Game of Thrones(ASOIAF): The Sorcerer Prince

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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 32: Cersei’s Mistake

”Here we are.” Joffrey stopped before a modest door in a quiet corridor, far from the chaos that still echoed through other parts of the castle.

Ser Barristan glanced at the door, then back at his charge. ”This is your uncle’s chamber. Lord Tyrion’s.”

Joffrey noted the absence of guards. Not a single gold cloak stood watch, no Lannister men-at-arms lingered nearby. The sconces flanking the door cast their orange glow over nothing but bare stone. Someone had made certain Tyrion received no protection during the night’s violence. Someone who held a grudge deep enough to weaponize neglect.

He turned to the old knight. ”Wait here. Let no one enter.”

”Your Grace, it would be wise to—”

”I won’t be long.” Joffrey pushed open the door and slipped inside before Barristan could finish.

The room smelled of wine. Empty bottles littered the floor, the Arbor Gold he’d gifted his uncle, now nothing but purple stains on stone. Tyrion sprawled across his bed like a man thrown there by some invisible hand, one short arm dangling over the edge, his fingers brushing the cold floor. His mismatched eyes, one green and one black, struggled to focus on the intruder, blinking with the labored effort of a man trying to find his footing inside his own skull.

”I could swear I locked that,” he slurred.

”I hope you are not too drunk to talk.” Joffrey closed the door and whispered a word. A shimmer passed over the room like heat haze, a silencing ward, thick and absolute. No sound would enter or leave.

Tyrion took another sip and frowned at his bottle as though it had personally offended him. ”This wine tastes... wrong now. Metallic.”

Joffrey allowed himself a small smile. Magical wards affected muggles in strange ways, such as dizziness, distorted senses, and odd tastes. Tyrion would recover once he left the room.

The dwarf shook his head violently, as if trying to dislodge cobwebs woven into the lining of his thoughts. ”I’m never too drunk to—” He blinked at Joffrey. ”What did you ask me?”

Joffrey settled into a chair by the window, gazing out at the chaos below. Fires burned in distant courtyards. The clash of steel still rang from somewhere near the barracks. The Stark men who hadn’t surrendered were making a fight of it.

Tyrion stumbled toward the table with the deliberate gravity of a man navigating a ship’s deck in a storm, dropping his bottle as he went. It shattered against the stone floor, and he stared at the fragments with a profound and mournful expression. ”That was my last one.”

”I don’t mind you drinking, Uncle. But we’re at a crucial moment, and I need you functional.” Joffrey raised one finger, and a spark flew from its tip. One sharp and bright as a flint strike that struck Tyrion square in the chest.

”Ahh!” The dwarf flew backward, hit the wall, and landed on his bed in a heap.

A moment later, he scrambled upright, eyes wide, pupils shrunk to points, the warm fog of intoxication was burned away and replaced by something sharp and wary. His hair stood at angles. He pressed a hand to his chest as though checking that his heart still beat. ”What in the Seven Hells was that?!” He shouted.

”Something to sober you up a bit.” Joffrey offered no further explanation. ”Feeling better? I can do it again.”

”No!” Tyrion’s voice cracked. ”I’m fine!” He was still slightly tipsy, but his mind worked well enough.

”Then sit. Report.”

Tyrion approached warily, climbing onto the chair with obvious reluctance. His eyes studied his nephew as if seeing him for the first time since he arrived. ”The Starks. Are they...”

”Lord Stark lives. His daughters as well.” Joffrey’s voice was flat. ”Some of his men are in chains. The rest won’t last the hour. The rebellion can be considered over.”

Tyrion nodded slowly, chewing on the information. ”That’s... good.” He understood the implications. Dead Starks meant the North rising like a wounded bear, a war they weren’t prepared to fight on two fronts. Living Starks meant hostages, leverage, and options. The currency of survival in a court like this one.

”What of Renly?” Joffrey asked. ”He wasn’t in the throne room this morning, and I doubt he remains in the castle.”

Tyrion produced a folded parchment from his pocket. ”Two unmarked exits from the city last night. One group had six riders, all hooded, cloaks without insignia, with a fat bag of silver for the gate guards to develop sudden blindness.” He handed over the paper. The seal had already been broken. ”I’d wager Renly was among them.”

Joffrey scanned the list, committing it to memory. ”Will he go to Stannis, or is he planning on playing his own game? Those two never got along after all.” In fact, he had never even seen Lord Stannis at court. The man always had an excuse to be away.

”You think they’ll rebel?” Tyrion’s voice held careful neutrality.

”Time will tell.” Joffrey folded the paper and tucked it away. ”The wolves. How do they fare?”

Tyrion’s face darkened. ”They’re wild. One tried to take my head off...I was lucky the bars held.”

Joffrey chuckled. ”Perhaps they thought you were their midnight snack.”

The wolves had been moved last night, sneaked from the godswood before Cersei could order them killed. Finding cages large enough had been difficult. Transporting them without notice had been harder. Luckily, with enough money, anything is possible.

”Other than their dislike of you, are they healthy?”

”They’re fine. The crew feeds them calming herbs mixed with meat, as you ordered.” Tyrion leaned forward. ”How long do you mean to keep them there?”

