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Harry Potter and all of its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.
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"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 39: New Path
The morning sun painted the sky in shades of rose and gold and reflected on the Narrow Sea.
Joffrey sat on a coil of rope near the bow of the Storm Dancer, the largest ship of the two, and rested his back against the railing, his eyes fixed on the horizon where sea met sky.
The wind was fresh and clean, carrying none of the stench of King's Landing, and for the first time in weeks, he felt something almost like peace.
"Do you know which island that is?"
The voice came from behind him, soft and familiar. Joffrey did not turn. He had heard the whisper of silk slippers on the wooden deck, had felt the presence settle beside him like a shadow given form.
"Good morning, Lord Varys." His voice was calm. "I trust you slept well."
Varys moved to stand beside him, resting his plump hands on the railing. His face was serene, but his eyes were fixed on the distant shape of land rising from the sea. "I would be lying if I said that I did, my prince. And you would know if I lied."
Joffrey ignored the probing comment. "To answer your question, I believe that is the Isle of Tarth. I hear they have sapphires there."
"Sapphires." Varys's smile was thin. "A curious reputation that is. The mines of Tarth have been dry for centuries, Your Grace. The smallfolk still tell the tale, but the true wealth of that island lies not in its stone, but in its people." He paused. "If you value such things."
"I value people." Joffrey finally turned to look at him. "That is why I asked you to join me, is it not?" He let the reminder hang in the air between them. "And you need no longer call me 'Your Grace.' I left such titles behind, along with the capital."
Varys inclined his head. "Some titles are impossible to discard. The world will still know you as a prince. Perhaps they will add an adjective, like the Fleeting Prince, the Prince Who Escaped, the King Who Never Was." A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "But if it pleases you, I will simply call you 'Prince.'"
Joffrey shrugged. "Do as you wish, Lord Varys."
"And you were correct," Varys added, gesturing toward the island. "That is indeed Tarth." His eyes drifted to the horizon, to the vast expanse of water that stretched endlessly before them. "I trust you have studied the maps of lands beyond Westeros as well."
"Of course I have. As many maps as were available in the capital. "Joffrey responded. "Last night, I spoke at length with the captain. We discussed our route."
Varys waited.
"The last message you received from your spy came from near Lhazar," Joffrey continued. "From there, the Targaryen girl will have no choice but to travel south, into the Red Waste. If she survives that wasteland...and that is a considerable if, the only civilization she will find is in Qarth." He met Varys's eyes. "That will be our destination."
"Qarth." Varys repeated the word. "A sound guess. If she reaches that city, the merchant princes will certainly offer her aid. They would see great value in a lost Targaryen princess who travels with three dragons."
"Yes." Joffrey nodded. "But no one gives without expecting return. They will want payment of equal value."
Varys's face was unreadable. "Her dragons."
"The world has not seen dragons in nearly a hundred and fifty years. You cannot put a price on such things." Joffrey's voice was soft. "She will be in danger wherever she goes. Daenerys Targaryen will need allies she can trust." He let the words hang.
Varys studied him for a long moment. "And you believe you are such an ally?"
"You said it yourself, Lord Varys. No one gives without expecting return."
Joffrey smiled. "My interest in the girl and her dragons is merely academic. For now." He rose, stretching his legs. "There is little point in worrying so much about the future. The captain estimates our journey will take three or four moons, even with only a single stop for supplies at Volantis. And that is if we encounter no difficulties."
"Unlikely," Varys murmured.
"Unlikely," Joffrey agreed. "But remember our deal, Lord Varys. As long as you make yourself useful, I will bring no harm to your beloved princess. But if you even think of betraying me..."
"You will know." Varys's voice was grave.
"I will know." Joffrey clapped him on the shoulder. "Do not look so crestfallen. If you play your cards well, you may yet get what you wish. I told you once...demons always respect their deals."
He left Varys at the railing, staring out at the sea, and made his way below deck.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
The training room was small but serviceable—a cleared space in the hold, lit by oil lamps, with padded mats on the floor and tourney weapons racked against the walls.
The Storm Dancer had been built for long voyages, and her previous captain had understood the value of keeping his crew sharp.
Joffrey found the Hound waiting for him, a practice greatsword in his massive hands. Sandor Clegane's scarred face was set in its familiar scowl, but there was something else in his eyes...a hunger, a restlessness, that had nothing to do with the morning's workout.
"Ha!"
The greatsword came down in a vertical arc, aimed at Joffrey's head. He sidestepped, the blade whistling past his ear, spun on his heel, and placed the tip of his own practice sword against the Hound's neck.
"Are you all right, Sandor?" Joffrey stepped back, lowering his blade. "You seem rusty."
The Hound's jaw tightened. "Shut up."
"It's all right. I understand. You've been busy." Joffrey circled him, light on his feet. "I gave you too much work."
