The morning sun hadn't yet burned through King's Landing's infamous stink when Joffrey and Tyrion began their work in Flea Bottom. Workers were already digging trenches, the sound of picks striking stone echoing through narrow alleys.
"These wooden channels are completely fucked," Tyrion observed, prodding a rotted beam with his boot. "Who thought wood was a good material for sewage?"
"Some cunt who didn't have to smell it," Joffrey replied, studying the plans they'd drawn up. "We need to tear it all out and start fresh."
The work was grueling. By midday, Joffrey's fine clothes were splattered with mud and worse. He'd learned quickly to dress practically for these inspections. Tyrion moved between work crews, directing the placement of stone channels with surprising expertise.
"Your Grace!" A guard approached, looking uncomfortable. "The Small Council is meeting..."
"Now?" Joffrey checked the sun's position. "Fucking hell, that's the third time this week they've called it while we're here."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Curious timing."
"Too curious," Joffrey muttered. "Keep things moving here. I need to handle something."
He made his way to where workers were installing new grating. A burly young smith - Gendry - was demonstrating proper technique to his fellows.
"Good work," Joffrey noted, watching the bastard's technique. The boy had Robert's build, his coloring. But more importantly, he had skill. "Keep this quality up."
Several merchants approached throughout the day, each trying to influence the new sewer routes. Joffrey handled them the same way - with barely concealed threats and zero patience for bribes.
"They're persistent cunts," Tyrion commented after the fifth such attempt.
"They're scared," Joffrey replied. "Change threatens their little empires of shit and piss."
By evening, both men were exhausted but satisfied with the progress. Over wine in Tyrion's solar, they discussed the day's events.
"The timing of these council meetings bothers me," Joffrey said. "Always when we're deepest in work."
"Almost like someone's trying to keep you occupied," Tyrion mused. "The question is - who benefits from your absence?"
"And who's clever enough to arrange it so subtly." Joffrey drained his cup. "Keep your eyes open, uncle. Something's not right in this shithole of a city."
The next day brought more progress and more "coincidental" timing. While inspecting a newly laid stone channel, another messenger arrived.
"Small Council, Your Grace..."
Joffrey's grip tightened on the plans he held. "Let me guess - urgent business that can't wait?"
The pattern was clear now. Someone was deliberately scheduling these meetings when he'd be least able to attend. But why? And more importantly - who had that kind of influence?
"Uncle," he called to Tyrion. "I think it's time we started keeping our own schedule of these 'urgent' meetings. Note the times, the messengers, everything."
"Playing detective, nephew?"
"No," Joffrey's eyes narrowed. "Playing the game of thrones. And I'm starting to see the board more clearly."
They returned to work, but Joffrey's mind was racing. Someone was moving against him, using his own project as a weapon. The sewers were important - but now they were also a battlefield in a game he hadn't even known he was playing.
And Joffrey intended to win.
Light faded outside Joffrey's study, where stacks of sewer plans and meeting records littered every surface. He'd been staring at the patterns for hours.
"Pycelle," he muttered, tracing times and dates with his finger. "That ancient fuck's been behind every 'urgent' meeting."
Tyrion lounged nearby, wine cup perpetually in hand. "Not our spider or mockingbird this time. Though I must say, for a man who pretends to barely remember his own name, Pycelle's timing is remarkably consistent."
"But why didn't Stark tell me?" Joffrey slammed his fist on the table. "He's Hand. He had to have noticed."
"Perhaps that's the more interesting question," Tyrion mused, swirling his wine. "When did you last actually speak with Lord Stark?"
Joffrey paused, counting backwards. "Three... no, four weeks. Not since we started the main excavation."
"Ah." Tyrion's voice took on that knowing tone Joffrey both respected and hated. "And in those four weeks, how many whispers do you think have reached his ears? How many subtle suggestions about the true nature of the proud Prince Joffrey?"
"Fuck." Joffrey slumped in his chair. "You think they're poisoning him against me?"
"I think, dear nephew, that the longer you stay away from friends, the more lies you hear about them. And the more good you forget about them." Tyrion set down his cup. "Distance breeds suspicion. Suspicion breeds fear. And fear..."
"Breeds stupid fucking decisions," Joffrey finished. "Like not warning me about Pycelle."
"Precisely. The honorable Ned Stark is many things, but a master of court intrigue isn't one of them. Left alone too long, he'll believe whatever fits his rigid worldview."
Joffrey stood, decision made. "I need to talk to him. Tonight."
