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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 19: Trouble at the Joust
The godswood of the Red Keep was a pale imitation of the one in Winterfell. Oh, it was peaceful enough. The trickle of water from the fountain, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the soft moss beneath the trees.
But the heart tree was dead. Its carved face stared with empty eyes, and no magic stirred in its brittle branches. Joffrey sat with his back against its pale trunk, eyes closed, enjoying what little tranquility this viper's nest offered.
Footsteps on the path. Not as stealthy as Varys's, but more measured and deliberate. The stride of a man who walked with purpose.
Joffrey opened his eyes. Lord Eddard Stark stood a few paces away, his grey eyes fixed on the prince with an expression caught between surprise and wariness.
"Good morning, Lord Stark."
"Prince Joffrey." Ned's voice was carefully neutral, but there was a hint of surprise in it. "I did not expect to find you here."
A grey blur moved past the Lord of Winterfell, and he got startled for an instant. Then recognized the wolf moving silently toward the prince. "That's… Nymeria."
The direwolf reached Joffrey's side, sniffed his outstretched hand, and settled onto the moss with a heavy sigh, her head coming to rest against his thigh. Joffrey's fingers found the soft fur behind her ears.
"I like this place," Joffrey said. "I come here sometimes. To think, and to visit them." As if summoned, another grey shape emerged from the undergrowth. It was Lady, Sansa's wolf, more demure than her sister but no less trusting. She lay on his other side, her golden eyes half-closing in contentment.
Ned watched, his surprise poorly hidden now. These were no ordinary wolves. They were bonded to his daughters, suspicious of strangers, loyal only to their pack. Yet here they were, curled at a Baratheon prince's feet like common hounds.
"They trust you," he said, and there was wonder beneath the careful words.
"They do." Joffrey stroked Lady's silver fur. "And so do your daughters." He looked up, meeting Ned's grey eyes with his own green ones. "But you don't."
Ned stiffened. "Prince Joffrey—"
"It's all right." Joffrey's voice was calm, untroubled. "You shouldn't trust easily. Especially not here. This castle is full of snakes."
"I've been told that before."
"Then heed the warning. King's Landing is no place for an honorable man, Lord Stark."
Something flickered in Ned's eyes...suspicion, perhaps, or the first stirrings of understanding. "What do you mean by that?"
Joffrey smiled, a thin expression that didn't reach his eyes. "You're aiming your hostility at the wrong target. I may be the closest thing to an ally you have in this city."
The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words. Ned studied the prince's face, searching for mockery, for the cruel gleam he'd heard so much about. He found neither. Only a calm, ancient patience that sat strangely on such young features.
"Forgive me, Prince Joffrey." Ned's voice was slow and deliberate. "But my house and the Lannisters have never been close. And as you say, I shouldn't trust easily."
Joffrey rose, giving each wolf a final pat. They looked up at him with something like regret, then settled back into their places. "I imagine you came here to think in peace. I'll leave you to it. There's much to do."
He walked away without looking back, but his mind was working. In those brief moments of eye contact, he had skimmed the surface of Ned Stark's thoughts. A letter. A name. Lysa Arryn, the dead Hand's wife, writes to her sister Catelyn with terrible accusations. The Lannisters had murdered Jon Arryn. The Lannisters were plotting against the Starks.
Interesting, Joffrey thought as he left the godswood. He knew for a fact that neither his mother nor Jaime had killed the old hand. Whatever game was being played, someone was using the Starks as pieces. Varys was the obvious suspect...his Targaryen loyalties ran deep, but something didn't fit. The letter came from Lysa Arryn, who was Catelyn's sister and lived in the Eyrie, far from Varys's webs.
Perhaps a different snake, he mused. This city has more than one.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
"Is this seat taken?"
Sansa turned, her blue eyes widening. "No, I think—Joffrey?!"
He smiled and settled onto the bench beside her. Below, the tournament grounds spread out in a riot of colour and noise. With pavilions of every hue, knights in shining armor, crowds of smallfolk pressed against the barriers. The lists stretched long and wide, waiting for blood.
