Date: Late 295 AC
Location: The Street of Sisters & The Great Sept of Baelor, King's Landing
The city stank of unwashed bodies and cheap brown pot-shops, a thick, greasy soup of a smell that clung to the back of the throat. Sandor Clegane hated it. He hated the noise, the press of the smallfolk, and the way the sun beat down on his heavy plate, turning the steel into a kiln.
"Prince Joffrey! Seven blessings, Prince Joffrey!"
The cry went up like a signal fire. A wave of cheers rolled down the Street of Sisters, loud enough to drown out the bell tolling from Visenya's Hill.
Ahead of him, the Prince rode a chestnut courser, sitting deep in the saddle. He didn't bounce or sway like a green boy; he moved with the beast, absorbing the rhythm of the gait with an easy, practiced grace. Joffrey wore no helm. He let the mob see him. He let them see the golden hair, the emerald eyes, and the modest smile that seemed to say, I am your servant.
Look at them, Sandor thought, his burned face twisting in a sneer beneath his helm. Bleating sheep cheering the lion because he hasn't eaten them yet.
But this lion was different. Sandor had guarded the boy for years. He had seen the way Joffrey worked in the tilt yard when the Master of Arms wasn't looking. Most boys rode for the glory of it, keeping their lances high and their plumes bright. Joffrey rode for the geometry.
Sandor had watched him hit the quintain for three hours straight last week. He didn't just strike the shield; he aimed for the hairline cracks in the wood. He practiced shifting his weight at the last possible second, dropping his lance tip to catch a rider in the gorget. It wasn't about unhorsing a man; it was about putting him on the ground and keeping him there. The boy didn't play at war; he studied it like a trade.
They reached the plaza of the Great Sept of Baelor. The marble dome gleamed white in the sun. The statues of the kings stood watch by the doors, stone eyes blind to the rot within.
"Clear the way!" a gold cloak bellowed, shoving a one-legged beggar aside with the shaft of his spear.
Joffrey dismounted. He moved with a heavy, deliberate grace. He was already broad for his age, his shoulders stretching the crimson velvet of his doublet. Sandor swung down from his own horse, Stranger, and fell in step behind the Prince.
The High Septon was waiting for them at the doors. He was a mountain of suet wrapped in cloth-of-gold, wearing a crystal crown that likely cost more than every house in Flea Bottom combined.
"Seven blessings upon you, my Prince," the fat man wheezed, his jowls wobbling as he bowed. "The Crone lights your path."
"And the Warrior lends me his strength, I pray," Joffrey replied. His voice was humble, the picture of a dutiful son. "I come to offer thanks for my father's health, and to make a donation to the Mother's mercy."
He gestured. A page brought forward a heavy leather sack. The clink of gold dragons was the only prayer the High Septon truly heard. The fat man's eyes widened, greedy little currants in a doughy face.
"Your piety is a beacon to the realm, Your Grace," the High Septon gushed.
Sandor watched Joffrey kneel before the altar of the Warrior. The boy's head was bowed, his hands clasped. To the Septon, it looked like devotion. To Sandor, standing three paces back, it looked like a soldier checking his boots before a march. The boy wasn't praying. He was waiting.
He knows what they are, Sandor realized with a dark burst of approval. He buys their gods and feeds their septons, and he never blinks.
They left the Sept not by the main doors, but by a side entrance that led toward the shadow of the Hill of Rhaenys. The crowds here were thinner, the faces gaunter.
Joffrey mounted up and turned his horse south, toward the slums. He didn't ask the way. He never asked. He simply rode, expecting the Hound to follow.
"To the orphanage, Dog," Joffrey said quietly. "I want to see if my investment has yielded a return."
The orphanage was a grim, grey building run by the Faith. A sour-faced woman in the robes of a Septa met them at the gate. Septa Moelle. She looked as if she had swallowed a lemon and was afraid to pass it.
"Your Grace," she curtsied stiffly, eyeing Sandor's burned face with distaste. "We were not expecting..."
