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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
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"Dialogue"
'Thoughts'
-Author notes-
Chapter 90: The King's Justice
The ancient stone walls of Castle Black rose before him, its towers dark against the pale winter sky.
Snow fell in loose flakes, dusting the ancient walls and the men who stood atop them.
The Wall loomed behind the castle, a colossal mountain of ice that seemed to stretch into infinity, its surface gleaming with a pale light.
Joffrey reined in his horse at the southern gate, his breath misting in the cold air.
The metal arm that replaced his lost limb was hidden beneath his furs.
He had ridden hard for nearly two days, stopping only to rest the horse and drink from frozen streams.
The wound on his chest still ached with a dull throb beneath the bandages, but he had pushed through the pain.
He had promised Robb Stark that he would find his father. He had given his word, and unlike most men in this wretched world, Joffrey kept his promises.
The castle was still standing, which was something. No wildlings swarmed the walls, no fires burned in the courtyards.
The battle had not been lost, at least not yet. But as he drew closer, he felt there was something wrong with this place. The air tasted of ash and blood, the tang of death that lingered after a slaughter.
And the men on the walls...they were not wearing the black of the Night's Watch.
Yellow and gold. The stag of Storm's End...Baratheon colors.
Stannis's men.
Joffrey frowned. He had expected to find a besieged castle, a brotherhood of crows fighting for survival against the wildling horde.
Instead, he had found a garrison of southern knights. The scent of smoke and burned flesh hung heavy in the air, mingling with the cold to create a stench that clung to the nostrils like a plague.
The soldiers stared down at him from the battlements, their hands on their swords, their eyes cold and wary.
Some of them had the hollow look of men who had seen too much death...that thousand-yard stare that never truly fades. Others had the gleam of men who were eager to see more, who had tasted blood and found it sweet.
Joffrey slowed his horse to a walk, his metal hand resting casually on the pommel of his saddle. He could feel hundreds of eyes on him, hundreds of arrows nocked and ready. It did not look like he was going to be welcomed.
"Halt!"
The shout came from the battlements. Joffrey looked up to see a soldier leaning over the wall.
"Identify yourself!" the man demanded. "And be quick about it."
Joffrey looked around, taking in the full measure of his situation. At least two hundred arrows were pointed at his head, their steel tips gleaming under the morning sun.
He could have destroyed them all with a thought...a wave of fire, a burst of ice, a single whispered curse that would leave them all dead before they could loose a single shaft.
But that would not serve his purpose. He needed to understand first.
He reached out with his magic instead, brushing against the surface of the soldier's mind. The man's thoughts were a tangle of suspicion and fear, of loyalty to a king without a throne and hatred for a boy who might be an enemy.
Joffrey peeled back the layers, sifting through the memories like pages in a book.
Stannis had come north after the battle with the wildlings. He had brought his army, his fleet, his red priestess. He had captured Castle Black, arrested Lord Stark, and burned the wildling prisoners alive.
And then... last night, Lord Stark had escaped.
Joffrey's expression darkened. 'This...complicates things.' He had hoped just to come here, kill a few savages, and take the Lord back home.
But that was no longer an option.
He withdrew from the sergeant's mind, his face betraying nothing of what he had learned.
The man was still waiting for an answer, his hand raised, ready to give the order to loose.
"I am Joffrey Baratheon," he called out, his voice carrying across the snowy yard. "First son of Robert Baratheon. I request an audience with my uncle, Lord Stannis."
The guards exchanged glances, their suspicion evident. The sergeant leaned over the wall, his eyes narrowed. "Joffrey Baratheon left Westeros," he said. "They say he's far in the east by now. You cannot be him."
"Can I not?" Joffrey raised an eyebrow. "Why not let your king decide that? I'm sure my beloved uncle will recognize my face the moment he sees it."
The sergeant's lips curled into a sneer. "Why don't I just kill you where you stand? If you truly are who you say...if you are Joffrey Baratheon, then you are a bastard and a usurper, an enemy of His Grace. The king will gladly take your head."
Joffrey chuckled. "I'm sure he would, if given the chance. But I am also certain that this is a decision he would wish to make himself, not one that some lowly soldier should make on his own." He paused, letting the words sink in. "What do you think will happen if you kill me now and ruin your king's future plans? You may end up in one of those pyres that the red priestess likes to use, do you not think?"
The sergeant's eyes widened. "How do you-" He caught himself, glancing around at the other guards. Then he composed himself, his face hardening. "Drop your weapons and dismount your horse. We will take you to see the king."
Joffrey smiled. "Of course."
They took his sword, searching him for hidden weapons with rough hands.
Joffrey allowed it. He did not need steel, not when he carried magic in his blood. The guards marched him through the gate, their hands never straying far from their weapons.
The courtyard was in chaos. Soldiers moved through the snow with urgency.
The remnants of the pyres still smoldered, sending blackened ash into the wind.
Joffrey saw the remains of bodies...men and women, their bones charred beyond recognition.
The smell of smoke and burned flesh hung heavy in the air, a stench that clung to the nostrils and refused to leave.
Joffrey did not flinch. He had seen worse in long life. But the practice of it...the casual brutality of burning men alive in the name of a god. Now, that disgusted him.
Human sacrifice was nothing new to an old wizard who had seen the depths of the Dark Lord's depravity, but it was something he found... distasteful.
They brought him to the great hall, a vast chamber of cold stone that had once served as the heart of the Night's Watch.
