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 58: The Shadow City

Three weeks had passed since the storm.

The sea had been calm since that night...too calm, he heard some of the sailors whispering, as if the waves themselves were afraid to rise again.

He paid their murmurs no mind. The muggles had been witnesses to something they had no way of understanding. It was natural for them to be afraid.

Their attitude toward him had also changed. Before the storm, the sailors had been respectful. Now they looked at him with awe, reverence, and fear.

He had seen them in the evening, gathered in small groups, speaking in hushed voices, the word ”god” whispered more than once. Some of them had begun to pray; not to the Seven nor the Drowned God, but to him.

They even left small offerings outside his cabin: a piece of bread, a silver coin, a carved wooden figure that might have been meant to represent him.

Joffrey had not encouraged this behavior, but he had not discouraged it either.

’Let them worship,’ he thought. ’It costs me nothing, and it keeps them obedient.’

The Hound had been the only one who treated him the same as before. Sandor Clegane had seen what Joffrey could do, and yet the scarred man still grumbled about the food, complained about the watch schedule, and still called him ”boy” when he thought no one was listening.

’Perhaps he is too stubborn to be afraid,’ Joffrey mused. ’Or perhaps he simply does not care.’

Daenerys, however, had changed. She still spoke to him and still attended their meetings to translate the Valyrian book. But there was a carefulness to her now, a wariness that had not been there before. She chose her words with care, as if afraid of saying something that might offend him.

She watched him when he was not looking, her violet eyes searching his face for something she could not name.

’She is terrified of me,’ Joffrey realized. ’It could be worse, I suppose.’

For his part, he had done nothing to calm her fears. He had not explained how he had stopped the storm, had not reassured her that he meant her no harm. He figured that a little fear would make her more cooperative.

The journey from King’s Landing to Asshai had taken months. They had sailed past the Stepstones, through the Summer Sea, across the Jade Sea, past cities that Joffrey had only read about in books.

Volantis, with its black walls and ancient blood. Qarth, with its gardens and its warlocks. The ruins of Old Valyria, where he had found the book that had changed everything.

And now, at last, they had arrived.

”Land ho!” the lookout cried, his voice being carried across the deck.

Joffrey stood at the bow, his hands gripping the railing, his eyes fixed on the dark smudge that grew larger with each passing moment. The Hound stood behind him, silent as ever, his scarred face hidden beneath his dog’s helm. Lord Varys had emerged from his cabin, his soft robes rustling in the stale air.

Even Daenerys had come above deck, her dragons perched on her shoulders, their golden eyes fixed on the approaching shore.

None of them spoke. They merely watched.

When Asshai finally came into view, it looked unnatural, as if it did not belong in this world.

Its walls were pitch black...so black that they seemed to drink the light, to swallow the grey twilight that passed for day in this cursed land.

The walls were massive, stretching for miles in either direction, and behind them, the city sprawled endlessly, a labyrinth of towers, domes, and spires, all built from the same impossible stone.

’Larger than King’s Landing,’ Joffrey estimated at first sight. Larger than any city in Westeros.

Beyond the walls, the Ash River flowed into the sea, its waters thick and dark, like ink spilled from a giant bottle. During the day, it was as black as the stone of the walls, but Joffrey had read that at night it glowed with an eerie pale green phosphorescence, a light that had no realistic explanation.

’The river is poisoned,’ he recalled from ancient texts. The fish are blind and deformed. The water is undrinkable.

Everyone in the city needs food, fresh water, and even timber, which must be imported from across the sea, because this land provides few natural resources.

And yet the city endured. It had endured for thousands of years, since before the rise of Valyria, since before the Long Night, since before recorded history. Something abnormal had kept it alive and breathing.

’Magic,’ Joffrey thought. Old magic. Perhaps the oldest in the world.

He was glad to have come here. Now he was certain that this was the right place to find the answers he sought.

The crew had gathered along the railing, their faces pale, their eyes wide.

They whispered among themselves, words that Joffrey did not bother to catch. He could already imagine what they were saying. Everyone was fearful of this city and what it contained.

The harbor was crowded with ships from a dozen nations; vessels from the Summer Isles, galleys from Volantis, strange ships with black sails and hulls of bone.

But the people on the docks were stranger still.

They wore masks. All of them. Every last soul who walked the harbor, worked the ropes, or watched from the shadows. Masks of wood and bone, of stone and red lacquer, of hammered copper and beaten gold.

Some were ornately carved, depicting faces that had never existed in nature. Others were smooth and blank, revealing nothing but the eyes behind them.

The citizens moved with purpose, and none of them looked at the arriving ship.

The Storm Dancer glided into an empty spot, and the dockhands who tied the ropes did so without a single word, their faces hidden behind hoods and masks.

The customs officials who boarded the ship were polite but distant, their questions brief, their inspections superficial. They wore masks of white bone, carved with expressions of serene indifference.

”Welcome to Asshai,” one of them said, his voice muffled by the mask. ”Do not wander after dark. Do not touch the black stone of the wall. Do not speak to the shadowbinders unless they speak to you first.”

Joffrey met the official’s eyes through the slits in his mask. ”And if I do?”

