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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 22: A Miracle!
The massive beast moved with a hunter's patience, each deliberate step bringing it closer to the frozen girl. Its black fur rippled over muscles like coiled ropes, and its breath came in hot, wet gusts that steamed in the cool morning air.
"Protect the Prince!" one of the gold cloaks shouted, but his voice cracked with fear, and the other guards seemed more interested in finding solid ground behind them than in stepping between a prince and an angry bear.
Joffrey noticed Arya had gone still as stone, her grey eyes fixed on the approaching death. He reached back, grabbed her arm, and pulled her behind him in one smooth motion.
"It's all right," he said, his voice calm, almost bored. "I'll handle the beast. It's not the first time I've—"
His hand went to his hip. Where his sword should have been.
Nothing.
He'd never replaced the one he'd destroyed in the melee.
"Shit."
The bear roared. It was a sound that shook the very stones beneath their feet, and then...charged.
Magic it is, Joffrey thought.
The beast covered the distance in a heartbeat, a mountain of fur and teeth and claws. It rose up before him, towering on its hind legs, arms spread wide to embrace and destroy. Its roar washed over him, hot and fetid.
Joffrey extended his palm until it nearly touched the coarse fur of the creature's chest.
"Depulso." The word was barely a whisper, lost in the bear's thunder.
What happened next was too fast for anyone to follow.
Three gold cloaks, swords drawn, were mere feet away, their faces masks of terror and duty. Two handlers had secured spears and were sprinting toward the scene, shouting wordless warnings. Every person in that yard knew the same terrible truth: they would not reach in time. The prince would die. And if the bear didn't kill them all, the Queen's wrath surely would.
Then the bear was gone.
It flew backward as if struck by a giant's fist, a black blur against the grey sky. It crashed into its own cage—the heavy iron bars that had held it moments before, and kept going, through the back of the cage, through the wood of a cart beyond, until it lay still and broken under a pile of twisted metal and splintered timber.
Silence.
Not a sound in the entire yard. Not a breath. Not a whisper. Just a hundred pairs of eyes, open wider than any eyes should open, staring at the impossible.
Joffrey turned. Arya stood frozen, her face pale as milk, her lips parted in a question that wouldn't come.
He shook her gently. "We should go now."
"W-what..." The girl who never stopped talking, who always had a question or a comment, could only stammer. Her eyes kept moving from the wreckage of the cage to Joffrey's face and back again. "What happened?"
Joffrey scratched his head. Magic was real in this world, yes. He'd felt it in the crypts, in the godswood, in the strange cold of the deepest North.
But in Westeros, in the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, magic was a thing of fairy tales and old wives' tales. Those who practiced it were viewed with deep suspicion at best, and often with fear and hatred.
"A miracle!" a smallfolk woman shrieked from somewhere in the crowd.
"A miracle from the Seven!" another voice joined.
The gold cloaks, still on their feet, dropped to their knees. Their swords clattered on the cobblestones. "A miracle! The Warrior saved the Prince!"
This was the only conclusion they could reach to explain what they just witnessed.
Within moments, the entire yard was on its knees, a sea of bowed heads and whispered prayers. Men who had been ready to flee were now weeping with religious fervor.
Joffrey said nothing. He took Arya's hand and walked her away from the chaos, leaving the kneeling crowd behind.
Could have been worse, he thought as they rounded a corner and the sounds of prayer faded. At least they're not shouting for torches and stakes.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
By the next morning, the tale had grown. It always did. What had been a moment's work had become a full-blown divine intervention, with witnesses swearing they'd seen a glowing figure standing beside the prince, or a shaft of light from heaven striking the beast down, or any of a dozen other embellishments. The smallfolk loved their miracles.
Breakfast in the royal apartments was a strained affair.
"A miracle, hmm?" King Robert's eyes, bloodshot from the previous night's wine, studied his eldest son with an intensity that made the servants nervous.
Joffrey shrugged, reaching for another sausage. "Smallfolk talk. They always have."
Cersei's fork clattered against her plate. "Joffrey, this is serious. You could have been killed...again!" She turned her glare on the Hound, who stood in his usual place by the door. "And where were you during all of this? You're supposed to protect him!"
The Hound's scarred face tightened, but before he could respond—
"Don't blame Sandor." Joffrey's voice was mild. "I ordered him to stay with Sansa."
"What good is a sworn shield if you send him away?" Cersei's voice rose. "The Stark girl has her own guards!"
Joffrey shrugged again. "Fine. Sorry. Next time I'll let Sandor fight the bear."
The Hound was heard grumbling something to himself.
Tommen's eyes were wide as saucers. "Was it really a miracle, brother? Did the gods save you?"
"That's what people believe."
Myrcella leaned forward. "What actually happened?"
"Who knows? Maybe the bear tripped. It looked out of shape to me. Probably never got enough exercise in that cage."
Jaime, standing behind the King's chair as duty required, offered a thin smile. "Miracle or not, you're lucky to be alive."
Joffrey cut a sausage neatly in half. "Can we talk about something else? Surely there are more important matters in the kingdom."
Something flickered in Robert's eyes after his comment, like a shadow, quickly hidden. But Joffrey noted it and filed it away for later.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
"Prince Joffrey."
The voice was cold, formal, the voice of a man who used titles as shields. Joffrey turned from his path toward the training yard to find Lord Eddard Stark approaching, his long face set in its usual somber lines.
"Lord Stark. Good morning."
"Good morning, my prince." Ned paused, as if weighing words. "I've been meaning to speak with you."
Joffrey studied him. Even without Legilimency, he could see the weight pressing down on the man's shoulders. Something was tormenting the Lord of Winterfell. "Of course. Your office? We can talk there."
