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 66: The Apprentice

The laboratory was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the cold blue flames and the distant murmur of the city beyond the black stone walls.

The braziers cast their eerie light across the obsidian table, painting the vials and scrolls in shades of pale azure.

Joffrey sat at the table, his journal open before him, his quill scratching across the parchment as he recorded the day’s observations.

He did not hear the footsteps until they were nearly upon him.

Tyrion emerged from the shadows of the spiral staircase, his mismatched eyes sweeping the chamber, taking in the vials and scrolls, the alembics and retorts, the strange instruments whose purposes he could only guess. He carried a cup of wine in one hand and a look of curious amusement on his face. The cup was empty, Joffrey noted. It usually was.

”Nephew,” Tyrion said, settling into a chair across from Joffrey without waiting for an invitation. ”I have been told that you spend most of your time in this gloomy room. One might think you were avoiding company.”

Joffrey set down his quill. ”I have work to do.”

”You know,” Tyrion said, holding up his empty cup as if to toast the observation, ”when you talk like that, you remind me of my father. Every time I went to see him, back in Casterly Rock, before the world went mad, he was always writing some letter with that same serious expression you have right now. I swear...the man was always working on something.”

”Tywin Lannister,” Joffrey muttered the name of his grandfather. He had never met the man, but he had heard enough to know that Tywin was not someone to be trifled with. A cold, calculating man. Someone who had drowned entire houses in blood to secure his family’s power.

”I think he would have liked you,” Tyrion said. He took a sip of wine, realized his cup was empty, and sighed. ”Hold on.. think I still have another bottle of Arbor Gold somewhere. I hope the wine of Asshai is decent, at least, because the mood here is atrocious.”

”I cannot say. I have not been drinking much.” Joffrey leaned back in his chair. ”But this city receives people from all over the world. I presume there will be a good variety, at least.”

Tyrion looked around the laboratory, his eyes lingering on the shelves. ”So, what kind of work are you doing here? I have heard a few strange things.”

”Like what?”

”That you did something to one of the Dothraki. I believe his name was Aggo. They say he is much stronger and faster now, that he gained the power of a dragon, or something like that.” Tyrion raised an eyebrow.

Joffrey nodded. ”Something like that, I suppose.”

Tyrion leaned forward, his empty cup forgotten. ”What exactly are you doing here, Joffrey? What is your plan? Because you were always vague about that part. In King’s Landing, you spoke of ships and crews and journeys to the east. Now you are brewing potions and transforming Dothraki into something that is not quite human. Considering the amount of gold you got your hands on, I thought we were going to be swimming in women and wine by now...”

Joffrey studied his uncle for a long moment. The dwarf was smarter than most gave him credit for. He had proven that time and again. He was also ambitious, though he hid it well beneath the layers of self-deprecating humor and wine-soaked cynicism.

”I could ask you the same question,” Joffrey said. ”Why did you accept my offer? Why did you come all this way, to this dark and distant city, when you could have stayed in Westeros and carved out a place for yourself?. If you just wanted to swim in women and wine, as you say, that was the best place to do it.”

Tyrion’s smile faded. He set down his cup and stared into the blue flames of the nearest brazier. The cold light reflected off his mismatched eyes, making him look older, wearier.

”You asked me once, back in King’s Landing, if I was satisfied with my life.” His voice was quiet, almost reflective. ”Do you remember?”

Joffrey nodded. ”I do.” It had been a casual question, a way to probe the man’s ambitions. But Tyrion had taken it seriously. He had answered with more honesty than Joffrey had expected.

”I told you that there were many things I wanted. Power and money, yes. But mostly respect. A seat at a table where men would not laugh at me the moment I walked away.” Tyrion looked up, his mismatched eyes meeting Joffrey’s. ”I wish to become someone who is not just known for being the Imp, or a dwarf, or the cripple son of the great Tywin Lannister. The man who drinks and whores too much, who makes a spectacle of himself so no one sees how much he hurts inside.”

