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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 106: A Proof of Might
The eerie green light in Joffrey's eyes intensified, forming strange shadows across the throne room.
The torches flickered wildly, their flames bending toward him as if drawn by an invisible force, the fire itself seeming to bow to his will.
The air grew thick and heavy, charged with a power that made the very stones beneath their feet tremble.
"Then..." Joffrey said, his voice carrying an otherworldly resonance that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. "Let me show you another trick."
He raised his right hand, his only hand, and the Iron Throne began to tremble.
At first, it was barely perceptible, a subtle vibration that traveled through the stone floor and up through the legs of those who stood near it. But then it grew stronger, the jagged swords rattling against each other with increasing violence, sending a discordant screech through the chamber that set teeth on edge.
King Loras, who had been sitting on the throne with studied disinterest, scrambled to his feet, his face pale as milk.
"What is happening?" he demanded, his voice cracking with sudden terror. "What is he doing?"
The throne shuddered violently, and Loras abandoned all pretense of dignity. He leaped from the dais, stumbling backward, his white cloak tangling around his legs as he fought to escape. "Stop him! Someone stop him!"
Cersei's face was a mask of fury and fear, her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her knuckles white. She had no idea what Joffrey was planning, but she knew it would be nothing good. Her son had become a stranger, a monster wearing her child's face, and she could not predict what he might do next.
"Kingsguard!" she screamed, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "Take him down! Stop him right now!"
The command was all the impetus the Kingsguard needed. Seven white-cloaked knights moved as one, their swords drawn. They had faced monsters before, had fought in battles and tournaments, had sworn their lives to protect the royal family. They would not fail now.
Ser Arys Oakheart was the first to charge, his blade aimed at Joffrey's heart without hesitation, his eyes blazing with protective fury. He had been Loras's lover in secret, and the threat to his king had unleashed something primal within him. His sword sang through the air, aimed true.
Joffrey's eyes flickered with cold amusement. He did not move, did not flinch, as the knights closed in. A single gesture, a snap of his fingers, and everything changed.
Ser Arys Oakheart vanished.
In his place stood a pig.
It was a large, pink pig, wearing a white cloak that had somehow shrunk to fit its porcine frame. The pig blinked its small, confused eyes, clearly uncertain of what had just happened, and let out a startled squeal that echoed through the suddenly silent hall.
The other knights faltered, their momentum broken by the sheer impossibility of what they had just witnessed. Ser Boros Blount stumbled to a halt, his mouth hanging open. He did not have time to recover.
Joffrey raised his hand, and Ser Boros began to rise into the air. The knight flailed uselessly, his sword clattering to the ground, as an invisible force lifted him higher and higher. He kicked and thrashed, but there was nothing to push against, nothing to grab hold of. He hit the ceiling with a sickening crunch and went still, his unconscious body dangling like a puppet with cut strings.
Ser Jaime Lannister moved next, his golden sword flashing in the torchlight. He was fast, one of the finest swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms, but speed meant nothing against magic. Joffrey flicked his wrist, and Jaime was sent tumbling backward, his sword spinning from his grasp, his shield shattering against the stone floor. He crashed against a pillar with a loud crack and slumped to the ground, unconscious.
Ser Preston Greenfield and Ser Mandon Moore circled around Joffrey, hoping to attack from his blind side. They struck together, their blades aimed at his head and chest with deadly precision.
However...the swords met an invisible barrier with a shower of sparks, the impact sending jolts of pain up their arms.
Joffrey smiled. "Good effort. But not good enough."
He turned Ser Mandon Moore into a stone statue in the space of a heartbeat. The knight froze mid-lunge, his sword still raised, his face frozen in shock, the grey stone replacing his flesh in an instant.
Ser Preston Greenfield did not even have time to scream before he was transformed into a rat, his white cloak collapsing into a heap on the floor where he had stood.
The newest member of the Kingsguard...a young knight named Ser Ormund, who had replaced the disgraced Ser Meryn Trant, froze in his tracks. His sword was raised, but his hand was trembling, his face pale as milk. He had heard the rumors of Prince Joffrey's sorcery, but he had dismissed them as exaggerations. Now he understood the truth, but it was too late for regrets.