"Hey!" Arya waved from Sansa's other side, her enthusiasm undimmed by the Septa's constant glares. "You came to watch th—ouch!"
Septa Mordane's hand connected with the back of Arya's head. "Speak properly to the Prince!"
"Came to see the tourney?" Sansa asked quickly, desperate to cover her sister's rudeness.
"Just the joust." Joffrey settled back, scanning the field. "I have something to attend to after this is done."
"I'VE BEEN SITTING HERE FOR DAYS! START THE DAMN JOUST BEFORE I PISS MYSELF!"
The King's roar carried across the entire tournament grounds.
Joffrey winced. "How classy."
Two armored knights approached the royal box to pay their respects. Arya gasped.
"Whoa! That one's huge!"
Joffrey followed her gaze. The knight was a mountain of muscle and steel, seven feet tall if he was an inch, with a scarred face that promised violence. The sigil on his shield was unmistakable...three black dogs on a yellow field.
"Ser Gregor Clegane," Joffrey said. "The Mountain. There are only two Cleganes in that house. The other is my sworn shield."
Sansa's eyes went wide. "The Hound's brother? They don't seem to..."
"They don't get along," Joffrey finished. "Understatement of the year."
"And his opponent?" Sansa pointed at the other knight. A young, slender man, his silver armor gleaming like a mirror, a red cloak flowing behind him.
"No idea." Joffrey studied the young man. "But he's not going to win."
"I agree!" Arya nodded vigorously.
"HAVE AT IT ALREADY!" Robert bellowed.
The trumpets sounded. The knights lowered their lances and charged.
The impact was sickening. Gregor's lance took the young knight square in the throat, lifting him from his saddle and hurling him to the ground in a spray of blood. He lay still, his silver armor suddenly looking like a funeral shroud.
"He... he died?" Sansa's voice was small, horrified. "But I thought... it's just for sport..."
"That was brutal!" Arya's excitement was undimmed, earning another smack from the Septa.
"Jousts aren't meant to be fatal," Joffrey said, his eyes on the Mountain as he rode away, indifferent to the life he'd just taken. "But accidents happen." Not an accident, he thought. That was murder. But why?.
He filed the question away for now.
<><><><><><><><>
"Where's your father? This is supposed to be in his honor." Joffrey asked. Several jousts had taken place, but the Hand was still nowhere to be seen.
Sansa looked around, grateful for the distraction from the macabre spectacle. This experience was not like she had expected. "Now that you mention it..." She turned to the Septa. "Shouldn't Father be here?"
"I'm sure he'll come when he can." Septa Mordane's voice was tight. "Until then, mind your manners." Her eyes slid to Arya. "Both of you."
"I'm always well-behaved!" Arya protested. Then her face lit up. "Oh! There he is!"
Ned Stark climbed into the box, his long face apologetic. "Forgive the delay. I had to speak with..." He noticed Joffrey beside his daughter. "My Prince." Ned greeted him, more politely this time.
"Lord Stark." Joffrey nodded. "I thought you might miss your own tourney."
The comment earned him a hard look. "I never asked for this honor, Your Grace. I'd have been fine without it."
"Look!" Sansa's voice rose with excitement. "The Knight of Flowers!"
Loras Tyrell rode into the lists on a white horse, his armor gleaming, his rainbow cloak streaming behind him. He was beautiful in the way of knights from old songs. Young and fair and full of grace. Across the field, Gregor Clegane waited like a lump of angry meat.
Ser Loras approached the royal box and, with a flourish, handed a rose to Sansa. His smile was warm, his bow perfect...though his eyes lingered for a moment on someone further back in the stands.
"Thank you." Sansa took the rose, her cheeks flushing pink. Then she seemed to remember herself. Her eyes darted to Joffrey, wide with sudden anxiety.
"Should I be offended?," Joffrey wondered aloud, "That he gave a rose to my betrothed right in front of me?"
The crowd went very still. Lord Stark's hand tightened on the rail. Even Arya sensed the sudden tension.
