Disclaimer:
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 41: The Storm
The workshop was dark and small, lit by a single oil lamp that cast more shadows than light.
Joffrey lifted the armor plates from the wooden box one by one, laying them on the table with the careful reverence of a man handling something precious. In the flickering glow, the dark steel seemed to drink the light.
Tobho Mott had outdone himself. The armor was beautiful...there was no other word for it. The breastplate was shaped to follow the contours of a young man's chest, not the barrel-chested form of a grown knight. The shoulder guards were articulated, designed to allow a full range of motion. The gauntlets were fitted to fingers that needed to grip a sword hilt, not crush a skull. Every piece had been crafted with an attention to detail that spoke of decades of experience, of a master armorer at the height of his powers.
And there, on the chest and shoulders, worked into the steel with a precision that must have taken hours, showing a carving of the roaring lion of House Lannister with its mouth open in a silent snarl, its golden eyes catching the lamplight.
Joffrey had not requested that addition. He had sent diagrams, measurements, and specifications. He had not asked for ornamentation, for house sigils, for anything that might identify the armor's wearer. But Mott had added them anyway, perhaps from habit, perhaps from pride, perhaps because he could not imagine crafting a suit of armor that did not honor the house that paid for it.
No matter, Joffrey thought, running his fingers over the raised metal. It will serve.
He lifted the breastplate, testing its weight. It was lighter than he had expected, far lighter than the ill-fitting suit he had worn in the tournament at King's Landing.
That armor had been a burden, a cage of iron that had slowed his movements and weighted his limbs. This was different. This was almost... insubstantial.
He had specified the thickness of the metal in his diagrams, had demanded plates that were thinner than any armorer would normally dare to craft.
By the standards of the Seven Kingdoms, this armor was worthless for the purpose of offering protection and was nothing more than a piece of decoration. A well-aimed sword thrust would pierce it with ease. A mace would crush it like paper. It offered less defense than the boiled leather that northern soldiers wore into battle.
But to him, this was perfect.
Joffrey smiled, running his thumb along the edge of the breastplate. From the beginning, he had intended to enchant this armor...to carve runes into its surface, to infuse the metal with his magic, to transform it from a decorative shell into something far greater than mere steel. The thinness of the plates was not a weakness. It was a necessity.
The armor he had worn at the tournament had been thick and heavy because it needed to be. Ordinary steel, without magical reinforcement, required mass to stop a blade. But Joffrey's armor would not rely on ordinary steel. It would rely on magic. And magic, properly applied, could make a sheet of paper as strong as castle-forged plate.
He reached for the steel pick he had laid out among his tools, a simple implement, nothing special, but sufficient for scratching runes into metal.
The first piece he would work on was the left gauntlet. The rune for Indefragibilis(Unbreakable) was a complex one, requiring precision and care, but if inscribed correctly, it would make the metal nearly indestructible.
He positioned the gauntlet on the table, steadying it with his left hand, raising the pick with his right—
A knock at the door shattered his concentration.
Joffrey's jaw tightened. He had given explicit instructions. The workshop was off-limits. No interruptions. No exceptions.
He set down the pick and crossed to the door, pulling it open with more force than necessary.
The man who stood in the corridor was tall...taller than the Hound, taller than almost anyone Joffrey had ever met. His skin was the color of charcoal, smooth and unblemished, and his head was shaved clean. He wore baggy trousers of a dark fabric and a vest of red leather that left his muscular arms bare. Gold rings hung from his ears, and gold bangles circled his wrists.
Captain Jalabhar Xho. Former pirate and former owner of the Storm Dancer and the Summer's Gale. Current commander of this vessel and its crew.
"Captain." Joffrey's voice was flat. "I assumed Sandor warned you about disturbing me while I work. So this must be important."
The captain did not flinch. His eyes were dark and calm, the eyes of a man who had seen storms and sword fights and the slow death of men who crossed him. "Young prince, we have a problem. I thought you should know immediately."
"What kind of problem?..." Asked Joffrey.
They have only started their long voyage a few hours ago. What could have happened already?.
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"I see…that is a problem." Said the prince while staring into the horizon.
The stern of the Storm Dancer was a narrow platform, just wide enough for a few men to stand alongside. Joffrey gripped the railing, staring at the horizon, at the speck of white that was growing larger with each passing moment.
A ship. Flying the Lannister banner.
"I didn't expect them to send someone so soon," he said, more to himself than to the men gathered behind him.
"They were prepared." Lord Varys had emerged from below decks, his soft face troubled, his hands clasped before him. "There are always ships from the Kingdom prepared to part, in case an urgent mission appears."
"Can we lose them?" Joffrey directed the question to the captain.
Jalabhar Xho shook his head. "Impossible. The Storm Dancer was built for sturdiness, not speed. She can survive anything the sea throws at her, but she cannot outrun a determined pursuer." He pointed at the approaching ship. "That vessel was built for speed. They will be on us within the hour."
"So we fight." The Hound's voice was eager, almost hungry. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, his scarred face twisted into something that might have been a smile.
The captain glanced at him, then at Joffrey. "Only a few of my men can fight. You asked for sailors who could navigate the Summer Sea, not warriors. That is what I gave you." He spread his hands. "Against armored soldiers, against trained knights...we would not last long."
