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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 62: The Seed of Doubt
The tower was filled with a tense silence.
Daenerys had paced the main chamber a dozen times, her footsteps echoing off the black stone walls.
Her dragons were watching her from their perch on the sofa. Their golden eyes reflected the cold blue flames of the braziers, and their heads turned to follow her movements.
Drogon had grown restless, his tail was twitching, and his wings were half-spreading as if he wanted to fly after the prince and his men.
On the other hand, Rhaegal and Viserion had curled together in a nest of cushions, their breaths coming in soft hisses as they slept peacefully, untroubled by the fears that gnawed at their mother.
She stopped before the arch that looked out onto the street. The grey twilight of Asshai had not changed...it never changed, but she could feel the passage of time in the ache of her legs and the dryness of her eyes.
'How long has it been since they left?' she wondered. 'An hour? Three? A day?'
It was impossible to tell in this cursed place, where the sun never rose, and the shadows never shifted.
"They will return," said a voice from the shadows.
Daenerys turned. Lord Varys stood near the stairs, his serene face illuminated by the blue flames.
He must have been standing there for some time, watching her pace, saying nothing. Now he stepped forward, his hands folded before him, his soft robes rustling against the stone.
"What makes you so certain, Lord Varys?" she asked.
"Well... I know for a fact that Prince Joffrey is not easy to kill." Varys smiled and moved to stand beside her, his eyes fixed on the dark street beyond the arch. "I have learned that lesson many times over."
Daenerys studied him. The eunuch's face was unreadable, as always, but there was something different in his eyes now...something that might have been respect, or fear, or a complicated mixture of both.
"You have known him longer than I have," she said. "Tell me. What do you truly think of him? Not the careful words you would choose to speak in his presence. I mean the truth."
Varys was silent for a long moment. His face showed a troubled expression, but just for a second, and then it was gone, smoothed over by the practiced composure of a man who had spent decades hiding his true thoughts.
"During his younger years, I did not think much of him. Just a spoiled prince who had been given too much, too early. The only thing of note was... his cruelty."
"Cruelty?" Daenerys's voice was neutral, but her stomach tightened. She had heard stories, of course. "Elaborate, please."
"Prince Joffrey was infamous among the servants due to his fits of anger, often directed at them. If he grew upset with a servant...a meal not to his liking, a shirt not properly pressed, a word spoken out of turn, then he would have them beaten black and blue, stopping just short of killing them. And this was only because the Queen would always have to intervene, to prevent him from going too far."
Daenerys frowned but said nothing. She had seen cruelty before...in her brother Viserys...in the eyes of men who believed that power gave them the right to hurt others whom they viewed as lesser.
But there was something particularly vile about a child who took pleasure in the suffering of those who could not fight back.
"There was also the occasion when he took one of his little brother's cats and cut the poor thing open with a kitchen knife. According to him, he had heard the cat was pregnant and wished to see the kittens." Varys's voice was flat. "Poor Tommen was horrified, and the King was enraged. It was the only time I had seen him strike the prince."
Daenerys made an expression of disgust. By that description, Joffrey was even worse than Viseris. Her brother had been cruel in his own way...vain, entitled, quick to anger, but he had never tortured animals for his amusement. Not that she knew of.
"Is that who he really is?" she asked.
"Oh no... not at all, Princess. I am talking about the old Joffrey." Varys's eyes gleamed in the blue light.
"But they are the same person." Daenerys sounded confused, and she was. How could a boy who had done such things become the man she had come to know?.
"They are the same person," Varys said slowly, choosing his words with care, "yet not the same. I have served in the Red Keep for many years, Your Grace. I have watched princes and princesses grow from babes to adults. I have seen them change, mature, evolve. But I have never seen anything like what happened to Joffrey Baratheon."
Daenerys frowned. "You speak as if he became possessed."
"I speak of what I observed with my own eyes." Varys's voice was soft, almost reluctant. "One morning, the cruel prince who tormented everyone was gone. Vanished, as if he had never existed. In his place was a young man who spoke politely, who read books, who trained in the yard every morning until his hands bled. A young man who went out of his way to help others. He freed the Starks, who were being held prisoner in the castle. He took his own siblings away so they could not be used as bargaining chips in the war. And then he sailed east to find you, Princess." He paused. "The old Joffrey would never have done any of those things. That boy lacked the intelligence, the patience, and the vision necessary for such plans."
