Joffrey's first sensation upon waking was pain. A deep, throbbing ache in his arms and legs, like cold iron biting into his flesh. His mind, sluggish and clouded, struggled to grasp where he was and how he had come to be here.
The golden-haired prince groaned as consciousness returned in waves, his breath shallow, his body damp with sweat. His wrists and ankles were bound, the leather straps biting cruelly into his pale skin. He sat in a chair—wooden, unyielding, bolted to the cold stone floor.
And then he smelled it.
Damp. Dust. And something else. Metallic. Coppery. The unmistakable scent of blood.
His heart pounded. His eyes, still adjusting to the dim glow of a single flickering torch mounted on the damp stone wall, darted around frantically.
This wasn't the Red Keep. This wasn't his chambers.
Panic surged, sharp and immediate. He pulled at his restraints, but they held firm. His breathing quickened. His pulse roared in his ears.
Then he heard it.
A slow, deliberate tap, tap, tap of boots against stone.
Joffrey's head jerked up, his eyes snapping toward the darkness beyond the torchlight. A figure emerged, stepping forward with the quiet confidence of a predator.
Hadrian Peverell.
Joffrey knew him instantly—the man who had humiliated him, outshone him, treated him like a joke at court. A man who, despite all reason, never feared him. But here, now, in this place of shadow and silence, there were no sycophants to flatter him, no Kingsguard to shield him.
Joffrey forced himself to sneer, to summon the arrogance that had always been his armor.
"How dare you!" His voice, hoarse but venomous, filled the chamber. "I am the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms! My father will—"
Hadrian tilted his head, emerald eyes gleaming like shards of ice. "Your father?" he interrupted smoothly. "You mean the drunken fool rotting in his own filth? Or do you mean your real father?"
Joffrey's face twisted with rage. "You shut your mouth!" he spat, straining against his restraints. "You think you can just kidnap me? Torture me? When I return to the Red Keep, I'll have your head on a spike, you lowborn piece of—"
Hadrian took another step forward, his expression unreadable. "Tell me, Joffrey," he said, his voice infuriatingly calm. "Do you know why you're here?"
Joffrey sneered. "Because you're a traitor. Because you're jealous of me! Of my crown! Of my power! You think this little stunt will—"
Hadrian cut him off with a chuckle. Low. Amused. It sent a ripple of unease down Joffrey's spine.
"No, Joffrey," Hadrian said, stepping closer. "You're here because I know."
Joffrey blinked. "Know what?"
Hadrian's gaze never wavered. "Every twisted, depraved little thought that slithers through your rotten mind."
Joffrey's mouth went dry.
Hadrian crouched slightly, leveling himself with Joffrey's bound form. "I know how you look at my wife," he murmured. "At Fleur. I know the things you've imagined doing to her. The sick little fantasies you play out in that pathetic excuse for a mind."
Joffrey forced out a laugh, but it came out brittle, strained. "Is that what this is about? You're jealous? Afraid she'd prefer a real man to some common-born filth like you?"
Hadrian smiled then. It wasn't a kind smile. It was the smile of a wolf watching a lamb try to bare its teeth.
"Jealous?" Hadrian murmured. "No, Joffrey. Disgusted."
Joffrey flinched.
Hadrian straightened, his cloak shifting like liquid shadow. His right hand moved, and in his fingers, something dark and slender materialized. A simple wooden wand.
Joffrey squinted. Then he scoffed, mustering all the arrogance he could manage. "What is that? A twig?" He forced a laugh. "What are you going to do? Poke me to death?"
Hadrian didn't react. He simply tilted his wrist and uttered a single word.
"Crucio."
Joffrey never saw it coming.
Pain.
White-hot agony exploded through his body, unlike anything he had ever known. His nerves ignited, his muscles seized, his bones felt as though they were being wrenched apart from the inside. His vision blurred as his back arched violently against the chair, a scream ripping itself from his throat.
He had felt pain before—a scraped knee, a bruised arm, the occasional backhand from his mother when he displeased her. But this—this was beyond pain. This was torment.
His screams echoed, high and shrill, filling the chamber.
Hadrian watched. Expressionless. Unmoved.
