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 63: The Second Attempt

The laboratory at the top of the black tower was quiet, lit only by the cold flames that flickered in their braziers. The light had an unnatural quality, casting no warmth, painting the obsidian table and the shelves of ancient scrolls in shades of blue.

Joffrey sat at the table, a book open before him, his quill scratching across the parchment as he recorded his observations from the past days.

The materials taken from the warlocks’ hideout were arranged around him like the components of some dark liturgy. Vials of shade of the evening...dark liquid that seemed to shift and shimmer even when still.

Jars of dragonglass powder, fine as ash. Bundles of dried herbs wrapped in black cloth, their origins unknown, their purposes waiting to be discovered. And the small crystal vial containing the Tears of the Fourteen, which still glowed faintly from within, as if the essence of Old Valyria had been bottled and preserved.

”The first phase of the ritual must be modified,” he wrote. ”The suddenness of the transformation likely caused the first subject’s death. The fire awakened too quickly, and the body was not strong enough to contain its power. A slower approach would allow the process to unfold more gradually and increase the chances of success.”

He set down the quill and stared at the words. The answer seemed obvious now, in retrospect. Kaerion had been working toward the same conclusion...smaller increments, more time between phases, allowing the subject’s body to adapt before introducing the next element. The Valyrian alchemist had been close to success, so close, before the Doom had swallowed everything.

”Three days,” Joffrey decided. ”A potion on the first night to prepare the body. A small injection on the second to introduce the dragon’s blood. And only on the third night, the fire.”

He was about to continue writing when he heard footsteps on the spiral staircase. Not the heavy tread of the Hound, nor the soft rustle of Varys’s robes. These were lighter and more deliberate, accompanied by the soft clink of arakh against leather.

Joffrey closed his journal and turned.

Aggo stood in the doorway, his dark face solemn, and his eyes fixed on the prince. The Dothraki bloodrider had removed his outer vest, revealing a chest crossed with old scars, with marks of battles.

”Prince,” Aggo said before he knelt.

Joffrey raised an eyebrow. ”I see you are feeling better. But there was no need to come here to thank me in person. It was just some ointment.”

”I have come to volunteer.” Aggo’s voice was rough, his accent heavy when speaking the common tongue, but his words were clear. ”For your sorcery. The blood of dragons.”

Joffrey studied him. The man was still in his prime...perhaps thirty years old, with a warrior’s build and a warrior’s eyes. He would make an excellent candidate, better than anyone Varys could bring him off the streets of Asshai.

”Why?” Joffrey asked.

Aggo was silent for a moment. Then, he spoke with reverence. ”I have served the Khaleesi since before she was true Khaleesi. I crossed the Red Waste with her. I watched her walk into fire and emerge unburned... with her dragons.” He paused. ”She is a goddess, but I am only a man. A man can be wounded and killed. A man can grow old and weak.” He looked up at Joffrey. ”I wish to be strong enough to protect the Khaleesi. I wish to be more than a man.”

’Devotion,’ Joffrey understood. ’Worship can be useful, if channeled correctly.’

”The first subject died,” he said. ”I am sure you are aware of this. He burned from within. It was not a pleasant death.”

”I saw it.” Aggo did not flinch. ”Khalak was old. He had grown weak.” He touched his chest. ”I am not old. I am strong. I will survive.”

Joffrey nodded. He could not argue with the man’s logic, despite its simplicity. The first subject had been a gamble...aged, frail, his body already in decline. Aggo was none of those things. If the ritual was going to work on anyone, it would work on him.

”Very well. The process will last three nights. You will fast for a day and drink nothing but water. Tomorrow, at dusk, we begin.”

Aggo nodded, rose, and left without another word.

Joffrey turned back to his journal and began to write.

”Subject: Aggo. Male, approximately thirty years of age. Dothraki. Bloodrider to Daenerys Targaryen. Physically fit, no apparent health issues.”

”Ritual protocol: Modified three-night procedure.

Night one: Potion of herbs, dragonglass powder, and diluted dragon’s blood (one drop per cup of water).

Night two: Injection of concentrated dragon’s blood (one drop, undiluted).

