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 68: The Second Wave

The laboratory had become Tyrion’s second home, though he would never have admitted it aloud.

The cold blue flames still burned in their braziers, casting their eerie light across walls that had stood since before the rise of Valyria.

The obsidian tables were cluttered with instruments. With alembics and retorts, crystal vials and golden calipers, things that might have been used for healing or torture, he did not dare to ask too much.

The shelves groaned under the weight of scrolls and books that had been old when the Doom swallowed the Fourteen Flames.

Joffrey had left him a stack of reading material. A large stack. Tyrion had stared at it for a full minute before realizing that his nephew was not joking.

”You expect me to read all of this?” he had asked.

”I expect you to learn it,” Joffrey had replied. ”Reading is merely the first step.”

Now, three days later, Tyrion sat hunched over the obsidian table, his mismatched eyes scanning the translated pages of the Valyrian alchemist’s diary. Kaerion, whoever he had been, possessed a gift for making simple concepts sound impossibly complex.

He had a way of describing a process in ten paragraphs when one would have sufficed.

Tyrion had read treatises on dragonlore, on alchemy, on the properties of dragonglass and shade of the evening. His head throbbed. His eyes burned. His back ached from hunching over the table.

”Light reading,” he muttered to himself. ”He called this light reading.”

Ros brought him wine, and he drank it gratefully. The red-haired woman had settled into the tower with an efficiency that Tyrion admired.

She asked no questions, made no demands, and kept his cup full. In a city where everyone wore masks and spoke in riddles, her silence was a comfort. It was the closest thing to friendship he had found in Asshai.

The dragons were growing quickly.

Tyrion was not the only one to notice it. Drogon was larger now, his scales darker, and he hissed much more often...a sound that reminded Tyrion of a pot about to boil over.

Rhaegal had developed a mischievous streak, stealing food from plates and nipping at the heels of unsuspecting servants.

Viserion, by contrast, had become almost affectionate, rubbing his head against Tyrion’s leg like a cat that had forgotten it was a dragon.

Tyrion decided to test his luck.

”Come here,” he said, holding out a piece of dried meat. ”I come in peace. I am a friend to all creatures, especially those that breathe fire.”

Drogon fixed him with a golden eye. Smoke curled from his nostrils, carrying the scent of sulfur and something else...something that reminded Tyrion of the forges of Casterly Rock.

”Friend,” Tyrion repeated, inching closer.

Drogon opened his mouth.

Tyrion threw himself backward as a jet of flame shot past his head, singeing his hair. The smell of burnt hair filled the laboratory, sharp and acrid. He patted his scalp, checking for damage.

”Seven hells!” he said. ”You could have warned me.”

Drogon hissed, but it sounded almost like laughter.

Rhaegal, meanwhile, had taken advantage of the distraction to steal Tyrion’s wine cup. The green dragon dragged it across the table with surprising dexterity, lapping at the remaining wine with a forked tongue that coiled and uncoiled like a serpent.

”That is Dornish red!” Tyrion gasped. ”Do you have any idea how hard it is to find Dornish red in Asshai?”

Rhaegal ignored him.

Viserion curled around Tyrion’s chair and began to purr, a sound like stones grinding together, but somehow endearing. The dragon’s scales were warm against his leg, and he could feel the heat even through his woolen breeches.

Tyrion sighed. ”This is somehow the most productive conversation I have had all week.”

He was leaving the laboratory later that evening when he heard voices from the main chamber. Tyrion stopped in the shadows, his natural caution warring with his curiosity. Curiosity won, as it always did.

”—the translation is going well,” Daenerys was saying. ”The scrolls contain references to dragon-bonds that I had not encountered before. There are passages about the dragonlords of Old Valyria, about how they chose their mounts, about the rituals that bound them together.”

”That is wonderful, Princess.” Saera’s voice was smooth and pleasant, the voice of a woman who had learned to hide her feelings behind a wall of courtesy. ”The prince will be pleased. He has spoken highly of your work.”

