Game Of Thrones Joffrey Baratheon Purple Days

The man in understated finery walked past the throngs of fine whores and silk merchants, dodging the night's more rowdier inhabitants as he turned down an alleyway and knocked on a sidedoor to a sturdy, stone walled warehouse.

The three knocks, followed by two more were promptly answered by a fat, rough faced man with a short club, who opened the door slightly, squinted at the robed man and promptly let him in.

Inside, Wyll of Old Bridge, one of the four Keeper of the Keys of the Red Keep, sighed at the loaded crossbow pointed at his face.

"By the Seven, get that thing out of my face!" he said without patience at the impromptu crossbowman.

The crossbowman looked unconvinced, still glaring at Wyll as the other two men inside the room shook their heads and kept at their dice game over an upturned crate.

"How do you know he didn't follow you?!" asked the crossbowman as the fat man with the club looked at the heavens with a sigh, closing the door.

"I walked through half the fucking city, that's why I bloody know! Now get that thing of my face!" he said with a snarl as he pushed the crossbow down.

"Walked right through Fishmonger's Square too," said the fat man with a smirk, sniffing at the fine robes. "Didn't think you highborn types cared so much."

Wyll let out a scowl as he sat on one of the crates. He was barely a step above this riff raff in the hierarchy of King's Landing as far the nobility was concerned, his position as Keeper of the Keys be damned. It would be of no use to remind them of that though, "Oh, we care enough when the times are rough," he said with another scowl.

The crossbowman went back to his seat in front of the door, shaking his head. "It's the fucking Shadow, he'd follow you through the Seven Hells and you wouldn't even notice him," he said with dead certainty as the fat man barred the door.

"Well, if he followed you here then he'd have to literally turn into shadow, because the men on the roof saw nothing," said a thin man with a grey goatee, his arming sword and padded shirt not doing much to hide the lack of bulk or muscle. He came in from another door, locking it gently before turning to the Keeper of Keys.

"Wyll," he said, his voice neutral.

"Jonth," said Wyll before raising his eyebrows, "Why the armor..? And since when do you post sharpshooters on the roof?" he asked him.

"Since Golt's got burnt to the ground," Jonth responded with a scowl, walking towards Wyll and leaning on a crate besides him.

"Don't tell me you've bought into this 'Shadow' nonsense," scoffed Wyll.

"Well, you did walk through 'half the fucking city' to make sure he was not following you," said Jonth with a shrug.

"That's because Lord Baelish is getting paranoid…" whispered Wyll, leaning closer, "He says to keep up the good work and that he'll sort everything out, including a bonus for the stoutness of his subordinates."

Jonth smiled for the first time since entering the room, "The men will be happy to hear that," he whispered back, "The warehouse won't fill up for another month though, he's got another special delivery in mind?" he asked the Keeper of Keys.

"Yes, simple gold job, the Iron Bank again," said Wyll as he passed him a handful of letters, the Seal of the Master of Coin glowing under the torchlight.

"I love those," said Jonth as he tucked the letters to the satchel he carried on his belt. "Walk in, hand a letter, receive more gold than I'll ever spend in my entire life…" he said wistfully.

"Don't even think about filching," warned Wyll.

"Steal from Lord Baelish? Are you insane?" scowled Jonth as he stood back up. "You should go," he said as he nodded towards the fat man by the door. He unbarred the door as Wyll scratched his head.

"You sure you can deliver without Golt?" asked the Keeper of Keys, dubious.

"The man and the building may have burnt to ash, but we still have the ships, shouldn't take anything more than a headache trying to sort out the lost records," he answered as he beckoned at the door with an open hand.

"Alright alright, I'll go," said Wyll as he shook his head. "Say hello to the Shadow for me if you see him," he told the crossbowman with a smirk. The incensed man didn't have time to respond before the fat guard closed the door and barred it quickly.

Jonth gazed at the letters in his pouch for a few minutes as one of the men on the table growled in defeat and the other laughed out loud, grabbing the fistful of coppers on the crate. "I hope you enjoyed that Alren, we'll have to work tomorrow," said Jonth as he turned back towards the other door, stopping when he saw a black robed figure just past the door's frame, the long and thin Braavosi dagger in his hand dripping blood.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that…" said the figure as Jonth drew his arming sword with a yelp, the two gamblers shouting as they stumbled up.

"It's the fucking Shadow!" screamed the crossbowman as he aimed his weapon towards him, the crossbow shaking like a leaf in his hands even as the fat guard took a guarding position beside Jonth.

"Tha… That's Wyll's blood?" asked Jonth, trying to regain control of his suddenly speeding heart, thinking of a way to get out of here.

"No, he's been useful so far. I'm sure he'll lead me to some other fine catch soon… fucking Baelish, worse than a squirrel…" he said with a sardonic laugh, leisurely walking towards them, "You should hire better spotters," he said.

"You followed him," Jonth said as he took a couple of steps back, one hand on his arming sword and the other on his bodyguard's shoulder, trying to buy time.

"I did lose him at Fishmonger's Square…" said the black hooded man, "Though I knew he'd end up here eventually. It's always whores and silk with the Littlefucker, don't you agree?" he asked, a storm of restrained fury hidden beneath the steel edge of his voice. He was now only a few steps in front of them.

"KILL HIM!" shouted Jonth.

One second, the man was still walking, the next he had one of the gamblers by the neck, the poor bastard still struggling as a crossbow bolt materialized right over his heart. He let the man fall before the other gambler attacked him with the chair he'd been sitting on a moment before, only for the robed man to twist out of the way, his hand and the long stiletto flashing under the torchlight. The second gambler took a couple of steps more, swaying a bit before using his chair as an impromptu pillar to rest upon, blinking for a second or two before Jonth realized the pool of blood forming below the man. He collapsed suddenly, the sound startling him.

"…pathetic," said the Shadow.

"Lerris, go!" Jonth shouted as he retreated back, his bodyguard launching himself at the man with a roar, swinging his club sideways. The Shadow somehow avoided the blow, nicking the fat guard's hand and making him drop the club. He wasn't prepared for the crazed bulrush that followed though, Lerris letting out a roar as he slammed the figure against the wall and pinned him with his superior bulk. The Shadow tried to stab him on the side of the neck, but Lerris caught the stiletto just in time, the needle thin steel driving right through his hand and almost up to his neck. He didn't mind the blood nor the pain as he started hammering the Shadow's ribs with his other hand, each blow extracting a pained 'Ughf' from the pest that had been dismantling the many… ventures of Lord Baelish.

Jonth's own breathing and the winching sound of the panicked, reloading crossbowman seemed to drown the room as the Shadow caught Lerris' fist after the third blow. Instead of pitting his strength against it though, he coiled his arm around Lerris' own, moving it a bit to the right and then immediately up.