Joffrey's body convulsed, his head jerking back, his fingers clawing at the arms of the chair as his screams devolved into incoherent, choked sobs.
Then, mercifully, the pain stopped.
Joffrey slumped forward, his chest heaving. Drool dripped from his mouth, his vision swam, his mind struggling to comprehend what had just happened.
Hadrian crouched again, gripping Joffrey's chin between his fingers, forcing the prince to look at him.
"That," Hadrian said softly, "was just the beginning."
Joffrey whimpered.
Hadrian's eyes gleamed. "You've spent your whole life hurting others, haven't you, Joffrey?" His grip tightened, his voice dangerously quiet. "You've tormented, humiliated, killed because you could. Because no one ever stopped you."
Joffrey licked his cracked lips, desperate, wild-eyed. "P-please," he rasped. "You—y-you can't do this! I—I am the—"
Hadrian pressed a gloved finger to Joffrey's lips.
"You were never meant to be king."
Joffrey whimpered again.
Hadrian released him, straightened, and took a slow step back. He flicked his wrist.
The wand was in his hand once more.
Joffrey's breath hitched. "No, no, please—"
Hadrian tilted his head. Smiled
And whispered, "Crucio."
The darkness swallowed Joffrey's next scream.
—
The night pressed close, thick with the scent of danger and the oppressive silence of the Red Keep. Daenerys moved through the halls with the grace of a shadow, the edges of her cloak swirling like smoke around her. It was a deep, heavy hooded thing—almost too heavy for comfort—but it was enchanted. A Notice-Me-Not charm clung to her like a second skin, wrapping her in the magic that made her unseen, untouchable. Her footsteps fell silent against the cold stone, and not a guard, nor servant, nor stray cat even noticed her as she passed.
Her mind, however, was far from silent. Every step, every breath was calculated. She had learned much in her time at King's Landing—learned to read people, learned to control situations, and above all, learned the dangerous game of power. Littlefinger, the slippery rat, had spent years weaving webs of deceit, filling his pockets with the riches of the kingdom, all while playing the highborn like fools. It was time for that game to end.
Legilimency had been her tool, her weapon in this endeavor. She'd peered into Baelish's mind, unraveling the threads of his schemes and desires. His wealth—his hidden wealth—lay in plain sight to her. Caches of gold, jewels, stolen from the crown and from the people. Wealth amassed from betrayal and deceit, hoarded in the secret corners of the Red Keep. He thought himself clever, thought himself safe. But he was neither.
She found the first of his hidden caches beneath a false floorboard in an unused wing of the castle. The chest inside was packed tight with glittering coins and jewels—so many jewels. Daenerys smirked, feeling a surge of triumph. She conjured her expanded pouch, slipping it into the chest, emptying it swiftly, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency. It was almost too easy. The weight of the gold now pressed on her shoulder, each coin a reminder of Baelish's twisted influence over the kingdom.
By the time she reached the second cache, hidden deep beneath the dungeons, the weight of it all settled on her like a cloak of vengeance. The vault was nothing more than a trapdoor in a forgotten corner of the Keep, dust and webs clinging to the stone. The incantation was soft, almost soothing, as she opened the trapdoor and gazed down at the wealth inside—bags of gold, scrolls of notes, silver pieces stacked high. She felt no guilt, no hesitation. Baelish had preyed on the people for far too long. Now, it was time to pay the price.
The last of his treasure was nestled in a dark corner of a storage room, surrounded by crates of useless trinkets. She could almost hear the echo of Baelish's chuckles as he'd hidden his riches, imagining himself invincible. The sight of it—bags overflowing with the spoils of deceit—was enough to stoke the fire of her anger. She emptied every bag, every coin, into her pouch. No one, least of all Baelish, would get away with this. Not now. Not anymore.
—
Dany met Harry in the shadows of the abandoned courtyard, her cloak still flowing behind her, her face hidden beneath the folds of the heavy fabric. Harry stood tall, his green eyes cutting through the gloom, his posture stiff with purpose.
Without a word, Dany stepped toward him, her eyes glittering with determination. Harry didn't speak at first; he simply reached into his cloak and pulled out a cloth bag. The weight of it was noticeable even before he handed it to her.
