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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 10: Rob's Duel
Robb Stark glanced over his shoulder, a frown creasing his brow. "Does he have to follow you everywhere?"
Joffrey didn't need to look to know he meant the dark, silent shape a dozen paces behind them. "Apparently. Except for my bedchamber, the privy, and the library. Those are my sanctuaries."
A low grumble came from the Hound, like distant thunder.
"Sounds… stressful," Robb said, shaking his head. "Here, we're allowed to go about without an armed shadow."
"Lucky you," Joffrey shrugged. "Just pretend he's part of the scenery. He won't mind."
"I'll try." Robb pointed towards a long, timber-framed building. "That's the guest house. That's where you'll be staying. Behind i—"
"Your Grace." The Hound's voice cut through the cold air, rough as a file on stone.
Both boys turned. The scarred man's eyes were fixed on Robb.
"You address the Prince as 'Your Grace', or 'Prince Joffrey'. Not as 'you'."
Robb's cheeks coloured. "Ah. Right. My apologies, Your Grace. Please don't tell my mother. She'd have my hide after all those etiquette lessons we went through in preparation for the King's visit."
"It's fine," Joffrey said, waving a dismissive hand. He cared nothing for titles, but others did. The world ran on such things. "Don't worry about it."
"What I was saying," Robb continued, regaining his composure, "Is that behind the guest house is the Godswood. I know you southerners pray to the Seven, but it's a sight worth seeing. Peaceful and beautiful."
"A Godswood," Joffrey said, his interest sharpening. He'd read of them. Places of the Old Gods, raised by the First Men and the Children of the Forest. There is one in the Red Keep, however, he felt nothing special while visinting and he had a good idea as to why. "Do you have a weirwood? One of those white trees with the red leaves?"
"We do!" Robb's face lit up, proud of this piece of his home. "It's my father's favourite place. He goes there to think, when he has time."
"I'd like to—hmm?" Joffrey stopped, his senses prickling. He looked around the stone-edged yard. "Someone's following us."
Robb followed his gaze, then chuckled softly. "Ah. That's just Arya. She's curious about you. We've been hearing tales of the King and his family ever since we learned you were coming."
Joffrey turned and walked towards the corner where a small, dark-haired head had just vanished behind a wall.
He found Arya Stark pressed flat against the cold stone, a rusted iron helmet several sizes too large pulled down over her eyes.
"Hello there," he said.
"I wasn't doing anything!" she declared, her voice muffled by the helmet.
"I know you weren't. Why the helmet?"
"I borrowed it from a guard," she said, lifting it off to reveal a fierce, pointed little face. Her grey eyes were wide. "Do you like it?"
"Sure." Joffrey's eyes shifted to a stack of ale barrels nearby. "Can I ask you something?"
"What is it? Mother says we're not to bother you."
"You're not bothering me." He nodded towards the barrels. "Why is your sister hiding behind those? Are you two playing a game?"
A sharp gasp came from behind the casks. Arya burst into laughter. "I told you not to hide there!"
Sansa Stark emerged, smoothing her skirts, her face the colour of a summer rose. "Your Grace," she said, dipping into a flawless curtsy. Her Tully-blue eyes were mortified.
"Well, she has the manners, at least," Robb said, coming up behind Joffrey. "But not the sense to pick a better hiding spot to spy on the Prince."
"We weren't spying!" Sansa insisted, her blush deepening.
"We were just curious," Arya blurted out, then clamped her mouth shut as Joffrey looked at her.
"Curious about what?" Joffrey asked.
Robb answered for them. "I believe they wanted to see what sort of prince you are. We've heard… mixed things from the capital."
"Robb, dont say that!" Sansa looked horrified.
"Yes," Joffrey said, a faint, wry smile touching his lips. "I imagine you have."
"My father says not to heed rumours," Robb stated, his young voice full of northern pride. "He says to judge a man by his own deeds."
"Is that why you offered to show me the castle?" Joffrey saw the flicker of embarrassment on Robb's face. His ruse was transparent.
"Does Your Grace not wish to continue?" Robb asked, a touch defensively.
Joffrey shrugged. "Let's keep going. I'm sure there's much more to see."
"Can we come too?" Arya asked, hopping from one foot to the other.
Robb looked from his wild sister to his proper one, who was trying very hard not to look hopeful. He turned to Joffrey with a grin. "If the Prince doesn't mind."
"The Prince doesn't," said Joffrey.
"Who's that?" Arya asked, finally noticing the hulking figure in plate and mail who had moved to lean against a nearby archway.
"Arya, don't point! It's rude," Sansa chided.
"That," Joffrey said, "is the Hound."
"Like a dog?" Arya stared up at the man, unafraid. "His helmet has a dog on it too!"
"It's my family's sigil," Sandor Clegane growled from the shadows. "I didn't choose it."
"I'm sorry for my sister, Ser… um… Hound," Sansa said, offering another small, polite dip of her head.
"We should go," Robb suggested. "We haven't much time before we're all expected in the hall."
The tour resumed, now with two silent, watchful shadows—one a scarred knight, the other a pair of Stark girls trying not to giggle.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
The welcoming feast that night was a roaring, smoky, meat-scented affair in Winterfell's Great Hall. Four long tables groaned under the weight of the hospitality; the roasted pigs, glazed with honey, sat as centrepieces, their skins crackled to perfection.
