A/N: Well.
I wanted to prove that I can, and WILL update things other than my Fate stories, so here we are. Case in point.
Question!
What in blazes is A Hat in Time? Everyone's pestering me to write stories about it. A Little help here?
REVIEW FOR IT FEEDS THE ENGINE OF CREATION~!
You don't have to, but it keeps the fire burning and warms whats left of my cold heart.
Bit of a multi-perspective chapter here, fitting given who we're dealing with.
Think of it as a pseudo-interlude of sorts.
Needless to say this "resurrection" is going to stir up King's Landing, Westeros, and eventually the world itself. After all, its not every day the dead come back to life. When Jon came back and Beric-bloody bastard lived SEVEN LIVES-it caused quite the stir. Clearly word is going to spread one way or another.
Of course its going to shake up people! That's not the sort of thing you can dismiss!
Clearly the three most affect by this initially are Tywin, Tommen, and Cersei. They-alongside a smattering of guards and priests-saw "Jofrrey" rise from the dead. This isn't the kind of thing one could keep under wraps; indeed, I believe Varys and Littlefinger wouldn't even try, for obvious reasons.
Don't even get me started about the High Sparrow~!
Quote below is a modified version of, well...
...lets just say events to come.
Sorry if its short~!
"A boy, back from the dead. But is it true, I wonder? Did he really return?"
"Or did someone else take his place?"
~Littlefinger.
Trials and Tribulations (Interlude)
He was alive.
Her baby boy, her first boy.
Alive, alive, ALIVE thank all the gods!
She'd prayed and prayed and prayed and for once, they had answered.
At first Cersei hadn't been able to believe it; despite her initial reaction fear and paranoia had reared their ugly heads to poison this glorious moment, tainting it with whispers of self-doubt and loathing. This was a trick of some sort, her mind raved. Some last petty act by Tyrion-though she knew he was currently wasting away in the Black Cells and awaiting trial-done just to spite. An impostor, perhaps? Granted, it seemed absurd, but
Naturally she'd demanded proof. Something only her boy would know.
Then he'd looked dead at her and, almost with shame, said:
"A good king knows when to save his strength. And when to destroy his enemies."
She'd only ever said those words to him and only in privacy; with that, the shadow of doubt vanished as she dragged him into her arms again. He'd muttered something but she hadn't paid him any mind; wrapped as she was in sweet joyous bliss. Tommen seemed almost...relieved. Happy even, to have the burden of kingship lifted from his shoulders. Cersei was glad for him. Her youngest didn't deserve such a fate. Well! Now that cunning little Tyrell girl wouldn't get her claws into him...how she longed to see her face.
But death seemed to have changed her eldest. Hardened him, somehow.
Gone was that petulant sneer, in hits place
As if he'd become some else.
How little she knew.
(...0o0o0...)
Well.
This was...unfortunate.
No, unfortunate didn't begin to describe the depth of this disaster, Olenna decided. Unfortunate was a word one might use for an accident, a mistake, a slip of the tongue. This? This was not unfortunate. It was absolutely absurd! Coming back from the dead? Light of the Seven? Nonsense! Utter nonsense! Dead men died. They stayed, dead. This wasn't some sordid fairy tail filled with Grumpkins and Snarks. Once gone, one did not return from the void-one could not!-as if they were taking an afternoon nap!
Yet this boy had!
Rare it was indeed, to see the vaunted Queen of Thorns at a loss for words, but at a loss she was.
She never would have believed it herself if she hadn't seen him stumbling around the Red Keep only yesterday. The boy had looked...lost. Flanked by his Kingsguard as always, yet he never seemed more afraid. As though someone had handed him a map but reversed the directions. He'd seen her from afar, looked like he wanted to speak with her, but seemed to think better of it. How unusually...timid of him. That was Joffrey's face to be sure, even if his arrogance had abandoned him. No Faceless Man could've gotten their hands on it, surely. Blast it all. She'd seen him die. Dropped the poison into his cup herself.
