Game of Thrones(ASOIAF): The Sorcerer Prince

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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 30: So It Begins

Three days after concluding his arrangements with Tyrion, the city erupted with the news that sent ripples through every corner of the Red Keep. The King had returned from his hunt. But he had not returned as a king should, mounted on his great warhorse, roaring for wine and women, slapping backs and telling crude jokes.

He returned on a litter, pale and broken, a massive wound in his belly wrapped in blood-soaked bandages.

An accident, they said. A boar. The great beast had gored him before the hunters could react.

Joffrey stood in the corridor outside the King’s chambers, watching the maesters come and go with their potions and their worried faces. Maester Pycelle emerged at last, his ancient face sagging with the weight of bad news.

”Prince Joffrey.” The old man’s voice trembled. ”His Grace has asked for you. You may enter, but... prepare yourself. He has only hours, perhaps a day at most.”

Beside Joffrey, Myrcella let out a sob. Tears streamed down her cheeks, catching the torchlight like tiny gems. ”Is Father really going to...”

Joffrey looked at his sister, his sweet, innocent sister who had no idea that the man dying in that room shared none of her blood. Her real father stood only a few feet away, a golden statue in a white cloak, his face carefully blank.

”I’ll be right back,” Joffrey told her softly. He squeezed her hand once, then released it and pushed through the door.

The smell hit him first, that sickly-sweet odor of dying flesh, of blood turning foul inside a living body, of milk of the poppy and shit and fear. It was a smell he knew well from a hundred battlefields in a life that no longer existed...it was the smell of death.

Lord Eddard Stark sat in a chair by the window, his long face drawn with grief and guilt. He looked up as Joffrey entered, their eyes meeting for a brief, charged moment. A polite nod. Nothing more.

They had not spoken since that night in the Tower of the Hand. Joffrey had nothing left to say to this man who had doomed them all with his honor. But as he passed, he let his look carry the message that words could not.

You did this. You lit the fire. Now we will see everything burn.

”J-Joff...” The voice from the bed was a whisper, a shadow of the thunder that had once roared across the Seven Kingdoms.

Joffrey sat in the chair beside the bed. King Robert Baratheon lay before him, diminished, shrunken, a mountain brought low by a pig. His face was grey as ash, his beard matted with blood and sweat, his eyes sunk deep in their sockets.

”I’m here, Father.” The false word came easily enough. A kindness for a dying man.

”That boar...” Robert tried to laugh, but it turned into a cough that sprayed pink froth across his lips. ”Got me good. Didn’t think anything could... still got the tusk that did it. Going to have it mounted...”

”Yes.” Joffrey kept his voice calm. ”It must have been a mighty beast to bring down Robert Baratheon.”

A ghost of a smile touched the dying King’s face. ”You’ve changed, boy. Changed so much I barely know you.”

”We all change, Father. Sooner or later.”

Robert’s eyes grew distant, self-pity clouding his features. ”I changed for the worse. Look at me. Fat. Drunk. Worthless.” He gripped Joffrey’s sleeve with surprising strength. ”But you... you’re better. Stronger. People will remember you, son. Not like me.”

”People will remember your best qualities.” Joffrey meant it, mostly. Compared to some of the mad Targaryens who had sat on the Iron Throne, Robert had been almost tolerable. He’d let the realm govern itself, spent coin on tourneys instead of wars, killed no one who didn’t deserve it...or at least, no one who didn’t annoy him personally.

Robert laughed again, weaker this time. ”I was a shit king. But you...” He pulled Joffrey closer, his grip fierce despite his weakness. ”You’ll be better. Carry on our house. Make them remember the Baratheons.”

His breathing was growing ragged, his words coming in shorter bursts.

”Rest now,” Joffrey said. ”Don’t strain yourself.”

”No. Need to say this.” Robert pointed a shaking finger at Ned. ”Ned. Write this down.”

