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 55: Burn

The cabin was very quiet, save for the scratch of Joffrey’s quill against parchment and the distant creak of the ship’s timbers.

He sat at his desk, the oil lamp burning low, its flame casting long shadows across the walls. Before him lay his personal journal...a plain leather-bound book, unremarkable in appearance, but filled with observations, theories, and calculations that would have taken lesser men years to compile.

”Day four since the first experiment. Subject name: Khalak, male, approximately sixty years of age. Dothraki. Former rider of Khal Drogo’s khalasar.”

He continued writing, his hand steady despite the hour.

”Results: The subject reports feeling ’younger.’ His strength has increased by approximately forty percent, based on preliminary tests. His speed has been enhanced by a similar margin. He can withstand heat that would cause serious burns to an ordinary man, though he is not immune to fire. Flame resistance appears to be partial, not absolute. Wounds heal faster than normal. A cut that would take a week to close now seals within a day.”

”No visible mutations. No signs of mental degradation. The subject remains lucid, coherent, and loyal to Daenerys Targaryen.

Overall assessment: The first phase of the ritual appears to have been a success.”

Joffrey set down his quill and leaned back in his chair, staring at the words he had written. ”A success.” The first of many, he hoped. The old Dothraki had been a gamble. He was old, frail, with a body already in decline. If the ritual could work on him, it could work on anyone.

But there were limits. The first phase was merely the foundation, the preparation of the body for what was to come.

The true transformation would require a second phase...a mixture of dragon’s blood, Daenerys’s blood, and other materials he did not currently possess. The diary of Kaerion the alchemist had listed ingredients that Joffrey had never heard of, substances that likely existed only in the largest cities of Essos.

He could only hope that Asshai, the Shadow Lands, would provide for his needs.

’Patience,’ he reminded himself. ’You have time. Your body is still young and strong.’

He picked up his quill and continued writing.

The next phase will require a more complex preparation. The subject must be injected with a mixture of dragon blood and Valyrian blood. The alchemist believed that the combination would trigger a more profound transformation. One that would grant the subject true resistance to fire, enhanced healing, and perhaps even an extended lifespan.

Additional ingredients are required: shade of the evening, dragonglass ground to a fine powder, and something called ”the tears of the Fourteen.”

”I do not know what this last substance is, but I suspect it is a reference to the volcanoes of Old Valyria. Perhaps the residue left behind by the Fourteen Flames?. I will need to research further.”

A knock at the door.

Joffrey closed his journal and slid it into a drawer. ”Enter.”

The door opened, and Saera slipped inside, carrying a tray laden with bread, cheese, and a steaming bowl of soup. Her golden hair was pinned up, and her blue eyes were soft with concern. She had been watching him closely these past days, noting the dark circles under his eyes, the way he forgot to eat, the hours he spent locked in his workshop.

”My prince,” she said, setting the tray on the corner of his desk. ”You have not eaten since yesterday.”

”I have been busy.”

”You are always busy.” She moved closer, her hand brushing against his arm. ”You have been absorbed in this project ever since we met the Targaryen princess.”

Joffrey detected a hint of something in her voice...jealousy, perhaps, or insecurity. He chose to ignore it. ”The princess is key to my plans. Her cooperation is essential.”

”I understand.” Saera’s voice was soft, but her eyes betrayed her. ”I only wish you would take better care of yourself.”

Joffrey sighed. He reached for a piece of bread and tore off a chunk, chewing mechanically. ”There. I have eaten. Are you satisfied?”

Saera smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. ”The captain asked me to tell you that he has estimated our arrival. He says there is still at least a month before we reach Asshai. The waters grow trickier the closer we get to the shadow lands.”

”A month.” Joffrey frowned. ”That is longer than I hoped.”

”The captain knows these waters. He has sailed them before.” Saera paused. ”He says the Shadow Lands are not like the rest of Essos. The sea is treacherous, and the currents are unpredictable. He says that many ships have sunk in these waters because their captains became careless.”

”Then we will be careful.” The last thing he wanted was for the ship to sink. That would put an end to his plans.

Joffrey rose from his chair, moving to the window. The sea stretched before him, dark and endless. Somewhere beyond that horizon lay Asshai, the city of shadow, the home of the shadowbinders. Somewhere beyond that horizon lay the answers he sought.

”A month,” he repeated. ”I can wait a month.”

He turned back to Saera, his expression softening slightly. ”Thank you for the food. And for the news. You may go.”

Saera curtsied and turned to leave.

Joffrey returned to his desk, picked up his quill, and began to write again. But before he could finish a sentence, the door burst open.

Lord Varys stood in the doorway, his pale face flushed, his breath coming in short gasps. For once, the eunuch had lost his composure.

”My prince.” Varys’s voice was strained. ”You must come to the deck. Quickly.”

Joffrey rose, his hand moving to his sword. ”What is wrong? Are they fighting again? I told Sandor to handle it.”

”The Dothraki. The one named Khalak.” Varys swallowed hard. ”Something has happened to him. He is... he is not well.”

Joffrey’s expression changed. He rushed out without another word.

The deck of the Storm Dancer was in chaos.

The Dothraki had gathered in a loose circle near the bow, their dark faces twisted with rage and fear.

They clutched their arakhs, their bodies tense, their eyes wild.

Ser Jorah stood at the edge of the circle with a pale face.