There was a pause. Then Saera continued, her tone light, almost offhand.

”I confess I am surprised you find the time, however. Between caring for your dragons and managing your new ship, you must have little room for anything else.”

Daenerys replied, ”I make time for what is important.”

”Of course.” Saera’s voice did not waver. ”It is only that the prince has grown accustomed to solitude. He works best when undisturbed. I would hate to see his progress slowed by... well-intentioned distractions.”

Tyrion could almost hear Daenerys’s frown. ”Are you suggesting I am a distraction?”

”Not at all, Princess.” Saera’s tone was silk wrapped around steel. ”I am merely observing that the prince’s focus is his greatest asset. Anything that divides it, however noble its intentions, might be cause for concern.”

There was a long silence, heavy with unspoken words.

Then Daenerys spoke again, her voice cool. ”I understand your concern, Miss Saera. But Joffrey is capable of managing his own time. If he wishes to work with me, that is his choice.”

”Of course, Princess.” Saera’s voice remained pleasant. ”I meant no offense.”

”None taken.”

Tyrion heard footsteps retreating, one set light and measured, likely from the maid, and the other slow and deliberate, moving toward him. He waited a moment, then stepped out of the shadows.

”That was diplomatically handled, Your Grace,” he said.

Daenerys turned, unsurprised by his presence. ”You were listening?”

”I was merely passing by.” He shrugged. ”The acoustics in this tower are remarkable.”

She studied him for a moment, then sighed. ”She dislikes me.”

”She is protective of the prince. There is a difference.”

”Is there?”

Tyrion moved to stand beside her. The fire in the hearth had burned low, and the cold blue flames of the braziers cast their strange light across her face. ”Joffrey is the first person who gave her purpose. Before him, she was a spy sent by his mother...nothing more than a tool to be used and discarded. He saw something in her. He gave her a choice.” He paused. ”She will not forget that. And she will not share him easily.”

”I do not want to share him. I want to work with him.” Daenerys’s voice was tired, frayed at the edges. ”That is all.”

”Not to her.” Tyrion smiled. ”But take heart, Princess. Saera may glare at you across the dinner table, but she would still defend you if you were threatened. Her loyalty to Joffrey extends to those he trusts.”

”I suppose that is something.”

”It is more than most people have in this world.”

Training with Joffrey was unlike anything Tyrion had experienced.

It began with the basics, the endless, tedious basics. Joffrey had him grind dragonglass shards into powder for hours, until his fingers cramped and his shoulders ached.

He had him memorize the properties of a dozen dried herbs, their origins, their effects, and their interactions, until the names blurred together in his mind.

He had him practice measuring liquids with precision, using calibrated vials and pipettes that Tyrion had never seen outside a maester’s laboratory.

”Alchemy is not about instinct,” Joffrey said, watching Tyrion struggle with a particularly stubborn clump of ground glass. ”It is about consistency. A single grain too large, and the potion becomes poison. A single grain too few, and it becomes water.”

”Then why not simply measure by weight?”

”We do. But the weight of a substance can change with humidity, temperature, and even the phase of the moon. The volume of a liquid can shift with the same variables.” Joffrey’s eyes were cold, precise. ”A true alchemist must learn to see beyond measurements. He must learn to feel the magic in the ingredients.”

Tyrion looked down at the dark powder in his mortar. ”I do not feel anything.”

”You will. Give it time.”

The days blurred together. Tyrion learned to prepare the potion that preceded the ritual. It was a mixture of herbs, dragonglass powder, and a single drop of dragon’s blood diluted in pure water. He learned to sterilize needles in the brazier’s flame, to draw blood from a dragon without being burned, and to mix Shade of the Evening with other compounds to create sedatives and stimulants.

Joffrey was a demanding teacher. He accepted no excuses, tolerated no shortcuts, and insisted on perfection.

But he was also patient, explaining the same concept multiple times until Tyrion understood. And he was, Tyrion had to admit, brilliant.

