the target was prompted to think of the answer. Images flickered through Lancel's mind: the King's meaty hand cuffing his ear, wine thrown in his face, mocking laughter at his expense, endless humiliations.
Robert's hatred for the Lannisters had found a soft, convenient target in this boy. Day after day, he took his petty revenge on Kevan's son, and Lancel endured because Lancel had no choice.
Not my problem, Joffrey decided. He had no investment in the game of Lannister pride. Understanding the pieces was enough for him. "What does my father want?"
Lancel swallowed. "The King wishes you to attend the Small Council meeting. It begins shortly in the council chamber."
Joffrey's eyebrows rose. "The Small Council? He's never asked that before."
"I... I don't know why, Your Grace. Only that he commanded it."
"Very well." Joffrey looked down at the parchment in his hand. He held it over the candle flame. The paper blackened, curled, caught fire. He held it until the heat licked at his fingers, then let the ash fall to the floor.
Lancel watched with bewildered eyes.
Joffrey offered no explanation. The parchment's contents were already filed away in the library of his mind. And nothing important stayed in this room where servants came and went, where eyes were always watching.
"Let's go."
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The Small Council chamber was not small at all, despite its name. A long table of polished oak stood beneath a tall window, and servants moved along the walls, arranging wine and sweetmeats. The lords of the realm's governance were already seated, or nearly all.
Their faces turned as one when Joffrey entered. Surprise, quickly masked by most. Lord Petyr Baelish's smile didn't waver. Lord Varys's expression remained bland as water. But Lord Eddard Stark's cold northern face was less practiced; confusion flickered there plain as day.
"Prince Joffrey?" Ned rose slightly, then remembered himself. "What brings you here?"
Joffrey walked to the head of the table and took the empty chair. This was the King's chair. "My father requested my attendance. So here I am."
No one dared to point out the inappropriate choice of a seat.
Ned's frown deepened. "The King is not coming?"
Lord Renly Baratheon, pretty and amused, lifted his wine cup. "My brother rarely attends these gatherings, Lord Stark. You'll grow accustomed to his absence."
"I see." Ned's gaze lingered on Joffrey. "Am I to understand you'll be representing him?"
"I thought that was your duty, Lord Hand." Joffrey's tone was mild.
"If I may." Varys's voice was oil on water. "I believe His Grace intends only for the Prince to observe. It is customary for the heir to sit in on council meetings from time to time." A pause, delicate as a spider's tread. "Though it has been... some time since Prince Joffrey last attended." What he truly wanted to say was, never.
The words hung in the air; the meaning was clear. Everyone understood that much. Robert had never thought his eldest son worth including. This was a change. A signal that Joffrey was now being considered a worthy heir by King Robert.
The result of several months after Joffrey's sudden change for the better.
Maester Pycelle cleared his throat, his great chain clinking. "Shall we begin? The hour grows late."
Ned glanced around the table. "Where is Lord Stannis? I understood he was also a member of this council."
Renly's smile widened, taking on an edge of mockery. "My other brother? Ah... how to explain? You shan't see much of Stannis, Lord Stark. He finds our company... trying."
Ned's jaw tightened, but he let it pass. He took his seat. "Very well. Let us begin." He squared the papers before him. "The first matter for today—"
"My brother has requested a tournament," Renly interrupted smoothly. "In honour of our new Hand."
"How much?" Littlefinger asked, the question was as casual as if it were weather talk.
Renly consulted a paper. "Forty thousand golden dragons to the winner of the joust. Twenty thousand each for the melee and the archery. Then the runner's prizes, the feasting, the accommodations for the lords and ladies who will attend..." He looked up. "Call it a hundred and fifty thousand, to be safe."
Ned's face went still. "That is a great deal of gold."
"The crown can afford it?" Pycelle asked, his old eyes turning to the Master of Coin.
Littlefinger shrugged. "The Lannisters can afford it. We already owe them three million. What's a bit more?"
"You what?" Joffrey's interjection was sharp.
Ned's control cracked. "Three million? Are you telling me the Crown is three million dragons in debt?"
"Oh, no, Lord Stark." Littlefinger's smile was gentle, pitying. "That is merely what we owe House Lannister. The Crown's total debt exceeds six million."