"Joffrey," Harry said, his voice cold. The mere mention of the boy's name seemed to send a ripple of tension through the air. Daenerys didn't flinch as she took the bag, her fingers curling around the fabric.
Inside, something heavy shifted with a sickening finality.
Her gaze flickered to the bottle in Harry's other hand, the dark red liquid swirling within. Blood. Joffrey's blood.
"And this?" she asked, her voice soft but laced with a sharp edge, her French accent curling around the words like smoke.
Harry's lips twitched with the faintest of grins. "His blood," he replied. "You'll need it to tie Baelish to the prince's death. Plant it, let it speak for him."
A knowing smile tugged at Dany's lips, her eyes narrowing in thought. "You want me to make it look like Baelish killed Joffrey. To place the blood... and then?" She tilted her head, as if sensing the depth of the plan.
Harry nodded, his expression hardening into something even colder. "Exactly. Use your magic, Dany. Get Baelish to confess, if you can. Afterward, I'll set the tableau. We'll reveal Joffrey's death to the world. All eyes will turn to Baelish, and the kingdom will crumble around him. And then, when the dust settles, we'll be the ones left standing."
Dany clenched the bag tighter, her fingers pressing against the cool fabric. She felt a twinge of satisfaction. The boy, the arrogant, tyrannical little prince, had met his end—no more games, no more cruelty. The world would never miss him.
She met Harry's gaze, her eyes softening for the briefest moment. He had done what needed to be done, and now she would finish it. He trusted her, and she trusted him.
"I'll do it," she murmured, her voice low and unwavering. "Baelish won't see it coming. I'll make sure the pieces fall into place."
Harry's eyes gleamed with approval, his lips curving into a rare, knowing smile. "Good. Get back before dawn. There's no time to waste."
With that, Dany tucked the bag and the vial into her cloak. She wasn't just a queen anymore; she was a force—a storm ready to strike. The kingdom would pay for its sins, and when the dust settled, the Targaryen name would rise once more.
As Dany made her way through the narrow streets of King's Landing, her heart beat a little faster, anticipation stirring within her. The pieces were finally falling into place. Baelish had no idea what was coming for him.
By the time the sun rose, the game would be over, and Daenerys Targaryen would have won.
—-
Harry's boots struck the cobblestones with the softest of echoes, each step a rhythmic reminder of the task ahead. The streets of King's Landing were eerily quiet at this hour, the usual bustle of the city subdued by the heavy silence of the night. Above him, the moon hung low, casting pale light over the familiar landmarks of the city. The Great Sept of Baelor loomed ahead, its towering stone facade an unyielding symbol of power and history. A place of worship for many, a place of politics for others, and tonight, a place of reckoning.
The pouch at Harry's side was noticeably heavier now. He could feel the weight of it with every step, as if it were a physical manifestation of the gravity of his actions. Inside, Joffrey's remains were waiting—waiting to serve a much larger purpose than the twisted boy who had once worn the crown. To Harry, the prince's corpse wasn't just a victim of his own arrogance and cruelty; it was a tool, a means to an end, and a message that would shift the balance of power in the realm.
As he neared the steps of the Great Sept, the weight of the moment settled on his shoulders. He paused for a moment, taking in the sight of the ancient stonework. The intricate carvings on the steps, the symbols of faith and power, seemed almost laughable now. They had once been beautiful, timeless reminders of a civilization's greatness. Now, they were simply a backdrop to a far more personal drama.
"Isn't it funny how things change?" Harry muttered under his breath, almost to himself. "One day, this place was a symbol of piety, and tonight? Tonight, it's going to be the site of one hell of a reveal."
With a quick flick of his wrist, Harry murmured an incantation, his words sharp and deliberate. A shimmer of magic rippled through the air, curling around the stone steps of the Sept like an invisible barrier. The wards were up—temporary but effective—designed to ensure no one would interfere with his work. No curious passerby, no watchful guards. Tonight, the Great Sept would be his stage.
Satisfied, Harry glanced over his shoulder one last time. The streets behind him were as empty as when he'd started, bathed in the faint flicker of distant torchlight. There would be no turning back now. This was it. The end of the game, the beginning of something else entirely.