And so Ned wrote, his quill scratching against parchment as Robert dictated his final wishes, the typical business of dying kings. Settlements. Bequests. Recognition of loyal service.

Then the words that mattered.

”I appoint Ned Stark... as Protector of the Realm... until my son Joffrey is ready to rule.”

The quill paused. Ned’s hand trembled almost imperceptibly. Then he wrote on, sealing the words with the King’s own hand, pressing the royal seal into hot wax. Except that he wrote the word ”Heir” instead of ”Joffrey”. A last ditch efford to make things right.

”It is done,” Ned said, his voice hollow.

”It is done,” Robert echoed. His eyes found Ned’s, and for a moment, the ghost of the friends they’d been flickered between them. ”Teach him to rule, Ned. Promise me.”

Joffrey watched the conflict play across Ned’s face, the knowledge he carried, the truth he could not speak, the duty that warred with honor.

”I... I will do what I can,” Ned managed.

Robert nodded, satisfied or too tired to press further. ”Now give me something for the pain, and let me die in peace.”

Joffrey rose. ”I’ll call the maester.” He looked down at the broken king one last time, then walked out without looking back.

Behind him, he heard the soft sounds of a man taking leave of his oldest friend.

Later, perhaps someday, perhaps never...Ned Stark might learn the full truth of what Joffrey was and what he was capable of doing. If that day came, Joffrey knew the question that would follow.

Why didn’t you save him? You could have. You healed my son. Why not the King?

The answer would disappoint the honorable Lord Stark, Joffrey knew. Because the truth was simple: saving Robert served no purpose. It would complicate everything. It would expose abilities Joffrey was not ready to reveal. It would tie him to this throne, this city, this life when he had already made other plans.

At this point, Robert Baratheon was more useful dead. Alive, he was a complication.

So Joffrey called for Pycelle, watched the old man administer a dose of milk of the poppy large enough to fell an ox, and sat beside Myrcella in the cold corridor, waiting for the end.

The funeral would take four days to prepare. A king’s farewell was no small thing. There were ceremonies to plan, delegations to invite, a sept to prepare, a hundred details that kept the castle buzzing with activity long into the night.

That first night, as the castle hummed with preparation and conspiracy, Joffrey lay in his bed staring at the ceiling.

Lord Stark would move against them. His honor would permit nothing less. He knew the truth of Joffrey’s birth now, or thought he did, and he would never let a bastard sit on the Iron Throne while trueborn claimants lived.

Cersei would move against him. She would never surrender the power she’d spent decades accumulating. She would fight, and kill, and burn the city to the ground if necessary, before she let the northern lord take her children’s birthright.

The war was here. The spark needed only to catch.

Joffrey closed his eyes and slept, untroubled. He had made his move; now he had to wait.

Dawn came early, and with it, a pounding on his door that threatened to break it from its hinges.

Joffrey was already awake, already dressed, his sword already belted at his waist. He opened the door to find Ser Boros Blount in full armor, his face flushed with importance.

”Prince Joffrey.” The knight bowed. ”I’ve been appointed as your shield. The Queen has given Ser Ilyn other duties.”

”Has she now?” Joffrey raised an eyebrow. His mother had been busy. ”She might have mentioned it.”

”I’m to escort you to the throne room at once. An important meeting requires your presence.”

”Already?” Joffrey fell into step beside him. ”Haven’t even broken my fast. The King’s body must still be warm.”

Boros said nothing, his face carefully blank.

They hadn’t walked far when Joffrey spotted a white cloak and three gold cloaks climbing the stairs toward the Tower of the Hand. Ser Meryn Trant, by the look of him.

”Where are they going?” Joffrey wondered aloud. Lord Stark would be in the throne room by now, surely. Which meant those men could only be seeking something, or someone else.

Hostages, he realized. Mother means to secure the Stark girls.

”Your Grace, this way,” Boros insisted. ”We mustn’t keep them waiting.”

”Wait here.” Joffrey took off at a run up the stairs, ignoring Boros’s sputtered protests.