"That sounds like he is actually a different person." Daenerys had heard stories about the Faceless Men of Braavos, about the House of Black and White, where assassins wore the faces of the dead. "You think someone replaced him? A faceless man, perhaps?"
"I always try to avoid jumping to conclusions, Your Grace. I merely observe." Varys smiled thinly. "But I will say this: whatever happened to Joffrey Baratheon, it happened overnight. And the result has been... remarkable."
Daenerys considered his words. Even she had known a few things about Prince Joffrey while she still lived in Pentos, back when Viserys was still alive and full of dreams of the Iron Throne. She had expected a monster, but…
"What is he?" she asked. "What is he, truly?"
Varys shook his head. "I do not have all the answers, Your Grace. But I have come to believe that he is not evil, at least. Confusing and frustrating, yes... but not evil." He paused. "If that is any consolation."
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They stood in silence for a long time, watching the dark street beyond the tower, listening for sounds that did not come.
The Dothraki bloodriders had settled near the hearth, their arakhs within reach, their eyes half-closed but watchful. The minutes stretched like hours, and the night felt almost eternal.
"You know that he trusts you, do you not?" Daenerys finally spoke to drive away the suffocation of the silence. "Joffrey. He trusts you more than most."
Varys considered her words. "He trusts me because he knows he can control me. He is not foolish enough to believe in loyalty without leverage."
"And what kind of leverage can he have over you?"
"My life, for one." Varys's expression did not change as he spoke. "And my purpose. I have spent decades working to restore the Targaryens to the Iron Throne. He has given me the best chance I could ever have."
"By bringing me to Asshai?" Daenerys could not help but make the comment. At this moment, she had never felt farther away from that goal.
She was in a cursed city at the edge of the world, surrounded by shadows and sorcerers.
"No. By bringing you to him." Varys met her eyes. "You are the key to his plans, Your Grace. Your blood, your dragons, your name. He cannot do what he intends without you."
"And what is it that he intends?" Daenerys's voice was sharp. "He has spoken to me about building an army of dragonlords, about creating an empire that could surpass Valyria. But I still do not know where he fits in all of that. It does not look to me like he wishes to rule. Otherwise, he could have stayed in King's Landing and become king."
Varys seemed to consider this for a long moment. "The prince's final goal is a mystery to me as well, Your Grace. But I am sure that it will be truly... ambitious."
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The sound of footsteps broke the silence.
Daenerys's hand went to the dagger at her belt, the one Jorah had given her. The Dothraki rose, their arakhs ready. Varys stepped back into the shadows, his eyes fixed on the entrance of the tower.
But it was not an enemy who appeared in the archway. Joffrey walked through the entrance, his dark red armor streaked with blood and dirt.
The Hound followed close behind, his greatsword secured across his back. Ser Jorah and Aggo came last, their clothes torn, their eyes tired.
They all carried things in their hands...boxes and bags and rolled parchments, except for Aggo, who was holding onto a wound on his shoulder. Blood seeped through his fingers, dark and thick, but he did not cry out.
Joffrey had a wooden box in his arms, its surface carved with glyphs that glowed faintly in the darkness. The Hound had a canvas sack slung over his shoulder, bulging with shapes that could have been books or something of the sort. Ser Jorah held a rolled parchment in one hand and a leather satchel in the other.
Daenerys let out a breath she had not known she was holding.
"You came back alive," she said.
"Did you doubt it?" Joffrey's voice was calm, almost bored.
"I doubted many things."
He simply shrugged. "The warlocks are dead. Their hideout is destroyed. They will trouble us no more."
"How many were there?" Varys asked.
"Eight, as I said." Joffrey moved to the table where a pitcher of water sat. He poured himself a cup and drank it in one gulp. "They fought well, for men who knew they were dying. Their tricks were useless against me."
Varys stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the boxes and bags. "And I see that you did not return empty-handed."