Joffrey snapped his fingers, and Ser Ormund collapsed into a deep sleep, his body crumpling to the floor like a discarded puppet.
All of this happened in the span of ten seconds.
The throne room was silent save for the grunts of the pig and the distant clatter of a sword rolling across the stone floor.
The council stared in stunned disbelief, their faces pale, their mouths open. The beautiful, terrible truth of what they had witnessed had not yet fully sunk in.
Only one member of the Kingsguard remained standing.
Ser Barristan Selmy stood at the edge of the chaos, his sword still in his hand, his expression unreadable. He had not charged with the others. He had watched, assessed, and made a decision that was equal parts wisdom and stubborn pride.
Joffrey turned to him, his eyes gleaming with something that might have been respect. "And what are you planning to do, Ser Barristan?"
Barristan met his gaze, his voice steady despite the fear that coiled in his belly. "My duty."
He raised his sword and charged.
Joffrey smiled, a genuine expression of approval that caught even the old knight by surprise. Instead of defeating him with pure magic as he had done with the others, Joffrey conjured a sword from thin air.
The blade appeared in his hand, and he met Barristan's charge with a clash of steel.
It was Joffrey's own way to show some respect to the old knight.
The swords sang against each other, sparks flying with each impact, the sound ringing through the silent hall. Barristan was a legend, a warrior who had fought alongside the greatest knights of his generation, who had cut down men in the War of the Ninepenny Kings and served three kings.
But he was old, and Joffrey was not what he appeared to be.
Over the past two years, Joffrey had continued to strengthen his body using magic. He was at least five times stronger and faster than any normal man, his reflexes honed to a razor's edge, his muscles coiled with power that defied his slender frame.
The advantage was overwhelming.
Barristan's shield was cleaved in two, the broken halves clattering to the ground with a crash. A deep gash opened on his arm, blood seeping through his white sleeve, staining the fabric crimson.
He did not falter, did not retreat, but pressed the attack with the desperation of a man who knew he was outmatched.
Joffrey parried his blows with ease, his blade moving with a speed that seemed almost inhuman, a blur of steel that Barristan could barely follow.
On their final clash, he cut Barristan's sword in two, the broken blade spinning through the air before clattering to the floor.
Barristan stumbled backward, his arm bleeding freely, his weapon gone, his chest heaving with exertion. He fell to his knees, his eyes fixed on Joffrey with a mixture of defeat and grim acceptance.
Joffrey pointed his sword at the old knight's neck, his expression calm. "Do you yield?"
Before Barristan could respond, Tywin's voice cut through the silence, sharp and commanding. "Enough! You have made your point, Joffrey. Stop this madness."
Joffrey turned to his grandfather, a thin smile playing at his lips. He lowered his sword but did not dismiss it, the blade still gleaming in his hand, a silent threat. "And... what do you think of my tricks, Grandfather?"
Tywin's face was pale, his hands trembling slightly despite his efforts to control them. He was a man who had faced death a hundred times, who had crushed enemies with cold calculation and ruthless efficiency. But this was different. This was power beyond his comprehension, and it terrified him in a way that nothing had in decades.
"You have proven your point," Tywin said, his voice carefully controlled, each word measured. "There is no need for further demonstration."
Joffrey laughed, a cold, mirthless sound that echoed through the silent hall. "Oh, Grandfather. You still do not understand. What you have just witnessed are truly nothing more than tricks to me. Simple parlor games, the kind that entertain children." He paused, his eyes sweeping across the room, meeting the gaze of each council member in turn. "If I really wanted to... reducing this entire city to rubble would not be out of the question. No dragons needed for that. Your army cannot protect you. Your men, no matter how many you throw at me or how skilled they are... they will be nothing but a flimsy distraction."
Cersei stepped forward, her face pale with fury, her voice trembling with rage. "You monster! You are no son of mine! I should have drowned you at birth, you abomination!"
Joffrey's expression flickered, a brief shadow of something that might have been hurt crossing his features. But it passed quickly, replaced by cold indifference. "You have always had a way with words, Mother. Truly, a gift."
He ignored her and moved closer to the throne. The council shrank back, their faces pale with fear. Even Tywin took a step backward, his composure cracking, his carefully constructed mask of authority crumbling.