"Might I suggest the Godswood?" Tyrion offered. "Less chance of Pycelle's little birds overhearing. And Stark tends to brood there after sunset."
"The Godswood," Joffrey nodded. "Where his precious honor will compel him to tell the truth."
As he headed for the door, Tyrion called after him: "And nephew? Remember - he's not your enemy. Not yet. Don't let anger make him one."
Joffrey paused at the threshold. "When did you become so wise, uncle?"
"Oh, I've always been wise. You've just finally grown enough to notice."
With a snort of laughter, Joffrey left to find Stark. Time to clear the air before more poison could seep in. The sewers could wait - this rot needed cleaning first.
The Godswood was eerily silent as Joffrey approached, moonlight filtering through the red leaves of the heart tree. Stark stood there, as Tyrion predicted, a dark silhouette against pale bark.
"We need to talk," Joffrey announced, keeping his voice low but firm.
Stark turned, surprise briefly crossing his features before settling into that mask of Northern stoicism. "Your Grace."
"Cut the formalities." Joffrey moved closer, positioning himself where he could watch Stark's eyes. "Pycelle's been scheduling Small Council meetings specifically when I'm in Flea Bottom. You knew this."
It wasn't a question. Stark's slight shift in posture confirmed it before he spoke.
"I did."
"Yet you said nothing when I asked about the meetings." Joffrey let the accusation hang in the air. "Why?"
Stark's silence stretched uncomfortably before he answered. "I needed to see."
"See what? If I'd figure it out myself? Or if I was truly the monster you suspect tried to kill your son?"
"Both, perhaps." Stark's honesty was brutal, as always. "Your warnings about the attempt on Bran... they were too perfect. Too precise."
"So you tested me." Joffrey laughed bitterly. "The honorable Ned Stark, playing at intrigue. Tell me, did watching me wade through shit and fix this city's problems help confirm your suspicions?"
"It raised more questions than answers," Stark admitted. "The Joffrey who works beside common laborers, who plans drainage systems with his uncle... he's not the same boy who..."
"Who what? Go on, say it. The same boy everyone whispers about?" Joffrey stepped closer, anger finally seeping into his voice. "While you've been testing me, watching me, doing fuck all to help with the council meetings, I've been trying to actually improve things. And you let Pycelle interfere because what? You needed to satisfy your paranoid theories?"
"I had to be sure-"
"No," Joffrey cut him off. "You chose to doubt. Chose to listen to whispers instead of what you've seen with your own eyes. Some fucking friend you turned out to be."
The words hung between them, heavy as castle stones. Stark's face showed genuine regret, finally.
"Perhaps," he said slowly, "I have done you a disservice."
"Perhaps?" Joffrey scoffed. "You're supposed to be Hand of the King. My father's closest friend. Instead you're playing games with Pycelle and questioning every move I make."
"And what would you have me do?"
"Your fucking job would be a start. Stop the old cunt from undermining the Crown Prince. Help me fix this cesspit of a city." Joffrey turned to leave, then paused. "And decide if you're my ally or my enemy, Lord Stark. I'm tired of this middle ground bullshit where you either act like you hate me or do genuinely hate me."
"Wait," Stark's voice cut through the darkness as Joffrey turned to leave. "You told me yourself - whoever ordered my son's assassination would appear normal and harmless."
Joffrey froze, feeling ice spread through his veins as Stark continued.
"You said they would guide through questions rather than answers. Someone who was close before we even spoke." Stark's voice grew harder. "Someone who reveals secrets and acts as a guide in this court of vipers, then offers wild theories to spring their trap."
Each point landed like a hammer blow. Joffrey saw it now - how perfectly he'd been maneuvered. Every warning he'd given Stark had been calculated by someone else to plant seeds of doubt. The sewers, his work with the smallfolk, even his attempts to help - all twisted to appear suspicious.
"You fit every warning you gave, Your Grace," Stark pressed. "Related through Robert before we met. Appearing harmless while working on city improvements. Guiding me with questions about who might want Bran dead, never giving direct answers. Revealing secrets about the court, teaching me about the vipers here..."
Joffrey raised his hand, silencing Stark mid-sentence. His voice was deadly quiet: "Always question the motive behind things, Lord Stark."
The words tasted like ash now. As he walked away, pieces clicked into place. Littlefinger. The cunning bastard had played them both masterfully, using Joffrey's own warnings as weapons. Even now, he was probably watching, smirking at his clever manipulation.