”The world is cruel to those who are different,” Joffrey said.

”The world is cruel to everyone. But it is crueler to some.” Tyrion picked up his cup by reflex and put it down when he remembered it was empty. The gesture was so habitual, so ingrained, that it spoke of years of reaching for wine to fill silences.

”Hold on. I think I have something here.” Joffrey rose from his chair, went to one of the shelves, and returned with a bottle and another cup.

”Oh? And here I was getting worried that you had quit drinking.” Tyrion’s eyes lit up when he recognized the bottle in Joffrey’s hand. It was high-quality wine from Dorne, the kind that lords paid fortunes for and sailors only dreamed of tasting.

”I have not quit. I need my mind to be clear when I am studying. That is all.” Joffrey uncorked the bottle and filled Tyrion’s cup before filling his own. The wine was dark red, almost black, and it smelled of plums and spices.

”So.” Joffrey took a sip. ”You wish to be someone whom people cannot look down upon.”

Tyrion nodded, drinking deeply.

Joffrey smiled. ”Then you have come to the right place. Here, in Asshai, you will have a chance to gain real power. Not as a lord or a king, but something else. Something greater.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. ”Greater than a king?”

”A king is only said to have power because people have decided that he does. That kind of power is fickle and unreliable. People will eventually turn against you and betray you. What can a king do then? What could Aerys do when Jaime decided to turn his sword on him?...nothing. A single man with a blade was enough to bring down a dynasty that lasted three hundred years.” Joffrey leaned forward. ”I can give you something better.”

”I am interested.” Tyrion leaned closer, his eyes bright.

”I require an apprentice. Someone with talent, and someone I can trust with my secrets.”

Tyrion’s eyes went wide. ”You want to teach me how to do...” He moved his finger around the room, gesturing at the vials and scrolls, the braziers and glyphs. ”Whatever it is that you can do?”

Joffrey smiled. ”Some of it, yes.” He did not think Tyrion could actually learn magic, since that required being born with the ability, a spark that could not be kindled where none existed. But other branches of the art did not have that requirement.

He pointed at the instruments on the obsidian table. ”I will teach you the art of alchemy.”

”You mean brewing potions?”

”Do not look down on the power of alchemy. There is more to it than you think. There are potions capable of healing, as well as causing harm to others. Potions that strengthen or weaken, that can bend the laws of nature to your will.” Joffrey’s voice was cold, precise. ”I can teach you things that would make the maesters of the Citadel go pale.”

Tyrion’s eyes gleamed. ”Like that ritual you used on the Dothraki?”

”Yes. That too.”

Joffrey was not doing this simply to help his uncle. He needed an assistant. The laboratory work was time-consuming, the preparations tedious, and he could not afford to spend every waking hour grinding dragonglass and sterilizing needles. The Hound was useless for such tasks...he had the patience of a man who solved all his problems with steel.

Tyrion had passed the test of loyalty that Joffrey had set for him, the curse on the gold. And now he deserved a prize.

”Then what ab—” Tyrion froze when he heard footsteps on the stairs. More than one person.

A moment later, several Dothraki stepped into the room. They were led by the bloodrider named Kovarro, a tall warrior with long braids and a scar across his cheek. Behind him stood four others, their dark faces solemn, their eyes fixed on Joffrey with an intensity that bordered on reverence.

”Prince,” Kovarro said, kneeling. ”We have come to ask for your sorcery. As Aggo did. We wish to be strong.”

Joffrey studied them. He had been expecting this reaction after Aggo’s successful transformation. They had all seen what the ritual had done for their brother...the strength, the speed, the healing. Now they wanted the same for themselves.

They were all younger than Aggo, their bodies hardened by years of riding and fighting. Perfect candidates.

”Do you understand the risks?” Joffrey asked. ”The first subject died. He burned from within. The same thing could happen to some of you.”

He was fairly sure that with the modified ritual and young, healthy subjects, the chances of spontaneous combustion were nearly zero. But the risk was still there, and he had to warn them.