Lerris screamed in pain, a scream that redoubled in intensity as the Shadow raised the man's arm even higher, sickening pops resounding throughout the room before the stiletto was extracted from Lerris' other hand and driven sideways into his ear. The big man gave a step backwards before falling on the ground with a dull thud, the stiletto still driven through his head.

"NOW!" shouted Jonth.

The crossbow squealed, and the Shadow inched his head left minutely, the bolt grazing his cheek and tearing apart the black handkerchief that his most of his face.

"… you shouldn't have done that," he said as he stalked towards them with a resigned expression.

The crossbowman screamed in fear as he dropped the crossbow and dashed to the door, trying to lift the bar before a throwing dagger slammed into his shoulder.

"Fuck, need to keep training that," said the Shadow as he took another dagger from his belt and slammed it into the man's kidney, ripping up before taking it out, the crossbowman letting out a scream of agony before collapsing to the ground.

Jonth was in the corner of the warehouse by now, trembling sword held high as his eyes scanned the room wildly, his padded shirt soaked in sweat.

The Shadow took off his hood, not paying even a smidgen of attention to the blood running down his face from the gash on his cheek as he scratched his blond hair. He cleaned the stiletto with the crossbowman's corpse before turning towards Jonth, his pale green eyes boring into his soul.

"I think we should have a talk, don't you?" he asked.

Jonth dropped his sword.

-.PD.-

The waves crashing against Aegon's high hill seemed to erupt upward, spraying themselves on the jagged rocks of the steep cliff. The seagulls screeched gently above the waves, flying in circles and extracting their bounty from the seas that often ended up splayed on the rocks.

Joffrey was leaning on one of the Red Keep's balconies, watching one of the short lived rainbows that was birthed to life by the crashing waves. He kept watching as it faded away as if it had never existed, only the sea remaining below as eternal as it had been before, the seconds long life span of the rainbow but a blip compared to its own. Joffrey took a deep breath of the salty, fresh air, a slight smile peeking through his lips as his eyes turned distant.

The smile disappeared as he let his head fall slightly, his eyes closing as he thought.

Where had it all gone wrong? He supposed everything could be traced to the neglect he'd shown to the realm's dangers the first few months of his past life. His attempts at damage control had hurt as much as they had helped though… he'd been thinking about his mistakes, about what could have gone right and what could have gone worse. He supposed treating his vassals as Legion officers had been one of his first missteps. Westeros did not have the degree of centralization the Five Forts had enjoyed, no complex bureaucracy to keep the wheels turning without relying on nobles or strongmen. He could not punish or sack his vassals as one did to a seditious or incompetent officer in the Beyond… nor could he push his men to the same heights as legionaries. Everything, from the spirit of the fighting corps to the physical resilience of the soldiers to the training they had was fundamentally different. His debacle with the pikemen had been one of many such incidents. Sure, a veteran Iron Guard's company could slaughter even a heavy cavalry charge with their pikes, but westerosi small folk were a whole different kettle of fish. When knights charged, you either ran or you died. Only an allied countercharge by your own knights could save the infantry barring extraordinary circumstances. That was a law of perception in Westeros, and as Joffrey had found out many lifetimes ago, perception made reality… He'd have to learn how to handle his vassals and his men to as efficiently as he could if he had any chance of surviving the Long Night.

… and find a way to train competent scouts, he thought with a sigh. Maybe he could manage that in a relatively short amount of time, but for that he'd need money… and that was a whole problem of its own.

On the other hand, he couldn't just lay aside his search. He was so close, so close to unraveling what he hoped to be the answers to… everything. He'd have to balance things, and he'd have to use his time as intensely as he could. The first year of each life afforded him the most freedom and the most opportunities to make sure the realm didn't go tits up, and he had a lot of thinking to do.

He concentrated his will around him like a sturdy holdfast, opening his eyes once more. The black morass still skirted the edges of his mind, but nothing would be gained by letting it go wild.

I can't brood, I have to keep moving or I'll go insane… again…

He shivered at the prospect. If he went mad again from the unrelenting despair… from the pervasive bleakness that seemed to crawl just a tiny bit around his vision after every life…

If I lose it again… I'm not sure I'll be able to come back…

He took a deep breath yet again. At least his ongoing hunt of Littlefinger's assets was providing a much needed vent to air his frustrations. The Master of Coin was, though Joffrey hated to admit it, a financial genius. Where others would have skimmed off the top of the Crown's taxes, Littlefinger had set up elaborate trading companies, warehouses, docks and pillow houses (many of which didn't seem to exist in reality) and used them to funnel taxes before they reached 'him' in his official capacity. With of course the bi yearly supplement of loans from everybody from the Lannisters to the Faith to the Iron Bank… all in the King's name.

He was slowly, very slowly shedding light on the bastard's huge financial enterprises, though he'd kept his activities strictly confined within King's Landing for obvious reasons. He had no doubt the bastard had a hand in the murder of Tyrion during his last life, probably using his mother as an unwitting pawn… the imp must have gotten too close to the truth. He'd spent many a night silently reading through the Baelish's records, and it was obvious Tyrion must have found several discrepancies, just as he did.

The players make the game, and the game makes the players… he thought cryptically. With so many puzzles surrounding him he was feeling a bit poetic, truth be told. Perhaps Rhaegar Targeryen and his obsession with the harp had not been as crazy as he'd thought… or he was already as crazy as him anyway.

He shook off the errant musings as the bells tolled midday. There was work to be done.

And what incredibly and fulfilling work that was going to be…

-.PD.-

Robert had laughed out loud when Joffrey asked him if he could attend the small council meetings, and laughed again when he'd insisted. When Robert realized he was actually serious though, he'd been strangely silent, his thoughts only his own as he stared at some far away distance. He'd acceded with a slight nod shortly afterwards.

Whatever small measure of respect he'd gained with his erstwhile 'Father' had been lost when Joffrey had tried to make him see reason.

"Father, a hundred thousand gold dragons for a tourney… its insane!!!" he said, grabbing his head with both hands.

They were in the small council chambers with the whole worthless lot of them, excluding Ned of course. The usually cool temperature within the small council chambers had disappeared, replaced by a mind numbing heat that Joffrey had to somehow slog through without risking madness.

I don't remember the sum being so high… its… its…

"This is insane," he whispered as Robert eyed him dangerously.

"Don't you dare take this away from me, boy," he said, looking only a few steps away from rage and maybe even… despair?

Joffrey shook his head dumbly as he turned to Ned, "Lord Stark, please make my Father see reason," he pleaded to the Hand of the King.

Ned looked wary and uncomfortable, shaking his head too as he gazed back at Joffrey, "I've already tried to make His Grace see reason… to no effect," he finished, looking back at Robert.

"I bloody well see reason, and it says 'stop yapping and do as your damned King says!'" he snarled, smashing his goblet on the table. "Now, about the Targeryen wench!" he said as he turned back to Ned and Varys, "I want her dead, and that idiot Viserys too," he sentenced.