The castle halls echoed with Joffrey's measured footsteps as he left Stark in the Godswood. His mind raced, rage building with each step. Littlefinger had played them all masterfully - every warning, every move, twisted into a weapon against him.
His feet carried him instinctively to Sansa's chambers. He needed her now - needed something pure to counter the filth of court politics. The door flew open under his hand, startling the handmaidens inside.
"Out," he commanded, voice tight with controlled fury. "Everyone out. Now."
They scattered like leaves in a storm, the last one pulling the door shut behind her. Sansa sat at her vanity, auburn hair gleaming in the candlelight as she brushed it. She met his eyes in the mirror, setting down her brush.
"My prince?" Her voice was soft, concerned. "What troubles you?"
Joffrey crossed to her in three quick strides, hands moving to her shoulders. His fingers dug in slightly, not enough to hurt but enough to show his tension. "Politics. Lies. The usual poison."
She leaned back against him, head tilting to expose her neck. "Tell me?"
Instead of answering, he bent to kiss her throat, one hand sliding up to tangle in her hair. "Later. Right now I need... I need..."
"Me?" she finished, turning to face him. Her eyes were dark with understanding and something more. "However you need me?"
He groaned, capturing her mouth in a fierce kiss. His hands moved to her dress laces, pulling them rough and quick but careful not to tear the fabric. She helped, fingers working alongside his until the dress pooled at her feet.
"On the bed," he growled against her lips. She complied eagerly, pale skin glowing against the dark sheets.
He stripped efficiently, letting his clothes fall where they may. When he joined her, his touch was demanding but not cruel. He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, the other exploring her body with possessive intent.
"You're mine," he breathed against her skin. "The only fucking honest thing in this cesspit of a city."
"Yours," she agreed, arching into his touch. "Always yours."
Her responsiveness fueled his need. He marked her neck, her breasts, anywhere that would be hidden by clothing. She moaned encouragingly, wrapping her legs around his waist.
"Like this?" she whispered. "When you're angry? When you need to claim what's yours?"
"Gods, yes." He thrust into her hard, drawing a gasp. "Need you. Need this."
She met his pace eagerly, nails scoring his back. Each scratch grounded him, pulled him back from the edge of true rage. This wasn't about hurting - it was about connecting, possessing, drowning out the lies with something real.
"More," she demanded, surprising him. "Show me. Show me how much you need this."
He obliged, driving deeper, harder, but always watching her reactions. Her cries were pleasure, not pain. Her body welcomed his intensity rather than shrinking from it.
When release finally came, it swept through them both like wildfire. He collapsed beside her, pulling her close as their breathing steadied.
"Better?" she asked softly, tracing patterns on his chest.
"Some." He kissed her forehead. "You're getting bolder, little wolf."
She blushed but didn't look away. "I... I like when you're like this. When you need me so much you can't wait. When you mark me as yours."
"Do you?" He raised an eyebrow, intrigued by this new side of her.
"Yes." Her blush deepened. "It makes me feel... powerful. Knowing I can help calm your anger. That I'm the one you come to."
He studied her in the candlelight, seeing her anew. She wasn't just his betrothed anymore - she was becoming a true partner. One who understood his darker needs and met them willingly.
"Rest now," he murmured, pulling her closer. "Tomorrow, everything changes."
"What do you mean?"
"Littlefinger's been playing games." His voice hardened. "Dangerous ones. It's time he learned what happens to those who cross me."
She shivered, not with fear but anticipation. "What will you do?"
"Better you don't know the details yet. But watch carefully in the coming days. You might learn something about how real power works in this city."
As she drifted off in his arms, Joffrey's mind returned to plotting. Baelish thought himself clever, but he'd forgotten one crucial detail - Joffrey wasn't playing to win the game.
He was playing to burn it all down.
And it would start tomorrow. Let Baelish think he'd won this round. Let him gloat over turning Stark's suspicions. The mockingbird's wings would be clipped soon enough.
But first, there would be blood. And fire. And screams that would make even the Spider flinch.
Joffrey smiled in the darkness, already tasting vengeance on his tongue. The real game was about to begin.
And this time, he'd write the rules in crimson.
Sansa stirred against him, mumbling something in her sleep. He gentled his touch automatically, smoothing her hair. She was his anchor, his reminder that not everything in this city was corrupt.
He would protect her from what was coming. Shield her from the worst of it. But he would also teach her - slowly, carefully - how to survive in this world of vipers.
Because when he was finished, when the board was cleared and reset, she would need to understand. Need to be ready.
The game of thrones was changing. And House Lannister would change with it.
Or burn trying.