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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 26: The Hit
"I miss flying," Joffrey murmured, his gaze lost in the clouds drifting lazily beyond the window. The afternoon sun painted golden patterns on the brothel's finest room, and the distant sounds of the city drifted up like muffled music.
"Flying?" Tyrion's eyebrow arched from his seat across the table. "When was the last time you flew, Nephew?"
Joffrey chuckled, a soft, distant sound. "A long time ago, Uncle. In another life."
Tyrion shook his head, grinning. "Must have been a vivid dream. Either that, or you've been at the wine harder than I thought." He raised his empty cup, and immediately a beautiful girl with fiery red hair materialized at his side to fill it. "Thank you, my dear."
Another girl attended Joffrey, a short Dornish creature with long black hair and knowing eyes. She licked her lips as she poured. "Will the Prince have only wine again tonight? Or will he want... full service?"
Joffrey studied her a moment. The same brothel he'd visited before the tournament. Today, however, he had a different purpose, one that required his uncle's unwitting participation. Tyrion had been delighted when Joffrey invited him for an afternoon of drinks and women. The dwarf was always eager for such diversions.
"Only drinks," Joffrey said. "For now."
Disappointment flickered across the Dornish girl's face. "As the Prince wishes."
"Come now, Joff!" Tyrion pulled the redhead onto his lap, his hands already wandering. "Surely we didn't come all this way just to drink. Don't you want to become a man?"
"Who says I'm not?" Joffrey's response was mild, but it made Tyrion pause.
"Really?" Interest gleamed in the dwarf's mismatched eyes. "Now that's a story I'd like to hear."
Joffrey shook his head. "I'm a private person, Uncle. Respect that." He took a slow sip of wine. "Also, I have no desire to start rumors flying around the castle. I have a betrothed, remember?"
"A child, still." Tyrion waved dismissively. "No one will blame you for a bit of fun before a very distant wedding. Just be careful not to father any bastards and no complains will come your way."
"How insightful." Joffrey's smile was thin. "Why don't you tell these lovely ladies about your travels instead? Your visit to the Wall, perhaps?"
Tyrion's face lit up, and then immediately soured as the Hound shifted behind Joffrey, armor clinking.
"Why bring him?" Tyrion gestured at Sandor with his cup. "He's killing the mood. At least tell him to drink something."
Joffrey glanced back at his shield. Sandor stood like a scarred statue, arms crossed, radiating disapproval. "He's my shield. It's his job to be here. And frankly, his company is preferable to the mute."
"Ser Ilyn Payne?" Tyrion shuddered theatrically. "On that, we agree. What a sour man. Who wants to have the royal executioner close by?" He took a deep drink, his free hand resuming its explorations of the redhead's generous breasts. "No one, right?."
"So you went north, my lord?" The Dornish girl leaned forward, giving Joffrey an excellent view of her cleavage. "That must have been fascinating. I could never stand the cold."
"Cold doesn't begin to describe it." Tyrion launched into his tale with obvious relish. "But the cold was the least of it. There are giant bears in the North, wolves the size of horses, and the Wall itself...seven hundred feet of ice standing since the dawn of days."
As his uncle talked and drank and groped his way around, Joffrey's attention drifted to the window. His eyes weren't on the room, or the girls, or even the street below. They were fixed on a point much farther away. A building on the Street of Sisters, nearly a mile distant. With a simple charm, his vision sharpened, piercing distance as if it weren't there.
He watched. Waited.
Thirty minutes crawled past. Tyrion's story reached its climax and meandered into a second tale. The girls had shed their clothing at some point...Joffrey hadn't noticed when. The redhead was now dragging a thoroughly drunk Tyrion toward a curtained bed, ready to earn her coin.
The Dornish girl pressed close to Joffrey, her lips brushing his ear. "There's another bed ready for you, my prince."
Joffrey's eyes never left the window. "I have a different job for you."
She drew back, puzzled.
He pointed at the bed where his uncle was losing his remaining clothes with enthusiastic assistance from the redhead. "Keep him drunk and distracted. At least an hour. Close the curtains, keep the wine flowing." He placed two gold dragons on the table...more than the girl would see in a month. "Take good care of my uncle. When I return, there will be four more for you and your friend. Can you do that?"
The Dornish girl's smile returned, wider now. "Of course, my prince."
"Good girl." Joffrey rose silently, catching Sandor's eye and jerking his head toward the door.
They slipped out without Tyrion noticing a thing. The dwarf was otherwise occupied.
At the bottom of the stairs, Sandor spoke in a low rasp. "Thank you for not jumping out the window this time."
"No problem." Joffrey pulled a rough cloak from the bag Sandor carried, throwing it over his fine clothes. "But we'll need to move quickly. Long walk ahead."
Sandor donned his own cloak, grunting. He'd been given only vague hints of today's purpose, but he understood enough. Blood would be spilled before sunset. His hand found his sword hilt, a familiar comfort.
They melted into the crowded streets of King's Landing, two more anonymous figures in the endless human river.
