Chapter 126: Joffrey, The Conqueror

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 126: Joffrey, The Conqueror

The wind howled past Joffrey's ears as he flew through the sky. Drogon's great black wings beat faster and faster, each stroke carrying them higher…further away from the Dothraki Sea and toward the distant glimmer of Meereen.

Joffrey clung to the dragon's scales, his legs pressed tight against the beast's neck, his hands gripping the jagged ridges that rose along its spine.

The world below was a blur of brown and green…the endless grass of the Dothraki plains, the occasional flash of a river, the dark shapes of his new khalasar stretching across the horizon like a mass of flesh and steel.

'Ten thousand,' he thought, and the number still seemed impossible. There would be more, if he hasnt killed so many of them during their battle.

They had tried to kill him first, of course. That was what Dothraki did…they killed strangers who wandered into their lands. But Joffrey had killed their Khal instead, had taken his head with a single blow from his enhanced fist, and the surviving warriors had looked at him with something that was between fear and awe.

'They call me the Khal of Khals now,' Joffrey thought, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. 'As if I wanted that title. As if I wanted any of this.'

He had no wish to command this army of savages, but he was not foolish enough to toss their loyalty and worship aside. They were bound to be useful for something at least.

Joffrey looked down at his hand and moved his fingers a bit. Bolts of lightning formed from his will and began to pass in between each finger. 

His control over his power has improved a bit over this past week of traveling with the host. 

But he was having more trouble than he initially estimated. He could feel the immense power rolling beneath his skin like a caged beast, waiting to be released. 

Even conjuration, the most basic of magical arts, had failed him when he tried to create clothing for his new followers.

'Harry Potter could have done this,' he thought, and the name brought with it a wave of nostalgia so powerful it almost made him gasp. 

'Harry would have known what to do. Harry would have found a way to control this power.'

But Harry Potter was dead, and Joffrey was alive. That was the truth of it, the cold, hard truth that he could never escape. 

He had been Harry Potter once, had lived and loved and died in a world that no longer appreciated him. A world that would have preferred he was no longer part of it, no matter how much he did for those ungrateful people.

And then he had woken in the body of a monster, a boy-king who had tormented his family and brought ruin to his kingdom.

'What would they think of me now?' he wondered. 'Hermione, Luna, Ginny... what would they think if they could see me now, riding a dragon, leading an army of Dothraki, preparing to conquer a city?'

He did not know. He could not know. And perhaps that was the cruelest part of all.

Drogon rumbled beneath him, a low vibration that traveled up through his legs and into his chest. 

The dragon was content, Joffrey realized…happy, even. The bond between them had grown stronger since the ritual. He could feel Drogon's emotions as if they were his own, sense the beast's primal joy at the feel of the wind beneath his wings.

'You're enjoying this,' Joffrey thought, and the dragon responded with a huff of hot breath that smelled of smoke and ash.

They flew on, crossing the last stretch of the Dothraki Sea, and then the landscape began to change. The grass gave way to rocky hills, and then to cultivated fields, and then to the outskirts of a great city that sprawled along the coast like a jewel waiting to be claimed.

Meereen.

Joffrey had heard of it, of course. Daenerys had spoken of it often enough…the third of the Slaver's Bay cities, the one she had not yet conquered. 

The Great Pyramid rose in the center of the city, a monstrous structure of red and yellow bricks. Around it, the city spread out in a maze of narrow streets and squat buildings, with a massive wall around it made of some pale-looking stone.

But it was not the pyramid that caught Joffrey's attention.

It was the line of crosses stretching along the road that led to the city gates.

Joffrey's enhanced vision picked out the details before his mind could fully comprehend them. There were hundreds of wooden crosses, each one bearing the body of a child. 

The children were naked, their arms stretched wide, their heads lolling at unnatural angles. Some were still alive, their chests rising and falling with shallow, labored breaths. Others were dead, their bodies already beginning to bloat and blacken in the sun.

'One hundred and sixty-three, Joffrey estimated. The number was both specific and horrifying. One hundred and sixty-three children. Each one crucified. Each one bound by slave chains and covered with slave rags.

Joffrey knew this was a message. Not for him, but a message for Daenerys. 

The Masters of Mereen knew what happened to Astapor, what was likely happening to Yunkai right now, and what would happen to them next.

This was a message for the Breaker of Chains. That Mereen was not going to go down without a fight.

Joffrey felt the rage building inside him…a cold fury that was nothing like the wild, uncontrolled anger of his younger years.

He may not be the most righteous of individuals, but killing innocent children was not something he would tolerate.

Drogon felt his fury and responded with a roar that shook the air. The dragon's flames licked at the edges of his jaws, and Joffrey could feel the heat building in the beast's chest, the fire ready to be unleashed.

'Not yet,' Joffrey thought, forcing himself to calm. 'Not yet. I need to see something first.'

They descended toward the city, Drogon's great wings casting a shadow that fell across the walls and towers of Meereen. 

The people below looked up, their faces a mixture of terror and confusion. Some screamed and ran. Others fell to their knees, praying to gods Joffrey did not know.

And then Drogon landed in the great square before the pyramid.

The ground shook beneath the dragon's weight, a tremor that rippled through the streets and toppled merchant stalls. 

The Great Pyramid loomed before them, close enough that Joffrey could see the faces of the Masters watching from the windows, their expressions frozen in shock and disbelief.