Joffrey was not paying attention though, he was rubbing a hand against his face almost compulsively.

The Realm is already in debt for six million gold dragons… six million! He despaired as he looked at an outraged Ned trying to defend a Targeryen of all people.

Six million already making its way to seven!

"We don't have the gold for the Royal Army nor the Royal Scouts, but we have the gold for this spectacle?! I could equip the First Legion with that much!" he burst out as he stood up.

Robert looked as if he was deciding whether to strike him or just laugh out loud. "Oh yes, we do. You can play at war when you're the bloody King, I'm sure that spectacle will be a sight to see… Royal Army…" he said with a grunt, finally deciding on a small chuckle, mirrored by the patronizing smiles from most of the small council. Everyone from Renly to Pycell had regaled him with a tidy little lecture about how warfare worked when he'd floated his idea about a large military force beholden to the Crown only. It involved things like vassals and levies, which mustered when called.

He sat back with a huff.

'I KNOW HOW WARFARE BLOODY WORKS, I'VE KILLED MORE MEN THAN ALL OF YOU PUT TOGETHER! I'VE SEEN THE END OF THE WORLD AND THE LEGIONS OF THE DAMNED!' He'd wanted to scream, but instead he'd managed with a sardonic grin which granted, hadn't helped his case at all.

He was a green, idiot boy prince again, and he'd forgotten about that little fact when he'd returned from the Purple yet again. He shook his head, returning back to the moment. Seeing the dysfunctional small council that steered the Seven Kingdoms (for a given value of steer) in action was an incredible learning experience on how not to run a realm. It was no wonder the stability of the Seven Kingdoms shattered every time after Robert died… the conflicting interests and the ineffectual ruler ship thanks to an absentee King had degenerated governance to the level of a Free City. Sure, even a big city like Volantis could get by with the constant scheming of its magisters and advisors at the top level, but try that on a whole continent…

"Sometimes, rulers have to commit horrible acts for the good of the whole realm, Lord Stark, it is a terrible reality to be sure, but a duty we must take on nonetheless," said Pycell. He really had a gift for sounding patronizing.

"Think of the thousands that will die, my Lord Hand, should Viserys Targeryen cross the narrow sea with an army of Dothraki at his back," continued Varys, his voice reasonable. He was making a better effort than Pycell, though knowing Ned… he doubted it would work. Watching the small council decide on Daenerys' assassination was fascinating… he could only conclude Ned had managed to talk Robert out of it eventually, given the fact that she'd seem very much alive when he saw her in Quarth…

He supposed now was the turn of dear Lord Baelish. He turned to look at him with interest and disgust, wondering what sage advice he had in mind. He wouldn't be all that surprised if the unpredictable bastard declared himself a Targeryen supporter right then and there and somehow came ahead, or if he'd concoct some twisted argument to spare Daenerys and kill Viserys, that would explain why he hadn't seen him in Quarth at least… With his penchant for succeeding in the midst of chaos, anything was possible.

Finally he spoke, though Joffrey's constant stare was starting to make him sweat for some reason… he looked a bit ragged too, his perfect, helpful façade strained after many sleepless nights no doubt.

Having your financial empire get gradually dismantled by an ominous, unknown threat might do that for you, Joffrey thought vindictively, a cruel smile peeking out unconsciously as he kept staring at the man. Baelish managed to look away from him before turning to Ned.

This should be interesting…

Baelish cleared his throat before going for his standard, assured smile. "When you find yourself in bed with an ugly woman, best close your eyes, get it over with," he said, as his smile turned knowing, "Cut her throat," he said as he grabbed his cup and drank.

He fumbled with the cup, the wine spilling as everyone in the room was startled as if by a great sound. Joffrey kept staring at Baelish, tinges of red trying to flood his vision as he bit his lip.

He suddenly realized everyone was staring at him, and that his hand was on his broad hilted dagger, which was stabbed upright over the oak table. He wrenched the dagger out, sheathing it back to his belt as he leaned back on the table, trying to wrench his savage bloodlust into a harmless smile.

"Yes, cut her throat… you'd know about that wouldn't you my Lord," he said, still staring at Baelish, his smile more feral than harmless. He looked confused and vaguely scared as Joffrey managed to grab a hold of himself. He decided to keep talking and make as if nothing had happened.

"I concur with the rest of the small council, Lord Stark. Daenerys Targeryen can't be afforded to live…" he said truthfully, looking back to Ned. "I know the vague prospects of future war seem hazy when compared to the lives of an innocent child, and of a woman that did nothing wrong but be born in the wrong family… But Ned, you've seen what war does to men, to innocents, to towns, to this very city… please, remember their faces, the faces of the widows and the starving children, the failed crops and the muddy, bloody fields… sure, the Royal Navy will make mincemeat of any sellsail fleet, but catching them in the open will be hellish task, there's a high chance they'll slip through and land in the mainland… and then, yes, we will defeat them… at the cost of thousands of bodies just as the next winter strikes. Please, Ned, think of the thousands you are condemning to die," he pleaded.

I hope Daenerys never crosses the Narrow Sea… he thought as Ned mulled his words, the conflict clear in his face. Yes, she'd lost her Khal and her khalasar somehow during her march through the Red Wastes, but she'd also hatched dragons… and there was something within her… something that set the hairs at the back of his neck on edge.

So many lives could be spared if she died, though there was also a high chance the pit of intrigue that was Essos swallowed her whole, and dragon's wouldn't do much to help her there…

Robert slammed his hand on the table again, "Never thought I'd say it but my son talks sense, by the seven Ned, just do it!" he said.

Ned looked conflicted before shaking his head.

Here we go again… thought Joffrey.

-.PD.-

His frequent forays into the city had not gone unnoticed, especially the ones during the morning where he used the daylight to case the various fronts Littlefinger had throughout the city, watching them carry out their nominal operations. When his mother had confronted him on his forays, he'd blurted the first thing to come to his mind. Well, the second.

"Tyri--" he'd trailed off as he remembered the hate she had for his uncle, "Ah, I mean, I'm courting Lady Sansa, of course," he'd said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the universe.

She'd seemed pretty mollified by that statement… it was only later that he'd come to regret that particularly bright idea. The lie would collapse upon itself if anyone so much as asked Sansa about it… and then he'd bring more attention on himself… He should have gone with Tyrion instead and damn the outburst that would have followed. It had worked well enough a few lives ago, when he'd met… Nalia…

He took a deep breath.

"Joffrey? What's wrong?" asked Sansa as they walked through the Hook.

"Hm? Nothing," he said as he blinked, looking behind him and spotting the Hound a few meters back, keeping an eye out for trouble or pickpockets.

Sansa looked curiously at him, her red hair doing little to help her disguise. She'd found the notion of going out in 'secret' with the Prince throughout the city to be hopelessly romantic… Joffrey had thought himself clever for hiding his secret purpose under plain sight of another, much more benign 'secret'.