"I'm sure he meant nothing by it, Prince Joffrey," Ned said carefully, remembering all the tales of this boy's temper.
Sansa's voice was a whisper. "I'm sorry, I took it without thinking..."
Joffrey looked at them, then laughed. "I was joking. I'm not that insecure." He reached for the rose. "Allow me."
He took the flower from Sansa's trembling fingers and ran his own along the stem. When he was done, not a single thorn remained. Gently, he tucked it into her hair, just above her ear. "Red blends a bit too much with your hair, but it doesn't look bad."
"Th-thank you." Sansa's blush could have heated the entire North.
The tension dissolved like morning mist. Lord Stark let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Around them, shoulders relaxed. Crisis averted.
They turned back to the lists just as the joust began.
And then the impossible happened.
Loras Tyrell's lance caught Gregor Clegane square in the chest. The Mountain fell like an avalanche, crashing to the ground with a sound that shook the stands.
"He won!" Sansa clapped her hands, her earlier horror forgotten in the thrill of the moment. The Knight of Flowers, triumphant over the monster.
"Quite crafty."
Joffrey glanced sideways. Lord Baelish had appeared behind them, one hand resting familiarly on Lord Stark's shoulder.
"Loras knew his mare was in heat," Littlefinger murmured. "Clegane's stallion went mad for her. Couldn't control him."
Sansa's face fell. She wanted to defend her new hero's honor, but couldn't find the words.
"That would be a dishonorable trick," Ned said, his voice cold. "Unless you have proof."
Baelish's smile was apologetic, insincere. "Oh, no need for proof, Lord Hand. Just a casual observation."
"AARGH!"
The roar drew their eyes back to the field. Gregor Clegane had found his feet. His horse lay dead beside him, split in two by a single blow from his enormous sword. Blood soaked the sand.
But he wasn't done. He stalked toward Loras Tyrell, who was dismounting near the King's box, unaware of the danger. The crowd screamed warnings. Loras turned, too late. Gregor's sword came up. Loras blocked the impact but was thrown off his horse and landed harshly on the ground.
The Mountain rushed at him, intent on finishing what he started. "Die!" He shouted as he raised his sword up, reading a vertical slash while Loras struggled to raise his shield from his awkward position.
"No!" Sansa's cry was lost in the general tumult.
However, the sword never came down.
And then Gregor screamed.
His hands, both hands, were covered in blood. Something had pierced his gauntlets, driven through steel and flesh alike. He dropped his sword, staring at his palms. A single red rose, its stem driven deep, protruded from each.
"What is this?!" His roar shook the stands. "WHO DID THIS?!"
Sandor Clegane was already on the field, placing himself between his brother and the fallen knight. But Gregor wasn't attacking. He was pulling at the rose, tearing his hands free, leaving bloody holes on them.
"That rose!" Sansa's hand flew to her hair. The flower was gone. She hadn't felt it leave. "It was... Joffrey put it there, and now it's..."
Arya stared at the prince. Ned stared at the prince. They had seen him take that rose, remove the thorns, and place it in Sansa's hair. They had seen no one else near enough to take it.
They couldnt know that for Joffrey, with something as simple as a basic transfiguration and a banishing charm, any harmless object could be immediately transformed into a deadly projectile.
"How..." Arya began.
"WHO DID THIS?!" Gregor bellowed again, searching the crowd with murder in his eyes.
Joffrey was about to rise. About to end this farce personally. But the King spoke first.
"ENOUGH!" Robert's voice cut through the chaos. "In the name of your King, I command you to stop! Accept your loss with dignity and walk away, Ser Gregor, or I'll have you in the dungeons before you can blink!"
The Mountain stood frozen, rage warring with survival instinct. Then, slowly, he bent, retrieved his sword, and stalked from the field without looking back.
The Kingsguard moved in, ready to enforce the command if needed.
Arya tugged Joffrey's sleeve. "How did you do that?"
"Well, it was—"
A horn sounded. Three long, urgent blasts.
Joffrey's face fell. "Uh oh."
The melee. He was late.
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