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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 15: The Ride South
The Queen and her brother Jaime all but ran from the hall. Their hurry was poorly masked as concern for a stricken boy.
"So Bran will be all right?" Tommen asked, his young face bright with hope. He had played with the Stark boy a few times and found a friend.
"Apparently so," Tyrion replied, swirling his wine. "Quite the surprise. Maester Luwin must be rethinking his chains this morning."
"Not as surprised as our mother," Joffrey added, catching the dwarf's eye. A thin, knowing smile passed between them.
"Can we see him before we leave?" Myrcella asked with her usual sweet and innocent voice.
Joffrey shrugged. "We can ask Lord and Lady Stark. Though I make no promises on that front."
He turned to Tyrion. "So it's true? You're going to the Wall?"
"The Wall itself." Tyrion nodded, a glint of genuine excitement in his mismatched eyes. "I may never have another chance to see it. Eight thousand years of ice and legend. I'd be a fool to miss it."
"I'd like to see it too," Joffrey murmured, half to himself. "Built by Brandon the Builder, with the Children's magic woven into the ice. They say it's not just frozen water, and that it repels certain things. Certain creatures."
"Yes, I've read the tales aswell, my dear nephew." Tyrion's grin turned wry. "Built to keep out giants, spiders big as hounds, and all manner of monsters from the frozen north."
"You're too skeptical, Uncle." Joffrey took a slow drink. "Do you truly believe they raised a wall seven hundred feet high just to stop a few wildlings?"
Tyrion considered this. "I am a man who needs to see a thing to believe it. I've never seen these monsters. Have you?"
Joffrey's face grew still, his green eyes holding something old and cold. "Then pray you never do. Pray to all the gods you doubt that you never come to believe in them."
The words hung in the air, heavy as stone. Tyrion's smile faded, replaced by a searching look. "What do you—"
Joffrey stood, pushing his chair back. "I'm done. Going to get some air before we're all stuffed back into those rolling prisons." He gestured to the Hound. "Come, Sandor. Let's see if we can get a bit of exercise while we can."
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"Urgh! Damn it!" The Hound stumbled back, clutching his shoulder where Joffrey's practice blade had landed for the fifth time. "Stop hitting the same place!"
Joffrey lowered his sword, breathing hard but steady. An hour of solid sparring, and he felt only a pleasant burn in his muscles. Two months ago, he'd have been on his knees after five minutes.
Progress, he thought, satisfaction curling through him. Real progress.
It was more than training. It was a transformation. He'd pushed this soft, princely body to its limits and then used every tool at his disposal...healing charms to repair micro-tears overnight, strengthening enchantments woven into his muscles during sleep, knowledge of anatomy and physiology that would make a maester weep. All to accelerate the process in an unnatural manner.
Hermione would have been proud. Or horrified. Probably both.
"You tired, Sandor?" Joffrey asked, a hint of mockery in his voice.
"Shut your mouth." The Hound leaned against the fence, one arm draped over the wood, chest heaving. "I'm fine."
"Rest, then." Joffrey's eyes swept the yard, landing on two Stark guards watching from the shadows. "You two. Come here."
The men exchanged uncertain glances but approached. "Your Grace?"
Joffrey pointed at the practice ring. "In. My shield needs a breather. You'll help me train."
The Hound's growl was lost in the men's startled compliance.
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Sansa sat rigid in the hard wooden chair, her hands folded in her lap, watching her sister pace like a caged animal.
"Arya, stop. You're making my head ache."
"I can't help it!" Arya whirled, her small face fierce with frustration. "Why won't they let us see him? Is he truly awake? Is he all right?"
The question hung in the air. They'd rushed here at dawn, hearts pounding with desperate hope, only to be stopped at the door by Maester Luwin's stern command. Wait. Let me examine him first.
The door opened. Their father emerged, his long face softer than they'd seen it in days.
"Father!" They spoke as one.
"Can we see him now?" Arya grabbed his sleeve. "Is he okay?."
A ghost of a smile touched Ned Stark's solemn mouth. "Yes. Go. He's waiting for you."
They needed no more encouragement. They burst through the door to find Bran sitting up in bed, pale but awake, his Tully deep blue eyes blinking at their sudden entrance. Their mother sat beside him, her face a mask of exhausted joy, one hand resting on his. Maester Luwin stood at the foot of the bed, his chains softly clinking as he moved.
"Bran!" The name was a shared cry.
"Careful, careful," their mother cautioned as they surrounded the bed. "He's still healing."
"Are you all right?" Sansa asked, her voice trembling. "Does it hurt?"
Bran shook his head slowly, as if testing the motion. "I feel… strange. Light. But not hurt." He looked down at his own hands, flexing his fingers. "Everything feels… right."
"Maester Luwin says his back is healed," Catelyn said, wonder creeping into her voice. "Completely. The bones, the spine… all as they should be."
Arya's eyes went wide. "But you said—"
"I know what I said." The maester's voice was humble, awed. "I would stake my chain on what I believed. And I was wrong. It seems the gods had other plans."
"But which gods?" Arya asked, frowning. "The old or the new?"