"Let's see if Baelish's little secrets are as well-hidden as he thinks," Harry muttered, his voice low, laced with quiet amusement. The game was almost over, and Harry had been the one pulling the strings all along. Baelish, the great manipulator, was about to find himself outmatched.
Harry reached down to the pouch at his side, fingers brushing against the fabric, a faint warmth emanating from within. A small tug of something—perhaps it was a fleeting moment of hesitation—flitted through his chest. But it was quickly squashed. There was no room for guilt, no space for sentimentality. Not tonight.
"This isn't about you, Joffrey," Harry muttered as he unlatched the pouch. "It's about them."
With practiced precision, Harry began the delicate task of retrieving the body from the expanded bag. The magic thrummed beneath his fingertips, responding to his touch. The body began to take form, but Harry didn't hurry; he worked carefully, his hands steady as he positioned the remains, ensuring every detail was just as it needed to be.
A slight grin tugged at the corners of his lips as he worked. There was something oddly... artistic about this whole thing. The way the scene was shaping up, the precision with which he was arranging the pieces—it almost felt like a performance. A dramatic piece of art, painted in blood and chaos.
His voice was soft, but there was a wry edge to it. "I mean, really. Who knew I had this kind of creativity in me?" He exhaled sharply, a laugh almost escaping. "Not that anyone will know it was me, of course. The credit will go to some other fool. But I'll know. That's what matters."
The work wasn't done yet, and Harry continued to move with care, each motion deliberate, making sure the scene would unfold just as he intended. No detail was too small, no gesture too insignificant. He positioned everything just so, until the body was settled in a way that would send the right message.
Once he was finished, Harry took a step back, his gaze lingering on the arrangement. His eyes flicked over the body, examining it with the detached scrutiny of an artist inspecting his own work. His lips curled into a satisfied smirk.
"Art," he said, almost as if to no one in particular. "It's in the eye of the beholder, isn't it? Too bad no one will ever know who the artist is."
He let out a soft chuckle, the sound echoing faintly in the empty streets. The wards hummed quietly, their presence a subtle reassurance that his work wouldn't be interrupted. Harry stood there for a moment longer, letting the gravity of the situation settle in. The final move had been made. The game, in all its messy, intricate glory, had reached its conclusion.
And when the sun rose, so would the revelation.
—
As dawn's first light crept across the horizon, casting long shadows over the city of King's Landing, a deep and unnatural silence blanketed the streets. The bustling noise of the early morning, the usual clatter of merchants setting up their stalls, the calls of vendors hawking their wares, and the sounds of the common folk preparing for their day—all of it was stifled by a lingering dread, as if the city itself held its breath in anticipation.
It was not until the sun's rays reached the Great Sept of Baelor that the horror revealed itself. The sight that greeted the city's inhabitants, still shrouded in the fog of sleep, was enough to halt even the most hardened of men in their tracks. A grotesque tableau, set like a grotesque banner before the steps of the sacred sept, was as much a proclamation as a defilement.
Prince Joffrey's body, disfigured beyond recognition, was impaled on a crude wooden stake. The prince, once the golden boy of the realm, had been reduced to little more than a broken, bloodied carcass. His head—mutilated, grotesque, and wrong—was a twisted mockery of life. The face of a donkey, its wide, dead eyes glaring vacantly, had been crudely stitched onto the stump of Joffrey's neck. Coarse, thick thread pulled the remains together in jagged, uneven stitches. The sight would haunt even the bravest soul for the rest of their days.
Atop this monstrous vision, a crown of thorns sat perched on the mangled remains of Joffrey's skull. The cruel, jagged spikes of the crown dug deep into his flesh, a perverse parody of the golden crown that had once rested so arrogantly atop his head. The symbolism was unmistakable, a clear insult to the boy-king's legacy, a reminder of his arrogance and cruelty, and perhaps—more chillingly—a herald of the twisted world that now surrounded him.
The stench of decay and blood filled the air, cutting through the crisp morning breeze like a knife. The very scent seemed to cling to the city, creeping into the lungs of every passerby. It was a sickly perfume that turned stomachs and sent people stumbling backward in revulsion. Those who had ventured too close recoiled, their faces pale, eyes wide in disbelief as they sought the nearest exit from the horrific scene.
"Gods above, what is that?" A woman's voice trembled as she clutched the arm of her husband, both staring at the grotesque display. "What have they done to him?"