The man was silent for a moment. ”Then you will learn why this city is called the Shadow Lands.”

He turned and walked away, his robes trailing behind him.

”What an interesting place.” Joffrey stepped onto the stone pier. The moment his boots touched it, he felt it...it was like a thrumming beneath his soles, a vibration that was not quite sound and not quite touch. It was mystical and strange.

’I can feel wisps of magic running all over the harbor, bleeding into the walls, he realized. Ancient enchantments, woven into the very stone.’

He looked toward the walls surrounding them, at the greasy surface of the black stone. It seemed to shift in the grey light, as if it were not quite solid, as if it were something else pretending to be stone.

’Fused stone,’ he thought. ’Shaped by fire instead of carved into blocks.’ He recalled reading about that ancient building technique in one of the Targaryen books he had found beneath the Red Keep. It was a method used in Valyria as well, but lost during the Doom.

It came from here.

The Hound stepped up beside him, his hand resting on the pommel of his enchanted greatsword. ”I do not like this place.”

”No one likes this place,” Varys said, emerging from the ship’s ramp. ”I believe that may be one of the reasons it is still standing.”

They walked through the streets of Asshai, and the city swallowed them whole.

The buildings were tall and narrow, leaning against each other for support. They were made of the same greasy black stone as the walls.

There were no windows at ground level, only dark doorways that seemed to lead into the bowels of the earth. The doors themselves were black, carved with glyphs that glowed faintly in the twilight.

’Glyphs,’ Joffrey noted, running his fingers over one as they passed. ’The same as runes from my old world.’ He recognized some of them from previous books he had read. Others were new, their meanings hidden.

The air was thick with the smell of incense and smoke, mingled with something metallic that reminded him of blood. The streets were narrow and winding, paved with the same smooth grey stone as the harbor.

The sun barely illuminated the city. A semi-transparent layer of clouds seemed to cover it, filtering the light. Most illumination came from braziers that burned with a cold blue flame.

The inhabitants moved past them like ghosts. They wore masks and dark robes. Some walked alone, their heads bowed, their hands hidden in their sleeves. Others were carried in palanquins behind dark curtains, their bearers masked and silent.

And then there were the slaves.

They were the only ones without masks, their faces bare for all to see. Iron collars ringed their necks. Their eyes were empty, hollow, as if whatever made them human had been scooped out long ago. They moved quickly, efficiently, never meeting anyone’s gaze.

Daenerys walked close to Joffrey, her dragons hissing softly on her shoulders. ”I do not like this,” she whispered.

”You said that already.”

”It bears repeating.”

Joffrey did not argue. She was not wrong. There was something oppressive about this place, something that pressed against his skin like a physical weight. The magic here was thick...and it made his own power hum in response.

He felt many eyes on him, and things that were not eyes but watched him nonetheless.

’They know,’ he thought. ’The magic users of this place can sense that I am different from them.’

Many of the onlookers did not even attempt to hide their stares. They simply stood and watched as he passed, their eyes visible through the slits in their masks, their expressions unreadable.

”Keep moving,” Joffrey told his companions. ”Do not stop. Do not engage.”

They found an inn near the harbor. The only one willing to take foreigners, according to Varys. It was a low building with a black stone facade and a sign that bore the image of a dragon eating its own tail.

The inside was dark, lit by candles that burned with the same cold blue flame they had seen on the streets.

The innkeeper wore a mask of polished mahogany carved into the likeness of a grinning skull. He spoke little and preferred to use gestures, but he accepted their gold without inspection.

Joffrey took a room at the back, with a window that overlooked the Ash River. The Hound stood guard outside the door. Varys retreated to his own room. Daenerys and her dragons took the room next to his, and Ser Jorah stood watch at her door.

That night, Joffrey sat by the window and stared at the river.

It glowed with a pale, eerie green light. The color was unsettling, and it made the water look like something from a nightmare.

’The texts said it would glow,’ he thought. ’But they did not say how beautiful it would be.’

He pulled out his journal and began to write.

” We have finally arrived. The city is everything I hoped. The magic here is palpable and ancient. The walls and buildings are made of fused stone, shaped by fire, not tools. I have never seen anything like it. The stone drinks the light and thrums with power. Enchantments and runes cover the city. Their purpose is still unknown.”

”The inhabitants are masked, all of them. Only slaves are exempt. The shadowbinders watch us openly. They seem particularly interested in the dragon princess and me. Not surprising.”

”The Ash River glows at night with a soft green light. I cannot look away.”

”We are here at last. The work can begin. As soon as I—”

A shadow moved across the street.

Joffrey’s head snapped up. A figure stood in the darkness...tall, robed, masked. The mask was red lacquer, featureless, and the eyes behind it were fixed on him.

For a moment, neither moved.

Then the figure turned and vanished into the shadows.

Joffrey stared at the empty street for a long time. His journal lay open on the windowsill, the ink still wet.

”We are still being watched,” he added beneath his last line. ”I do not know by whom. But I intend to find out.”

He closed the journal and blew out the candle.

The room was dark. The river glowed. And somewhere in the shadows of Asshai, something waited for him.

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