Game of Thrones(ASOIAF): The Sorcerer Prince

Disclaimer:

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 09: Welcome to Winterfell

A.N. - From here on, the main character will mostly refer to himself as Joffrey, and the name of Harry Potter will only be used when truly necessary, to avoid confusion, since everyone in this world would call him as such. -

A moon’s turn had passed, measured in the rumble of wheels, and the slow greying of the southern green into the hard, cold colours of the North.

”Your Grace,” a Kingsguard called through the window of the massive wheelhouse, his breath frosting in the air. ”Our scouts have sighted Winterfell. The vanguard will reach the gates within the hour.”

”Finally,” Cersei Lannister groaned. A month in the rolling prison of the wheelhouse had left her body stiff, and her temper frayed. The contraption had not been made for the bone-jarring tracks north of the Neck, and the last week had been a special kind of torment.

Tommen and Myrcella shared her relief, their faces brightening at the news of an end to the journey.

A knock came at the opposite window. Myrcella pushed the heavy shutter open to find her brother Joffrey looking in from atop a chestnut horse. The northern wind had whipped colour into his cheeks, and he sat the saddle with an ease he had not possessed a month before.

”You heard? We’re almost there,” Joffrey said.

”We heard!” Tommen piped up, bouncing in his seat.

”Joff,” Myrcella asked, her tone sounding hopeful, ”may I ride with you? I want to see the castle as we come upon it.”

Over the long weeks, a fragile peace had settled between Joffrey and his younger siblings. He had done little to earn it beyond ceasing his old cruelties. For Tommen and Myrcella, desperate for a brother who was not a monster, his simple, calm indifference had been a gift. Myrcella, in particular, had latched onto him, sharing her love of knights-and-maidens tales, becoming much more trusting in the process.

Joffrey extended a hand. ”Come on, then.”

”Absolutely not!” Cersei surged forward, her face pale. ”Joffrey has only just learned to ride. He has no skill with a passenger.”

”I learn quickly,” Joffrey said, his tone even.

”Last week you nearly rode the horse into a bog!”

”That was a matter of terrain, not horsemanship. There is nothing here but dirt and trees.”

”And wolves!” Tommen added with excitement. ”I want to see one!”

”Mother, please…” Myrcella clasped her hands in a pleading gesture.

Cersei glared at her eldest son, then sighed in defeat. ”Go slowly.”

”Almost as slow as this wheelhouse, I promise.” Joffrey grinned for an instant. Before Cersei could protest further, he gripped Myrcella’s hand and hauled her through the window. She gave a startled gasp, then a peal of laughter as he settled her before him in the saddle. ”Hold on.”

”I said slowly, you promised!” Cersei’s shout was lost to the wind as Joffrey nudged the horse into a canter, leaving the lumbering caravan behind.

”Thank you,” Myrcella said, leaning back against him.

”You could have asked sooner. A month shut in with our mother is enough to make anyone desperate for open air.”

”It wasn’t so terrible…” Myrcella said, but her tone betrayed her.

”You are always too polite.” He guided the horse to the head of the column, passing lines of guards and men-at-arms who bowed their heads as he passed, while greeting them with a polite Prince Joffrey and Princess.

The month had offered few chances to practice his magical spells, surrounded as he was by watchful eyes at all times. So he had turned his focus to the physical arts.

He had sparred with every willing guardsman, knight, and squire in the retinue. Barristan Selmy had proven a patient, technical instructor, far more so than the Hound. Joffrey’s swordcraft had sharpened a lot during this time. He had also taken the chance to learn the bow or how to ride a horse.

Ahead, he saw the King riding beside their uncle Jaime, their cloaks dark against the grey landscape.

”Joffrey! There you are,” Robert called, turning in his saddle. His relationship with his son had warmed from frigid indifference to a gruff, cordial acknowledgment. Displaying a talent for arms had been a key that fit a lock in Robert Baratheon’s heart. Now the King mostly saw a reflection of his own lost youth, not the cruel boy he’d sired.

”Good morning, Father, and Uncle.” Joffrey offered his greetings, and Myrcella soon repeated them after.

Jaime’s emerald eyes flicked to Myrcella. ”I trust you are being careful with the Princess. You’re still green in the saddle.”

”The Queen said the same.” Responded Joffrey.

”Bah!” Robert waved a dismissive hand. ”What does she know? Coddling children makes them soft. Look at Tommen.” There was genuine regret in his voice, though he had done little himself to harden the boy.

Joffrey held his tongue. Arguing the point was useless, even though the man was now criticizing a small child of four. But he did not care enough.

Myrcella was smiling, taking in the bleak, beautiful expanse. ”Aren’t you cold?” Jaime asked her, noting her lack of a heavy cloak.

She blinked, as if noticing for the first time. ”No… I’m quite warm, actually.”

Of course, this was because Joffrey had cast a warming charm on her, but she would never be able to guess that.

”Truly?” Jaime looked surprised. ”Perhaps there’s a bit of wolf’s blood in you after all.”