"I… I don't know," the man stammered, his face slack with terror. "It's Prince Joffrey… it must be, but... but it's... unholy. What kind of madness could do this?"
A nearby guard, summoned by the shouts and the sudden gathering crowd, stepped forward hesitantly. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, but his posture was anything but resolute. The man's expression was twisted in shock, disbelief painted across his face. He glanced from the body to the mass of onlookers, who now gathered like flies to a carcass, their hushed whispers stirring the tension in the air.
"Get back!" the guard barked, his voice shaking. "Stay clear of the body!"
Another guard, younger and more frightened, stepped closer, his eyes darting nervously around the crowd, scanning faces for signs of hostility or trouble. He couldn't help but stare at the body, his hand tightening around his sword hilt as if to reassure himself. "By the gods, this is a message," he muttered under his breath. "A message to the king... or to someone. This is no random act."
The murmur of the crowd deepened, rising into a low, uneasy hum. Fear, anger, and confusion rippled through the masses like a wave crashing over the shore. People exchanged wide-eyed glances, the reality of the moment sinking in.
"The crown will be angry," one old woman whispered, her voice carrying with a tremble of certainty. "This… this is not a simple death. It's a warning, a challenge. Who could have done such a thing?"
A man in his prime, shaking his head in disbelief, crossed himself. "It's not right," he muttered. "Not right to desecrate a prince's body like this. But... gods help us, look at it! It's as if the whole city has turned upside down."
"Do you think the Lannisters will care?" A girl, barely sixteen, asked her companion, her voice trembling with both fear and curiosity. "They'll find who did this, won't they? They have to."
A middle-aged merchant, his voice loud with indignation, spat on the ground. "They're too proud to do anything, mark my words," he sneered. "They'll sweep this under the rug, just like all the rest of their dirty deeds. They think they can keep this city under their boot. But this..." He gestured toward the impaled body, his face dark with rage. "This is too much. Too bold."
And then, amidst the murmur of the masses, one voice rose above the rest—a voice tinged with awe, with fear, and with an unsettling understanding.
"The Gods have turned against us," an old man muttered, his eyes wide. "A king's body, desecrated before the Sept... It's a sign. A sign of the end times. The end of the Lannisters' reign."
The crowd hushed. The words lingered in the air like an unspoken prophecy. As if the weight of the words had struck at some shared truth deep within the heart of the city. The words sank into the smallfolk's collective psyche, the ripple of fear spreading faster than any rumor.
Another figure emerged from the shadows—Varys, his slim form making its way through the growing crowd with uncanny calm. He had seen many things in his time, had heard whispers of plots and schemes, but even his face twitched with unease as he studied the grisly display. His voice, when it came, was soft but firm, cutting through the murmur of speculation.
"This will have consequences," Varys said, his voice almost a whisper. "And the game, as we know it, has shifted. The crown will have to answer for this, though who will ultimately sit upon it… that is yet to be seen."
And so, with the stench of blood still thick in the air, the murmurs of fear and speculation began to swirl with greater intensity. Some believed it to be a symbol of rebellion; others saw it as the first sign of a storm to come. But all of them felt it
—
The news of Prince Joffrey's grotesque demise spread like wildfire through the streets of King's Landing, carrying with it a wave of shock, fear, and anger that reverberated through the very bones of the city. By midday, the Small Council had convened in the Red Keep, the urgency of the situation palpable in the air. The once familiar noise of the city was replaced by the heavy silence of expectation, the council room tense with the weight of the tragedy.
Robert Baratheon, his face flushed with rage, slammed his meaty fist onto the table with a force that made the chamber tremble. His voice thundered like a storm about to break. "Who is responsible for this abomination?" he roared, eyes wild with fury. "I want them found and brought to me, now! This... this is an insult to everything I stand for!" He cast a glance at the other council members, daring anyone to offer a suggestion that wouldn't end in someone's blood being spilled.
Ned Stark, sitting at the opposite end of the table, leaned forward. His expression was calm, almost unnervingly so, in contrast to Robert's storm of emotions. His voice, when it came, was low but firm, a seasoned baritone that carried authority. "Your Grace, I understand your anger," he said, the weight of his words causing Robert to pause, his fury not yet quelled. "But rash actions will only make matters worse. This is not the time for knee-jerk retribution. We must be methodical, gather information, and consider all possibilities before making any accusations."
