Game of Thrones(ASOIAF): The Sorcerer Prince

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 11: An Unpleasant Discovery

”Nephew, I thought I might find you here.”

Joffrey looked up from the heavy tome spread open on the library table. His uncle Tyrion stood in the doorway, a half-smile on his mismatched face.

”I’m surprised you found the library, Uncle,” Joffrey said, marking his place with a finger. ”I wasn’t sure you’d leave the brothel for our entire stay.”

”I was planning a visit later,” Tyrion admitted, the mischievous glint returning to his eyes. ”Care to join me?”

”Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to pass. Though I admit, watching my mother’s face when she found out would almost be worth it.”

Tyrion chuckled. ”That would be a sight.” He waddled further into the room, his eyes sweeping the shelves. ”Found anything worthwhile?”

”Plenty.” Joffrey tapped the page before him. ”This one speaks of the Wall. How Brandon the Builder raised it with the aid of the Children of the Forest, to guard the realms of men from the—”

”—grumpkins and snarks?” Tyrion finished, his tone dripping with skepticism. ”You don’t actually believe that nonsense, do you?”

”Why not?” Joffrey countered. ”People accept dragons and magic, but not this?”

”We have proof of dragons,” Tyrion said, holding up a stubby finger. ”Their skulls gather dust beneath the Red Keep. As for magic… you’ll find little of it in Westeros, but the east still whispers of sorcerers. But this?” He gestured dismissively at the book. ”Tall tales from an age of darkness.”

”It’s been over eight thousand years,” Joffrey reminded him. ”Any proof would be dust. All that remains are stories. It is natural.”

Tyrion merely shrugged and turned his gaze to the room’s other occupant. ”And what says the learned Maester? Do you agree with our royal optimist?”

Maester Luwin looked up from his own scrolls, the heavy chain around his neck clinking softly. He lifted it, running a finger over a single, dark link. ”Each link represents mastery of a subject. This one is Valyrian steel, for the study of the higher mysteries. I earned it in my youth, chasing phantoms of magic across old texts.” He let the link fall. ”I found only echoes. I believe that when the last dragon died, true magic faded from the world. Perhaps eight millennia ago, the Wall was raised against real terrors. But now? I fear you’d find only wildlings and cold up there.”

”So… no,” Tyrion concluded, grinning.

Joffrey allowed a small, knowing smile. ”You shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss things. Magic lingers everywhere. Even in this very castle.”

”The Prince is young,” Luwin said diplomatically, though his eyes held the pity of a man for a boy’s fancy. ”It does no harm to keep an open mind.”

’The blind is guiding the blind. No wonder they are so lost.’ Joffrey thought.

After a few hours among the scrolls, Joffrey took a walk to clear his head. The sharp northern air bit at his cheeks. In the training yard, he found Robb Stark crossing blades with another boy. Their movements were a blur of controlled violence, evenly matched.

”Who’s the one fighting Robb?” Joffrey asked the shadow at his back.

”Lord Stark’s bastard,” the Hound grunted.

”He has another son?” Joffrey was surprised. The boy had not been presented.

”You think he’d trot out his shame for the royal family?” Sandor’s voice was flat.

”Ah. I suppose not.” Joffrey had learned the weight this world placed on legitimacy. ”I thought things might be different here, with the Old Gods. They seem less concerned with marriage lines.”

The Hound snorted. ”Smallfolk may not care. Lords and Ladies do.” He tilted his head slightly.

Joffrey followed the gesture. On a balcony above, Lady Catelyn Stark stood watching. Her gaze was fixed on the two boys below, and there was no warmth in it. Only a cold, hard tension.

Curiosity piqued, Joffrey walked down to the yard.

”Your Grace!” Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell’s master-at-arms, hurried over as the bout stopped.

”Good morning, Ser Rodrik.” Joffrey noted that both boys were now standing at attention, Robb flushed, the other one kneeling in the dirt.

”Your Grace,” Robb said, nodding.

”I didn’t mean to interrupt your practice,” Joffrey said. ”It looked like a good match. I wanted to see it closer.” He looked at the kneeling boy. ”You can stand up.”

