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 16: Home...For Now

A week into the southward journey, the royal party made camp in a broad clearing where a forest met the road. Fires bloomed in the twilight like orange flowers, tents rose from the grass, and the smell of cooking meat began to compete with the clean scent of pines and flowers.

Joffrey walked the perimeter, stretching the legs that had grown stiff after days in the saddle. The evening was mild, the sky a deepening purple overhead. His aimless steps carried him past the wheelhouses drawn up in a circle, and there he found her.

Sansa Stark sat on a folded blanket beside her family’s carriage, a book open in her lap. One hand rested on the silver-grey fur of her direwolf, stroking slowly. She hadn’t noticed him approach.

The wolf noticed.

Lady’s head lifted, golden eyes fixing on Joffrey with calm intelligence. No growl. No bared teeth. Just watchful awareness.

Sansa looked up, following her wolf’s gaze. ”Prince Joffrey!” She moved to rise, the book slipping.

”Don’t get up.” He gestured for her to stay and knelt a respectful distance away, extending his hand to the wolf. ”May I?”

Lady sniffed his fingers, her nose cold and wet. After a long moment, she gave a soft huff and settled her head back on her paws.

”She likes you,” Sansa said, surprise in her voice.

”Her name is Lady, yes?” At Sansa’s nod, he continued, ”An appropriate name. She seems the most proper of the litter.”

”She is.” Sansa smiled, feeling a bit shy, but also proud of the compliment. ”She’s very well-behaved.”

Joffrey studied the wolf, then the girl. ”These direwolves are remarkable creatures. They say they reflect their owners. Share something deeper than a common pet.” He met Sansa’s blue eyes. ”Can you feel it? The bond between you?”

Sansa’s brow furrowed prettily. ”I... I’m not certain what you mean. Lady obeys me. We’re close. But...”

”It may need time to mature.” Joffrey had theories about these wolves and the Stark children. Connections that ran deeper than blood, older than memory. Like a wizard’s familiar, but wilder. More primal.

Sansa looked puzzled, but let it pass. The Prince would sometimes say things that she didnt understand.

He settled onto the grass beside her, maintaining a respectful distance. ”You needn’t call me ’Your Grace’ every moment. Not when we’re away from court. I assume you know of the arrangement between our houses?”

The blush that flooded her cheeks was answer enough. ”We... we are to be married.” She said it as a prayer, wonder, and nerves became mingled.

”In time,” Joffrey said carefully. Far in the future, if the gods are kind, he added silently.

Sansa nodded, eyes downcast.

”Still, we might as well know each other better before then.” He offered his hand. ”Would you walk with me? I’m told there’s a pond nearby. Quite pretty in this light.”

Sansa glanced toward the camp, where Septa Mordane sat by a fire, her gaze fixed on them with hawkish attention. The woman gave a tiny, grudging nod.

”I would like that... Joffrey.” His name on her lips was tentative, a test.

He helped her rise. Lady rose too, a silent grey shadow.

Sansa’s smile faltered as two large figures materialized from behind a nearby tent. Her eyes widened.

Joffrey followed her gaze and sighed. ”These are Sandor Clegane and Ser Ilyn Payne.” He gestured to each. ”Sandor is my sworn shield. Ser Ilyn is the wet nurse my mother assigned to me.”

”Wet nurse?” Sansa’s confusion was genuine.

”Mother wasn’t pleased when I vanished into Winterfell’s crypts for a day. Decided one guard wasn’t enough to keep me in check.” He turned to the two men. ”You’ll stay here. Guard Lady.”

Sandor’s scarred face twisted. ”We’re meant to stay close.”

”And you’re meant to obey your prince. We’re walking to the pond. I have my sword. What do you imagine will happen?” He gestured to the treeline. ”A few minutes. That’s all. Your presence makes Lady Sansa uncomfortable. Especially him.” He nodded toward the silent, hollow-eyed Ser Ilyn.

Sandor’s jaw worked, but he finally grunted, ”Fine.”

”Wonderful. Let’s go before my wet nurse changes his mind.” Joffrey took Sansa’s arm and guided her away, leaving the two grim sentinels behind.

Sansa hid a giggle behind her hand.

The pond was a mirror of silver in the fading light, ringed by ancient oaks. The air was soft, peaceful.

”It’s beautiful,” Sansa breathed, drinking in the green. ”So much green everywhere. The North is beautiful too, but in a different way. Harsher.”

”The lack of snow does tend to change the palette.” Joffrey stood at the water’s edge, watching ripples spread from a jumping fish.

”What is King’s Landing like?” Sansa’s voice held the bright curiosity of youth, of stories read but never lived. ”I’ve heard so many tales. The tourneys, the ladies in their silks, the markets with goods from across the world...”

Joffrey hesitated. How to tell her? How to warn without crushing?

”It’s... not what the songs describe. You’ll like the Red Keep, I think. It’s grand and elegant, in its way. But the city...” He shook his head.

”What do yo—”

Shouts erupted from the trees ahead. The clash of wood on wood. Grunts of effort.

They hurried forward, pushing through a screen of brush, and found the pond’s far bank.

Arya Stark stood in a fighting stance, wooden sword raised, facing a stocky boy of similar age. They were locked in clumsy combat, blows landing on padded jerkins with satisfying thwacks.