”Where did you learn all this?” Tyrion asked one evening, after a particularly long session.

Joffrey looked up from his journal. ”I have had centuries to study.”

Tyrion laughed. Then he saw Joffrey’s expression...the flat, unblinking stare of a man who had just told the truth and expected to be believed.

”You are not joking.”

”No.”

Tyrion waited for an explanation. None came.

The first night of the new rituals arrived sooner than Tyrion had expected.

He had memorized the formulas, prepared the potions, and sterilized the needles. He had double-checked everything, making sure it was all ready according to Joffrey’s instructions.

Now he stood in the laboratory, watching as Joffrey explained the process to Kovarro and the four other Dothraki who had volunteered. The men stood in a line, their dark faces solemn, their eyes fixed on the prince with an intensity that bordered on reverence.

”The first night will be the mildest,” Joffrey said. ”A potion to prepare your bodies for what is coming. You will feel warmth, increased heart rate, and perhaps a mild fever. Nothing more.”

Kovarro nodded. ”We are ready.”

Tyrion handed out the cups. The Dothraki drank without hesitation.

The night passed without incident. Tyrion took notes, monitored vital signs, and tried not to think about what he was doing.

He was helping to transform men into something that was not quite human. It was madness. But it was also, he had to admit, fascinating.

The second night was harder.

The injection of concentrated dragon’s blood caused convulsions, fever, and hallucinations. One of the younger Dothraki screamed for an hour before the pain subsided. Kovarro endured in silence, his teeth clenched, his eyes bloodshot.

Tyrion administered the injections, checked their bodies, and recorded the results. His hands were steady, even though his heart raced.

”You are a natural,” Joffrey said, watching him work.

”I have steady hands.”

Joffrey nodded. ”You also have a steady mind. That is more important.”

The third night brought the fire.

Tyrion stood by the brazier, holding a pair of tongs in his hands. The heat washed over him, making sweat bead on his brow. He would press the flaming coals into their chests when the time came.

Joffrey had taught him the technique...how to select the coal, how to press it to the flesh, how long to hold it before the fire awakened.

”Your turn,” Joffrey said after placing some of the coals back into the brazier.

Tyrion looked at him. ”You cannot be serious.”

”You have watched me do it three times. You know the process. Now it is time to do it yourself.”

”I have watched you do it. That does not mean I can do it myself.” Tyrion lowered his voice so that only Joffrey could hear. ”What if I make a mistake and he dies?”

”Then don’t make a mistake.” Joffrey pointed at Kovarro, who sat in the chair, his chest bare, his face calm. ”Go ahead.”

Tyrion took a breath. He selected a coal, approached Kovarro, and pressed it to the Dothraki’s chest.

Kovarro screamed.

Tyrion held the coal steady, counting the seconds, just as Joffrey had taught him. One. Two. Three. Then he removed it.

The wound began to heal almost immediately. The blackened flesh pinkened, the edges knitted together, and within moments, there was nothing left but a faint scar. Kovarro’s eyes flickered gold.

”Good,” Joffrey said. ”Now do the last one.”

By the end of the night, all five Dothraki had survived. There were side effects...minor ones, according to Joffrey. Kovarro’s hair had gained silver-white streaks. Another had developed patches of scales on his arms. A third now had eyes that glowed faintly in the dark.

But they were alive. That was what mattered most to Tyrion. He had not killed anyone. Not yet.

Tyrion collapsed into a chair, exhausted.

Joffrey poured him a cup of wine. ”You did well.”

”I did what you told me.”

”That is the definition of doing well.”

Tyrion drank. The wine was bitter, but it warmed him. ”What happens now?”

Joffrey looked toward the only window of the tower, toward the grey twilight of Asshai. ”Now we prepare for the next phase. The second ritual...the one that will truly transform them.”

”And after that?”

Joffrey smiled. It was not a reassuring smile. ”After that, we see what they become.”

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