After all, who would suspect dutiful little Sansa to serve as the cover for the murderous maniac tearing apart Littlefinger's empire bit by bit? Granted, suspecting him of all people would be insane even by Baelish's standards, but the Littlefucker had to know it was someone with easy access to the Red Keep, and after he exhausted every other lead he was bound to consider the coincidentally absent little prince.

He had to admit though, he'd come up with all those justifications after the deed.

"It's so big… how could they make the stained glass big enough to cover those windows?" she asked him as she looked at Baelor's Sept which towered nearby.

"They actually had to import the pieces straight from Myr, and half of them shattered on the way here," he said, remembering the time he'd spent studying architecture. "You can actually see the indentations below the window proper where the work crews built a temporary crane to hoist them up, one for each window," he said.

"It must have taken months of hard work," she said, distracted as she grabbed his hand.

"Years," answered Joffrey, feeling vaguely warm and relaxed as he turned to look at her face.

'Joffrey please! I had to! I had to!' screamed a voice, his hand holding the sword in anticipation as his own grin grew and grew and grew-

"Ou! You're hurting me!" suddenly yelped Sansa.

Joffrey let her hand go as if it were a hot poker, breathing hard and swaying unsteadily. "Ughf… ughf…" he mouthed after each breath, his mind still reeling from the unexpected sucker punch. He would have fallen on one knee had it not been for Sansa's steadying hands. She grasped him firmly, and he could hear her suddenly wildly beating heart close to him as she guided him somewhere.

"Joffrey? Joffrey?!" she said as they sat on a couple of discarded crates by the side of the road, the throngs of people passing by with not a care in the world, the Hound looking at him strangely and a second away from ending this whole charade and dragging them back to the Red Keep.

"I'hm… okay…" he said, breathing deeper as the fuzziness disappeared gradually. "Its… It's been a while since I had one of those…" he said shakily as he took refuge within Sansa's arms, which had not stop holding him since they've sat down.

He came back to his senses and stood up as if he'd been sitting on a bonfire, Sansa's touch both soothing and tremendously painful at the same time.

"Sansa I'm sorry, please I'm so sorry--" he said in a panic even as she shook her head.

"My hand is fine," she lied as she tried to hide it beneath the plain dress, but Joffrey could see the blood starting to circulate through it again, gradually returning it to a healthier pink.

I hurt her again-

"Joffrey! Don't zone out like that again! I'm fine!" she insisted fiercely as she shook him lightly.

Joffrey was mildly shocked at the uncharacteristic behavior, but not enough to make him reconsider his decision, this whole thing had been a terrible idea.

"We're going back to the Red Keep, no-" he was interrupted by a slap to the face, from Sansa's hand no less.

He stood there, nonplussed and dumbstruck as the left side of his face tingled, blinking slowly. Sansa looked defiantly at him for a quarter of a second longer before she went red from chin to forehead and covered her mouth with both hands.

They stared at each other for what seemed like hours before Joffrey let out a grunt.

Suddenly, his face disfigured itself as a strange, snorting sort of chuckle emerged from his mouth like some kind of unwilling, grumpy Snark. Sansa still had her hands over her mouth as she started to laugh too, looking for all the world like she was having the worst time of her life as she tried to contain her steadily rising chuckle to no effect. Joffrey kept laughing, not even trying to hold it in any longer and just losing himself in the unreality of the situation.

She stopped shortly after him, as Joffrey took a great, deep breath.

Gods that felt… good, he thought, vaguely surprised.

Joffrey scratched his head before looking back at Baelor's Sept. "Eh… the main altar is even more beautiful than the glass…" he trailed off awkwardly.

"Sounds nice," said Sansa, her voice nervous as she nodded almost compulsively, "Let's go see it," she said quickly as she started walking towards it, pretending as if nothing had happened.

Joffrey quickly followed her, mixed feelings warring inside him with the fury of sea and storm, his self-awareness but a small boat lost in the confusion.

He barely cased one of Littlefinger's fronts that day.

-.PD.-

Sandor entered Joffrey's usual spot in the Royal Library, and was confronted by the sight of the Prince standing to the side of ten other assorted servants with varying expressions of long sufferance, fear, confusion or humor.

"Alright everyone… wait for it…" Joffrey said, standing very still.

"Now!" he said, staying deathly still as everyone else took a step to the right.

They stayed in that position as Joffrey closed his eyes intently… and opened them with a sight.

"Nothing," he said, disappointed. "Maybe if we do it the other way around…" he mused as he scratched his nonexistent beard.

"… I'm desperate alright?" he said as he saw the Hound, as if excusing himself.

The Hound just looked nonplussed before recomposing himself.

It hadn't been the strangest thing he'd seen him doing as of late.

"Your mother's been looking for you," he said as the servants started to leave the library. He could only guess what the little shit had been making them do for his own amusement.

"What does she want?" Joffrey asked back, walking back to the table and looking at the constellations drawn over it in supreme detail.

If he had any hope of saving Westeros, then he had to get to know the players of the damned game, and that meant investigating all the players present in the capital. He'd started with Littlefinger, for obvious reasons... not least the little stunt he pulled off just before he died. He supposed he'd have to do something about his mother as well…

He sighted, gazing at the constellations again even though he'd already memorized them backwards and forwards.

He'd almost killed Baelish when he woke up in this life, but caution and the prospects of a better reward stayed his hand. He had to know every little scheme the bastard had before taking care of him… all those gold dragons must have fled somewhere… and he needed those dragons, the sooner the better.

He had plans.

"Something about the frilly dress you should wear for the Hand's Tourney," Said Sandor as he collapsed on one of the couches with a tired grunt, no doubt irritated about being treated as a glorified errand boy. Joffrey for one was grateful for the snark, Sandor seemed to be coming out of his huffy shell, like he'd remembered him so long ago…

He grunted as he shuffled the sheets and parchment, "A frilly dress huh? I'll go in my armor, maybe 'Father' will start taking me seriously then… bloody hundred thousand gold dragons…" he said, shaking his head at the stupidity of it all before his back suddenly straightened.

"A hundred thousand gold dragons…" he mouthed, savoring the words.

"A hundred thousand gold dragons," he repeated as he turned to Sandor, a slightly manic smile taking over his face.

The silence stretched as he gazed at his sworn shield thoughtfully.

"Sandor, I need you to teach me how to joust," he said.

The Hound looked dismayed.

-.PD.-

The tourney grounds just outside the walls of King's Landing were a beehive of activity. Laborers were busy setting up tents and stalls, as well as viewing stands all around the three main areas of the coming competition. Joffrey could feel the excitement of a whole city, nobles and commons alike as the great pavilions of the great houses and the wooden stands for the smallfolk erected themselves like great whales awakening from their slumber. Each day more and more banners joined the tops of the tents to greet the city each morning, though the lords and knights were absent, only the smallfolk laborers, smiths and lumberjacks working day and night to complete the tourney grounds 'for' the Hand were in sight.

