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 21: Foul Play
"Don't look so disappointed, lad." Thoros of Myr stamped out the last embers on his blade and offered Joffrey a hand. "If you'd been carrying a proper sword instead of that bent piece of scrap, I'd be the one bleeding in the mud right now."
Joffrey took the hand and pulled himself up, brushing clumps of wet earth from his leather padding. He glanced at what remained of his sword—bent at a perfect right angle, useless as a weapon, useful perhaps as a curious coat hook. The crowd still roared in the stands, but the noise seemed distant, muffled by the ringing in his ears.
"Sirs."
A figure in white stood at the edge of the arena, pristine despite the mud. Ser Arys Oakheart, youngest of the Kingsguard, his boyish face earnest beneath his white helm. Joffrey had marked him before. He was one of the decent ones, idealistic, honorable. The sort who believed in songs.
"The King wishes to speak with you both." Ser Arys turned without waiting and walked away, his white cloak trailing behind him like a banner.
Thoros clapped Joffrey on the shoulder. "Come on, lad. Best not keep His Grace waiting."
Joffrey adjusted his helmet—still on, still hiding his face, and began to follow the knight.
A page scurried up to him. "Ser! What about your armor?" The boy gestured at the scattered pieces Joffrey had discarded across the arena and left there in the mud.
He glanced back at the pile. Steel plates, gauntlets, and greaves. It was a small fortune in metal, lying in the mud like refuse. "Keep it. Melt it. Sell it. I don't care."
The page's eyes went wide. A full suit of armor could feed a family for a year.
Joffrey left him to his fortune and walked toward the royal box.
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"There they are!"
Robert Baratheon leaned forward in his seat, a massive grin splitting his beard. His face was flushed with wine and excitement, his cup already refilled by a nervous servant. Beside him, Cersei sat rigid as a statue, her smile painted on, her eyes already bored.
Thoros dropped to his knees immediately, head bowed. "Your Grace."
Joffrey realized a beat too late that he should do the same. He knelt, helmet still on. "Your Grace." The words felt stiff, performative. He doubted it sounded sincere.
Robert didn't seem to notice. "You fought like a beast, Thoros! I can't believe an old man like you still has that much fire in him." The King's voice carried a hint of something. Envy, perhaps, or a wistful memory of his own fighting days. They were the same age, after all.
"Thank you, Your Grace." Thoros kept his head down. "I try to keep my blade sharp."
Robert's attention shifted. "And you...a mystery knight, eh?" He squinted at Joffrey's mud-spattered form. "You look like a skinny boy under all that. If that blade of yours hadn't given out, you might have won the whole thing."
Joffrey nodded but said nothing. His voice would give him away.
Robert's eyes narrowed. "What, are you mute now?"
The stands had gone quiet. Thousands of eyes fixed on the mud-caked figure kneeling before the King. Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through wheat. Who was he? Where had he come from?
Robert made a decision. "All right, enough games. Take off the helmet. Let's see who you are."
Joffrey looked up at the King. The command was clear, the expectation absolute. Refusal would mean Kingsguard blades at his throat. The charade had run its course.
He sighed. "Well, that's that."
His hands found the sides of the helmet and lifted.
The gasp that swept through the stands was loud enough to hurt his ears. Faces froze mid-whisper. Cups paused halfway to lips. Even Robert's mouth fell open.
"Joff?!" The King's voice cracked.
From the royal box, Cersei's shriek cut through the stunned silence like a blade. "JOFFREY!"
Beside him, Thoros of Myr went very pale. He had been rising from his bow; now he dropped back to his knees as if his legs had given way. "Your Grace!"
Joffrey glanced at the priest. "A bit late for that."
Robert found his voice. "What in the seven hells is the meaning of this?"
Joffrey shrugged—a gesture that, he realized, probably looked terribly insolent from where he stood, covered in mud and holding his helmet like a trophy. "If I'd entered as myself, no one would have fought me. They'd have pulled their blows, let me win. What would that prove?"
He gestured at Thoros, still kneeling and looking as if he'd swallowed something unpleasant. "He didn't pull any blows."
Cersei was on her feet now, her face a mask of fury barely contained. "You could have been KILLED! Come here this instant! Pycelle!"
The old maester fumbled with his chains, struggling to rise.
Joffrey looked at the King. "This is why I didn't want to show my face."
Robert stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face. "Ha! HAHAHA!" He slapped his thigh, rocking in his seat. "The boy's got stones! Actual stones! My son, fighting in the melee like a proper knight!" He raised his cup. "To Prince Joffrey! Nearly beat Thoros of Myr with a bent sword and no armor!"
The crowd, uncertain how to react, took their cue from the King and erupted in cheers.
Cersei's face went purple.
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By the next morning, the tale had spread through every corner of King's Landing like fire through dry grass. The prince who fought without armor. The prince whose sword broke. The prince who almost beat the infamous Thoros of Myr. Bards would be singing it within the week.
Sansa stirred her tea, her cheeks flushed. "I thought you looked very elegant."
Joffrey, still sore from the previous day's exertions, raised an eyebrow. "I was covered in mud, wearing only a helmet and leather padding. I looked ridiculous."