”Thank you, Your Grace.” The boy rose. He had the Stark look, long face, dark hair, grey eyes, but there was a wary stillness to him that Robb lacked.

”Your name? I’ve been told you are Lord Stark’s son, but I’d prefer not to use that word.”

”Jon Snow, Your Grace.”

”Well met, Jon. I’m Joffrey. You’re good with that blade.”

Jon seemed taken aback by the casual address from a prince. ”Th-Thank you, Your Grace.”

”You were giving Robb a proper thrashing. And I know Robb’s decent.”

”Hey! It was even,” Robb protested, his pride still sore from the day before.

”Care for another opponent, Jon?” Joffrey asked.

Ser Rodrik stepped forward, his face troubled. ”Your Grace, that would not be… appropriate.”

”Because he’s a bastard?” Joffrey’s voice was mild. ”I’ve sparred with guards whose fathers were pig farmers. Is their standing higher than the natural son of the Warden of the North? He may not bear the name, but his blood is nobler than almost anyone in this castle.”

He saw the ghost of a grin touch Jon Snow’s lips before it was schooled away.

”Your Grace.” The new voice came from behind. Two Lannister guardsmen in gold cloaks approached and bowed.

”What is it?”

”King Robert requests your presence at the south gate. For the hunt.”

”The hunt? For what?”

”Bears, Your Grace.”

Bears. His father had never before invited him on a hunt. Still, it beat another day of stone walls and strained courtesies. ”Very well. I’ll come.”

The hunt was a damp, cold, and profoundly dull affair. They found no bear. Not even a boar. Only a single red deer, which Joffrey brought down with a clean shot from his borrowed bow. His father had clapped him on the back, his breath reeking of wine, face ruddy with false cheer. ”A fine shot, boy! A fine shot!” It was a paltry beast compared to the magical creatures he’d once faced, but Robert acted as if he’d slain a giant.

They were riding back through the grey-green twilight, the towers of Winterfell coming into view, when Joffrey felt it. A shift in the air, not of wind, but of feeling. His magical senses, though still faint, had grown sharper, attuned to the raw currents of emotion around him. Now, a wave of dread, of sickening sorrow and frantic energy, washed out from the castle gates.

A small party of riders emerged at a gallop, their horses lathered.

”My Lord!” their leader, Jory Cassel, called out, his face pale.

Ned Stark spurred his horse forward. ”Jory? I left you to watch over my children.”

”There’s been an accident, my lord. Your son… Bran. He fell from the broken tower.”

Ned’s face went ashen. ”Is he…”

”Alive, my lord. But Maester Luwin fears the worst. He’s with him now.”

Ned wheeled his horse to face the King, his eyes desperate.

”Go, Ned,” Robert said, his usual bluster gone. ”See to your boy.”

Just what we needed, Joffrey thought grimly as he watched Lord Stark gallop away. More tension in a castle already stretched thin.

Later, Joffrey sat on a cold stone bench in a dimly lit corridor outside the sickroom. The air was thick with the smell of herbs and fear.

”Surprised to see you here, nephew.” Tyrion’s voice was softer than usual.

Joffrey gestured down the hall. ”Father just left. I was… thinking of what to say. It doesn’t look good for the boy.”

”You say you’re sorry, and you hope for his recovery. That’s all that’s required.” Tyrion’s cynicism seemed tempered by the gloom of the place.

”I suppose.” Joffrey stood and tapped the Hound’s armored shoulder. ”Wait here, Sandor.”

The two Stark guards at the door bowed and opened it for him.

The room was hushed. Bran Stark lay small and broken in the vast bed, his face pale, eyes closed. Curled at the foot of the bed was a grey direwolf pup, its yellow eyes opening to watch Joffrey enter. Maester Luwin sat in a chair by the bedside, mixing a draught. Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn stood like sentinels of grief, their faces carved from worry and despair.

”I’m sorry about your son,” Joffrey said, the words feeling hollow as stones. ”I hope for his swift recovery.”