"I prefer to see the truth, Septa, not a mummer's show prepared for my benefit," Joffrey said, brushing past her.
Inside, the yard was filled with children. Skinny, dirty, silent. They stared at the Prince with huge eyes. Most highborns would have recoiled. Joffrey walked among them like a quartermaster inspecting a baggage train.
He stopped in front of a boy of perhaps ten. The lad had a mop of greasy black hair and eyes that were too old for his face.
"What is your name?" Joffrey asked.
"Wat, m'lord. Your Grace."
"You're small, Wat. Do they feed you?"
"Porridge, mostly. Sometimes fish heads when the catch is good."
Joffrey turned to the Septa. "Porridge builds weak bones. These children are the future of the city. If they are weak, the city is weak." He pulled a purse from his belt—silver stags, heavy enough to buy a small shop—and tossed it to Moelle. "Salt pork. Twice a week. And heavy wool for winter cloaks. I will send a man to check."
The Septa clutched the coin, looking stunned. "You are... most generous, my Prince. The Mother surely smiles on you."
Joffrey leaned in close to her. He didn't threaten. He merely smiled, a cold, bright expression. "See that she does, Septa. I would hate to find the Mother's children shivering when I return."
As they walked back to the horses, Sandor grunted. "You think pork will make them loyal?"
"Loyalty is a byproduct," Joffrey said, looking back at the boy, Wat, who was staring at the Prince not with gratitude, but with a sharp, hungry intelligence. "I don't need their love, Dog. I need their eyes. A boy who is invisible can go where a knight cannot. A boy who is fed by the Prince will whisper to the Prince."
The sun was sinking as they rode toward the Lion Gate. They stopped at a nondescript tavern near the City Watch barracks. The Broken Anvil.
The common room went silent as the Hound entered. Joffrey followed, wrapped in a plain grey cloak that hid his finery.
A man was waiting for them in the back booth. He wore the gold cloak of the Watch, but his armor was plain, well-oiled iron. His left arm ended in a heavy iron hand.
Jacelyn Bywater. They called him Ironhand. A man too honest for Janos Slynt, which meant he was usually stuck with the worst duties.
Bywater rose. "My Prince."
"Sit, Ser Jacelyn," Joffrey said, sliding into the booth. Sandor stood guard.
"You have the deeds?" Joffrey asked.
Bywater slid a piece of parchment across the table. "Done. The Sow's Horn and The Lazy Eel. Both near the Mud Gate. The owners were drowning in debt. They took the silver and asked no questions."
"Good," Joffrey said. "Keep the current staff, but put our men in the cellars. I want to know every ship that docks and every captain that spends more than he earns."
"And the beggars?" Bywater asked. "Slynt wants them cleared out before the Reach lords arrive for the spring court."
"Let Slynt bluster," Joffrey said coldly. "I want them where they are. Especially near the manses on the Hook. A beggar sees who comes and goes. A beggar hears the whispers of servants."
Bywater hesitated. "This is... unusual work for a Prince."
"The city is deaf, Lord Jacelyn," Joffrey said. "My father drinks. The Hand is old. The Spider sits in his web, but he cannot be everywhere. I will not be blind."
He tapped the table.
"I have servants in the Red Keep who are already mine. Maids who change the bedsheets of the Small Council. They tell me the Spider receives letters from across the Narrow Sea. They tell me Littlefinger smiles when he thinks no one is looking."
Sandor heard the shift in Bywater's breathing. The captain was realizing what Sandor had realized months ago. This wasn't a game.
"You are building an army," Bywater whispered.
"Swords win battles," Joffrey said, standing up. "Information wins wars."
Joffrey swept out of the tavern. Sandor followed.
"Come, Dog," Joffrey said as they mounted. "We have a lesson with the armorer. Mott has finished the new blade. I want to see if the balance is right before he sharpens it. A blunted edge teaches better than a sharp one."
"As you command," Sandor rumbled.
Fin
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