Varys, ever the spider in the web, nodded slowly, his thin fingers tapping rhythmically against his chair. His voice was measured, as always, a quiet hum that managed to cut through the tension. "This murder," he began, his words rolling out like silk, "is not just a senseless act of brutality. It is a deliberate statement, one designed to instill fear and chaos. We must think beyond the obvious. Who benefits from this message? Who gains by plunging the realm further into turmoil?"
Grand Maester Pycelle, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted his robes, let out a nervous cough before he spoke, his voice quivering with age and uncertainty. "P-Petyr Baelish," he stammered, clearly not accustomed to speaking without a crutch. "He... he had an altercation with the prince at the feast last night, and... and then he disappeared. A suspicious timing, if you ask me. He's a man who can manipulate any situation to his advantage." His frail hands clutched at his robes, as if steadying himself against the very notion of such a crime.
Renly Baratheon, younger and more level-headed, leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful expression. His eyes narrowed as he considered Pycelle's words. "While Littlefinger is known for his scheming," Renly said, his voice smooth but cautious, "this... this level of violence, this savagery—it does not seem to fit his usual method. We must be careful with our assumptions. This act could be the work of someone else entirely—someone who stands to gain even more from the instability it causes."
Robert growled in frustration, his hand curling into a fist again. "I don't care who benefits. I want the bastard who did this found and punished. He has no place in this realm!" He bellowed, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Baelish or not, I want him hunted down, the city turned upside down if we have to!"
Ned's expression remained unchanged, his eyes darkened with the weight of his experience. "We will find him, Your Grace," he said quietly, signaling to the guards standing watch near the door. His tone, though calm, was steely with resolve. "But we must remain open to other possibilities. Whoever did this did not act without a purpose. This act of cruelty, this display—it serves a greater design. If we rush headlong into accusations, we may miss something crucial."
Varys's lips curled into a small, knowing smile as he leaned forward, his voice soft but laden with meaning. "Ned is right. We are all... but pieces on a chessboard. And sometimes, the enemy makes a move that forces us to react rather than think." His eyes flicked toward Robert, who was now pacing furiously, unable to sit still. "The forces at play are larger than we know."
Robert's eyes locked on Varys with a scowl. "If you're trying to tell me to wait and do nothing, you're sorely mistaken. I'll see to it this city is searched, Varys. You're more than welcome to sit here and spin your webs while I do it."
Renly, sensing the tension mounting between the king and the master of whispers, quickly intervened with a smooth suggestion. "Your Grace," he said, his voice calm and coaxing, "Perhaps we should focus our efforts more strategically. After all, rash action has a way of making things worse, especially when we don't yet know the enemy we're dealing with." He turned to Varys. "What are your thoughts, my friend?"
Varys gave a subtle nod, acknowledging Renly's wisdom. "The answer lies not just in who would benefit from such an act, but in the symbolism of it. The message is clear: someone is making a statement, and Joffrey's death is the first step in a much larger game."
Pycelle, still wringing his hands, seemed lost in his thoughts, muttering to himself. "A-a message, yes... yes... it must be..." His words trailed off, too disjointed to form a coherent conclusion.
Robert, now visibly exhausted from his inner turmoil, turned to Ned. "You speak of caution, Stark," he said, his tone more measured but still thick with frustration. "Then tell me, what should we do next? How do we move forward?"
Ned's eyes darkened, his mind already working through the maze of possibilities. "We need to keep our heads," he said firmly. "We need to act with subtlety, not brutality. We need to find out who was close to Joffrey, who had the means and the motive to carry out such an act. But most of all... we need to know what message they were trying to send."
As the meeting drew to a close, each man absorbed in his own thoughts, Harry Peverell remained silent in the shadows, his Invisibility Cloak tightly drawn around him. His mind churned with the weight of what had just occurred. Joffrey's brutal death was but the first ripple in a storm that was coming—a storm that would soon wash away all that King's Landing held dear. And Harry, standing on the periphery, knew he would be at the very center of it all. The game was afoot.
---
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