Night three: Exposure to flame (controlled burn on forearm) followed by observation.

Expected outcome: Enhanced strength, speed, healing, and partial fire resistance. Possible side effects: spontaneous combustion, mental degradation, physical mutations, and death.

Probability of success: Unknown...”

He set down his quill and stared at the words. Unknown. It was the only honest answer after a single experiment.

Daenerys found him in the laboratory the next evening, just before the first ritual was set to begin. Her violet eyes were troubled, her silver hair loose around her shoulders, her dragons nowhere to be seen. She stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, her expression a mask of conflicting emotions.

”Aggo told me,” she said. ”He came to volunteer.”

”He did.”

”You should have told me.”

”You would have tried to stop him.”

”No.” Her voice was soft, but there was steel beneath it. ”I would not have tried to stop him. He has made his choice. But I would have liked to know.”

Joffrey turned to face her. ”He is your bloodrider. He swore to protect you. He believes that becoming stronger will allow him to do that.”

”And what do you believe?” Her voice cracked, just slightly. ”I do not want to lose another loyal man.”

Joffrey was silent for a moment. ”I believe that the ritual will work this time. I believe he will survive. I have modified the process to reduce the stress on the body.” He paused. ”But I cannot guarantee anything. There is always risk. Aggo understands this, and still he wishes to proceed.”

Daenerys stepped into the room, her eyes moving over the instruments on the table, the vials of dark liquid, the small brazier that would be used for the fire. ”I want to be present. During the ritual. All three nights.”

”That is not necessary.”

”Perhaps not. But I will be there nonetheless.” She met his gaze. ”If he dies, I need to see it....I need to know what went wrong. I cannot have my people risking their lives for me while I do nothing.”

Joffrey studied her. There was something different about her now, a hardness that had not been there before. But he also noticed the absence of the hatred and fear that had oozed from her during their earlier encounters. Something had changed in Daenerys Targaryen.

”Very well,” he said. ”You may watch. But you will not interfere.”

”I will not.”

He turned back to the table and began to prepare the potion.

Night One

The potion was dark, thick as syrup, and it smelled of copper and ash.

Aggo drank it without hesitation, his eyes never leaving Joffrey’s face.

Daenerys stood in the corner, her arms wrapped around herself, her dragons silent on their perch near the door.

The Hound guarded the entrance, his massive frame blocking anyone who might seek to interrupt.

Ser Jorah had wanted to be present as well, but Daenerys had ordered him to stay below.

”How do you feel?” Joffrey asked.

Aggo considered the question. He looked down at his hands, flexed his fingers. ”Warm. As if I have drunk hot wine.” He pressed a hand to his chest. ”My heart beats fast.”

”That is expected. The potion prepares your body for what is to come.” Joffrey gestured to a comfortable chair. ”Sit down and rest. We will observe you for the next few hours.”

Aggo sat.

Daenerys moved closer, her eyes searching his face for signs of distress.

There were none. His breathing was steady. His skin held its normal color. No fever, no pain, and no signs of the fire that had consumed Khalak...for now.

”The potion is fairly mild compared to what follows,” Joffrey explained. ”It contains only a tiny amount of dragon’s blood. I do not expect any significant changes tonight.”

”So the next one is more dangerous,” Daenerys said.

Joffrey nodded. ”Significantly.”

Night Two

The injection was a single drop of dragon’s blood, drawn from Rhaegal earlier that day. The vial had been warmed to body temperature, the needle sterilized in the brazier’s flame.

Aggo sat in the same chair, his arm extended, his muscles tense beneath his dark skin.

Daenerys stood closer this time, her hand resting on Drogon’s back. The black dragon watched the proceedings with unblinking golden eyes, his tail twitching, his nostrils flaring as if he could smell the blood of his kin.

Joffrey inserted the needle and pressed.

Aggo’s body convulsed. His back arched, his teeth clenched, his breath came in short, sharp gasps. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his skin flushed red, as if he were burning from within.

”Aggo!” Daenerys stepped forward, but Joffrey raised a hand.

”Wait.”

Aggo’s eyes flew open. They were bloodshot and wild, but he did not scream or thrash around. He endured the pain with an impressive amount of determination.