And Joffrey, clad in the full plate he'd used just a life ago to lead the Crownlands into war, atop a black horse and with a lance and shield in hand.

"GO!" roared the Hound from the ground to his right.

"Come on Moonlight!" Joffrey bellowed as he spurred his trusty mount, lowering his lance as he quickly gained speed, galloping down the jousting ground.

"Your lance is too low! Up! Up!" bellowed the Hound.

Joffrey compensated just in time to slam into his wooden backed, hay filled opponent. The mock up's shoulder erupted in splinters as Joffrey let the lance go with a wince of pain. He slowed Moonlight with an unconscious command from his knees as he rubbed his own shoulder, grimacing in pain.

"A bit better, but you're still not bracing enough. It's not a hammer, you need to brace it with your whole body… your arm is barely the…" the Hound trailed off as he searched for words in the air with his hand. Joffrey had the impression he never expected to teach someone how to joust… much less him.

"The end result of the equation? The natural expression of the combined effort put in before? The story's natural resolution?" Joffrey tried as he stopped Moonlight just besides the royal box, otherwise deserted except for Sandor and a few peeking smallfolk.

Sandor huffed as Joffrey knew he would. "Just think of the arm as the end result of everything else, your inertia, your knees, your back, your arm barely tells them if they succeeded or not," said Sandor.

"Hm, the arm is the thing that ties it all together then? It has the power to deny a perfectly good tilt, but can't make one by itself… sounds like a bloody king!" Joffrey grunted as he trotted back to his end of the jousting ground.

"Again!" he commanded as servants replaced his wounded combatant with a fresh one from the cart at the end of the grounds, another one handing him a lance.

A charitable man might have called the expression on the Hound's face as one of grudging respect when Joffrey looked at him with a nod.

"GO!" he roared.

Joffrey spurred his mount forward like a lightning bolt, his lance coming down, but not too down on the target as he narrowed his eyes, bracing himself forward. In an instant he was past it, his lance shattered but his shoulder only hurting a little instead of the huge, strained bruises he'd been leaving on it for days. The wooden enemy lay on the ground with a hole on its center, and Joffrey smiled as Moonlight cantered over to Sandor.

"… You're a fast learner," said the Hound, a faint tone of disbelief hiding behind the statement.

Joffrey laughed at the good joke, "I wish," he said with another smile as he called out once more. "Again!" he said as he cantered back.

"We're actually done for today, you have done well… very well," said Sandor as he leapt back down from the royal box.

"What are you talking about Sandor?! We're burning daylight!" he called back, grabbing another lance from the slightly wide eyed servant.

The Hound tried to digest that as the servants replaced the fallen hay man for another one. Joffrey slammed into it again, improving his aim as he skewered it through the center.

"… We've been at this since first light, you've already trained harder than any squire I've seen… you're done for the day," Sandor vaguely commanded him, his face uncanny.

Joffrey looked downright insulted as his horse trotted in front of Sandor. "Done for the day? Sandor, my charge's pathetic, I'm supposed to be a King and I can barely defeat some straw man in a knightly charge?" he said, his disbelief supreme.

Alright, I don't know which girl he wants to impress but this has gone long enough, thought Sandor as he made to grab Moonlight's reins, "We're going back to the Red Keep, no but's about it-" he said before Moonlight almost bit his hand off.

Sandor felt chill run down his spine as the boy prince that had raved about his food a couple of months ago stared him down, his face made of marble as he willed Sandor to step back.

"We're staying here under literal moonlight if we have to, are we clear Sandor?" he commanded, his voice carrying itself throughout the grounds.

The Hound said nothing, his eyes trailing down and seeing Joffrey's slightly swollen shoulder and the bit of blood from a scratch on his hand. "Your wounds-"

"I know my own body Sandor, I'm good for another two dozen tilts," he said as he passed him by, shaking off pain that would have left a middling squire red faced on the ground, to Sandor's estimation.

"Again!" called out Joffrey as he neared the servant. "And go get more lances," he told the man as he gazed at the half dozen lances left in the barrel.

-.PD.-

The Red Keep slept uneasily in the night, patrols of guards making their way through halls and battlements as the nightly shift of servants silently took care of waste and dust. One guard in particular, a Redcloak from Lannisport named Tyfer, took a moment to look out the window. He peeked down the heights of the tower, gazing at the Red Keep's courtyard and making sure no would be assassins were scaling the wall. The irony of a Lannister soldier looking for climbing killers intent on breaking into the Red Keep was not lost on him, and he shook his head with a snort. Hypocrite or not, Tywin Lannister was his liege lord and the man which had indirectly raised him from a likely life of squalor.

Content with his vigilance, Tyfer kept walking down the corridor, the red carpet below his feet muffling his steps as he checked the corners occasionally left by the buttresses along the long corridor.

A slight breeze of wind picked up when he was gone, the torches fluttering a bit before returning to normal, a bird chirping in the distance. There was silence in the hallway for a while before a pair of leather boots slowly lowered themselves from the window's top. The pair of boots were followed by midnight black pants and a cloak, and soon a black clad figure was prowling through the corridor, his feet all but silent over the red carpet as he moved quickly. The figure turned past an opened door and climbed the long, spiral steps up the high tower, before stopping for a moment.

The man's pale green eyes narrowed for a second, the rest of his face inscrutable under the black handkerchief. Suddenly, he leapt through the window to his side, and there was silence.

A few moments passed before trundling, heavy steps resounded throughout the spiral staircase, soon revealing a man in mail walking down the stairs, torch in hand. He passed down the window with barely a look, yawning.

The stairs were silent again, and the black figure prowled once more up the flight of stairs. He stopped in front of an oaken door, placing his ear close to it for five minutes before kneeling slowly and taking out a set of lockpicks. He cursed quietly as he worked, seemingly unfamiliar with the tools at first but quickly getting more and more efficient as picks were tested and clicks were heard. He opened the door slowly, entering the room and closing the door behind him.

Grandmaester Pycell's study looked awfully familiar even though Joffrey couldn't remember the outlines of it, piles of parchment and maesterly instruments scattered through the shelves or the heavy oaken table. He prowled inside swiftly, his eyes scanning everything as he got to the Grandmaester's great desk. He worked his lockpicks on the big drawer for a bit, before opening it and grabbing ahold of a pile of letters. He shuffled through them lightning fast, the already opened seals revealing nothing but platitudes or requisition orders, as well as the occasional academic correspondence with the Citadel. Joffrey shook his head as he kept shuffling letters quickly, eyes moving swiftly before his hands exchanged letters, bringing a new one to his attention every few moments.

He stopped when he heard steps, strong and quick. He looked desperately around for a hiding spot inside the cramped chamber, but there was barely space to stand in in between the books and the mess.