The walls were lined with the banners of the black brothers, grey and black, but they were now overshadowed by the yellow and black of Stannis's forces.
The hall was crowded with men: soldiers, knights, and lords who had come to witness the king's justice.
Stannis Baratheon sat on a raised dais, his crown of red gold resting on his brow. He was a thin man, gaunt and hollow-eyed, with the look of someone who had not slept well in years.
His face was sharp, his jaw set, his eyes cold as winter steel. He wore a simple black cloak over his armor, and his hand rested on the pommel of his sword.
Behind him stood Melisandre, her red robes a welcome splash of color in this grey stone room. Her hair was the color of copper, her skin pale as milk, and her eyes burned with the intensity of a fanatic's faith. A ruby glowed at her neck, just like the one he had seen some members of the Red Temple wear in Asshai.
Beside her stood Ser Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight. His face was lined with worry, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes darting between Joffrey and his king. He looked uncomfortable, a man caught between loyalty and doubt.
Stannis studied Joffrey for a long moment, his eyes cold and calculating.
He had the look of a man who had spent his life in the shadow of his brothers, who had been overlooked and underestimated at every turn.
That was a dangerous thing, Joffrey knew. A man who believes he has been wronged will go to any lengths to prove his worth.
"I have heard much about you, Joffrey Baratheon," Stannis said, his voice flat and cold. "The son of Cersei Lannister. The prince who fled east. The sorcerer who consorts with dragons." He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "I did not expect to see you here."
"Nor I you," Joffrey replied. "I came here to assist Lord Stark with his wildling problem. Instead, I find my lost uncle."
Stannis's eyes narrowed. "We both know I am not your uncle. And that Robert was not your real father."
Joffrey shrugged, as if the matter were of no importance. "So. What is it that you expect to accomplish by taking over the Night's Watch? Have you perhaps given up on your ambition to take the crown and decided to declare yourself Lord Commander instead?"
A murmur ran through the hall. Men exchanged glances, their faces a mixture of shock and disbelief.
They had expected the boy to grovel, to beg for mercy. Instead, he stood straight and proud, his hands bound but his head unbowed, and he insulted their king to his face.
Stannis rose from his seat, his hand gripping the pommel of his sword. "I could have you killed just by that comment alone," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Everyone knows the throne belongs to me. It is not a mere ambition. You are the usurper, you and those disgusting Lannisters who think they can take what does not belong to them. I am the only rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms."
Joffrey shrugged again. "A king who needs to remind others that he is the king...is no true king."
Stannis's jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together with an audible sound.
Ser Davos stepped forward, his face full of concern, but Stannis waved him back.
"Your trip east must have driven you mad," the king said with a cold tone. "Or perhaps it was all the other... stuff. The rumors about your endeavors are numerous."
"I'm sure they are," Joffrey replied.
"You do not seem to understand the severity of your situation," Stannis said. "You walked in here by yourself. What do you presume I will do with you now?"
Joffrey knew the answer to that question. He had seen it clear as day in Stannis's mind, after peeling back the layers of righteous fury to find the truth beneath.
Stannis was planning to march on Winterfell. He was planning to force the North to bend the knee. And he was planning to use Joffrey's blood...and the blood of his siblings, to fuel Melisandre's magic.
'The blood of kings,' Joffrey thought, his expression darkening. The red woman promised him victory. She promised him power. And Stannis, desperate and driven, believed her.
"You are nothing but a silly, desperate man," Joffrey said, shaking his head. He glanced at Melisandre. "A fool being guided by a blind. With empty promises and false omens."
"You-!" Stannis's anger was reaching its limit, his face reddening with rage.
"What do you mean by that, Prince Joffrey?" Melisandre stepped forward, her red robes swirling around her. "I am far from blind. I see everything I need in the flames."
Joffrey chuckled. "You only see what you believe your Red God is showing you. But there is so much you do not understand, Lady Melisandre. Your abilities are far from those of Lady Lyssara. Your visions are flawed, and that... is going to cost you everything."
"L-Lady Lyssara?" Melisandre's mask of indifference dropped for just a moment. "You know her?"
The name sent a ripple through her composure. Lady Lyssara was one of the most important members of the Red Temple, the woman who had taught her everything she knew. How could this boy know of her?
The red priestess glanced back at Stannis, and for the first time, the doubt in her eyes was visible to all who cared to see.
"I will have no more of your nonsense, bastard," Stannis said, raising his finger at Joffrey. "Arrest him. Take him to the ice cells. I will decide what to do with him later."
"Unfortunately," Joffrey said, his voice calm and collected, "things will not go your way this time."
The ropes binding his wrists fell to the floor, severed by some unseen blade. The guards moved forward, their swords drawn, but they were too slow.
Melisandre saw something in Joffrey that everyone else missed. She turned, her mouth opening to warn Stannis.
But Joffrey was faster.
He raised his finger, and a single green light flickered at its tip...bright and terrible, casting an eerie glow across the hall.
The guards froze, their eyes fixed on the light, their swords half-raised.
The black brothers, the soldiers, the knights...all of them watched in silence, their faces pale with shock.
"Avada Kedavra."
The green light shot forward, a bolt of death that could not be stopped. It struck Stannis in the chest, and he crumpled without a sound.
His crown rolled across the stone floor, and his eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, the light in them gone forever.
The hall fell silent.
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