Game of Thrones(ASOIAF): The Sorcerer Prince

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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 27: Richest Man in Kings Landing

”Wow.” Joffrey withdrew from Lord Baelish’s mind, the echoes of a lifetime of scheming and petty vengeance still ringing in his consciousness. He looked down at the bound man with something approaching disgust. ”You’re even more twisted than I imagined.”

Little Finger writhed against his restraints, his carefully cultivated composure shattered. ”W-what did you do to me?! My head!”

”All of this because Brandon Stark humiliated you in a duel?” Joffrey shook his head slowly. ”You want to destroy his entire house, murder his brother, plunge the realm into war...all so you can have the Tully woman for yourself.” He laughed, a cold sound with no humor in it. ”You are truly pathetic, Lord Baelish.”

Baelish’s face went white. Those secrets had been buried deeper than any grave.

”Though I’ll admit, manipulating Lysa Arryn into murdering her own husband was clever.” Joffrey paced before him, hands clasped behind his back like a lecturer addressing a student. ”And that letter blaming the Lannisters? Beautifully done. Lord Stark still carries it close to his heart.”

”Who... who are you?” Baelish’s voice cracked. ”A faceless man? Someone hired you? Whatever they’re paying, I’ll double it. Triple it! I have gold, influence—”

Joffrey stopped pacing and looked down at him. ”However, you should never have included me in your games. Guiding Lord Stark with old books and whispers, letting him discover my true parentage...now, that was clever, I’ll grant you. You are a clever man, Lord Baelish.” His voice hardened. ”Stealing from the Crown’s coffers, creating chaos in the capital, manipulating everyone around you so you could climb higher. Being a petty lord of the smallest holdings in the Vale was never enough for such ambition.”

Baelish’s eyes darted toward the door. Where were his guards? Why hadn’t they come?

”No one’s coming.” Joffrey’s voice was gentle, almost pitying. ”They can’t hear anything in here.”

Baelish opened his mouth and screamed—a raw, desperate sound that tore from his throat. ”HELP! GUARDS! SOMEONE!”

Joffrey snapped his fingers. ”Silencio.”

The sound died in Baelish’s throat. His mouth moved, his face purple with effort, but nothing emerged. Nothing at all.

”I feel almost sorry for you.” Joffrey crouched beside him. ”It’s not a fair fight. It never was. You brought wits and schemes and silver tongues.” He smiled. ”I brought magic.”

Baelish’s eyes went wide. Magic. The word was impossible, insane, and yet he’d seen the prince appear from nothing, wrap him in ropes from thin air, steal into his mind like a thief in the night.

”I have no use for you. After all, my plans lay far beyond the walls of this city and that ugly throne made of swords.” Joffrey raised his index finger, pointing it at Baelish’s chest. A faint green spark began to form at the tip, growing brighter, more intense. His eyes began to glow with that same eerie emerald light.

”First time trying this without a wand,” Joffrey murmured, almost to himself. ”Let’s see how it goes.”

Baelish thrashed against his bonds, terror such as he’d never known flooding through him. This wasn’t possible. None of this was possible.

Joffrey’s voice was soft, almost conversational. ”Avada Kedavra.”

The green spark leaped from his finger and struck Baelish square in the chest.

For one frozen moment, nothing happened. Then the light in Littlefinger’s eyes simply... went out. His body went limp, his mouth fell open, and he slumped against the floor, utterly still.

Joffrey waited a heartbeat, two, then pressed fingers to the man’s throat. No pulse. No breath. Nothing.

”Dead.” He straightened, brushing dust from his knees. With a snap of his fingers, the conjured ropes dissolved into nothing. ”Good to know I can still do it.”

Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, the man who had schemed his way from nothing to the Small Council, lay sprawled on the floor of his own office like a discarded doll. No blood. No wound. Nothing the maesters would understand.

Joffrey turned away, unconcerned. Let them find the body. Let them wonder. No evidence would point to him. Not when no one could explain how the man died.

His attention shifted to a large cabinet in the corner. He knelt, felt along the base, and found the loose board exactly where Baelish’s memories had placed it. Behind it, an iron door with a complex lock.

The combination spun through his mind...Baelish’s mother’s birthday, of all things. The lock clicked open.

Three large leather bags sat within, fat with gold. Ten thousand dragons each, at least. Nearly two hundred pounds of coin.

A problem, Joffrey mused. But magic solves all problems.

He murmured the incantations, watching with satisfaction as the bags shrank to palm-sized lumps and their weight diminished to nothing. They slid easily into his pockets.

Other items occupied the vault, including ledgers, letters, and documents detailing secrets that could bring down entire houses. Joffrey glanced through them without interest. He’d already extracted everything useful from Baelish’s mind. The man’s future plans had been extensive: the North destabilized, the Vale brought to heel, Sansa Stark as a pawn, the Iron Throne itself within reach eventually.

None of that matters now, Joffrey thought, closing the vault. Lysa Arryn will be so disappointed.

But as he turned to leave, one piece of information nagged at him. The attack with the fake Stark guards...Baelish hadn’t orchestrated it. He’d known about it, yes, had watched and waited to see how it would benefit him. But the plot itself came from somewhere else.

