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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 103: The Journey Home
The corridor was cold and quiet.
Joffrey stood in the dim light of the window, his green eyes fixed on Sansa's face.
Her words hung in the air between them, carrying a weight that could not be ignored.
"Take me with you?" Joffrey repeated, his voice flat, devoid of the emotion that the question demanded. "What are you talking about?"
Sansa's hands had her hands behind her back, her posture stiff and formal, the careful composure of a highborn lady taught from birth to restrain her feelings. But there was a fire in her blue eyes that he had not seen before, a determination that contrasted sharply with her gentle appearance. "I mean what I said. I want to go with you. When you leave Winterfell, I want to leave with you."
Joffrey shook his head slowly, a faint, humorless smile playing at his lips. "You do realize that our engagement became null the moment I abandoned my position as heir to the throne? You are free now, Sansa. Free to marry whoever you want, free to live whatever life you choose. You should be grateful for that."
Sansa took a step closer, her voice soft but insistent, carrying an edge of desperation that she could not quite hide. "I don't care about the engagement. I don't care about the throne. I still have feelings for you, Joffrey. I have had them since we first met."
Joffrey sighed, a long, weary exhale that seemed to drain the tension from his shoulders. He had hoped she would have matured beyond the fantasies in her books, the romantic notions of love and honor that had no place in the real world. "Sansa, I am far from the noble person you want me to be. I have done terrible things, and I will do more terrible things before this is all over. You deserve better than that."
Sansa opened her mouth to protest, her lips parting to form words that would never be spoken. But before she could speak, Joffrey stepped forward and kissed her.
It was neither a gentle nor a passionate kiss. It was a kiss of farewell, a kiss that said everything he could not put into words. Sansa's eyes widened with surprise, her body tensing for a moment before she relaxed into the embrace, her hands rising to touch his chest. The kiss was brief, little more than a brush of lips, but it carried the weight of all that had been and all that could never be.
When Joffrey pulled back, his expression was unreadable, a mask of cold detachment that betrayed nothing of what he might be feeling. "You are too pure for me, Sansa. Too good, too kind. I would only drag you down into the darkness that follows me. You deserve a nice man who will protect you and give you the life that you want. A life of peace and happiness. I cannot give you that."
He turned away before she could respond, his boots echoing against the stone floor. The sound was sharp and final, a door closing on a future that could never be. "Find someone who is right for you," he said, his voice flat and empty. "Someone who can give you the future that you truly desire."
He walked down the stairs, leaving Sansa standing alone in the corridor, her hand pressed against her lips, tears streaming down her cheeks, for she knew their paths may never cross again.
He did not look back.
The Great Hall was still buzzing with tension when Joffrey returned, the air thick with the heat of argument and the weight of difficult decisions.
The Starks were still arguing, their voices rising and falling in a heated debate about the future of the North.
Ned sat at the head of the table, his face lined with exhaustion, while Robb paced back and forth, his hands clenched into fists, his auburn hair disheveled from running his fingers through it.
"A King in the North, that is what we need, Father," Robb was saying, his voice sharp with conviction. "Like the Starks of the old days, before the Dragon Lords arrived in Westeros. We have bled too much for the South already. We deserve our independence."
Ned looked at his son. "I will not make such a decision by myself. I will send ravens to all the major houses of the North. We will hold a council at Winterfell in a fortnight. We will discuss the future among ourselves, and we will make a decision together."
Jon spoke up, his voice calm but firm, carrying a new weight that had not been there before his death and resurrection. "And what of the South? The Lannisters, and the Tyrells? As soon as they confirm that Stannis is dead, they will turn their attention to us."
"We will not ignore them," Ned said, his voice heavy. "But we will not make any hasty decisions either."
Joffrey approached the table, his presence immediately drawing the attention of the Starks. The conversation faltered, all eyes turning to him.
Ned looked up, his expression apologetic, the lines on his face deeper than they had been before his journey north.
"I am sorry, Joffrey. I cannot give you a clear answer yet. We need more time to discuss this."