He looked up to the high ceiling as he heard a key entering the door's keyhole, and he took a single step back before running for half a second until he was climbing the wall itself, his feet and his hands scrabbling up the bricks.

The door opened to reveal a suspicious looking Grandmaester Pycell holding an oil lantern, looking strangely at his keys as he closed the door. He shook his head before walking quickly to the reagent's cabinet, muttering to himself too lowly for Joffrey to hear. He stood hanging from the study's wall, a few meters from the ground and deathly still as Pycell looked around the room, shaking his head yet again and taking a key to the nearby reagents cabinet. His motions were completely self-assured, with not even a single stutter or stumble, his stooping motions replaced by a decisive stride. Joffrey could barely believe his eyes as the Grandmaester took something from the cabinet, a small flask he quickly uncorked and took down in one gulp. He sighed contently, leaning on the cabinet for a few minutes as he popped his neck.

Joffrey licked a bit of sweat that travelled close to his mouth, barely breathing as the Grandmaester grunted, closing the cabinet before going back to the door. Joffrey heard him lock it shut, but it was not before he heard his steps, becoming more slow and hesitant the more he descended the tower, that he decided to slither down the wall.

I knew something was bugging me around our erstwhile Grandmaester in my last life… his eyes gave him away. Too alert to be the doddering fool he presents himself as…

He sheathed the dagger that had found the way to his hand as he walked next to the unlocked cabinet, opening it and taking the empty flask. He gave it a quick sniff, before bringing it closer to his nose and taking a deep breath.

"… Lady's lace…" he whispered as he tilted his head, taking another deep breath, "With something… Nightshade..? No…" he said to himself as he searched at the far reaches of the cabinet, behind a line of big bottles that obstructed his line of sight, big bottles that Joffrey could tell right then and there that were filled with nothing but vinegar.

Interesting… what do we have behind here…

He found two other flasks with some orange tinted liquid, and he uncorked one before taking a careful sniff.

"Definitively not Nightshade… a bit of Liverwort? Yes… Interesting… what else what else…" he muttered, completely taken by the thrill of the investigation. It had been lifetimes since he'd done this at the Citadel. "Goldencup?" he asked himself before dabbing his finger lightly on the vaguely viscous liquid, leaving a little of it on his tongue before wiping it clean with his sleeve.

"No… too strong…" he whispered, his other hand grasping air as he thought.

It's on the tip of my tongue, he joked to himself as he scrounged his face in vague frustration. He relaxed before taking another sniff.

"Spiceflower…" he muttered as he looked at the vial. "But why blend it with Lady's la…" he trailed off as he raised his eyebrows. "Oh," he whispered.

To make Spicemilk, a stimulant.

A very potent stimulant considering it was laced with Liverwort.

A very potent, very addictive stimulant.

Sneaky sneaky Grandmaester Pycell… not only is the scoundrel faking old age's deterioration, he's actually even more aware and active than he should be if he were merely faking it. I wonder how many others have fallen for the first bait…

He carefully stashed everything back as he'd left it before returning back to the desk. Knowing what he did now of Pycell, he knew he'd find nothing on the big drawer. Even the locked strongbox at the back below the window was obvious bait. Instead, he kneeled below the table, his hands questing everywhere and feeling every contour of the table, until he found a small bulge hidden behind the bulk of the big drawer. He carefully nudged the small drawer open, using his dagger in case Pycell had left some kind of trap tied to it.

His caution proved unnecessary as a wooden box fell on his hands, Joffrey's pale green eyes glinting in the light delivered through the window by the rising moon.

He opened it to find a bundle of letters and three other orange flasks. He riffled through the letters carefully, reading quickly but effectively.

It was all in code, but Joffrey had come prepared with parchment and quill. After the months and weeks he'd spent remembering and even expanding his knowledge of ciphers from the most modern to the most bizarre in his wild attempts to crack the code behind his answers, he found the reversed version of Maester Goyle's vertical cipher almost cute.

His eyebrows rose higher and higher with each letter.

Tywin's pet through and through… nothing new there I suppose…

The depths of the cooperation between the two of them was a sight to behold though, and Pycell had been much, much more than merely an informant supplying all manner of valuable information to Casterly Rock. Through the Grandmaester, Tywin had unrestricted access to the medication of the entire Red Keep and directed it at his leisure, from botching Cercei's weekly Moon Tea so thoroughly as to render it harmless but also useless, to his instructions on how to handle Robert's heartburn. The last bordered on treason… what with mixing the usual remedy with distilled Saffron buds… an obscure, light coagulant.

No wonder Robert barely bled after that pig mauled him… by the Gods…

Joffrey shook his head in disbelief, hard in thought.

Holy shit, half the times his 'poor heart gave out' must have been genuine instead of Foxglove... with his bloody eating habits… King's Landing's nonexistent sewers must be cleaner than his arteries!

But why? Why would Tywin do this?

…Well, why now?

Something must have gone wrong with the plan, he thought as he sat back, still keeping an ear out for movement but hearing nothing. He closed his eyes as he hazarded a few guesses, delving into the murky world of intrigue which seemed so alien to him. What does Tywin want?

Easy, Lanniser rule above all. Which means me as King… and Robert dead… I'm still too young though, he must know an early succession would have a high chance of Renly chancing his claim… Why not wait until I'm older, more seasoned and secure in the minds of the realm? Maybe he thinks the threat posed by Renly is too small to care for? Maybe he's not aware of the Tyrell's backing…

No, he decided, Tywin's too careful when his accursed pride is not involved… even the Stormlands alone could wreak havoc on his legacy… he must have planned for Robert to eat and drink himself to death a few years from now, to take Robert of the picture when the heir… me… stood in a better position. That makes sense considering his meddling with Mother's Moon Tea dosage, he wants a couple more heirs just in case…

There must be a flaw in the plan… he thought, trying to dredge up everything he'd found out about Pycell during this life's investigation.

He wasn't the brightest mind in medicine, at least according to rumor. Sure, he got his silver link, but Saffron buds are tricky to handle, especially given their relative obscurity as a medicinal reagent. Most Maesters would use… he wracked his mind searching for the name.

Gilerose, a much simpler coagulant… easier to detect too.

Pycell's calculations must be off somewhere, the dosage too strong… add Jon Arryn's death, plus his reckless lifestyle… it's no wonder Robert keeps dropping dead one way or the other.

Joffrey blinked.

The damage… its already done.

Sure, there were palliative treatments and changes in lifestyle that could help but…

Joffrey kept rifling through the letters, quickly realizing the 'treatment' had begun quite some time ago. Far too long.

Robert was dead man walking.

… You bastards… ignorant, foolish bastards…

The linchpin keeping the peace in the Seven Kingdoms was going to die one way or the other… the only real question was when.