"You've gotten faster." The Hound's voice was flat, but his eyes tracked Joffrey's every movement.
"Perhaps." Joffrey smiled. "But you still have work to do, if you want to kill that man."
The Hound's face darkened when reminded about the Mountain. The brother who had held his face in a fire when they were children, who had murdered and raped and burned his way across the Seven Kingdoms, who wore a white cloak now and called himself a knight.
"We made a deal," Sandor growled. "But I'm the only one who's kept his part. Prince."
"Don't be impatient, my friend." Joffrey's voice was soothing. "We are only at the beginning of our journey. There will be many chances for you to grow in power."
When he had first offered the Hound gold, the man had been unmoved. Coin was coin...useful, but not enough to buy the kind of loyalty Joffrey required. So he had dug deeper, had probed the scarred surface of Sandor Clegane's soul until he found what lay beneath.
Revenge. The Hound was not a complex man. He wanted money, yes. He wanted power. But above all, he wanted his brother's blood. He wanted to be the one to put his sword through Gregor's heart, to watch the light die in those cruel eyes, to know that the monster who had made him what he was had finally been put down.
Joffrey had promised him all of it. The gold, the power, and the revenge. In exchange for loyalty.
"What kind of power?" The Hound's voice was rough. "I've seen what you can do. The way you move, the way you fight. You were nothing when you picked up a sword, and now..." He shook his head. "I don't care what cursed method you used on yourself. Share it with me."
Joffrey considered him. The Hound was observant...more observant than most gave him credit for. He had watched Joffrey transform from a fumbling apprentice to a warrior who could best him nine times out of ten. He had seen things that could not be explained by natural means.
"My method would not work for you," Joffrey said finally. "Our bodies are different."
"Different bodies? Bullshit." The Hound's scarred face twisted. "You're holding out on me."
Joffrey raised a hand. "I am not. The method I used on myself requires something you do not possess. Something that cannot be learned or earned." He paused. "But I have thought of another method. One that will suit you better."
The Hound's eyes narrowed. "Will it make me stronger?"
"It will make you deadlier." Joffrey smiled. "Will that be enough?"
A cruel smirk spread across Sandor's face. "Aye." He hefted his practice sword. "What is it?"
"It is not ready yet. I will need time to experiment." Joffrey glanced toward the door. "Did Tyrion prepare the workshop I requested?"
The Hound nodded. "Next to your chamber."
"Excellent." Joffrey raised his practice blade. "But before that...another round."
The Hound grumbled, but he lifted his sword.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
The Storm Dancer was a formidable vessel, three times larger than the Summer's Gale, with a crew of nearly a hundred men to manage her sails and lines.
She had been built in the shipyards of Braavos, designed for long voyages and rough seas, and her captain had sailed her as far east as the Jade Sea and as far south as the Summer Isles.
Joffrey had been impressed when Tyrion presented him with the options. The Storm Dancer was not the fastest ship in the fleet, but she was the sturdiest, the most reliable, the most likely to survive whatever storms the eastern sea might throw at them. She had cabins enough for the captain and the guests, a large one for Joffrey, with a comfortable bed and a bathtub large enough for two, smaller ones for Varys and the Hound, and a handful of communal ones for the crew.
Saera shared his cabin. That had been her choice, not his, though he had not objected. She was useful in many ways, and her devotion was absolute...a product of careful conditioning and genuine affection, blended so thoroughly that even Joffrey could not always tell where one ended and the other began.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
The workshop was a small space, perhaps eight feet square, with a single window set high in the wall to allow airflow and a thin slice of natural light. A wooden table dominated the center of the room, and along the walls stood shelves and a heavy ironbound chest.
Joffrey knelt before the chest, lifting the lid. Inside, nestled in oilcloth, were the tools he had requested, fine chisels, delicate hammers, magnifying lenses of ground crystal, and a dozen other implements whose purpose would be mysterious to anyone who did not practice the art of enchantment.
Tyrion had come through. His uncle had a procurement talent, it seemed, even under the most difficult circumstances.
Joffrey made a mental note to reward him, perhaps with a share of whatever treasure they found in the east, or a favor to be named later.
With these, he thought, running his fingers over the cool metal, I should be able to create at least some primitive enchantments.
He had been meaning to practice the art for months, but the Red Keep was no place for such work. Too many eyes, too many questions, too many people who would not understand what they were seeing. Here, on the open sea, with only those he trusted around him, he could finally begin.
His gaze moved to the wooden box in the corner, the one Gendry had delivered, the one that held the armor he had commissioned from Tobho Mott. It had been an unusual request, and Joffrey was curious to see whether the old armorer had been able to fulfill it.
He knelt, undid the clasps, and lifted the lid.
"Now, let's see what we have here."
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