"This is preposterous!" Ned's fist struck the table. Glasses jumped. "How could this happen?. The coffers were full during the previous King's reign. You are the Master of Coin, explain!"
Littlefinger spread his hands, the picture of innocence. "The King spends. I provide. That is my function."
Renly laughed softly. "Robert has never cared much for ledgers. But he does love a good tourney or a good feast."
"This is too much," Ned repeated, but the anger had drained, leaving something like despair. He was Hand of the King. This mess was now his to clean.
Joffrey watched, filed the information away, and said nothing.
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The gardens of the Red Keep were carefully cultivated, filled with green and well ordered, pretending that chaos did not rule the city beyond the walls. Joffrey sat at a stone table, teacup in hand, watching Myrcella nibble a lemon cake.
"In debt?" Myrcella leaned close, her voice a whisper. "Six million dragons?"
"I know. Ridiculous." Joffrey sipped his tea. It was good, floral, and light. "All those feasts and tourneys. No wonder the smallfolk hate us. Can't blame them."
"Should you be telling me this?" Myrcella questioned him.
He shrugged. "Probably not. But you're my favourite sister."
Myrcella laughed, the sound bright in the garden. "Thank you for that. And thank you for getting me out of the keep. We just returned, and already I miss the road."
"You'll have more chances." He didn't add the truth...that she would leave eventually, married off to some lord for alliance's sake. She knew it already. They all did.
Myrcella's smile faded slightly. "Perhaps. When I'm betrothed." She shook off the melancholy. "The tournament...did Lord Stark refuse it?"
"He wanted to. But it's in his honour, and Father insisted. Refusing would be seen as an insult." Joffrey set down his cup. "He's trapped. Can't win either way."
Myrcella nodded, understanding the politics. "Will Mother let me attend?"
"If she doesn't, I'll sneak you out."
She laughed again, lighter this time. "I don't want her angry at me. But thank you."
Nearby, the Hound scuffed his boot against the gravel twice...a signal. Someone coming.
Sansa Stark appeared around a hedgerow, her septa a stiff shadow behind her, two Stark guards at a respectful distance. She hesitated when she saw them.
"Prince Joffrey. Princess Myrcella." A perfect curtsy. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I was walking in the gardens and heard you were here, and I thought..."
Myrcella waved her over, genuine warmth in her face. "Come sit, Lady Sansa! We have tea and cakes."
Sansa's eyes went wide. "Lemon cakes!"
The septa cleared her throat meaningfully.
"I mean... thank you for the invitation, Princess." Sansa composed herself and took the seat between them. Her gaze fell on Joffrey's plate—the sweet pastries, the delicate cup, and something flickered in her expression.
Myrcella, sharp-eyed as always, caught it. "Mother already informed him that eating sweets and drinking tea in public is too feminine for a proper prince."
Sansa's cheeks coloured. "Oh, I wasn't—"
"Hmph." Joffrey bit into a pastry with deliberate defiance. "I told Mother I'll eat what pleases me. Anyone with a problem can say it to my face."
"No one did," Myrcella added.
"I see." Sansa's voice was small. "I think it's a silly rule too."
"Sansa, have you heard about the tournament?" Myrcella leaned forward, excited. "In your father's honour!"
"No, I haven't." Surprise, then dawning interest. "A tournament for Father?"
"Yes! The news will spread quickly." Myrcella's eyes sparkled with an idea. "Would you attend with me? Mother would never let me go alone. She will say it's too violent for a lady. But if we go together, she can hardly refuse."
Sansa's excitement mirrored hers. "I would love to! I've never seen a tourney. We don't have them in the North." She turned to Joffrey. "Will you compete, Your Grace?"
Joffrey finished his tea and set the cup down. "Why would I? No one would fight me seriously. They'd be too afraid of hurting the prince."
Sansa's expression grew thoughtful. "Prince Rhaegar once fought in a tourney as a mystery knight."
The name hung in the air. Rhaegar Targaryen, whose love for a Stark girl had destroyed a dynasty and started a war. Sansa's aunt Lyanna. The tournament at Harrenhal, where he crowned her queen of love and beauty instead of his own wife.
"A mystery knight," Joffrey repeated, the idea taking root.
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