Joffrey smothered the dark urge to slaughter Pycell with a rusty sword, trying to keep his mind out of it as he searched for the other letters. There was a missing piece somewhere. Someone had to be supplying the old fool with Spicemilk, because the tricky bit of chemistry required to make it was beyond the scope of his laboratory, and possibly his expertise as well… and Tywin's letters showed no knowledge of Pycell's addiction.

Joffrey frowned as he found a few letters with no cipher, but a simple list. The subjects varied immensely, from 'Ibbenese merchants' to 'Jon Arryn's death' to 'Daenrys Targeryen' to 'Dragonpit'… along with a small leather strap smaller than his hand, perfect for fitting a vial or two of Spicemilk… and no signature.

On and on they went, and Joffrey quickly realized the sender was asking for information… though there was no way to be really sure without seeing Pycell's own responses.

Another double bluff, two hidden masters, one hiding in the shadow of the other.

The game of thrones went deeper than he thought… and he hadn't even started with Varys, the most obvious player of the intrigues… or was he? Could an even more competent player be hiding beneath the shadow of the spider too?

I hate intrigue, he thought, annoyed with the twists and turns. They weren't all that different from the puzzles regarding the Purple now that he thought about it, just different kinds of frustration and double guessing.

How is Pycell receiving the Spicemilk though, it can't be through the rookery unless his two apprentices are in on it…

He hummed slightly as he walked to the window, looking down briefly before feeling the window's frame for anything out of order. The sill was wiped clean, very clean.

Joffrey narrowed his eyes as he felt the edges of the sill, feeling something dry and vaguely sticky right by its edge. He sniffed at the black thing before he scrounging his nose, wiping his finger clean with a handkerchief.

Raven waste… They're delivering Pycell's dose and orders through his own window… that means Pycell's second master has access to specially trained ravens… Interesting.

He ordered everything as it had been when he found it, silently lockpicking the door and locking it behind him as he made his way down the stairs. He had a lot to think about.

-.PD.-

Wyll of Old Bridge had been a delight to follow. As one of the four Master of Keys, he reported directly to Baelish and served as one of the intermediaries between the Master of Coin and his corrupt network of Goldcloak gate captains, shipping ventures, warehouses and, of course, pillow houses.

He'd gotten a good long look at the sizable financial empire Baelish had somehow managed to erect in the capital without anyone knowing. Of course, he'd also personally burnt and maimed a large part of said empire, an extremely needed exercise in venting his frustrations. As of late, however, other musings had taken root in Joffrey mind.

Idle musings of getting said empire to work for some other… more enlightened pursuits. After all, why burn what you can use? Especially when Joffrey had some rather… expensive ideas in mind.

His nose twitched as he nonchalantly hid behind a wagon full of steel ingots, just as his mark looked back.

Fixing the capital's sewers sound like a good idea right about now, he thought as he slowed his pace just so that when he walked out from behind the wagon, he was sedately walking behind a laborer carrying a tall crate.

His mark kept walking, the singing of the Street of steel's hammers and smithy's a constant tempo of creation. Baelish had finally realized Wyll had been thoroughly compromised, and Joffrey had realized he'd realized when Wyll had spent two whole days just walking in circles around the city, not even getting close to Littlefinger's remaining ventures. That and the bands of thugs that followed the Master of Keys, no doubt intent on finding his tail and bashing the dreaded 'Shadow's' skull in with a club.

And so Joffrey had moved on to greener pastures, following the underlings of another Master of Key's, one Jennet Waters. It seemed the responsibilities of this particular stooge had more to with pure espionage than economical ventures, as he spent the majority of his days organizing a pack of spies that spent their days following the various high born or otherwise important inhabitants of the city, from Lady Stokeworth to Thoros of Myr.

He stopped by a gaggle of squires haggling with a beefy looking smith and his vaguely larger apprentice, stopping just so the casual observer would think he was a part of the group, but far enough that the group itself could write him off as just another passerby looking at the wares.

He tilted his head just so and saw Jennet Water's lackey, a no name gutter rat from Flea Bottom, stopping near another shop, pretending to look at the wares. His eyes constantly moved between that, however, and another smithy, one guarded by two gruff looking northmen in Stark livery.

Joffrey repressed the urge to groan.

By the Old Gods Ned, must you be any more conspicuous?

The gutter rat haggled halfheartedly with a smith, a quick show of coin showing he deserved the attentions of at least the apprentice and not the apprentice's hammer, despite his ragged clothing. All the while he kept an eye on the smithy at the other side of the street, the Stark guards as oblivious as their master about the unwanted pair of eyes watching them.

Ned Stark came out of what he suddenly remembered to be Tobho Mott's smithy, his face scrounged in concentration as he distractedly waved at his guards to follow. Joffrey thought he could have been standing right behind him and he wouldn't have noticed. The spy soon followed, and Joffrey was left to stretch his wits.

What the hells is Ned doing at a smithy, and why is Littlefinger taking note of it? Did he know Ned would come here and is he thus making sure everything went as planned? Or is this a surprise as much to him as to Ned? He thought as he made his way inside Tobho Mott's. He was 'playing' the game for a given value of play, but that didn't mean he had abandoned the bull headed audacity that had carried him through so many lives.

"What did Lord Stark want?" he asked Tobho at point blank range, startling the man and making him drop the hammer he'd been fixing.

The man stumbled back a bit as he directed a half second gaze to the ringing pounding of metal on anvil to the back of the store before they turned back to Joffrey, "I don't know-" Tobho said instantly before biting his tongue, his face quickly turning red at the intrusion and preparing to unleash a powerful invective as Joffrey passed him by.

"Of course," he said as he followed the direction of the gaze, walking past a cloth partition and weathering the sudden heat of the forge. In the middle of it was Tobho's apprentice, a broad shouldered boy with powerful arms and dark hair, hammering the anvil with great strength, a length of hot iron held by tongs.

The apprentice stopped working mid swing, his hammer still held in the air as his sweat drenched face turned to look at him. Joffrey could almost imagine Rhaegar Targeryean in place of the anvil, blood on the boy's face instead of sweat. The boy didn't have time to say anything before Joffrey walked out of the store… he'd seen enough. Tobho Mott watched him go, carefully gripping his hammer like a man who knows what to do with it.

Joffrey walked down the streets deep in thought, cutting through an alleyway.

He had come to realize that a considerable chunk of Ned's time in King's Landing was always devoted to unearthing the truth about his parentage. No matter if he saved Bran or not, Ned was always suspicious of his origins and always strived to investigate it… almost as if there was an active force pushing for that development. A particularly wretched and rotten force which smelled awfully familiar. He'd already seen him visit a few brothels where Robert's most recent bastards had been whelped, and it hadn't been all that hard to tie the dots, what with Ned's tremendous grasp of intrigue. He was being carefully guided from bastard to bastard, left to follow the trail of clues that ended with him in the black cells and the realm with the War of the Five Kings. Only the matter of the puppeteer remains.