Joffrey waved his hand dismissively, a gesture of casual indifference. "It is fine, Lord Stark. We have time before an answer is needed. But my siblings and I must be leaving soon. I have postponed this long enough."
He turned to Tommen and Myrcella, who were standing near the door, their faces a mixture of excitement and sadness. They had made friends here, had found a measure of peace in the cold North. But they knew that this was not their home, that their place was elsewhere.
"Go get your things," Joffrey said, his voice flat. "Say your goodbyes. There is no telling when you will see your friends again, if ever."
Tommen nodded, his expression serious beyond his years. "Yes, Joffrey."
Myrcella hesitated, her eyes moving to Sansa, who had just descended the stairs. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed, but her expression was composed, the mask of a highborn lady firmly in place. "We will be ready soon," Myrcella said, her voice soft.
As the siblings departed, Melisandre approached Joffrey, her red robes swirling around her like flames given form.
She adjusted the ruby in her collar. Her eyes were fixed on him and no one else, burning with an uncomfortable intensity.
"And what does the Red Priestess wish from me?" Joffrey asked, his voice flat. "I can tell you want something."
Melisandre smiled. "I wish to return to Essos with you. I wish to meet with Daenerys Targaryen."
Joffrey raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his features. "Have you given up on finding your Azor Ahai here in Westeros?"
Melisandre's smile broadened, her red eyes gleaming with an inner fire. "I have not. But I believe I may have another purpose now. I have seen the true enemy beyond the Wall, and I have felt the power that lurks beneath the ice. I need to discuss this with Lady Lyssara. She will know what to do."
Joffrey studied her for a moment, his green eyes cold and calculating, her hidden motivations. The woman had lost her purpose after the death of Stannis, adrift in a world that no longer made sense. But now she had learned the truth about the primordial being, the true threat that this world was facing. She was looking for a new purpose, a new direction.
So he will give her one.
He reached into his pocket, his fingers closing around a small object. He pulled it out, holding it up for her to see. It was the cork of a bottle, worn and faded with age, its surface smooth from years of handling.
"Take this," Joffrey said, handing it to her. "It's called a Portkey. It will take you to the ship where Daenerys currently is. But be warned... the trip may be disorienting, to say the least."
Melisandre stared at the cork, her brow furrowing with confusion. "A portkey? How does it work?"
"Just say the keyword while holding it."
"Keyword?" The Priestess asked, her eyes narrowing.
"Yes, the keyword is Quidditch. But you may want to wait a few more days before you actually-"
"Quidditch," Melisandre said with a confident tone, the word rolling off her tongue like a prayer.
Joffrey flinched, his eyes widening. "... do that."
Melisandre disappeared.
The spot where she had been standing was empty, the air still and quiet.
The cork had vanished with her, leaving no trace of her presence. The red robes that had been so vivid a moment before were gone, swallowed by the same magic that had transported her away.
Joffrey sighed. "Because that will activate it immediately," he finished, his voice flat with resignation. "What a careless woman..."
The Starks stared at the empty space left behind by the priestess, their faces a mixture of shock and confusion. Robb's mouth hung open, his eyes wide with disbelief. "Where did she go?!" he demanded, his voice rising with incredulity.
Joffrey shook his head, a rueful expression crossing his face. "Hopefully? To a ship. But I have never tried using a portkey onto a moving location. She may end up appearing in the middle of the sea, or... somewhere else entirely. Those things are very finicky." He paused, his expression troubled. "I was about to suggest that she wait a couple of days at least, so the ship would have arrived at Astapor before she activated it."
"A portkey? You mean that cork that you gave her?" Robb asked, his brow furrowed with confusion.
"That was one of his magical artifacts, I presume," Ned said, his voice thoughtful. "I have seen him do stranger things. I have learned not to question the workings of his power."
Joffrey nodded, his expression distant. "Oh well, nothing I can do on that front. I'm sure she'll be fine." He paused, his eyes moving toward the door. "Now, I should go check on my carpet. We will be leaving as soon as my siblings return."