The convulsions lasted for what felt like an eternity. Then, slowly, they subsided. Aggo slumped in the chair, his chest heaving, his skin still flushed but cooling.

”It is done,” Joffrey said. ”The injection has been a success.”

”How can you be so sure?” Daenerys asked.

”Because he is still alive.”

Night Three

The brazier glowed with heat, its coals red and hungry.

Joffrey stood beside it. Aggo sat in the chair, his chest bare, his face calm despite the tension in his shoulders.

Daenerys had positioned herself near the door, close enough to see, far enough to stay out of the way if something went wrong. Her dragons were restless, hissing, their tails twitching, as if they sensed their mother’s unease.

”This is the final phase,” Joffrey said. ”The fire will fully awaken the dragon’s blood now running in your veins. It will hurt. It may cause your flesh to burn. But you must not pull away.”

Aggo nodded. ”I understand.”

Joffrey moved the brazier closer. He held it before Aggo’s eyes, letting the man see the heat, the light, and the promise of pain.

”Are you ready?”

”Yes.”

Joffrey pressed the flames against Aggo’s chest.

The man screamed.

The sound was terrible...it was raw, and primal, a cry torn from the depths of his being. The skin around the coals blackened, smoked, and seemed to catch fire. The smell of burning flesh filled the laboratory.

Daenerys took a step forward, her hand outstretched. ”Stop—”

”No.” Joffrey’s voice was sharp. ”Do not interfere.”

Aggo’s scream faded to a whimper, then to silence. His eyes were wide, but they held. He looked down at his chest, at the red coals still pressed to his flesh, at the smoke rising from his skin.

And then, impossibly, he laughed.

”It hurts,” he said, his voice hoarse. ”But it is not unbearable.”

Joffrey removed the brazier. The wound was black and ugly, but even as they watched, it began to heal. The skin knit together, the flesh sealed, and within minutes, there was nothing left but a faint scar.

Aggo’s eyes flickered. For just an instant, they seemed to glow with a mild golden hue. Then it was gone.

Joffrey stepped back. ”The first phase is complete. You have survived. But I will need to keep a close eye on you for the next week.”

Aggo flexed his arm, his fingers, his shoulder. ”I feel... better.”

”You will grow stronger as your body adapts. But side effects may still appear. We can only hope they are not life-threatening...perhaps some mild physical alterations.”

Daenerys moved to Aggo’s side, her hand on his shoulder. ”How do you feel?”

”Khaleesi.” Aggo smiled, a rare expression on his face, one Joffrey had not seen before. ”I feel as if I could ride for a thousand days and never tire. As if I could fight a hundred men and not fall.”

Daenerys looked at Joffrey. She wanted to be happy...he could see that, but after what had happened to Khalak, she was still worried.

”The ritual is not yet complete,” Joffrey said. ”This was only the first phase. If all goes well, we could proceed to the second in a month or so. But for now...” He looked at Aggo. ”Go, rest. We will talk in the morning.”

The laboratory was empty when Joffrey returned to his journal. Aggo had gone to his bed. Daenerys had retired to her chamber, her dragons at her heels.

The Hound stood guard at the door.

Joffrey sat at the obsidian table and began to write.

”Subject: Aggo. Ritual complete (first phase).

Night one: Potion administered. No immediate adverse effects.

Night two: Injection administered. The subject experienced convulsions and fever but survived. Vital signs stabilized within two hours.

Night three: Fire exposure. The wound healed completely within minutes. Eyes exhibited a brief golden hue...perhaps a sign of a future physical mutation. I’ll need to watch for those.”

”Current status: Stable. No immediate signs of spontaneous combustion or mental degradation.

Conclusion: The modified ritual appears to have been successful. However, side effects may still manifest in the coming days. Continued observation is necessary.”

He set down his quill and stared at the words.

Successful. The first time he had written that word, the subject had died. This time, he could only wait and watch.

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

”I will not fail again...this time I need to be more patient and careful.”

He closed the journal and blew out the lamp.

The laboratory was dark. The cold blue flames still burned in their braziers, casting strange shadows on the walls.

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