Joffrey dismounted the dragon. He was dressed in the leathers and furs of a Dothraki rider, his long blonde hair wild and unkempt, his green eyes burning with the intensity of his rage. 

Drogon's great head swung toward the pyramid, his golden eyes fixed on the Masters watching from above. A low rumble built in the dragon's chest, smoke curling from his nostrils. 

Joffrey could sense the Masters' emotions from where he stood. They were afraid and angry, but also somewhat satisfied to see he came here alone.

The Master was still confident. They still had their armies, their wealth, their power. They would not yield easily to a stranger, even one who rode a dragon.

The city gates were close, and they were protected behind their massive stone walls. No army could come inside. And they had their armies. Thousands of Unsullied stood in ranks, ready to defend their masters.

They had prepared for war. They had prepared to face Daenerys Targaryen.

But had not prepared for Joffrey.

"Fools…" He smiled. 

The Masters came to him in the square, a delegation of a dozen of the city's most powerful men. They wore their finest robes, their richest jewels, their faces carefully composed into masks of welcoming hospitality. 

They had seen the dragon, and they were afraid. But they were also confident. They had their army. They had their walls. They had their gold.

And Joffrey was alone.

"Great dragon rider," one of them said, his voice smooth and practiced. He was fat, with rings on every finger and a chain of gold around his neck. "We welcome you to Meereen. We did not know we were to receive such an honored guest. Please, allow us to offer you our hospitality. Whatever you desire…gold, jewels, perfumes, women, food…it is yours."

"Are you an envoy of the Dragon Queen?. Daenerys Targaryen." Another one of the Masters asked.

Joffrey said nothing. He simply looked at them with his cold eyes.

"Wait…that long blonde hair, those green eyes…you are Joffrey Baratheon." Another one of the Masters spoke up after recognizing him. "We have heard many rumors about you, Sorcerer Prince. The man who walked into the Shadow Lands and returned alive." He smiled while rubbing his hands together. "We could be much better allies to you than the westerner queen…we can offer you much, great sorcerer. We can make you rich beyond imagining."

"The children," Joffrey said.

The fat Master paused, his smile faltering slightly. "I... beg your pardon?"

"The children on the crosses," Joffrey repeated. "One hundred and sixty-three of them. I saw them on the road. Some of them are still alive."

The Masters exchanged glances, their carefully constructed composure beginning to crack. They had not expected this. They had expected demands for gold, for power, for tribute. They had not expected a judgment to be cast upon them.

"Ehm…those children you saw outside the walls were nothing more than slaves, my Prince," another Master said, a thin man with a sharp nose and sharper eyes. "They defied their masters. They were punished as an example to the others. It is the law of-"

"Laws are no excuse." Joffrey interrupted him. "Laws are made by those who are in power. They are merely a tool that you use to control the masses. A tool to excuse your cruelty. You will not shield yourselves behind such a flimsy thing. Not against me." His voice was flat, utterly devoid of emotion. 

"It is our way of life," the fat Master said, his voice defensive now. "We are masters of this city. We have always ruled this way. It is the natural order. The strong rule the weak. It is-"

"Your way," Joffrey repeated. "The natural order…more worthless excuses."

He took a step toward them, and the Masters instinctively stepped back. Drogon rumbled behind him, the sound vibrating through the stones beneath their feet.

"I think it is time you face some judgment for your actions," Joffrey said. 

The Masters were pale now, their confidence crumbling. They had come prepared to negotiate, to bargain, to offer gold and position. They had not come prepared to face a sorcerer's wrath.

"We did not mean to anger you, Sorcerer Prince." A master said. "This was a message for the Western Queen. We…"

"Name your price," the fat Master said, his voice trembling slightly. "Name it, and it is yours. We have plenty of gold, we have jewels, we can give you our slaves if you want them, we have-"

"I have gold," Joffrey said. "I have jewels. I have a dragon. I have ten thousand Dothraki waiting beyond your walls. What could you possibly offer me that I do not already have?"

"T-Ten thousand Dothraki," the thin Master repeated, his face whitening. "You have a khalasar?"

"I have many things," Joffrey said. "But what I want now is some justice. And I will not leave this city until I have that."

The Masters looked at one another, their carefully constructed masks shattering. They had heard the rumors about Joffrey, had dismissed them as exaggerations. Now they had to deal with the reality of the situation. They had not prepared for this.

The fat Master stared at him, disbelief warring with fear. "You would attack the city? You are alone. You have only your dragon. Our walls are strong, our defenses-"

"Drogon," Joffrey said.

The dragon rose behind him, his massive wings spreading wide, his golden eyes fixed on the city gates. The Masters screamed, stumbling backward, their fine robes tangling beneath their feet.

"Dracarys," Joffrey said.

The word was soft, almost gentle. But the effect was anything but. Drogon opened his jaws, and a torrent of crimson fire erupted from his throat, surging toward the great gates of Meereen. The flames struck the iron-bound wood with tremendous force, melting the metal, charring the timbers, reducing the ancient gates to ash and slag in the span of a heartbeat.

When the fire cleared, the gates were gone. Nothing remained but a gaping hole in the walls, the edges of the stone still glowing with residual heat.

"The walls," Joffrey said, turning back to the Masters. "What else do you have?"

The Masters did not answer. They were staring at the smoking ruins of their gate, their faces blank with shock.

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