Someone else is playing games with him. Someone else was trying to bring him down.

He filed that thought away for later.

The Hound nearly jumped when the door behind him opened. Joffrey emerged, still cloaked, looking no different than when he’d entered. ”Anyone passed by?”

Sandor shook his head. ”No one.”

”Good. Let’s go.”

Valena guided them through the brothel’s back passages, avoiding the common rooms and the prying eyes of customers. At the rear door, Joffrey pressed more coins into her hand and whispered final instructions. The Dornish girl nodded, her eyes still carrying that faintly glazed look, and closed the door behind them.

Sandor fell into step beside him. ”Back to the dwarf?”

”Not yet.” Joffrey’s pace quickened, threading through alleys and side streets with the confidence of a man who knew exactly where he was going. ”One more stop.”

Cobbler’s Square teemed with afternoon crowds. Merchants hawking their wares, children chasing stray dogs, women bargaining for vegetables. Joffrey ignored them all, cutting through the press of bodies with Sandor’s bulk clearing the way.

He turned into a narrow alley, so tight his shoulders nearly brushed the walls. At its end stood a house, windows boarded, door thick with dust. Abandoned for years.

”What’s this?” Sandor’s voice was wary.

Joffrey didn’t answer. He placed his palm against the door, whispered ”Alohomora,” and felt the lock click open. ”Inside. Quickly.”

The interior was musty and dark, thick with the smell of rot and disuse. Sandor pulled his cloak over his nose, grimacing.

Joffrey moved through the gloom with purpose, heading for the back wall of what had once been a sitting room. His hands ran over the wooden planks, tapping, searching.

” There.” He muttered.

A hollow sound. Wood hiding empty space behind it.

”Help me with these planks. As quietly as possible. We dont want to draw any attention.”

They used their swords as pry bars, working carefully to avoid splintering the wood. The boards came away one by one, revealing a hidden cavity behind the wall.

Sandor’s breath caught by the sight.

Gold. Coins piled in chests, stacked in bags, spilling from open boxes. Jewels glinted among the dragons...rubies, sapphires, emeralds winking in the dim light. A fortune beyond counting.

”Lord Baelish kept very little money in his establishments,” Joffrey said calmly, as if discussing the weather. ”Too afraid of theft. So he bought houses around the city and used them as hidden vaults.”

”How much?” Sandor’s voice was hoarse.

”A million dragons, perhaps. Maybe more.” Joffrey stepped into the hidden room, running his hand over a pile of gold. ”You didn’t truly believe the Crown spent six million dragons on tourneys and feasts, did you? The money had to go somewhere.”

”Seven hells.” Sandor had never cared much for gold...it bought wine and whores, but what else? This was something else entirely. This was power.

”There’s more in the Eyrie, but that’s beyond reach for now.” Joffrey turned to face him, his eyes gleaming in the darkness. ”This should be enough.”

”Enough for what?”

”I’m preparing for a journey, Sandor. A long journey.” Joffrey’s voice was calm, measured. ”For that, I’ll need ships. Men. Supplies. None of that comes cheap.” He held the Hound’s gaze. ”I’m going to give you a very important task. Remember our deal? You help me, I help you.”

Sandor nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on the gold.

”Good. Then listen carefully.”

The brothel room was quiet when Joffrey returned, no grunting, no moaning, none of the sounds he’d expected. Instead, he found the two whores sitting at the table, sharing wine and pastries like old friends.

”My prince!” The Dornish girl rose with a smile. ”You’ve returned.”

The redhead bowed her head respectfully.

Joffrey glanced toward the curtained bed. ”And my uncle?”

”Sleeping.” The redhead’s lips curved. ”He lasted half an hour, then passed out. Too much wine and pleasure, I think.”

Joffrey pulled back the curtain. Tyrion lay sprawled across the bed, mouth open, snoring softly. At least the girl had covered him with a sheet.

”Half an hour?” He turned back, amused. ”I’m almost impressed.”

He walked to the table, produced more coins from his purse, and added them to the pile already there. Payment in full, as promised. Lannisters always paid their debts. Or so he keeps hearing.

The redhead’s eyes traveled over him. ”Would you like to play with us now, my prince? There’s time yet.”

”Perhaps another day.” Joffrey smiled, genuinely amused by their persistence. ”I’ve had enough excitement for one afternoon. But I will require your assistance waking my uncle. I have no intention of carrying his naked body back to the castle.”

The Dornish girl rose with a knowing smile. ”I know just the thing.” She moved toward a side table where bottles of pungent oils sat waiting. ”Give me a moment.”

Joffrey settled into a chair, watching her work. Behind him, the redhead refilled his wine cup.

Through the window, the sun was beginning its slow descent toward the horizon. Soon he’d be back in the Red Keep, playing the proper prince, enduring his mother’s fussing and his father’s drunken approval.

But tonight, when the castle slept, he had plans to make. Ships to secure. Men to hire. A future to build.

A thought came to mind...someone else was trying to use him as a pawn. He already had a culprit in mind, but didnt let this small thing weight in todays victory. This had been a large step to secure his future plans. 

Let them try, he thought, raising his cup. Let them all try.

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