Joffrey sat at the high table, raised a step above the others—a marker of status as important as any crown. Beside him were the King, the Queen, Tommen, and Myrcella, and across from them, Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark. The Stark children sat at a table just below, close enough for conversation but separated by that unbreachable step.
The dinner passed with stiff courtesy and forced smiles until King Robert, deep in his cups, reached out and snagged a passing serving wench by the wrist. With a boisterous laugh, he pulled her squealing into his lap, his hands roaming over her body with crude familiarity.
The hall fell into a strained, silent horror. Cersei stared straight ahead, her face a mask of frozen contempt, her knuckles white around her goblet.
Ned Stark looked as if he'd been struck. It was a brutal, ugly reminder of the world they lived in, played out before the children of both houses.
Joffrey looked down at his plate, his appetite gone.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
The courtyard of Winterfell the next morning was enveloped with freezing cold weather, but also excitement.
"Are you ready, Your Grace?" Robb Stark asked, settling into a low, balanced stance, a practice sword held firm in his hands.
Joffrey hefted his own blunted steel. "I am."
Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms, stood at the edge of the marked practice ring, his expression stern. "A friendly bout, lads. To first touch. No broken bones, or I'll rip both your ears."
His warning was aimed more at Robb, who was a year older and had been training since he could walk. Flanking Ser Rodrik were Bran Stark, his eyes wide, and Theon Greyjoy, the ward of Pyke, a mocking smirk already on his lips. Theon was a hostage, a living pledge against his father's future good behaviour, but he wore his captivity like a badge of cynical honour.
The Hound stood apart, a statue of dark iron, watching the proceedings.
And on the stone steps, partially hidden, were Arya and Sansa, watching intently.
"Your Grace," Robb said, a hint of formality returning, "why don't you make the first move? You are our guest."
Joffrey thought it a waste of time. He'd crossed blades with Barristan the Bold and survived the Hound's rage. A boy lordling, however promising, held little threat. But to refuse the invitation would be an insult. And he had little else to do.
He nodded, adjusted his grip, and moved.
Robb's eyes widened at the speed. He brought his sword up just in time to block the swing. Clang. But Joffrey didn't retreat. He stepped in, and as Sandor had taught him, his left fist shot out, burying itself in Robb's stomach just above the leather practice jerkin.
"Urg!." The air left Robb in a pained gasp. His guard faltered for a heartbeat. Joffrey hooked his blade behind Robb's and twisted, wrenching the sword from his grip. Before Robb could recover, the dull point of Joffrey's practice sword was resting against his throat.
"I believe I won this round."
Silence. Then the Hound's laugh, harsh and loud, shattered it. "Northern pups can't take a punch!"
The Lannister men-at-arms scattered around the yard roared with laughter, clapping and hooting. Their prince had won.
Joffrey stepped back, picked up Robb's fallen sword, and handed it back to him. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine!" Robb's face was flushed with humiliation, not pain. He took the sword, his jaw tight.
"Well done, Prince Joffrey," Ser Rodrik called, though his voice held a note of surprise.
"He punched me!" Robb protested, his northern pride stung. "That's not honourable!"
Now Theon howled with laughter. "Not honourable, he says!"
"Enough, Robb," Ser Rodrik said, his tone brooking no argument. "You lost. Take it with grace. I've taught you better."
"My apologies," Joffrey said, his voice level. "The rules weren't clear. We can go again. Swords only."
Robb nodded, his eyes burning with the need to redeem himself.
"One more," Ser Rodrik commanded. "Then we're done."
They circled. This time, Robb attacked first, a furious series of blows that drove Joffrey back. He was good, Joffrey had to admit. Better than he'd expected. There were no obvious openings, no clumsy mistakes. The boy had been trained well. Joffrey parried, retreated, his boots scuffing on the hard-packed earth.
A grim smile touched Robb's lips. Joffrey knew why. He was being herded, step by step, towards the wooden fence that marked the edge of the ring. Soon his back would be against the corner.
With a shout, Robb lunged, a powerful overhead chop meant to crush Joffrey's guard against the unyielding wood.
'Very skillful, but naive.' he may still be a newbie when it came to fighting with swords, but he was a magical war veteran with a tremendous amount of experience on the battlefield.
Joffrey didn't block. He dropped into a low crouch.
Robb's sword whistled over his head and slammed into the fence behind him. The dull edge bit deep into the wood and stuck fast. This would not worked well, had Rob been using real sharp steel.
In that frozen moment of surprise, Joffrey was already moving. He flowed around Robb like water, coming up behind him. He laid the flat of his blade gently on Robb's shoulder. "I believe I won again."
Robb let go of his lodged sword, his shoulders slumping. He stared at the ground. "I… lost."
The Lannister men cheered again, louder this time. The Stark loyalists in the yard stood in stunned silence.
"Whoa!" Arya's excited voice piped up from the steps. "Did you see that? He fights like Robb!"
Sansa had brought her hands to her flushed cheeks, her eyes shining. "He's just like the knights in the songs," she whispered, too low for anyone but her sister to hear. "He's so gallant."
Joffrey paid the cheers and stares no mind. He looked at Robb Stark, who was now retrieving his sword from the fence, his young face a storm of shame and frustration.
For a moment, he wondered what this young Lord's future would look like. Will this be an ally or an enemy for him to beat?.
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