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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
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"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 34: A Deal With The Devil
The hours of practice with the mind arts were proving their worth. Joffrey sat motionless in his chair, eyes half-lidded, his consciousness spread through the entire floor like a web. He could sense the intruders getting closer. The faint pulse of their hearts. The shallow rasp of their breath. The fear and adrenaline leaked from their small bodies.
Six of them. No, seven. Moving through the walls, through spaces that should not exist, that, according to every architect who had ever worked in the Red Keep, could not exist. And yet here they were, slipping through the fortress like worms through a rotting apple.
So it's true, he thought. The secret passages. The hidden ways. Every rumor he dismissed as gossip was true.
He tracked their progress without moving a muscle. They had entered through some hidden mechanism near the fireplace, and he could hear the faint scrape of stone on stone. One by one, they emerged, small figures wrapped in dark wool, their faces hidden, their hands full of gleaming steel.
Children. He had known, of course. He had heard the whispers about Varys' "little birds," about the orphans and the outcasts who served him, who crept through the castle and listened to everything that went through. They were Lord Varys' ears and eyes.
Six of them stood in a loose semicircle around his chair, their knives catching the light from the torches. They were so small...the tallest could not have been more than ten. Their hands trembled...they were afraid of him.
"You send children to kill me, Lord Varys?"
The words fell into the silence. The little birds got startled, and their formation wavered. They had not expected him to know. They had not expected him to speak the name of their Master.
From the darkness of the passage, a larger figure emerged. Grey cloak instead of black, a crossbow held in steady hands, its bolt already nocked and aimed.
"I don't know how you do it." Varys's voice was soft and with a hint of admiration. "But I should have expected nothing less."
Joffrey studied his plump face and soft hands. "I thought you were the Master of Whispers. I didn't realize you were also a cutthroat."
"I do what I must." Varys's aim never wavered. "Sometimes, to keep the realm from crumbling, I must get my hands dirty." A pause. "Unfortunately."
The crossbow thrummed.
The bolt flew straight and true, aimed at the center of Joffrey's chest. He did not move or flinch.
Clang.
The bolt struck something invisible when it was just a hand's breadth from his heart and shattered into a dozen wooden fragments that pattered against the stone floor like rain.
The little birds froze. One of them, the youngest, perhaps, made a small, frightened sound and took a step backward, bumping into her companion.
Lord Varys stood motionless, his crossbow still raised, his mouth hanging open. For once, the man who always had an answer for everything...now had none.
His eyes, usually so calculating, so carefully amused, were now as wide as plates.
He gazed at the space where his bolt had died, and Joffrey could see him trying to fit this new information into his understanding of the world, trying to find a way to explain what he had just seen.
There was none. Magic, as Joffrey knew it, was nonexistent in this world. And even less so, since the death of the last dragon.
"It's called a Protego charm," Joffrey said, his voice conversational. "A shield spell. Where I come from, children are taught it when they are very young." He glanced at the little birds. "A bit older than these, perhaps. But of course, mine is... stronger. It can stop an arrow, a dagger." He smiled. "A crossbow bolt."
"Magic." Varys's voice was a whisper, as if saying the word aloud might make it real.
"Yes."
"Where do you come from? The Seven Hells? Asshai? Some place I have never heard of?" The Master of Whispers was fishing now, trying to regain some footing, some understanding of the situation he got himself in.
Joffrey raised an eyebrow. "You think I would just tell you?"
"You have already told me enough." Varys's hand moved to reload his crossbow, though his eyes never left Joffrey's face. "Shown me enough. Which means you do not intend for me to live long enough to tell anyone."
He made a sound, a sharp click of tongue against teeth. A signal.
The little birds moved.
Six children, six knives, six bodies launching themselves at the prince who sat unarmed and unarmored, his sword resting against the bed across the room. Varys was gambling that the shield could not stop six attacks at once, that the magic had limits, that a child's knife might find flesh where a bolt had failed.
It was a reasonable gamble. It was also wrong.
"Depulso."
Joffrey's hand made a casual gesture, as if brushing away a fly. Six small bodies flew backward, hit the ceiling, cracked against the stone, and tumbled to the floor.
The sound of breaking bones was sharp in the quiet room. One of them, by some accident of trajectory, landed on the bed, sinking into the pillows with a soft whuff of displaced air.
The second bolt struck Joffrey's shield a heartbeat later. It shattered like the first.
Varys was already turning, already reaching for the hidden passage, but Joffrey's finger was already pointed, the words already forming.
"Incarcerous."
Ropes of white light burst from his fingertips, coiling around the Master of Whispers before he could take a single step. They wrapped his arms to his sides, his legs together, trapped by the magical fiber.
He fell with a grunt, hitting the floor hard, his crossbow skittering away across the stones.
A knock thundered on the door.
"Your Grace! Is everything all right?"
The voice was unfamiliar, that of a guard, Ser Barristan had left on night duty.
Joffrey could sense two more beyond him, drawn by the noise. They would be inside in moments if he did not act.
"I'm fine," he called, his voice steady, unhurried. "Tripped over a chair while doing my nightly exercises. Do not come in."
A pause. "As you say, Your Grace."