No one had an answer.
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"Aren't you coming with us?" Myrcella stood before the wheelhouse, her face a picture of childish disappointment.
Joffrey shook his head, adjusting his grip on the reins. "I'll ride for a while. Stretch my legs before they wither."
His mother's head emerged from the wheelhouse window. "If you tire, send word. We'll stop."
"I will. Thank you, Mother." The words came easily now, empty courtesies that cost nothing.
Cersei was in better spirits than she'd been in days. Word had come that Bran Stark remembered nothing of his fall. The danger had passed. The secrets were safe.
"Come inside, Myrcella." She gestured imperiously. "Let's be free of this frozen wasteland."
Even Myrcella caught the disdain in her mother's voice. She climbed inside without argument.
The great procession began to move, a long serpent of men, horses, and wheelhouses winding away from Winterfell's ancient walls. Joffrey held back, letting the column pass, content to ride at the rear.
"Look! It's Joffrey!" Arya Stark's head popped out of a passing carriage, her small arm waving furiously.
Joffrey raised a hand in return, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. For reasons he couldn't fathom, the wild little girl had taken a shine to him.
"Arya!" Sansa's scandalized whisper carried on the wind. "You don't shout at the prince!"
The carriage rolled on, swallowing the girls' bickering.
"My Prince."
Joffrey turned. Lord Eddard Stark approached on a grey gelding, the King's heavier mount beside him.
"Lord Stark. I was glad to hear of your son's recovery." And he meant it. The boy's healing had been clean, the memory charm precise. No complications.
A rare, small smile touched Ned's somber face. "Thank you, Prince Joffrey. The gods were kind."
"Aye!" Robert boomed, clapping his old friend on the shoulder hard enough to make the horse sidestep. "The gods always did have a soft spot for you, Ned."
"Can he walk?" Joffrey asked.
Ned nodded. "A little. The maester says time will do the rest. He'll be chasing his brothers through the crypts before long." A pause. "He was disappointed he couldn't come south. Wants to be a knight, you see."
"A knight!" Robert laughed. "Then send him south when he's mended. I'll find a place for him. Barristan there could use a sharp lad to fetch his sword." He jerked a thumb at the Lord Commander, who maintained his stoic silence.
"An honor, surely." Ned's voice was careful. "But I fear his mother would not allow it. Not after nearly losing him."
The conversation drifted, the King and his Hand trading memories of youth and war. Joffrey rode beside them, listening more than speaking, storing away details like coins in a purse.
The Hound and the Kingsguard followed close behind. Further back, the column of guards from both houses stretched into the grey distance.
"Joffrey."
The use of his name, not 'boy' or 'lad', was rare enough to draw his attention. "Father?"
"I hear you handled two Stark men this morning. Together." Robert's eyes, bloodshot but sharp, studied him.
"Sparred with them. They were courteous enough to oblige."
Robert laughed again, a great, wheezing sound. "Don't get too proud. When we're back in the Red Keep, I'll take up my hammer and show you what a real fighter looks like. Old as I am, I've still got a few lessons in me."
Ned Stark's look was dubious. The King's bulk strained his saddle, and the warhammer that had crushed Rhaegar Targaryen had gathered dust for years. But he said nothing on the matter, as he didnt want to hurt his friend's pride.
The road stretched on. The sun began its slow arc toward the west.
At a fork in the road, the column halted. One path led north, toward the distant Wall. The other, the King's Road, snaked south through the Neck toward the familiar stink of King's Landing.
A small party prepared to depart. Jon Snow sat on a horse, his face carefully blank, a fur cloak pulled tight against a cold he hadn't yet reached. Tyrion Lannister sat on a smaller pony beside him, looking like a child's toy next to the solemn bastard.
Joffrey rode forward to say his farewells. They hadn't spoken often, he and his uncle, but he'd grown oddly fond of the dwarf's sharp wit and sharper eyes. Of all his new family, Tyrion was the only one whose company he didn't have to fake.
Lord Stark had dismounted, speaking quietly to his bastard son. Joffrey caught only fragments: write, be careful, your mother would want...then the words faded into private murmurs.
"What a waste," Joffrey said before Ned returned. "Joining the Night's Watch at such a young age."
Robert grunted in agreement. "Told Ned the same. The boy's got talent. Could make a name for himself in the South, even with the bastard stain. Instead, he'll freeze his cock off with rapists and exiles."
"Why would Lord Stark allow it?" Joffrey wondered aloud. It made no sense. A father who wanted the best for his son would have argued, persuaded, and forbidden. Instead, Ned had simply… let him go.
He filed the question away. Another mind to pick, when the time is right.
The column reformed. The northern party dwindled behind them, Jon Snow a small, dark figure growing smaller against the grey landscape.
The sun sank lower, painting the sky in shades of amber. Soon, they would need to camp.
Joffrey looked ahead at the endless road, then back at the fading North. This journey would be longer than the last. More tedious. More cramped.
But he had books. He had his thoughts. And he had the slow, patient work of becoming something more than a prince in a borrowed skin.
He settled into the saddle and rode south.
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