”We understand.” Kovarro’s voice was steady. ”We will still do it.”

Joffrey glanced at Tyrion, who watched the exchange with wide eyes. Then he looked back at the Dothraki.

”Very well. I will prepare the potions and let you know when it is time to start. The ritual will be carried out over the course of three nights, as we did with Aggo.”

He paused. ”But know this...the transformation is not guaranteed. Side effects may appear days or even weeks later. You may not survive.”

”Yes, Prince.” They nodded, offered him a polite bow, and left the room.

Tyrion let out a low whistle. ”You have them worshipping you now.”

”Me? Not at all.” Joffrey returned to his chair. ”They are warriors. They respect power, and I happen to have it. They are loyal to the princess and willing to risk their lives for a chance to become more than what they are. That is something I understand very well.”

”Is that what you are trying to do?” Tyrion asked. ”To become more than what you are now? More than a simple man?”

Joffrey smiled. ”Perhaps I am becoming what I was always meant to be.”

He began to prepare the potions for the next day. Fortunately, he still had a few drops of dragon’s blood in preserved flasks.

While he worked, he explained the process to Tyrion. The dwarf listened intently, asking questions, memorizing the steps. Joffrey was pleasantly surprised by how quickly he understood the concepts, how easily he remembered the measurements, and the timings.

’He has a gift for this,’ Joffrey thought. A natural aptitude.

He hoped that in a few months, Tyrion could carry out the ritual by himself. They would need many more warriors in their ranks, and it would be exhausting if Joffrey had to do everything personally.

The next two hours passed quickly. The grey twilight of Asshai deepened toward whatever passed for night, though the sky outside the window barely changed.

Tyrion was processing some of the ingredients using a mortar and pestle, his brow furrowed in concentration, when Joffrey heard footsteps on the stairs.

Only Joffrey noticed the steps...they were much subtler than the heavy tread of the Dothraki. There was only one man in the tower who moved so silently that he could materialize in a room before anyone knew he was there.

Lord Varys appeared in the doorway. ”My prince. I apologize for the intrusion.”

Joffrey saw the troubled expression on the eunuch’s face. ”What is it, Varys? Bad news?”

”A messenger has come from the Red Temple.” Varys stepped into the room, his eyes darting to the shelves. ”The red priestess requests a meeting. She says it is urgent.”

”Is that so?” Joffrey’s expression did not change. ”You can tell her we will consider it.”

”She also sent this.” Varys reached into his robes and produced a parchment sealed with red wax, bearing the mark of a flaming heart, the sigil of the Lord of Light. ”It is addressed to Daenerys Targaryen... and to you.”

Joffrey took the parchment, broke the seal, and unfolded it. The message was elegantly written, and the words were chosen with care.

”To the Prince Who Was Not, and the Mother of Dragons,

The Lord of Light has shown me your future in the flames. He has shown me your goals, your power, and the shadows that follow you. You have come to Asshai seeking answers and purpose. I can give them to you.

Come to the Red Temple at the rising of the moon.

Lyssara of Asshai, Priestess of the Lord of Light”

Joffrey read the words twice, his face unreadable. Then he folded the parchment and tucked it into his robes.

”What does the red priestess want?” Tyrion asked.

”The same thing everyone wants.” Joffrey’s voice was calm. ”Power, influence, a chance to shape the future. She seems to believe that the dragon princess and I can be manipulated by her words.”

”And will you go?” Tyrion asked.

Joffrey looked toward the window, toward the direction of the Red Temple. ”Of course. I am curious about what this red priestess saw in the flames. From what I understand, those close to the Lord of Light can truly peek into the future.”

”I thought you did not like seers,” Varys said.

”I do not. That does not mean they are useless.”

Varys pointed at the letter in Joffrey’s hands. ”Shall we inform the princess about this? The letter was also addressed to her. I could—”

”No need.” Joffrey rose from his seat. ”I will go talk to her myself.” He made a gesture to Tyrion. ”Finish processing those materials, and then you can go rest.”