He climbed fast, his boots barely touching the stones, his hand resting on his sword hilt. The sounds of armored men grew louder ahead.

He found the first body at the top of the stairs; it belonged to Septa Mordane, her throat slashed, her corpse tossed aside like garbage. The wound was at least several minutes old, so it was not caused by the men he had just seen. The battle had already started.

More bodies lay beyond. Stark men in their grey wool, cut down defending their charges, and a few Lannister ones as well.

Then a scream. A voice he knew.

It was Arya.

Joffrey ran.

He burst into a large chamber to find a scene frozen in tension. Ser Meryn Trant and two gold cloaks faced off against a lean man with a peculiar sword, a wooden practice blade, held in a stance Joffrey didn’t recognize. Behind them, pressed against the wall, stood Arya Stark, her face white with terror.

”Girl,” the lean man said, his accent thick, musical. ”What do we say to the God of Death?”

”Oh, this must be your dancing teacher,” Joffrey spoke loud enough for everyone to hear.

All heads turned as he entered. Arya’s face lit with desperate hope. ”Joffrey!”

Arya called for him, and the guards stared at him with shock while Boros Blount almost tripped over while trying to enter the room.

Joffrey pushed past the guards, ignoring their shocked expressions, and looked at her. ”Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, grabbing his hand with both of hers. ”They’re going to kill him! Please!”

Joffrey straightened, turning to face the armed men. His eyes swept over them, cold, calm, utterly unafraid. ”And why would they do that?”

The gold cloaks suddenly found the floor fascinating. Ser Meryn puffed up, his hand on his sword. ”Your Grace. We’re following orders. The Queen commanded us to secure Lord Stark’s daughters. By any means necessary. This man interfered.”

”Of course he did.” Joffrey’s voice was mild. ”It’s his job.” He looked at the Braavosi. ”Your name?”

”Syrio Forel.” The man hadn’t lowered his blade. ”Former First Sword to the Sealord of Braavos.”

”Impressive. How did Lord Stark convince you to come here and teach children?” Joffrey shook his head. ”Never mind. We’ll discuss it another time.” He looked at Arya. ”Do you trust me?”

She nodded without hesitation.

He looked at Syrio. ”Can you trust her judgment?. I will keep her safe.”

The Braavosi studied him for a long moment, then slowly lowered his wooden sword.

”There.” Joffrey turned to the guards. ”Problem solved.”

”We still need to arrest him!” Meryn Trant’s face was red with frustration.

”On what charges?” Joffrey’s voice hardened. ”Defending a child under his charge from armed men? I don’t think so. But I’ll make this simple for you.” He stepped closer, his eyes boring into Meryn’s. ”Your Prince orders you to let him go.”

”But—”

Joffrey’s gaze stopped him cold. Something in those green eyes made the knight’s objections die in his throat.

He then pointed at one of the gold cloaks. ”Your sword.”

”Your Grace?” The man hesitated.

”Now.”

Trembling, the guard handed over his longsword. Joffrey tossed it to Syrio, who caught it smoothly.

”I’ve told these men to let you go, but I can’t speak for every guard in this castle. Do what you must to survive.” He reached into his purse and tossed a handful of gold coins. ”That should buy passage back to Braavos, if you make it to the docks.”

Syrio caught the coins one-handed, never taking his eyes off Joffrey. ”You are... not what I expected, little prince.”

”Few people are, these days.” Joffrey smiled. ”Go. Before they change their minds.”

Syrio looked at Arya one last time, a long, meaningful look that carried the weight of all the lessons he’d tried to teach her. Then he was gone, out the window and onto the rooftops, moving with the grace of a cat.

Arya’s lower lip trembled. ”I wanted him to come with me. To Winterfell.”

”If he makes it out of the city, there will always be another chance to see him.” Joffrey took her hand. ”Now. Let’s go find your sister.”

He walked out without looking back, Arya’s small hand clasped in his. Behind him, the guards had no choice but to follow.

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