The obvious follow up question was, Varys or Baelish? Pycell was unlikely given how deep he was in Tywin's pocket, mysterious enabler or not, and Cercei and Barristan were obvious nonstarters. Stannis had decided to dump the game overboard and flee to Dragonstone… which showed a remarkable amount of common sense really.

That left Renly, an interesting choice… except he'd never declared Joffrey or his brothers and sisters bastards. His claim always assumed nobody wanted a Lannister puppet, and that the follow up choice then of him or Stannis was obvious. It was likely he didn't know the truth.

Varys was always a likely culprit. The spider kept his cards close, seemingly never making waves nor involved in great schemes… which of course meant the opposite in reality. The hard question there was finding the where and the why, and maybe the how…

But in his heart of hearts, Joffrey just knew the Littlefucker was behind it all. It all smelt like him.

Littlefinger always ended up on the Lannister's side after each confrontation in the throne room… backstabbing Ned and ensuring chaos and war. If he had orchestrated events for Ned's honor to have no choice but to dispute the succession, and had at the same time placed himself before Cercei as the solution to the very same problem he had created…

Then he really was as good a player as any, setting events in motion so he could rise even higher due to the damned chaos, thanks to his aide with the goldcloaks, with Maergery's marriage, with everything that followed… It fitted with what Joffrey knew of the fucker.

There was one quick way of finding out if Baelish was behind it all indeed… but he needed someone closer to the Master of Coin, not the cats paw's doing the dirty work.

He turned through another alley as he put on his black cowl and hid his mouth with his black handkerchief, his pace quickening as he ran up a stack of crates and jumped to a balcony hanging from a small if well-furnished manse. The man with the crossbow barely had time to draw an alarmed breath before his throat was slit, collapsing on his knees. Pushing the gurgling man aside, he entered a hallway which quickly led him to a small study.

He opened the door to find the gutter rat giving his report to one of the Master of Key's, Jennet Waters, a rotund man clad in far too much overcompensating finery for his post… and his earnings. Jennet's eyes widened as he saw Joffrey, who already had a hand on the gutter rat's mouth as the other pierced the long and thin Braavosi stiletto through the man's jaw and up, the smooth metal sliding up like a Valyrian Steel through sand.

"You!" gasped Waters as he stumbled back, the chair behind him falling to the ground.

A part of him dreaded the pleasure he was soon to feel… even as another reveled in anticipation.

"Me," agreed Joffrey as he extracted the stiletto and the spy crumbled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

-.PD.-

He washed his hands almost compulsively, the water bucket turning red as he kept rubbing his hands again and again. The closed door behind him throbbed inside his mind, even as he tried to pay it no heed.

He kept telling himself he hadn't wanted to do it, but he knew that was a lie.

He shunted the conflicted feelings back to the back of his mind, pitying the poor sod that entered the room come next morning and found the husk that had called itself Jennet Waters. It had taken a while to him talk. He was- had been very scared of Lord Baelish.

At least I didn't do it for its own sake, I did it for a purpose. To save the realm, he told himself as he kept washing his hands. He shook his head, trying to bring his mind back to what he'd learned.

Baelish knew the location of every single one of Robert's bastards in King's Landing, and had even shuffled a few to more visible locations. He'd personally instructed Waters to keep eyes on Ned at all times, and to report back to him the moment Ned went to Mott's and saw Gendry, Tobho Mott's apprentice and the oldest and most similar of all of Robert's bastards.

All my lives… it has been Baelish the one that's most caused me harm… after myself of course. He knows the truth of my birth and is manipulating Ned to find out by his own… all a part of his plan to rise on top of the eventual confrontation…

Baelish had also paid for more than a score transcriptions, all of a single book, most of which had been stashed under the manse's cellars… except for a handful delivered to Baelish himself.

Looking at the book, 'The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms', Joffrey couldn't help but sigh. He had a feeling he knew where this was going.

I need to meditate, he thought as he shook his head.

-.PD.-

As the Red Keep's heart tree whistled with the wind, his awareness kept sinking lower and lower, his attention intent on the thread of meaning and direction granted by the tablet. Just as he always knew where the tablet was in relation to himself, away in his chambers and below his bed to be precise, so did he know the direction where its essence lay. As he'd done before with Stars, he let his consciousness follow that thread of meaning as he kept sinking and sinking and sinking, the outside world loosing meaning, loosing existence itself as he felt and saw and touched and smelt a kaleidoscope of sensations, arriving to a place deep within him. He could feel the ominous, reality shattering strength of the fractal filled purple pillars above him, holding him to the aeons if he but cared to look, but Joffrey didn't give in, not even risking a quick peak to the sanity shattering thing that somehow held everything that he was. He kept following the meaning like a bloodhound as he smelt blood and heard shattering steel, felt passion and strength and loneliness. The last sent a metaphysical shudder throughout his… he didn't know. He couldn't feel his body. He was his body. But more. He was awareness.

He traced the line until he reached the essence of the tablet itself, anchored by thick, powerful tethers to what he knew to be himself. He cradled it, it was mystery, it was bone and salt and storms.

But more. It was Meaning, the thought reverberated throughout Joffrey. The twisting lines, his twisting lines, him, the part of him that snuggly anchored the essence of the tablet was complex, full of meaning, practically a shadow of the tablet itself due to its very nature. A part of Joffrey had been molded to receive the tablet, lovingly, thoughtfully, forcefully… Carefully.

Joffrey realized he was at the contours, the edges of his very soul, a vast sphere of meaning that encompassed all below him, around him, but not above him.

Above lay the pillars.

The twisting lines that anchored the tablet to him were very, very familiar. He'd seen something like it before. He was sure.

He extended all of his awareness to the tablet itself, cradling it close and tasting the mystery and the salt and the bone and its very shape and form and composition as he realized the tablet had never actually left him, never, it was practically a part of his soul. It was right there. Right here.

Right here, he thought as the tablet flooded him.

He opened his eyes, and found the tablet fitted in between his hands, as if he had been holding it this entire time.

He held it up with a trembling hand, unsure if he was still within or without, the sound of nearby birds and the soothing winds surrounding the heart tree soothing his nerves, making him realize he was back in… in what he was almost certain was reality.

He breathed slowly, almost frightfully as he lifted the tablet close to his eye, gazing at the runes and lines and twists it held like never before.

The tablet did not depict a language, they were not runes, they were not messages. Joffrey realized it depicted a crude caricature of the contours of his very soul… but only a small part of it, the edges of a small, empty space very much like the one the tablet's essence occupied, the one he'd just seen deep within himself, snug against his soul.

"It's a map…" Joffrey muttered in awe, "A map to some section of my very soul… a map to an empty anchor," he whispered, the words sounding unreal to his ears.

…

But what is it supposed to anchor?

That's all the tablet depicted, the contours that should anchor a very specific something, a something that was missing right now. That was the purpose of the tablet. To bring his attention to that missing section of his soul.

…

"I need a drink," he muttered.

-.PD.-