Lady Catelyn’s eyes met his. ”Thank you for your words, Your Grace.” Her courtesy was a thin veneer over something darker. A deep, instinctive dislike that puzzled him. He’d done nothing to her.

”How is he?” Joffrey asked the maester.

Luwin sighed, the sound heavy with professional defeat. ”The fall caused severe trauma to his head and back. He is in a deep sleep. It is too soon to know if he will wake… or what he will be if he does.”

Joffrey held the old man’s gaze. With a slight, focused effort, he brushed against the surface of Luwin’s thoughts. The truth was bleak. The maester did not believe Bran would last the night. And if by some miracle he did, the damage to his spine was such that the boy would never walk again.

Joffrey’s eyes drifted back to Bran, then to the direwolf. There was something… odd about the creature. A faint resonance, a whisper of a bond that was more than animal loyalty. It tugged at the edges of his own magical awareness. The blood of the First Men, he mused. Wargs and greenseers, the tales say. Their magic is of the earth, of bond and beast...and Ice.

A pang of old frustration hit him. Back home, a vial of Skele-Gro and he’d be jumping from this bed in an hour. He was no specialist in healing magics, but he knew the theory. It would be possible, perhaps, to mend the shattered bones, to coax the bruised spine back to wholeness. But it was untested here, in this body, with this unfamiliar magic. Risky.

And why should he? The boy was nothing to him.

”Your Grace?” Lady Stark’s voice was hesitant. He had been staring at her unmoving son for too long.

He pulled his gaze away. ”I’ll take my leave. Again… I am sorry.” The apology, this time, felt directed at Bran himself.

We all live with the consequences of our choices, he thought as he left the suffocating room. If he lives, he learns. If he dies… that is the way of things.

Breakfast the next morning in the guest hall was a quiet affair. The King was conspicuously absent, likely already deep in his cups or someone else’s bed.

”Is he going to die?” Myrcella asked, her voice small with genuine worry.

”It’s possible,” Joffrey said, picking at his food. ”That was the maester’s belief.”

”How do you know? Did you see him?” Cersei asked, her tone sharp.

”Of course. Isn’t that what’s expected?” As he spoke, Tyrion bustled into the room.

”I hope you left me some bacon. I’m famished.”

”Did you tell my son to visit that crippled boy?” Cersei demanded, ignoring his greeting.

Tyrion smiled brightly at his sister and brother. ”My beloved siblings! And to think I missed you.” He loaded a plate.

”You didn’t answer me.”

”Uncle, have you seen him?” Myrcella pressed. ”Is Bran really going to die?” Tommen added, his eyes wide.

Tyrion sat, chewing thoughtfully. ”Apparently not.”

”What do you mean?” Cersei’s voice was suddenly taut.

Joffrey felt a spike of something from her. It was not concern, but a sharp, cold unease. Curious, he let his focus narrow, his eyes meeting hers as she stared at Tyrion. He skimmed the surface of her thoughts, a quick, light touch of Legilimency.

The images, the knowledge, that flashed back to him were so vile, so profoundly wrong, that he had to fight to keep his face neutral. A wave of cold disgust washed through him.

Gods, he thought, his appetite vanishing. What kind of twisted pit have I landed in?

He almost wished he hadn’t looked. It cast every interaction, every glance, in a new and horrifying light.

Tyrion, oblivious to the psychic turmoil beside him, continued. ”That’s what the maester says. Surviving the first night is a good sign. His chances are better.”

Cersei and Jaime exchanged a quick, loaded glance. It was fleeting, but Tyrion noticed. And Joffrey, who now knew the truth behind it, felt a slow, cold anger begin to burn in his gut.

”I hope the boy wakes,” Tyrion mused, wiping grease from his chin. ”I’d be very curious to hear what he has to say.”

I can already imagine, Joffrey thought, his mind made up. The casual evil he’d witnessed could not stand. Not when he could potentially stop it. The risks of healing magic suddenly seemed smaller than the rot he’d just perceived.

He looked down at his plate, his jaw tight. It seems I’ll be paying another visit to Bran Stark after all.