Joffrey 2, 295 AC

*Tap, tap, tap, tap,* his feet hit the stone floor of the red keep with an erratic rhythm as he fled the "reception" party for Lord Stark and his grandfather.

It was too much, all far too much. When his father had called King's landing a den of snakes how right he had been, but Joffrey doubted any man could even guess at how bad it was in truth, any man save him.

But what was worse, was the names of the serpents and their faces.

He had been happy initially, when his father had greeted him in the courtyard, for the big man's aura was green and yellow, vibrant in a way that most seemed to lack, and while he was shocked to find that it bore scars much like his own, it was a mercy of the seven that he found love for himself within the man's heart.

It was no great thing, there was more even for Lord Eddard, but the fact that it was there had been a balm, an affirmation that his worst fears were not true. 

Then they had come up to the reception, and he had found that his worse fears were scarce deep enough as it was. For while his father walked tall despite the wound on his soul, his mother, oh his mother…

Gold, like his grandfather, was the color of his mother. But twisted and sickened, selfish and bitter in a way that made him feel almost ill. It was one thing to see the rusted iron and blood that covered the vile Mountain, but that was expected, he was a monster and all knew it, but to face his own mother, the one who had held him and kept him for years, and be faced with such decay?

It was as if all that drove her was the love of herself. What love she had for him, and indeed for his Uncle, was sickly and narcissistic, like a rotten apple smeared over a mirror. 

Still, that was not what had broken him, though it did make him despair. No, what broke him were those smiling faces of greed and arrogance that filled the hall in their throngs and multitudes. Scarce among them was one who cared for any but themselves.

He might have been able to avert his eyes from his mother, but when near every lord and lady of the court was just as sickly, just as cruel in their own hearts. Even the Master of Coin, the man called Littlefinger was the same, and the color of his avarice was deeper and more bitter than most.

There were islands of justice true, much of the King'sguard was fair and honest, and his uncle still shown with polished gold in the places his mother had not touched, of which there were admittedly few, but still, the court presented itself as a pit of disease and wretched ambition, and he could not stand the sight of them.

He excused himself to the Privy before most of the guests even arrived, and in a significant breach of etiquette, fleeing the chamber, and indeed the grip of his mother. He ran downstairs, and through hallways, half-remembered.

He just kept running on those cold stone floors, for he did not want to be stopped, he did not want to have his memories scorned and shattered further.

He wanted to go back to Winterfell, to the North where the worst man in the castle was a wretched fishmonger, to where his biggest concern was wooing Lady Sansa, and I'm harassing the Greyjoy who's soul so resembled his own.

"Ah, Prince Joffrey, I had not thought to see you here." He heard a voice he thought half-familiar speak from behind him, and nearly jumped out of his skin. "I see you did not expect to see me either, but my office is just down the hall if the feast is not to your liking you could join me."

He turned to face a bald man, and he recognized him after a moment of thought as the one called the spider. 

The Spymaster's soul was a small thing, twisted by confusion, and almost constrained as if it was held in a jar. but not sickly, not vile in the way of the court upstairs. He could… he could deal with that.

"Y-yes." He nodded. "I think I can do that."

The Spymaster's smiled, and Joffrey saw that his soul shifted with it, a swirl of color hidden away as if it was kept inside of a lockbox. 

"Good, good, come then. The balcony is pleasantly shaded in the evening."

He had never been in the office of the master of whispers before, but it was not as he had imagined it. Rather than some dark and dank cell, it was a well kept and small chamber, covered in bookshelves full of small scrolls, stacked in dozens across the room, at its rear was a wide door, open and leading out onto a small balcony that faced the ocean, where chairs and a short table were set up.

"Normally I only end up entertaining Lord Balish or Maester Pycelle on occasion here. I doubt your Royal Father has even been to this part of the castle before." The eunuch observed, his soul twisting under his skin once again, as if even he did not know quite why he did what he did. "My role is normally not one that he pays a great deal of attention to."

"Ah… I understand?" Joffrey probed hesitantly. "My father is a warrior, so he is concerned mostly with war I think."

The man looked at him sharply for a moment, before a small smile crept up over his face. "Indeed, and an exceptional one at that. Though he has thankfully expanded his horizons somewhat since the war. He is a good king." 

Joffrey was at a bit of an impasse, looking at the man, it seemed that even he did not know his own purpose, so for once, the prince did not know how to respond. 

The Spymaster's smiled in a kindly manner, though Joffrey knew much better than to trust it.

"I…what?"

"Ah, it's easy to become confused in such matters, your grace, please, don't think too strongly of my words, while I can do my job well enough of collecting information, I have a had a poor read on politics in these days." The master of whispers sighed. "Many things have been… unpredictable, some in good ways, others bad, but you may rest assured that I will act in the good of the Kingdom as long as your father or indeed you allow me to do so."

"I...yes, I understand Lord Varys." He managed to get out, at last, nodding his head before something caught the corner of his eye.

He turned towards the water, and saw clouds in the far distance, crossing the horizon and beginning to paint the clear blue sky grey. On the water ahead of them, tall white sails.

"Oh my…" Varys said, following his gaze, and drawing up a far-eye. 

"It appears that the guests of honor will soon arrive."