Ned nodded. "That would be—" He stopped, seemed to gather himself. "First, I wanted to thank you." He bowed. It was a formal bow, deep and sincere, unusual for this proud northern lord. "You saved my daughter's life yesterday."
"Are you sure it was me?" Joffrey allowed himself a small smile. "People are saying it was the gods."
"I don't know what happened." Ned's voice was steady. "And I don't need to know. I only know my Arya is safe, and for that, I am grateful."
Joffrey accepted the gratitude with a nod. "She's a good child. But if you want to keep her safe, tell her to stop chasing cats across rooftops."
Ned's face tightened. He hadn't known. "I will."
"Then lead the way, Lord Hand. Your office."
They had taken three steps when a young man in Lannister colors hurried up to them, breathless. "My Lord! Your Grace! I bring a message from the King. Your presence is requested in the Small Council chamber. Immediately."
Ned frowned. "Who called this meeting?"
"The King himself, my lord."
Joffrey and Ned exchanged a glance.
"Seems our conversation will have to wait," Joffrey said.
<><><><><><><><><><><><>
"THE WHORE IS PREGNANT!"
Robert's fists crashed against the table, making the wine cups jump and the lords flinch. His face was purple, the veins standing out on his neck like ropes.
Thank the gods he explained before he shouted, Joffrey thought dryly. Otherwise, he could have thought he was talking about another of his bastards.
Lord Stark's voice was cold, measured. "You're talking about murdering a child."
"Two, actually." Joffrey's interjection drew every eye in the room. He shrugged. "I mean... isn't this Daenerys only fifteen? The child she's carrying would make two."
Robert waved this away with a meaty hand. "I don't care! I want them both dead—mother and child. And that fool brother of hers, Viserys!" He pointed at Ned. "I warned you this would happen! And now look!"
"You want to send assassins to kill them?" Ned's voice rose for the first time. "You would dishonor yourself."
"Dishonor?" Robert laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "I have SEVEN KINGDOMS to rule, Ned! Seven! What do I care for honor?"
"You want to murder a child because the Spider heard a rumor?"
"It's no rumor, my lord." Varys's voice was silk, smooth and untroubled. "The princess is with child. My sources are certain."
Joffrey watched the eunuch with new interest. He reached out with his mind, a feather-light touch against Varys's surface thoughts. Images flickered: a carefully planted story, a calculated move, a long game being played with living pieces. The spider was weaving, as always.
Varys seemed to notice his stare and immediately looked away, hiding his primal fear from him.
Devious, Joffrey thought. Very devious.
The council debated. If it could be called a debate, with Robert roaring and Ned refusing to bend. Varys offered careful words. Littlefinger watched with amused detachment. Pycelle mumbled about precedents. Renly looked bored.
In the end, it was as Joffrey had expected. Ned Stark, his honor intact but his position impossible, renounced the Handship he'd never wanted and walked out.
A foolish decision, Joffrey reflected. The Starks had few enough allies in this viper's nest. Now they'd antagonized the one man who might have protected them.
Robert's rage found new life. He shouted, threatened, promised violence against his oldest friend. The lords of the council sat in uncomfortable silence, waiting for the storm to pass.
"Your Grace, if I may—" Varys began.
"LEAVE!" Robert's roar cut him off. "All of you. OUT."
They rose quickly, eager to escape. But as Joffrey made to follow, Robert spoke again.
"Not you. Stay."
Joffrey resumed his seat as the doors closed behind the last council member. Robert's rage had subsided somewhat, replaced by a heavy weariness.
"What do you think?" the King asked.
"You want my opinion? Instead of your official advisors?"
Robert's eyes narrowed. "If I didn't want to hear it, I wouldn't have asked. You're my heir. One day you'll sit where I sit. What would you do?"
Joffrey considered. "I'd watch them. But I wouldn't send assassins. Not yet."
"You don't think they're a threat? Or are you too honorable to kill a babe, like your precious Lord Stark?"
"You misunderstand my intentions. Daenerys and her unborn child are a very small threat." Joffrey spoke calmly, as if discussing the weather. "The Dothraki fear the sea. They won't cross it. And even if they did, no house would rally to a girl with a horde of savages, regardless of her last name."
"There are traitors enough who'd love my head on a pike," Robert growled.
"Perhaps. But they wouldn't risk everything for a girl they've never seen. Now..." Joffrey paused. "If she had dragons, that would be different. Dragons were the only reason the Targaryens ruled for three hundred years."
"And her fool brother?"
"Viserys." Joffrey nodded. "Him, I'd watch more closely. A male heir, son of the last king...he could be a banner for the discontented. If he came in secret, started building support..." He shrugged. "Dorne would be the place to watch. The Martells still remember what happened to Elia, and Prince Doran even has a daughter of appropriate age that he could marry to Viserys. They must be waiting for a chance."
Robert stared at him, surprise evident on his flushed face. He hadn't expected such a considered answer.
"Then we should kill him now," the King said.
Joffrey's tone was thoughtful. "Why not use the spider informant?. Offer this Jorah Mormont a full pardon, as well as some small lordship in the south, far away from Lord Stark and the rest of the house that exiled him."
Ideally, he would suggest hiring one of those assassins from Bravos, but the Kingdom's finances were not doing too well at the moment.
Robert considered. "I'll speak with Varys."
Joffrey glanced at the Hand's pin, still lying on the table where Ned had left it. He slid it toward the King. "And if you want my opinion on something else... You should try to mend things with Lord Stark."
Robert's face darkened instantly. "He defied me! Insulted me to my face!"
"Yes. Because he's one of the few people in this shithole who actually cares about you." Joffrey rose. "You shouldn't push those away."
He left the King alone with his thoughts and the small silver pin gleaming on the table.
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