Joffrey walked to the door, ran a finger along its frame, and whispered. The silencing ward settled around the room like a blanket, muffling everything within. "I dont want interruptions."
He turned back to his captives. The little birds were stirring now, moaning, trying to rise. One of them, the one who had landed on the bed, was already on her feet, her knife still clutched in a white-knuckled grip.
Joffrey pointed, and a red spark flew from his finger, catching her in the chest. She crumpled back onto the mattress, unconscious.
"Stay where you are," he said to the others. "I will deal with you in a moment. If I see you moving, I'll kill you."
He walked to Varys, who lay trussed and helpless on the cold stone. The Master of Whispers was struggling against his bonds, his soft face flushed with effort, but the ropes held.
"Well, Lord Varys." Joffrey stood over him, looking down. "You find yourself in a precarious position. How much do you want to live?"
Varys stopped struggling. His eyes met Joffrey's, and for a moment, there was nothing in them but the cold, clear light of a man who had faced death before and was not afraid to face it again.
"I will not beg...demon," he said. "Do what you will."
"Demon?" Joffrey laughed, a soft sound without humor. "Is that your conclusion?. Is that what you think I am?"
He glanced at the little birds, who had huddled together against the far wall, their knives forgotten.
Joffrey knelt beside Varys, close enough to see the faint pulse beating in his throat. "You should not be so quick to dismiss demons, Lord Varys. They may be deceitful, but if they make a deal, they keep it. Can the same be said of men?" He tilted his head. "But if it eases your mind, I am not a demon."
"Then what are you?" Varys's voice was hoarse, but his eyes were sharp. "Because I know, with certainty, that you are not Prince Joffrey."
Joffrey smiled. "Even now, you fish for information. A true Master of Whispers."
Varys lifted his eyes and stared into Joffrey's for just a second before looking away.
But it was enough. In that brief contact, Joffrey had what he needed. The surface thoughts of a man facing death, stripped of pretense, lies, and the careful masks he wore for the world.
Joffrey saw a woman with silver hair. A plan, years in the making, was shattered by circumstances no one could have foreseen, so a new one was made.
He pulled back, his expression thoughtful. "Why do you think of Daenerys becoming queen? She was married to some Dothraki horselord. Shouldn't Viserys be the one you hope to guide? The one who would be king?"
Varys went very still. "So you can truly read my thoughts. I suspected, but..." He shook his head slowly. "It seems too ridiculous to believe."
"You had your demonstration." Joffrey shrugged. "Answer my question."
"Why not simply rip the knowledge from my mind?" Varys's voice was careful, probing. "Unless you can only perceive what I am thinking at this moment. Your powers must have limits after all."
Joffrey's smile did not waver. "If that is what you want me to do... so be it."
He placed his hands on either side of Varys's head, forcing the eunuch to meet his eyes. "Legilimens."
Varys screamed.
It was a primal scream, the sound of a man whose mind was being opened like a book, page by page.
Joffrey did not enjoy it. He never enjoyed it. The intrusion was unpleasant for both parties, a violation that left him feeling soiled, no matter how necessary the information.
But he needed to know. He needed to see.
Images flashed through his consciousness...a stone sept in Pentos, a boy with silver hair screaming at his sister, a girl too thin and too afraid, growing into a woman beneath a sky full of stars.
A wedding on the Dothraki sea. A child conceived beneath the bones of a dead city. Fire. Blood. Dragons.
He withdrew, and Varys slumped in his bonds, his face slick with sweat, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Viserys is dead," Joffrey said slowly, processing what he had seen. "The Horse Lord as well. But the girl..." He looked down at Varys. "The girl has three dragons."
Varys's eyes went wide. He had not meant to think of that. He had been careful, so careful, keeping that knowledge buried beneath layers of other concerns, other fears. But in the end, it did not matter.
"L-leave her." Varys's voice was a croak. "Leave that girl alone."
"You think I would harm a child for no reason?" Joffrey's eyebrows rose. "I am not that cruel. My intentions toward the Targaryen girl and her dragons are purely academic."
By the look on Varys's face, he did not believe a word of it.
"Besides," Joffrey continued, rising to his feet, "from what I saw in your mind, she needs help. She is in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by Dothraki who see her as little more than a curiosity, with no allies and no safe harbor. It will be a miracle if she survives the month."
"You underestimate her." There was steel in Varys's voice now, the steel of a man who had believed in something for so long that belief had become bone. "She is of the blood of old Valyria. Daenerys Targaryen is stronger than you think. And now she is the mother of dragons."
Joffrey stood in silence for a long moment, turning the words over in his mind. He had been planning to travel east, to see the wonders of Essos, to study the magic that still lingered there in the shadow of Valyria's fall.
But this changed things. This made the journey not just interesting, but urgent.
He looked down at Varys, trussed and helpless on the floor. "You want to put her on the throne."
Varys said nothing. His face was carefully blank.
"You know, Lord Varys." Joffrey knelt beside him, close enough to whisper. "Perhaps you and I could help each other after all."
Varys's eyes narrowed. "Help each other?"
"Indeed." Joffrey smiled, and something in that smile made the Master of Whispers go very still. "You are a resourceful man. I like resourceful people. It would be such a waste to kill you." He placed his fingers on the magical ropes that bound him. "Why don't we make a deal?"
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