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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 24: Sowing Conflict
"Ha!" Sandor's practice sword came down in a brutal arc. Joffrey caught it on his own blade, the impact shuddering up his arms. Another strike, same result. Again, again...a relentless assault that would have shattered a lesser fighter.
Joffrey let the blows come, deflecting each with controlled precision. He could have ended it in moments, as his body now responded with supernatural speed and strength, the result of weeks of silent magical enhancement layered atop brutal physical training. Muscles knitted and reinforced overnight. Reflexes honed to a razor's edge. In his old life, he'd never bothered with such things. Wizards had magic for bursts of speed, for moments of strength. Why suffer through endless drills and aching limbs when a simple charm could accomplish the same?
Because that charm won't save you when your magic fails, he reminded himself. Because this body needs to be a weapon itself, not just a vessel for power. He was not going to repeat the same mistakes from before.
The Hound pressed forward, grunting with effort. Joffrey let him.
Clang.
The impact sent Sandor stumbling back, his spine meeting the wooden fence with a crack. He slid down slightly, staring at the prince with eyes that held something new...not respect, exactly, but a dawning, wary recognition.
"You all right?" Joffrey asked, breathing steady.
Sandor's chest heaved. His scarred face twisted. "What... are you?"
Joffrey smiled slightly. "That's not a nice question, Sandor." As the person who had supervised his progression from the very beginning, the Hound was the first one to understand how ridiculously impossible it was.
The words hung in the cooling air. Joffrey's head turned, scanning the yard. The other guards who'd been training nearby had vanished. The sun had nearly set, painting the castle in long shadows and orange light. Silence, save for their breathing.
But not empty silence. The kind that prickles at the back of the neck.
Sandor felt it too. His grip on the practice sword tightened, his body coiling. He opened his mouth—
Footsteps. Measured. Deliberate. Coming from the shadows.
Six men emerged from the darkness, moving with the confidence of hunters who've found their prey. Boiled leather armor reinforced with steel plates. Long dark cloaks. And on their chests, clear as day, was the sigil of House Stark. The direwolf.
"Well, well." The lead man grinned, revealing rotten teeth. "If it isn't the great Prince Joffrey."
"Practicing late," another added. "How dutiful."
They carried real swords. Real shields. No pretense of practice.
Joffrey and Sandor exchanged a glance. No words needed. They understood what this was.
"Greetings, sirs." Joffrey's voice was calm, almost bored. "A bit late for practice. Are you perhaps lost? This is a large castle."
The lead man kicked the wooden fence separating them, his steel-toed boot splintering through. "Lord Stark has a message for you, Prince." He stepped through the breach, sword rising. "Die!"
Joffrey caught the blow on his practice blade. The shock ran up his arm, but he held. He responded with a slash that the man's shield caught.
Behind him, Sandor roared. Four of the six had swarmed him, surrounding the big man in the practice yard. Steel clashed on steel as he fought for his life.
Four on him, two on me, Joffrey noted. They think I'm the easier target. He tried not to be too offended. After all, the Hound has earned his reputation over the years while Joffrey was just beginning to build his own.
The lead man pressed forward, shield high, while his shorter companion circled wide, trying to get behind Joffrey. A classic pincer. One holds attention, the other stabs from the rear.
Joffrey could have played with them. Could have let them exhaust themselves against his blade while he waited for openings. But behind him, Sandor's grunts of effort were punctuated by the ring of steel...four against one, and the Hound had only a practice sword and padded armor. This was too much, even for that man.
He'll die if I draw this out.
The attackers made their move...shield-man charging, the other lunging from behind.
Joffrey knew there was no time for games. He whispered, "Diffindo."
The practice blade, dull as butter, began to glow faintly. Enchanted by his magic, to reach an impossible level of sharpness. He stepped forward and swung vertically.
The sword passed through the iron shield as if it wasn't there. Through the arm behind it. Through the boiled leather beneath. The man stared at the stump where his hand had been, blood beginning to flow like a fountain.
Joffrey twisted his body, his sword a silver blur in the torchlight. It found the neck of the second man, passed through without resistance. The head flew, hit the ground, and rolled.
He turned back to the first man, who was still standing, still staring at his missing arm, blood painting the dirt beneath him. Joffrey drove the blade into his throat, pulled it free. The man fell without being able to comprehend what went wrong.
Behind him, Sandor had taken a wound...a stab to the leg, blood darkening his padding. But one of his attackers lay dead, leaving three.
"You fuckers!" Sandor roared, swinging wildly. "Come here! I'll kill all of you!"
The three hesitated, exchanged glances, then charged as one.
Only two made it. The third felt something strike the back of his helmet, then he felt nothing more.
Joffrey's blade had entered at the base of his skull and exited through his face.
Sandor screamed as a blade opened his arm. He was fighting for his life now, two opponents pressing him hard, his practice sword no match for their steel. Then one of them simply... stopped. Joffrey's sword took his head in a single, contemptuous stroke.