The boy should be dead.
Indeed, the boy ought to be dead.
So why in the Seven Hells wasn't he dead?!
Well. She'd have to do something about this, certainly!
Perhaps it was time to return to High Garden. Kings Landing was not safe these days...
Not with bloody dead men walking about!
(...0o0o0...)
The boy was...receptive.
Where once he had been little more than a raving sycophant, Joffrey was suddenly calm. Quiet. Measured. Willing to listen. Asking questions-the right questions, always inquisitive. As if he were another person. His quick handling and caputre of Lord Baelish had prove he would not shy from violence, yet his suddenly staunch defense of Tyrion confounded and infuriated him in the same measure. Perhaps his "death" had opened his eyes. Perhaps not. Perhaps he had never been dead at all Pyscelle reasoned, but that was madness. He'd seen the boy die. Yet here he was, looking to him for advice.
Tywin Lannister was not a man who believed in magic-nor the madness it brought-but he couldn't deny something was afoot here.
It made no sense.
Not a bit of it, none of it at all.
How did one make sense of something that made no sense.
For nearly a fortnight now the boy had buried himself in book after book, asked question after question, seemingly without end. Now he was calling for Baelish's return to the capital, for high treason no less. Tywin wasn't all that inclined to stop him; if whatever madness he was at permanently removed that loathsome little man from the equation then he'd be quite happy to step aside and let him do as he pleased...for now. There was an angry, cold light to the young man's gaze, and didn't care enough for Littlefinger to interfere. Still...this sudden humility...
...grandfather?"
Truly, he didn't know what to make of it...
...nor this sudden and alarming turn of face...
...and it almost made him proud. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing.
(...0o0o0...)
Petyr Baelish wasn't feeling terribly proud at the moment.
Not at all, given that he'd been dragged back to the capitol in chains. His once fine robes were gone, replaced with a simple brown tunic and breeches. They served as little more than peasant rags, further contrasting his dirty face and unkempt hair. All that finery stripped away, and what did you find at the end of it all? Just a man. And what was a man but a miserable pile of secrets? It was a good look for the man who wanted to see the world burn. Only fitting that someone who thrived on chaos be quelled by that same chaos.
It almost brought a smile to my face.
Watching that little weasel dragged before the Iron Throne brought me more relief than a thousand lying...well. You know.
I'd never liked Littlefinger; if you couldn't tell. Not once. Not ever.
Part of the reason I'd put a bounty on his head; one people were all too eager to collect.
That reminded me; I would have to do something about Tyrion, I couldn't very well let him rot in the dungeons lest he meet the executioner's ax. But for now, there other matters to attend to. Perhaps if I threw the blame at his feet-I knew the scheming bastard was at least in part responsible-something would stick. Just looking at him made my throat clench all over again. Wearing this hideously tight red doublet didn't help. Even with the weight of a crown on my head, it still felt as though I were living through a waking dream, one I'd wake up from at any moment.
But this was no dream, as much as I might wish otherwise.
I'd let Baelish stew in a cell for a week for good measure. For all the good it had done him. I could see it in his eyes. The avarice, the ambition, the sheer greed, now spice with hate. He was utterly undaunted by any of this; still thought he would find a way out of the hole he'd dug himself. No doubt he had some clever plan in place. Ghastly little weasel.
Not if I had anything to say about it.
Perched on the Iron Throne, I watched like a hawk as they brought him to kneel before Joffrey. Me. Ugh, this was confusing! Once more I had to marshal my thoughts as they made him kneel. That supreme confidence of his had begun to fade now, washed away by the very real fear of losing his mind was probably clamoring seven ways to Sunday, trying to figure out where he went wrong. It couldn't be him. The poison should've done its work. And it had. Word of King Joffrey's "death" had already spread through half the Seven Kingdoms long before he'd-I!-had woken up. At a glance he might've suspected me as an impostor-most did-but no, he was keeping his thoughts to himself.