”That bridge!” Robert boomed, pointing ahead to a stone span over a rushing stream. ”I remember it! We’re close now. Soon we’ll have Winterfell’s fire and Winterfell’s ale in our bellies. By the gods, I’ve waited long enough!”

When the great gates of Winterfell groaned shut behind them, the Stark household was arrayed in the main yard to receive them. The sight was a study in northern grimness and formality.

Robert was first off his horse, a bear of a man, clapping his old friend on the shoulders. ”Ned!”

Behind him, the Queen was handed down from the wheelhouse with all the ceremony her station demanded. Joffrey dismounted and helped Myrcella down, then joined his mother and Tommen as they approached the Starks.

”Your Grace,” Lord Eddard Stark bowed, his lady wife Catelyn following suit beside him. Their faces were respectful, but their eyes held the cautious reserve of the North. ”Winterfell is yours.”

Cersei offered a smile as thin as a knife-edge and empty words in return, then performed the same hollow ritual with the Stark children. Three boys stood in a line: Robb, near Joffrey’s age, straight-backed and watchful; Bran, younger, curious; and little Rickon, clinging to his mother’s skirts. Two girls: Sansa, beautiful already with her Tully red hair and blue eyes, curtsying with perfect grace; and Arya, a small, fierce thing with her father’s long face and wild, untamed eyes.

The Queen presented her own. Tommen mumbled and stared at his feet. Myrcella was a vision of royal courtesy, all gentle smiles and perfect dips.

”And my eldest son, Joffrey,” Cersei said, pushing him forward with a glance that commanded perfect behaviour.

He bowed, the motions of etiquette now well-practised. ”Lord Stark. Lady Stark.”

Lord Stark was beginning a greeting of his own when Joffrey’s eyes caught a movement in the shadow of a cart. ”Is that a wolf?”

All heads turned. From beneath a pile of feed sacks, a small, dark-furred head peered out, eyes glowing in the dim light.

”That one… belongs to my youngest, I believe,” Ned said, a touch of weariness in his voice.

”Shaggydog!” little Rickon cried, squirming free.

Ned gestured sharply, and a guardsman moved to corral the pup.

”You keep wolves within your walls?” Cersei’s voice was ice.

”They are but pups, Your Grace,” Catelyn said quickly. ”Quite harmless, and they stay in the godswood mostly.”

”Can I see them?” Tommen asked, his fear forgotten in his desire to see the adorable beast from a bit closer.

”Absolutely not,” Cersei snapped.

A tug on his sleeve made Joffrey look down. Arya Stark was staring up at him, her gaze direct and unblinking.

Before anyone could chastise her, she spoke. ”Where’s the Imp?”

”Arya!” Sansa’s horrified gasp was echoed by Catelyn’s sharp intake of breath.

”The Imp?” Joffrey feigned confusion for a heartbeat, then recalled the ugly nickname. ”You mean my uncle Tyrion?” He glanced back towards the line of carriages. The dwarf was nowhere to be seen.

The Queen’s glare shifted to Jaime. ”Where is he?”

Jaime had the grace to look uncomfortable. ”I believe I know where to find him. I’ll go fetch him.”

Cersei’s lips tightened into a white line. She knew, as they all did. Winterfell’s town had a brothel, and Tyrion Lannister had just endured a month on the road without the gentle touch of a woman.

”Ned,” Robert’s voice cut through the tension, heavy with a different grief. He clapped a hand on Stark’s shoulder. ”Take me to the crypts. I would see her.”

Ned’s solemn face grew graver. ”Now, Your Grace?”

”We’ve only just arrived,” Cersei protested, her voice taut. ”Surely the dead can wait.”

Robert ignored her, his eyes fixed on Ned. It was a request that was also a command. Everyone old enough to remember the Rebellion knew who ’her’ was. Lyanna Stark. The ghost that had haunted Robert’s marriage and his reign.

Joffrey watched his mother’s face. The brief flash of pain there, quickly buried under a mask of contempt, almost made him pity her. Almost.

As Robert and Ned strode away towards the ancient keep, an awkward silence fell over the yard.

Lady Catelyn broke it with practised grace. ”Your Grace, you must be weary. Please, come inside. Warm yourselves by the fire. We have food and drink prepared.”

Cersei inclined her head. ”You are too kind, Lady Stark. I would not reject such an offer.”

”Prince Joffrey,” Robb Stark stepped forward, a confident, assessing look in his eyes. ”If you’re not too tired from the road, I could show you the castle.”

”Not at all,” Joffrey said, and he meant it. Since passing through Winterfell’s gates, he had felt it—a faint, but undeniable, hum in the air. A residue of power. It was nothing like the vibrant magic of Hogwarts, but it was there, seeping from the ancient stones, sleeping in the dark earth of the Godswood. It was the first real trace of magic he’d found in this world. ”I’ve read much of Winterfell on my way here. I’m eager to see it in person.” He responded with a jovial tone.

And learn its secrets.

As he fell into step beside the young heir of Winterfell, Joffrey’s mind was already turning, his magical senses stretching out like unseen fingers. This cold, stern place held more than just stone and history. It held possibility.