The last attacker saw it happen, his eyes going wide with disbelief. Sandor didn't waste the moment. He drove his practice sword...blunt, useless for cutting, but heavy as a club—into the man's chest with all his remaining strength. Ribs cracked. The man fell, dead before he hit the ground.
Silence.
Sandor stood swaying, blood dripping from leg and arm. His eyes swept the yard. There were six bodies, all dead. His gaze found Joffrey.
"You... killed them all?"
Joffrey didn't answer. His head turned, tracking something. It was a faint presence, there and gone. Someone had been watching from the shadows. As soon as he noticed them, they fled, vanishing beyond the range of his senses.
Then came the sounds...running feet, clanking armor, shouts. A dozen gold cloaks burst into the yard, swords drawn.
"The Prince!"
"He's over there!"
"Protect the Prince!"
Sandor spat blood. "Too late, you fools."
Joffrey remained still, mind working. Six men in Stark armor. A hidden watcher. Gold cloaks arrive just in time to "save" him, but not quite soon enough to save the Hound. If he hadn't killed the attackers so quickly, Sandor would be dead, and the guards would have found a prince under attack by Stark men.
The consequences wrote themselves. Stark men tried to kill the prince. Lord Stark declared a traitor. War.
Someone is using me as a piece in their game. And this time, he didn't think it was Lord Baelish.
"Your Grace!" The gold cloaks surrounded him, faces pale with fear and duty.
"I'm fine." Joffrey pointed at Sandor. "My shield is not. Take him to the maester. Now."
Two guards hurried to support the Hound, half-carrying him away.
"By the Seven!" A guard spotted the bodies...the severed heads, the blood-soaked ground. "Did the Hound do all this?"
"These men are wearing Stark armor!" another cried.
"Stark?"
"Treason!"
"We must tell the King!"
Joffrey watched the chaos unfold, his face unreadable. He will get to the bottom of this.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
Two hours later, the Red Keep seethed with rumor. By now, everyone had heard. The prince attacked, Stark men responsible, blood in the training yard. The truth mattered less than the tale.
The throne room blazed with torchlight. The King sat on the Iron Throne, his face a thundercloud. The Queen stood beside him, vibrating with fury. The Small Council occupied their places. And Lord Eddard Stark stood alone, surrounded by enemies.
"This is outrageous!" Cersei's voice cut through the murmurs. She pointed at Ned. "Why is he not in chains? He tried to murder my son!"
"Silence, woman!" Robert's roar shook the rafters. "We're here to find truth, not feed your rage."
"Surely you don't believe I would order such a thing." Ned's voice was steady, but his eyes moved warily over the council.
"I'm with Stark." Renly lounged in his seat, bored but interested. "This makes no sense. Why would he attack the prince in his own men's colors?"
"Are we certain those were Stark men?" Varys's voice was silk, his face troubled...a performance, perhaps, or genuine concern. Hard to tell with spiders.
"They wore the Stark sigil." Littlefinger's contribution was mild, almost helpful. "Very damning."
"My men are loyal to me." Ned's jaw tightened. "They would never—"
"Unless you ordered it." Cersei couldn't help herself.
Robert's glare promised violence, but before he could speak, the great doors opened. A dozen gold cloaks entered, carrying burdens wrapped in stained sheets.
"What is this?" Robert's eyes narrowed. "I said this was a private session."
Joffrey stepped forward. "I asked them to bring something."
The guards knelt, placing their burdens on the stone floor. Even wrapped, the shapes were unmistakable.
"Open them," Joffrey ordered.
The sheets fell away. Six corpses lay revealed, still wearing Stark armor. Two had been reassembled carefully, heads placed near bodies.
"I thought these were sent to the dungeons," Pycelle murmured.
"I countermanded that order." Joffrey walked among the bodies, indifferent to the blood and death. "Lord Stark knows the faces of his men. He can tell us who these were."
Ned approached without hesitation. He studied each face in turn, his expression hardening.
"Well?" Robert leaned forward on the Iron Throne. "Are they yours?"
Ned turned. "No, Your Grace. I've never seen these men in my life. They are not of my house."
"Nonsense!" Cersei's voice rose. "He's lying!"
Robert's fist slammed the arm of the throne. "Woman, if you cannot hold your tongue, I'll have you removed." The threat was real...his eyes promised it.
He descended the steps, his bulk moving with the remembered grace of a warrior. "You swear it? They're not yours?"
"I swear it by the old gods and the new." Ned met the King's gaze without flinching. "On my honor."
Robert studied his oldest friend for a long moment. Then he turned to Joffrey.
"And what do you think?. You are the one who was wronged after all."
Every eye in the room followed the King's gaze. The prince stood amid the dead, young and calm and utterly still, his green eyes reflecting torchlight like a cat's.
Joffrey looked at the corpses. At Ned. At the council members with their hidden agendas and careful masks. At the mother who loved him too much and the father who was learning to.
"What do I think?..." Joffrey took a pause and pretended to be pondering it.
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