Joffrey left the laboratory and descended the spiral staircase, his footsteps echoing on the black stone. The main chamber was empty, the fire in the hearth reduced to glowing embers. He crossed the corridor that led to the private chambers.

Ser Jorah stood guard outside Daenerys’s door, his arms crossed, his face set in its usual grim expression. He straightened as Joffrey approached.

”The khaleesi is not to be disturbed,” the knight said.

”I have news that cannot wait.” Joffrey did not slow his pace. ”Important news.”

”She is—”

Joffrey pushed open the door.

The chamber was warm, lit by candles that burned with warm yellow flames, not the cold blue fire of Asshai. A screen of carved wood stood near the hearth, and behind it, Joffrey could see the outline of a wooden tub, steam rising from the water. The sweet scent of jasmine hung in the air.

Daenerys stood in the tub, her silver-gold hair wet and clinging to her shoulders, her body bare, her violet eyes wide with shock. For a moment, neither of them moved.

”Your Grace—” Jorah began, his face flushing.

Joffrey stepped into the chamber and closed the door behind him, ignoring the knight’s protests. ”We need to talk.”

”GET OUT!” Daenerys grabbed a cloth from the edge of the tub and clutched it to her chest, her cheeks flushed crimson. ”Joffrey, I swear—”

”Your naked body does not interest me, Princess.” Joffrey’s voice was calm, almost bored. He walked to the small table near the window and sat down, crossing his legs. ”We have more important matters to discuss.”

Daenerys stared at him, her fury warring with her confusion. ”You cannot just—”

”I can, and I have.” He pulled the parchment from his robes and set it on the table. ”The Red Temple has sent a letter. For you, and for me.”

She glared at him, her jaw tight. ”You could have waited.”

”No. I could not. My time is too important.” Joffrey gestured to the chair across from him. ”Get dressed and sit down, Princess.”

For a long moment, Daenerys did not move. Her eyes burned with indignation, her hands clutched the cloth to her chest, and her wet hair dripped onto the stone floor. But Joffrey’s expression did not change. He sat, calm and patient.

Finally, she stepped out of the tub, her movements stiff with anger, and wrapped herself in a robe of dark silk. She did not look at him as she crossed to the chair and sat.

”This had better be important,” she said, her voice cold.

”It is.” Joffrey pushed the parchment toward her. ”Read it.”

Daenerys unfolded the letter, her eyes scanning the elegant script. Her expression shifted from anger to curiosity and finally to unease.

”Lyssara of Asshai,” she read aloud. ”Priestess of the Lord of Light.” She looked up. ”They want to meet us.”

”Yes. They want to meet both of us.” Joffrey leaned back in his chair. ”Varys believes they are merely curious, but I do not think that is it.”

”What do you think they want?”

”I think they have seen something in the flames. Something that has startled them enough to reach out to us.”

Daenerys frowned. ”I thought you did not believe in prophecies.”

”I never said I did not believe in prophecies. I just do not like them.”

Daenerys set down the letter, her fingers tracing the seal of the flaming heart. ”And you want to go.”

”Are you not curious to know what they saw? Whether it is true or not, they have information we do not.” Joffrey met her eyes. ”Information that could be valuable.”

Daenerys recalled her visit to the House of the Undying...the corridor with countless doors that had shown her strange visions, glimpses of futures that might never come to pass. She wondered if those had been prophecies as well.

She nodded slowly, her anger fading into something more complicated. ”Very well. I will go.”

”Good. Be ready tomorrow at dusk.” Joffrey turned and walked to the door.

He left her sitting in the candlelight, her hair still wet, her thoughts swirling in her head.

Outside, Ser Jorah glared at him, his hand still on his sword. ”You should not have—”

”I should not have done many things in my life, Ser Jorah. But I have done them anyway.” Joffrey walked past him without another word, leaving the baffled knight behind.

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