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Lord Baelish's finest establishment occupied a prime location on the Street of Silk. Three stories of luxury and sin, catering to the highest lords and wealthiest merchants. The sign outside bore no name, needed none. Everyone knew what lay within.
Sandor took point as they entered, his scarred face and bulk clearing a path through the common room. A well-dressed young man with oiled hair stepped forward to greet them, but a Dornish woman intercepted him smoothly.
"I'll handle these two." Valena's voice was warm and professional. "They're regulars of mine." She shot the young man a look that brooked no argument and gestured for Joffrey and Sandor to follow.
The greeter's jaw tightened, but he stepped back. This was her territory.
Valena led them upstairs, past the common rooms, past the private chambers, to the third floor where the VIP suites resided. She stopped before a door, produced a key, and ushered them inside.
Once the door closed, her eyes glazed slightly...a momentary struggle against the compulsion that bound her will. It passed quickly. No one without magic could resist the Imperius Curse for long.
"Report," Joffrey ordered.
Valena's voice was flat, obedient. "He's in the room directly above us. Today is collection day. Three men brought sacks of coins. The money will be secured inside the safe."
"Which is also in his office."
"Yes."
Sandor's eyes narrowed. "We're robbing Littlefinger?"
Joffrey turned to look at him, and the Hound's blood ran cold. Those green eyes glowed with an unnatural light...not the lazy, amused gaze of the prince he'd come to know, but something ancient and hungry. Something that made his skin crawl.
"That's just one goal." Joffrey's voice was calm, pleasant. "Money is a necessity. I don't have enough."
He turned back to Valena. "Is he alone?"
"Sometimes he has girls with him. New ones...he likes to 'supervise' their training." Her lip curled slightly, a ghost of the woman she'd been before the curse. "There's always a guard at his door. Two more on this floor."
Joffrey nodded, processing. "That's fine. I wasn't planning to use the door."
He pointed at Valena. "Stay here." Then at Sandor. "Guard this door from the outside. No one enters. No one goes upstairs."
Sandor opened his mouth to argue, thought better of it, and nodded once.
Joffrey waited until the door closed behind them, then approached the window. A moment of concentration, and he vanished.
Valena gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. The prince had simply... disappeared into thin air.
Outside, Joffrey clung to the wall like a spider, invisible to any eye thanks to the invisibility charm he had used. The window above was closed but not locked. He pulled himself up and peered through the glass.
Petyr Baelish sat at an ornate desk, counting stacks of gold coins with the focused pleasure of a miser. His office was lavishly furnished with thick carpets, oil paintings, and a decanter of expensive wine. And best of all, he was alone.
Joffrey eased the window open with a silent 'alohomora' and slipped inside.
A soft click as the window settled back into its frame.
Baelish's head snapped up. "What was—" He stared at the window. Still closed. Nothing moved. "I could have sworn I locked that..."
He rose, frowning, and walked toward it. Behind him, another sound...a faint click from the door that had been locked.
"Who's there?" His voice was sharp, paranoid. No answer.
Then something washed over him—a wave of dizziness, of wrongness, that turned his stomach. "What—"
"Incarcerous."
The spell hit him like a charging bull, hurling him to the ground before he could react.
"HELP! GUARDS!" Baelish's scream was instinct, raw terror. He tried to rise, to run, and found himself wrapped in thick white cords that appeared from nowhere, binding his arms to his sides, his legs together, rendering him helpless.
"Scream all you want." The voice came from directly in front of him. "You're inside a silencing ward."
Baelish's eyes went wide as Joffrey Baratheon materialized from empty air, as if stepping through an invisible door.
"Prince... Joffrey?" For once, the Master of Coin had no words. His mind raced, trying to process the impossible. None of this made any sense.
Joffrey stood over him, looking down with those unsettling green eyes. "You have questions. I have one first." He crouched, bringing his face close. "Why are you trying to start a war?"
"I—I don't know what you're talking about!" Baelish's voice pitched higher. "Release me at once! I've done nothing to you!"
"Oh, but you have." Joffrey's smile was cold. "The letter sent to the Starks. The sweet Dornish girl was sent to my bath. You thought you were clever."
"I—that's madness! Why would I—"
"Too many questions." Joffrey shook his head. "It would take hours to interrogate you properly, even with curses. And I'm not looking forward to delving into that mind of yours." His lip curled slightly. "From what I've seen so far, it's a chaotic, nasty place."
"My mind?" Baelish was genuinely bewildered now. The prince was speaking in madness. Perhaps he was mad...perhaps this was some psychotic break. "Listen to me." He forced calm into his voice, the practiced politician's tone. "Whatever you think is happening, we can discuss it. Remove these ropes, and we'll talk properly. I serve the Crown, Prince Joffrey. I'm your ally."
Joffrey's smile widened. "So you say." He knelt, pressing one hand to Baelish's forehead, forcing his head against the floor. "Let's see who you truly serve."
Green fire ignited in those terrible eyes.
"Legilimens."
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