”Not long.” Joffrey’s gaze drifted to the window. ”The rest of the preparations?”

A satisfied smile replaced Tyrion’s wariness. ”You’d be surprised what a mountain of gold can accomplish. Ships are secured. Crews hired. Sellswords retained, enough to keep everyone honest.” He paused. ”I even found myself a few trustworthy informants.”

Joffrey raised an eyebrow. ”Please tell me they’re not whores.”

Tyrion chuckled.

The next morning, Joffrey was summoned to break his fast in the great hall.

He expected to find his family, Cersei, Tommen, Myrcella, perhaps Jaime. Instead, the table held members of the Small Council. Lord Varys leaned close to the Queen, murmuring urgently. Maester Pycelle sipped wine with the contentment of a man untouched by what was happening. Uncle Kevan was reading a letter with his brow furrowed.

No Tommen. No Myrcella. This was no casual breakfast.

Joffrey glanced back. Ser Barristan had taken his place with the other Kingsguard against the wall.

”What do you mean you can’t find them?” Cersei’s voice cut through the morning quiet.

Varys spread his hands. ”They must have been taken during the battle. My little birds—”

”Bugger your birds!” Cersei slammed her fist on the table. ”I want those beasts dead. Is that clear?”

The wolves, Joffrey realized. She’s looking for the wolves, as he predicted. Too bad for her, it was too late.

”Good morning.” He announced his arrival.

Cersei’s face transformed instantly, the fury melting into a warm smile. ”Joff! Sit, sit. We have much to discuss.”

”Do we?” He settled into a chair, surveying the table. A greasy sausage and fried egg found their way to his plate. Robert had eaten like this for years, and Joffrey marveled that the man had lived as long as he had.

”All is well, Your Grace.” Pycelle bobbed his head. ”The traitors are secured, and this poor attempt at treason has ended.”

”How fares Lord Stark?”

Varys answered. ”He’s been moved to an upper cell, Your Grace. Lord Kevan has insisted he would be placed somewhere more fitted for noble prisoners.”

Kevan nodded. ”It was the right thing to do. We’re not savages.” He glanced at Cersei, who had been the one demanding he be kept inside the black cells.

”Savages?.” Cersei snorted. ”If you want savages, then the north is full of them. The sooner we’re rid of them, the better.”

Kevan’s frown deepened. ”If by ’rid of them’ you mean executed...that’s the Warden of the North we’re discussing.”

”Treason carries a heavy price.” Pycelle’s voice was like oil trying to feed the flames.

”Regardless.” Kevan raised the letter in his hand. ”I’ve heard from Tywin. He’s on his way and should arrive in days.”

”Good.” Cersei smiled. ”He’ll be here for Joffrey’s coronation.” She turned to her son. ”Speaking of which, we need to assign you proper protection. The Hound has forfeited his duties, and I still haven’t found...” She glared at Varys.

”We’re all searching, Your Grace.” The eunuch’s voice was smooth like silk. ”If he is still in the capital, we will find him.”

”Forget about the Hound. I thought Ser Barristan would serve as my shield now.” Joffrey’s tone was mild.

Cersei glanced at the old knight. ”He’s capable, certainly. But I was thinking your uncle Jaime would be better...he is younger, stronger, family.”

”No offense to Uncle Jaime.” Joffrey nodded toward where Jaime stood with the other Kingsguard. ”But I’ll keep Ser Barristan. We suit each other. Jaime can continue protecting you, Mother.”

Suspicion flickered in Cersei’s eyes...as if trying to find another meaning to his words. ”If that’s your wish... very well.”

The doors crashed open.

Joffrey’s face went cold.

Ser Meryn Trant strode in at the head of a group of gold cloaks. Behind them, shoved and dragged, came Sansa and Arya Stark.

Sansa’s dress was torn and filthy, as if she’d been pulled across stone floors. Arya was worse, her clothes in tatters, her lip split and bleeding, bruises rising on her small face.

Kevan shot to his feet. ”What is this? Those girls were to remain in their chambers!”

Everyone knew who had ordered this. The Queen’s smile could have curdled milk.

”Wonderful.” Cersei’s voice dripped satisfaction. ”You’ve brought them.”

Ser Meryn announced loudly, ”The traitor’s daughters, presented for you, my Queen.” He saluted the table.

Kevan’s face was red. ”Cersei, you should have consulted u—”

”Consult you?” The Queen’s eyes flashed. ”I am the Queen. Until my son is crowned, I command here. I consult no one. Least of all you, Uncle.”

She waved a hand. ”Bring them closer. I want to—”

CRACK.

The sound was deafening. The massive oak table, thick enough to stop a charging horse, groaned and splintered under Joffrey’s palm. Plates flew. Cups shattered. Wine and food were sprayed across the stone floor.

Silence fell like a hammer.

Every eye in the hall turned to the prince. And what they saw made strong men flinch.

Joffrey’s green eyes glowed. Not with reflected light, but from within...an eerie, luminous emerald that seemed to pulse with its own life. The air around him shimmered, heavy with something ancient and terrible.

Since the day he awoke in this world, this was the first time that someone had managed to make him truly angry.

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