Joffrey could feel the fear spreading through the crew like ripples in a pond. The sailors who had been going about their duties had stopped to listen, their faces pale, their hands white-knuckled on ropes and rails. If he did not act soon, there would be panic. Mutiny, perhaps.
"There aren't even thirty men on that ship," he said, keeping his voice calm, almost bored. "Less than thirty, by my count."
The captain's eyes widened. "You can count them from here? The ship is still miles away."
Joffrey did not answer. He turned to face the captain fully, his green eyes holding something that made the former pirate take an involuntary step back.
"Captain Xho. You were once a pirate. You raided ships along the Stepstones, took prizes, and sold cargoes. Tell me...if this ship were to simply... disappear... who would the Crown blame?"
The captain's brow furrowed. "The Stepstones, perhaps. Many ships are lost in these waters. Pirates, storms, treacherous currents—"
"A storm," Joffrey interrupted. "A storm will do."
He looked up at the sky.
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The first crack of thunder came from nowhere.
One moment, the sky had been clear...a pale, washed-out blue with only a few scattered clouds. Next, the clouds had gathered, dark and swollen, rolling across the horizon like a black blanket. The wind picked up, first a gentle breeze, then a sharp gust, then a howling gale that whipped the sails and sent men scrambling for the rigging.
"Lower the sails!" Captain Xho's voice cut through the chaos. "All hands! Lower the sails and secure the lines!"
The crew obeyed, but their eyes kept darting to the sky, to the impossible clouds that had appeared from nowhere, to the flashes of lightning that illuminated the darkness from within.
Lord Varys had not moved. He stood frozen at the railing, his soft face pale, his eyes fixed on Joffrey. The prince stood with his back turned to them, his face staring directly at the sky.
The Hound stood behind Joffrey, his hand on his sword, his scarred face unreadable. He had seen impossible things before. He had watched the prince cut through steel with a dull blade, had seen his eyes glow with an eerie green light, and had felt the weight of his power pressing against his skin like a physical force. This was different. This was something else entirely.
Since arriving in this world, this is the first time I have used so much of my magic to construct a spell such as this one. Joffrey thought as he raised his hand.
This was neither a charm, a curse, nor a jinx.
Spells capable of altering the forces of nature in such a way were called Grand Sorceries and usually required more than one caster working together to produce them.
Harry Potter had been far from an unusual wizard, and with centuries to learn how to sharpen the control over his magic, he became able to produce results that were thought impossible for a single person to do.
Having been shoved into a new body, did not appear to have diminished his power, which probably served to confirm the theory that the power of a wizard resides in their soul and not their body. A theory created by one of his wives, Luna Lovegood. Unfortunately, she could never prove it.
If anything, this new body had proven to be somehow more compatible with his magic, allowing him to perform without the need for a magical focus.
The storm reached its peak. The sky was completely black, lit only by the searing white of lightning bolts that split the clouds. The wind screamed like a wounded animal, and the waves rose high enough to crash over the Storm Dancer's bow. Men clung to the rigging, praying to gods they had not thought of in years.
Joffrey lowered his hand. He extended his finger, pointing at the Lannister ship that was now barely visible through the rain and darkness.
"Fulguras."
The word was a whisper, lost in the thunder. But the lightning heard.
A bolt of white-hot fury descended from the clouds, striking the enemy ship's main mast. Wood exploded, men screamed, and flames began to spread across the deck.
Joffrey pointed again. Another bolt, shorter this time, struck the stern. The ship's hull shattered, and the flames spread faster, fed by the oil in the lamps, the pitch in the ropes, the fear in the hearts of the men who had come to capture him.
He lowered his hand. Closed his eyes.
The storm began to fade.
The wind died. The waves subsided. The clouds parted, revealing the pale blue sky, the warm sun, and the calm sea. Within minutes, the storm was gone, as if it had never been.
The Storm Dancer bobbed gently on the waves, her sails furled, her crew staring at the spot where the Lannister ship had been. There was nothing there now. No wreckage, no bodies, no sign that a vessel had ever sailed those waters.
Joffrey turned to the Hound, who was staring at him with an expression that hovered somewhere between awe and terror. "Go tell the captain the storm has passed. We can resume our course."
The Hound nodded and walked away, his legs unsteady beneath him.
Joffrey turned to Lord Varys. The eunuch had not moved. His face was ashen, his hands trembling, his mouth open as if he wanted to speak but could not find the words.
"You..." Varys's voice was barely a whisper. "How did you... a storm... you cannot simply summon a storm—"
Joffrey placed a hand on his shoulder, feeling the man flinch beneath his touch. "Do not think too much about it, Lord Varys. Let us simply say that the gods favored us this day. I am sure that is what the crew will believe." He smiled, and there was something in that smile that made Varys's blood run cold. "And if they believe otherwise...well. They know better than to speak of it."
He turned and walked back toward his workshop, leaving Varys standing at the railing, staring at the empty sea.
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The cabin was quiet when he returned. The armor still lay on the table, the tools still arranged in their precise order, the oil lamp still burning low.
Joffrey picked up the steel pick, positioned the gauntlet, and began to carve.
Indefragibilis.
The first rune took shape beneath his hand, glowing faintly as he worked, the magic seeping into the metal like water into sand. It would take time...days, perhaps, or weeks, to finish the enchantments. But he had time now. He had the sea, the sky, and the long road ahead.
And if anyone else came looking for him, well.
There were many other spells he could practice.
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