Joffrey smiled. "We took what we could carry. The rest we burned." He opened the box that he had set on the table. Inside were vials of dark liquid that seemed to shimmer even in the dim light.
"Is that Shade of the Evening?" Daenerys had seen the substance before, but not in such quantities. Joffrey had only managed to buy a single vial at the market. Now there were a dozen.
Inside the box were also jars of fine powder that shimmered under the blue light of the torches, bundles of dried herbs wrapped in dark cloth, and a scroll that glowed faintly, as if it were still alive.
"What is all of that?"
Joffrey shrugged. "I do not know. We took what seemed interesting and left."
"It is everything we could salvage, Khaleesi," Ser Jorah said, setting his own burdens beside the box. "The prince suggested we return quickly. He said the tower was vulnerable without us."
Daenerys felt something shift in her chest. She gave Joffrey a quick glance. 'Was he worried about me?' The thought was strange, unexpected. She pushed it aside.
"Still... you were gone for hours."
"Were we?" Joffrey asked. "Time moves strangely in this city. Since the sky barely changes between day and night, it is hard to tell."
Daenerys turned her head when she heard Aggo grunting in pain. "We must attend those wounds."
"Khaleesi, I am fine." Aggo tried to brush away her concern. "It is just a small cut."
Daenerys flinched. Her husband had died from a cut no larger than the one on her bloodrider's shoulder. The wound had festered, the poison had spread, and Khal Drogo...the great khal, the stallion who would mount the world, had been brought down by a scratch.
"No. We must—"
"Here, Princess."
Joffrey pulled something from his clothes and tossed it to her. Daenerys caught it and inspected the item. It was a small copper container, like those used for beauty products she had seen in the markets of Pentos and Qarth. Inside, she found a white paste that smelled of herbs.
"Apply it to the wound and then cover it with a clean cloth. It will heal faster and not become infected," Joffrey said before she could ask.
"A healing ointment? You bought this from—"
"I made it myself." Joffrey stood up, took the box, and began to walk away. "Come, Sandor. Help me get these things to my laboratory."
Daenerys froze for a moment. She looked between Joffrey and the container in her hands. The last time she had entrusted a magical user with the healing of someone important to her, things had not gone well.
Mirri Maz Duur had promised to save Drogo, and instead she had left him a shell of a man, a living corpse with empty eyes.
As if noticing her hesitation, Joffrey turned his head and glared at her. "Of course, if you distrust me so much, leave it be. But he was cut by a warlock's dagger. There is a good chance it had something nasty applied to the blade. Without my healing ointment, he may die." He turned around and walked away without saying another word.
"Khaleesi..." Jorah muttered.
Daenerys nodded. "All right." She knew she was being a bit unreasonable.
As much as the incident with Mirri Maz Duur had scarred her, as much as the failed ritual with Khalak had shaken her faith in Joffrey's work, the prince had never given her any actual reason to distrust his intentions. He had saved her life. He had saved her dragons. He had brought her to Asshai, as Quaithe had said she must go.
She approached Aggo and carefully applied the paste to the wound.
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The effects were quick. Within minutes, Aggo's grunting ceased, and the angry redness around the wound began to fade. The skin began to knit together, slowly but visibly.
Daenerys stared at the healing flesh, her mind churning. The prince had made this...brewed it in his laboratory, mixed the ingredients himself. He had carried it with him, prepared for the possibility that someone might be hurt.
She told Aggo to go get some sleep and rest. The Dothraki bowed his head and left, moving more easily now, the tension gone from his shoulders.
Ser Jorah settled into a chair near the hearth, keeping his sword at his side, his eyes half-closed but watchful.
Daenerys stood near the archway, watching the dark street outside.
'He is not cruel,' she thought, remembering her conversation with Varys. 'He is not exactly kind, either. He is... complicated.'
She was beginning to think there was more to the prince than she had initially believed. Perhaps she had been too hasty in her initial conclusions about his character. Perhaps he was not the monster she had feared.
But still, her goal had not changed. She would need to survive for now, to gather the knowledge and power necessary to take back her throne. And to do that, she would need Joffrey Baratheon.
The thought unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.
She turned away from the entrance and climbed the stairs to her chamber. She felt very tired...
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