Daenerys was there too, her silver hair wild in the wind, her violet eyes wide with horror.

”What is happening to him?” she cried.

”Move!” Joffrey pushed through the crowd, his mind racing. The ritual had worked. Khalak had been improving. He had been—

He stopped.

Khalak knelt on the deck, his body convulsing violently, his fingers clawing at his own skin. His face was twisted in agony, his mouth open in a scream that seemed to have no end. His flesh was red and raw, as if something beneath was trying to escape.

”It burns!” the old man cried, his voice cracked with desperation. ”It burns, Khaleesi. Please... make it stop!”

Daenerys stepped forward, her hand reaching for him. ”Khalak—”

”Stay back.” Joffrey grabbed her arm, pulling her away. ”Do not touch him.”

”We cannot just—”

”We do not know what is happening. If it is contagious, or if the fire—”

”The fire!” Khalak’s eyes went wide with terror. ”The fire is inside me. I can feel it in my guts. It is eating me alive!”

Joffrey studied the old man, his mind searching for an answer. The ritual had worked. The dragon’s blood had integrated with Khalak’s system. He had shown improvement...enhanced strength, speed, healing. There had been no signs of rejection, no symptoms of failure.

So why was he dying now?

”Khalak,” he said, forcing calm into his voice. ”Tell me what you feel.”

”The fire.” Khalak’s hands tore at his chest, his nails drawing blood. ”It is in my blood. In my bones. It wants out.”

”Can you control it?”

”No.” The old man’s voice broke. ”It... it burns!”

Joffrey’s blood ran cold. He quickly reviewed the side effects mentioned by the alchemist. The only relevant passage was a small note about an older experiment...a brief, almost dismissive mention of a subject who had burned from within.

Kaerion had written that in rare cases, the dragon’s blood could awaken something in an individual. If the subject was not prepared, if the body was not strong enough, the fire would consume them from the inside out.

He had compared the effect to a volcano erupting within a man’s flesh.

Khalak’s will was not strong enough. The fire had awakened, and he could not control it.

”We need to get him below deck,” Joffrey said. ”We need to—”

Khalak screamed.

The sound was terrible...it was raw and primal, the cry of a man being unmade. His body convulsed, his back arching, his mouth opening wide.

And then the fire came.

It burst from his skin, from his eyes, from his mouth...flames of orange and red, so bright that Joffrey had to shield his eyes.

The Dothraki stumbled back, crying out in fear. Ser Jorah pulled Daenerys away, his arms wrapped around her, his body shielding hers.

Khalak rose to his feet, his body wreathed in flames. For a moment, he stood there, burning, his eyes fixed on something none of them could see.

The heat was intense, enough to make the air shimmer, enough to make the wooden deck smoke beneath his feet.

Joffrey raised his hand, ready to end the old man’s suffering before the fire could spread to the ship. But before he could act, Khalak turned and ran to the railing. He climbed over the side and leaped into the sea.

The water hissed where he sank, steam rising from the waves. For a moment, they could see him beneath the surface...a dark shape, wreathed in fire, sinking into the depths. His arms flailed, his mouth opened in a silent scream, and then the light faded, and he was gone.

The deck fell silent.

Daenerys stood at the railing, her hands gripping the wood, her shoulders shaking. Ser Jorah stood behind her, his face unreadable. The Dothraki stared at the water, their eyes wide, their lips moving in prayers to gods that might not have heard them.

Joffrey watched the waves, his mind churning.

The ritual worked. He was improving. And then...

He must have missed something. Some detail, some variable, some warning in the alchemist’s cramped handwriting. The fire had awakened, and Khalak had not been strong enough to control it. Was it because his body was too old and weak? Was it because his will was not strong enough? Or could it be something else entirely?

He thought of Daenerys, who had walked into a pyre and emerged unburned. He thought of his own power, the magic that flowed through his veins, the centuries of knowledge that had taught him to master forces that would destroy lesser men.

The next subject must be stronger, he decided. The next subject must be willing to endure the fire, to master it, to make it part of themselves.

He looked around at the silent, frightened faces of the crew and the Dothraki. There was nothing more he could do here. He shook his head and walked away, leaving them to their grief.

The cabin was dark when he reached it. He sat at his desk, pulled out his journal, and began to write.

”Subject: Khalak. Deceased.”

”Cause of death: Spontaneous combustion. The dragon’s blood awakened a fire that the subject could not control. The alchemist’s diary failed to list this among the possible side effects, except for a brief side note. I did not anticipate such a violent reaction.”

The ritual was not a failure. The ritual worked...too well, perhaps. The subject’s body was strengthened, his senses sharpened, and his wounds healed faster. But the fire that was awakened could not be contained.

” Preliminary Conclusion: The subject was incapable of mastering the transformation. Future subjects must be screened for mental and physical fortitude. The weak-willed will not survive.”

He set down his quill and stared at the words.

A success, he had written just hours ago. The first of many.

Now his first success was dead, sinking to the bottom of the eastern sea. And Joffrey did not know why.

’Patience,’ he reminded himself. ’You have time. You have the book. You have the girl and her dragons.’

”I will succeed in the end.”

He closed the journal and blew out the lamp.

The cabin was dark, but sleep would not come. Outside, the ship creaked and groaned, and the waves lapped against the hull.

Joffrey lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, and thought of Asshai.

The answers were there. He would find them.

He had to.

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