He would never know.
No, I was determined-absolutely determined-to see Littlefinger in the ground here and now. What had Varys said about him, once upon a time? He'd watch the world burn if he could be king of the ashes? Yes, something like that. Not only was he a threat to Westeros, but I simply. Didn't. Like him. And in Joffrey's body I found myself in a unique position of power, one that I intended to make use of while I could. Events may have gone too far for me to make things right with the Starks, but at the very least-at least this much!-I could hopefully start setting the realm right. I hadn't brought him here for a trial by combat, or any such nonsense. He was here to fulfill a single purpose; to die before the lords and ladies of Westeros.
If I didn't die again.
If an assassin wasn't sent.
If I didn't lose my bloody mind.
If.
"Do you know why you're here, Lord Baelish?" my voice still sounded like a croak even to my ears. Blasted stress. "No, wait, I'm sorry. Former lord. Shall I call you Petyr instead?"
A muscle jumped in his jaw and the weasel grimaced.
"You stand accused of treason to the Crown and an attempt on my life. How do you plead?"
I could see the gears turning in his head. Pity I wasn't about to give him the time to blame Olenna for this.
"My lord, if you would just give me a moment-
"Moment received." came the cold reply. "Now off with your head. Ser Merryn?"
Credit where it was due, the Kingsguard didn't hesitate. He'd scarcely finished speaking before his sword slipped free from its scabbard. Poor Petyr. He barely had time to speak before sharpened steel sliced through the flesh of his neck; splitting flesh and bone like rotten wood. His head flew from his shoulders as though it had been struck by a giant, eliciting a shriek from several ladies of the court.
I wasn't Joffrey.
No. Not now. Not ever.
But seeing that repulsive little troll die...
...watching his head tumble across the room like a ball...
...well. Fun isn't something one considers when ruling, but this put a smile on my face.
A/N: Next chapter will be better and longer.
Again, this is only an interlude of sorts, because I'm horridly busy and tired, not to mention sick.
Once more, this will be gone in two days if people don't like it. So by all means dear readers, do let me know. NO MORE CHALLENGES OR REQUESTS AFTER THIS PLEASE. Don't tempt a poor man beyond his means! Have mercy m'lords and m'ladies~! I need to work on the rest of my stuff and I just caaan't do that when I'm getting 50+ bloody requests a day! They're all so...good...tempting... so unique...NO NO NO! Bad Neon! Resist! *Slaps self* Think of the fans!
Yes, this is Season Four.
Yes, that was the Sept of Baelor.
Yes, I've been resurrected/reincarnated as Joffrey. In full view of a lot of people. You thought "I Am Not A Dragon" was going to be nuts? This'll be off the bloody rails.
So, in the immortal words of Atlas...
...Review...would you kindly? And of course, enjoy the preview! 'Tis a pair! Amusing! And a surprise!
(Preview)
"I want to feel safe, Your Grace."
"And do you? Feel safe?"
"You grace."
"None of that, Margaery. Call me Joffrey."
Her brow rose.
Alarm flitted in the back of my mind. Oh, dear. I'd nearly forgotten; this was Margaery I was dealing with. Smooth as creme and sharp as a thorn. She knew "something" was
Bugger.
I planted a hand against my face to stop the smile.
Cersei might be a vicious woman, but she loved her children. She was my mum.
Oh god, I swore soft. I'm thinking of her as my mother already. This...bodes poorly for me.
...you want to use a sword."
I could FEEL Jaime staring holes into me, even with my back turned.
"I died." my hand rose my throat, this time in unfeigned fear. "They won't stop until I'm dead. So I have to be able to protect myself."
I turned a look on him and he sputtered. At the end of the day, Jaime wasn't a bad man. "Oh. Well. Yes, of course. I could show you the basic forms, at least."
I held back a smile.
Gotcha.
R&R! =D