He walked out of the Great Hall, leaving the Starks behind in their confusion. The phoenix, still perched on his shoulder, turned its golden head to look at them, as if memorizing their faces for some future purpose.
The courtyard was cold and quiet, the snow crunching beneath Joffrey's boots as he walked toward the spot where he had left the carpet.
It was still there, in the same place, undisturbed. No one seemed to have touched it, just as he had instructed.
Joffrey examined it carefully, checking the enchantments, ensuring that it was still in working order. The worn surface hummed faintly with magical energy, the frayed edges still holding firm. He ran his fingers along the fabric, feeling the pulse of the spells that kept it aloft.
"All good..." He had to admit that he never expected this old carpet to hold on so well after everything he had put it through. The flying carpets of his old world were made with special materials to avoid being ripped apart by the force of the enchantments, but this old carpet was just... well made. The work of craftsmen who had known their trade, who had built things to last.
Tommen and Myrcella emerged from the castle after a few more minutes, their bags packed, their faces filled with a mixture of excitement and sadness.
They may have arrived here against their will, but it had been their home for almost two years already. They had made friends, had found a measure of peace in the cold North.
They had said their goodbyes, had hugged their friends and promised to write. Now they were ready to leave.
"Everything is ready," Myrcella said, her voice soft. "We can go whenever you are."
Joffrey nodded, his expression unreadable. "Then let us go."
He stepped onto the carpet, the phoenix hopping from his shoulder to his head, its claws gripping his hair with surprising strength.
Tommen and Myrcella climbed on behind him, their hands gripping the edges of the carpet with nervous excitement.
"Hold on to the carpet," Joffrey said. "This thing moves very fast."
The carpet rose into the air.
The wind howled around them, but Joffrey's magic kept them warm, a protective barrier that shielded them from the worst of the cold.
They soared above the walls of Winterfell, the castle growing smaller and smaller beneath them.
"This is amazing!" Tommen shouted, his voice filled with wonder. "We're flying! We're actually flying!"
Myrcella laughed, a sound of pure joy, the weight of the past two years lifting from her shoulders. "I never thought I would experience anything like this!"
Joffrey smiled, a rare, genuine expression that softened the hard lines of his face. "Enjoy it while it lasts. It won't take us long to get there."
They flew in silence for a while, the wind whistling past them, the world spreading out beneath them like a tapestry.
The North was a vast expanse of white and grey, beautiful and harsh in equal measure. The mountains rose in the distance, their peaks lost in the clouds, and the forests stretched to the horizon, dark and mysterious.
Tommen looked up at Joffrey, his eyes bright with curiosity. "Joffrey..." He called him with hesitation, as if testing the weight of the name. "Does the bird have a name?"
"I told you he is not a bird, it's a phoenix," Joffrey said, glancing at the creature on his head. "And no... he doesn't have one. Never thought about giving him one."
The phoenix let out a cry...a sound that seemed to express offense. Its golden eyes narrowed, and it pecked at Joffrey's hair with sharp insistence.
"Ow! Do you really want one?" Joffrey asked, his voice dry.
Another cry, more insistent this time, carried a note of indignation.
Tommen grinned, his face lit up with excitement. "I have some ideas! What about Fluffy? Or Sparky? Or Fireball?"
The phoenix let out a series of chirps that were clearly dismissive. It turned its head away from Tommen with an air of profound offense, as if the very suggestion of such names was beneath its dignity.
Myrcella chuckled, her laughter warm and genuine. "I don't think he likes those."
Joffrey was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the horizon. The memory came to him unbidden, from a life that was no longer his own. A name that had belonged to a creature of fire and song, a friend and companion from a world that had been lost to him.
"What about Fawkes?" Joffrey suggested, the name coming to him from a distant memory. "That was the name of a phoenix I knew once. A long time ago." In a different life. In a world that had been unmade and remade.
The phoenix tilted its head, considering the name. Its golden eyes blinked slowly, as if weighing the syllables in its ancient mind. Then it let out a soft, approving trill, a sound of acceptance and satisfaction.
"Fawkes it is," Joffrey said.
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