"And you lost to fooking Thoros of Myr." The Hound's mutter came from behind him, barely audible.
Joffrey smiled. The Hound was still bitter about being replaced in the melee.
"Everyone says how skilled the Prince is," Jeyne Poole added softly. She was Sansa's best friend, daughter of the Winterfell steward, and usually too shy to speak in his presence. Today, she had been pressed into service as a companion for their garden outing. One that Joffrey had crashed in search of sweets.
"Everyone exaggerates." Joffrey turned to Sansa. "You've been here a while now. How do you find the capital? Everything you dreamed?"
Sansa's face lit up. "Oh, it's magnificent! The castle is beautiful, and the gardens are lovely, and the throne room is simply breathtaking!"
"Have you seen the actual city, or just the castle?" Joffrey already knew the answer to that.
"The castle." Sansa's enthusiasm dimmed slightly. "Father says the city is dangerous. We're not to leave the Red Keep."
"Wise advice." Joffrey's gaze drifted past her, toward the rooftops visible above the garden walls. "There are desperate people out there who'd do anything for a coin."
"My Prince?" Sansa noticed his distraction.
"Isn't that your sister?" He pointed.
Sansa and Jeyne followed his gaze. A small figure was darting across a rooftop three buildings away, chasing something.
"Gods!" Jeyne gasped.
"Arya!" Sansa went pale. "What is she doing on the roof?"
"It looks like she's chasing a cat." Joffrey squinted. A scruffy black feline was putting distance between itself and the determined little girl with impressive speed.
Sansa's hand went to her mouth. "After what happened to Bran..."
Joffrey stood. "I'll get her before she breaks her neck." He tapped the Hound's shoulder. "Sandor, keep the ladies safe."
"They already have guards." The Hound gestured at the two Stark men stationed nearby.
"Care to join me on the rooftops?"
The Hound's expression was answer enough.
"Thought so." Joffrey took off at a run.
An agility charm, silent and swift, and he was airborne—catching a window frame, vaulting to the lowest roof, climbing hand over hand until he reached the level where Arya ran. He had to push himself to catch her.
"Come back here!" Arya's scream was pure frustration as she pursued the fleeing cat.
The feline reached a gap between roofs. It was a good ten feet of empty air, and then it leaped, landing gracefully on the opposite side.
Arya reached the edge and gathered herself to jump after the little beast.
"Oh no you don't." Joffrey's hand caught her collar and hauled her back. She landed hard on her bottom with an indignant yelp.
"Ouch! What the—Joffrey?!" She glared up at him. "Why did you do that? I almost had him!"
"What you almost had was a broken back." He offered her a hand. "What were you trying to accomplish?"
She ignored the hand, scrambling up on her own. "You don't understand! I'm practicing my water dancing. Syrio Forel says to be a true swordsman, you have to move like flowing water!"
"And chasing cats helps with that how?"
"Syrio said when he was young, he used to chase cats in Braavos. It made him faster. More agile." She crossed her arms, daring him to argue.
Joffrey raised an eyebrow. "I'd like to meet this Syrio."
"You want to meet my teacher?" Arya's pout vanished, replaced by surprise.
"Sure. But first—" He found a safe route down and gestured for her to follow.
They descended near the main courtyard, where an unusual crowd had gathered. Smallfolk were filing out through the side gates, some carrying tools, others dragging cages. Animals stirred within the bars—tigers, bears, strange creatures from distant lands.
"Whoa!" Arya's eyes went wide. "Look at that giant cat!"
Joffrey was about to correct her—tiger, he thought, though he wasn't certain that word existed here. Then something else caught his attention. He recognized these people. He'd seen them from the brothel window days ago, arriving from the docks with their caged beasts.
"They must be doing a show for the castle," he said.
Some of the performers were dressed in bright colors, the sort of motley that circus folk wore in any world. Others looked more like handlers, their clothes practical, their eyes wary.
"Let's go closer! I want to see the cat better!" Arya grabbed his hand without thinking and pulled him along, the way she might have done with her brothers, Robb or Jon.
Joffrey let himself be dragged. The gold cloaks guarding the area recognized him immediately and stepped aside with bows.
"This cat is huge!" Arya pressed against the bars of the tiger's cage.
The handlers stopped their work, bowing nervously. An elderly man with a kind face approached. "That's a tiger, my lady. From Leng, in Yi Ti. Far across the sea."
"Yi Ti?" Arya had never heard of it, but she knew Essos. Her dancing master came from Braavos.
So it is a tiger. Joffrey thought. "Hmm?." His sharp senses had just picked up something strange. It was a flicker of magic. Too faint and quick for him to locate its source, but he did manage to caugh a black crow flying away. Something that he found odd. There were no crows in the Red Keep.
"A very long way indeed." The old man smiled and continued his conversation with Arya. "And that bear over there, comes from—"
He froze.
The bear cage burst open. Its door, poorly latched, had swung wide. The massive black shape within stirred, then pushed through the gap with a grunt of freedom.
The handlers screamed. The crowd scattered.
The bear's head swung toward the two figures nearest it.
The beast growled. Its eyes were now locked on Arya.
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