”Arya?!” Sansa’s voice was scandalized. ”What are you doing?”

Arya froze, her sword dropping. ”What’s it look like? Mycah and I are training.” She puffed her chest out, proud as a peacock.

”You’re embarrassing me in front of the Prince! Stop this nonsense at once and act like a proper lady!”

”Joffrey!” Arya spotted him behind her sister and lit up like a candle. She ran to him, wooden sword still in hand. ”Teach us! Teach us to fight!”

”Arya! I told you not to address him so casually!” Sansa’s protest was ignored.

Joffrey looked at the fierce little girl, then at the boy who had dropped to his knees in panic. ”You want me to teach you? I’m a beginner myself.” He nodded toward the kneeling boy. ”And this is?”

”Your Grace!” The boy’s voice cracked.

”That’s Mycah. He’s the butcher’s boy. My friend.” Arya grabbed Joffrey’s sleeve. ”I don’t care if you’re a beginner! I heard you beat two of our soldiers at once. The golden cloaks won’t stop talking about it.”

Joffrey considered. Why not? ”All right. Show me what you can do.” He approached the boy. ”Mycah, may I borrow your sword?”

”Y-yes, Your Grace!” The boy thrust it forward like an offering.

Joffrey took it, hefted its weight, then faced Arya. ”Come on, then. Attack.”

Arya’s grin was feral. ”Haa!” She charged.

Three weeks later, the walls of King’s Landing rose from the horizon like a promise and a threat.

Joffrey rode at the head of the column, Arya Stark perched behind him on the horse, her small hands gripping his belt. She had attached herself to him during the journey with a persistence that amazed even him. Sansa despaired. Arya did not care.

”Look!” Arya pointed toward the distant city, her voice bright with excitement.

Joffrey nodded. ”Indeed...King’s Landing. We’ve arrived.”

Beside them, a grey shape loped through the tall grass, Nymeria, Arya’s direwolf, never straying far from her person.

”Go faster! I want to see!”

”We can’t, Arya. The guards must clear the way first.” He felt her pout without seeing it. Before she could argue, he continued, his voice dropping to a seriousness that silenced her. ”Listen to me. This city is not Winterfell. It’s filled with desperate people who would cut your purse or your throat for a single silver stag. Never wander the streets alone. Never leave the Red Keep without guards. Do you understand?”

Arya’s excitement dimmed, replaced by a child’s solemn attention. ”Yes. I understand. You sound like my father sometimes.”

”Think of me as your older brother instead. Now don’t worry. You’ll see plenty of the city soon enough. Probably more than you’ll want.” He slowed his horse, letting the rest of the column catch up.

A short moment later, the Hound, Ser Barristan, and a half-dozen guards rode alongside. The great gates of the Lion Gate loomed ahead.

”My Prince,” Barristan said, ”let us open the way for you.”

Joffrey glanced at the wolf. ”Arya, keep Nymeria close. Make sure she stays with you. These people have never seen such a beast.”

The gates swung open. Beyond, a sea of faces pressed against the line of guards, a roar of sound, and a wall of stench.

Even from this distance, Joffrey felt it...the weight of the city’s misery pressing against his senses like a physical thing. King’s Landing was a cesspit of suffering, and its people wore their desperation like a second skin.

How long will I stay here? The question surfaced again, unbidden. His attachment to these individuals was as thin as spider silk. His goals remained unchanged. He would not repeat his past mistakes....he would not rush, would not gamble everything on a single throw. But nor would he linger forever in this stinking cage.

He had studied. He had learned. This world held magic...ancient, wild, waiting to be claimed. The Citadel held secrets the maesters hoarded. The east held sorcerers and shadow-binders. The Wall itself was a monument to powers long forgotten.

I’m not ready yet. His magic grew stronger daily, his body harder, his skills sharper. But he lacked his old artifacts, his potions, his library. He needed more time.

But not forever.

”Whoa!” Arya’s exclamations pulled him back as they passed through the gates. The crowd pressed close, guards forcing them back. The noise was deafening.

”Is that a castle?” Arya pointed at the Great Sept’s marble dome.

”The Great Sept of Baelor. The Red Keep is beyond, on that hill.” He pointed to where the massive fortress crowned the city’s highest point.

The crowd’s mood was a mixed thing. Some cheered, faces bright with genuine loyalty. Others watched with flat, hateful eyes. Joffrey read them easily—the hungry, the angry, the desperate. The nobles feasted while they starved. It was natural for them to be hated by most.

Those armored guards were all that kept the knives from finding royal flesh.

”Agh! What is that?”

”A beast! Help!”

Joffrey bit back a smile. Nymeria was doing more than the guards to clear a path. Men and women shrank from the grey wolf, children wailed, mothers clutched their young. No one here had seen a wolf of such size. And it would grow larger still.

Arya was too busy gawking at the city to notice the terror she caused. Until the smell hit her.

”Ugh! What is that?” She clamped a hand over her nose.

”That, my lady, is King’s Landing.”

”It’s disgusting! Does it always smell like this?”

”Always,” Joffrey remembered Tyrion mentioning plans for sewers. He hoped the dwarf would hurry. The stench was an old enemy now.

The Red Keep grew larger with every step, its towers scraping the sky.

”Home sweet home,” Joffrey murmured.

Then, quieter, almost to himself: ”For now.”