"You know what?" Joffrey said, his voice contemplative, almost casual. "Maybe I should change my mind about something."
He extended his hand toward the Iron Throne.
The massive structure began to shake, the jagged swords rattling against each other, the sound filling the hall like the clashing of a thousand armies. The council scrambled backward, Loras stumbling over his own feet in his haste to get away. Cersei grabbed Tywin's arm, her face white with terror.
The swords began to melt.
There was no heat, no smoke, no fire. The metal simply flowed like water, the jagged edges smoothing into a cohesive mass, the sharp points that had cut so many kings surrendering to an impossible will. The throne, which had been a monument to conquest and cruelty, was being unmade before their eyes.
Joffrey closed his fingers into a fist, and the mass of metal reformed.
A new throne rose from the chaos, smaller than the old one but infinitely more beautiful. It was made of pristine metal, polished to a mirror sheen, its surface covered with intricate details that seemed to shift and dance in the torchlight. Dragons coiled around its arms, their wings spread in eternal flight.
The seat was smooth and inviting, no longer a trap for the unwary. It was a work of art, a masterpiece of craftsmanship that no human hand could have created.
"Keep that seat warm for me," Joffrey said, his voice carrying across the silent hall. "Because I will return to take it, one of these days."
The council stared at the new throne, their faces a mixture of awe and terror. It was beautiful, impossibly so, but it was also a reminder of the power that had created it. The power that could unmake them all with a thought.
Joffrey turned back to face them, his expression cold. "Oh, and before I leave... Tommen and Myrcella. Make sure no harm comes to them, because, if it does..." He let the threat hang, the words carrying the weight of absolute certainty. He did not need to finish the sentence. They all understood.
Tywin pushed past his fear, his voice cold and commanding, though a tremor betrayed him. "You intend on taking the throne now? Is that what you came here for? To threaten us with your sorcery and say that you will take the throne by force? Will you return with that dragon princess?"
Joffrey shook his head slowly, his expression almost pitying. "I already told you what you had to know. It is up to you what to do with that information. Whether you survive this coming winter will depend solely on what you do in the next year or two." He paused, his eyes boring into Tywin's. "So think carefully."
"W-wait, Prince Joffrey!" Barristan called out, his voice strained with desperation.
Joffrey turned to the old knight, his expression unreadable. "Yes?"
"My men," Barristan said, gesturing to the transformed knights. "I beg of you... release them from your sorcery."
Joffrey glanced over at the pig, the statue, the rat, and the unconscious forms of the other knights. "Do not worry, Ser Barristan. The magic will wear off eventually, and they will return to normal." He paused, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. "Well, mostly normal. The pig might have some... lingering effects. But nothing permanent."
He lifted his arm and called out, his voice echoing through the silent hall. "Fawkes!"
The phoenix manifested in the room with a burst of golden flames, its feathers blazing with inner fire, its arrival washing the chamber with warmth.
It perched on Joffrey's outstretched hand and glanced at the other individuals in the chamber with curiosity.
"You already know where I want to go next," Joffrey said to the bird. "Take me there."
Fawkes let out a piercing cry, and the flames surged around them, engulfing Joffrey in a cocoon of fire.
The heat was immense, but it did not burn those who were present in the chamber...it felt warm and comforting, like the embrace of a summer sun.
The flames flared once, twice, and then they were gone.
The spot where Joffrey had stood was empty, the stone floor blackened with soot. The phoenix had vanished as well, leaving no trace of its presence save the lingering warmth in the air.
The council stood in stunned silence, their eyes wide with disbelief.
The pig grunted softly, its small eyes blinking in confusion.
The statue of Ser Mandon Moore gleamed in the torchlight.
The rat scurried across the floor, disappearing into a crack in the wall.
Cersei fell to her knees, her hands pressed against the cold stone floor.
The tears she had been holding back finally spilled over, streaming down her cheeks, her carefully constructed armor of pride and fury crumbling to dust.
Tywin stood over his daughter, his face pale, his hands trembling. He looked at the new throne, at the transformed knights, at the destruction that had been wrought in the space of a few moments.
And then...they thought about Joffrey's promise to return one day and take the throne for himself.
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