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 92: Resurrection?

The room was cold, damp, and suffocatingly dark.

The walls were slick with frost, their archaic stones weeping ice that had formed over centuries of bitter winters.

The air carried the stench of the dead...that peculiar smell of cold flesh and dried blood. A single torch flickered in its iron sconce, casting a long shadow that stretched across the room from wall to wall.

At the center of the room stood a long black table, its surface scarred by years of use. And upon that table lay a corpse.

Jon Snow.

The young man who had been so full of life just days ago, who had spoken of duty and honor and the weight of his vows with a conviction that belied his years, was now nothing more than a shell.

His body was laid out flat, his clothes removed save for his breeches, perhaps to grant him one last remnant of dignity in death.

His face was pale as milk, his lips blue, his eyes closed as if in sleep. But the marks on his neck told a different story...deep purple bruises where the rope had bitten into his flesh, a cruel necklace of death.

Joffrey stood before the table, his green eyes fixed on the corpse.

”And... how did this happen?” Joffrey said, his voice flat and cold as the ice that clung to the walls. There was no emotion in his words, no grief, no anger. Only a cold curiosity, the detached interest of a scholar examining a specimen.

A nervous brother of the Night’s Watch stood behind him, his hands trembling, his face slick with sweat despite the freezing temperature. He was a thin man with a receding hairline and a nervous twitch in his left eye, the kind of man who had joined the Watch because he had nowhere else to go.

His name was Olyvar, and he had been assigned to tend to the dead...a task he clearly found distasteful.

”Your Grace,” Olyvar stammered. ”It was King Stannis’s order. He... he found out that Jon Snow had helped Lord Stark escape. He and another brother. They used a secret tunnel beneath the Wall, one that had been sealed for centuries. The king was enraged. He demanded that Snow be executed immediately, and his men carried out the deed. We were never even consulted on this, your Grace. We had no say in the matter.”

Joffrey’s eyes remained fixed on Jon’s corpse, his expression unreadable. ”And this other brother? What is his name?”

”Samwell Tarly, your Grace. He’s locked in one of the lower cells. Stannis was going to burn him tonight, along with the other prisoners.” Olyvar swallowed hard. ”The King... Stannis, I mean... he said the Lord of Light demanded sacrifices. He was going to burn them all. Everyone who had helped Lord Stark escape.”

Joffrey’s gaze drifted to the marks on Jon’s neck. The bruises were deep, the flesh crushed by the rope. It was obvious that he had been hanged...a quick death, but not a painless one.

Stannis had been so enraged that he could not wait to light a pyre, so he had improvised with a quicker method of execution. It was the act of a man who had lost control, who had let his anger override his judgment.

Joffrey turned slowly, his green eyes boring into Olyvar’s soul. The brother flinched as if struck, his face going even paler.

”This Samwell Tarly,” Joffrey said, his voice soft as silk and twice as dangerous. ”Release him right now, and bring him to me. I wish to speak with him. I presume that won’t be a problem, yes? After all, Stannis is no longer in charge of this place.”

Olyvar practically tripped over his own feet as he scrambled backward. ”Yes, your Grace! Right away! I’ll fetch him myself!” He turned and fled, his footsteps echoing down the stone corridor.

Joffrey returned his attention to Jon’s body. ”What a disaster...”

He reached out with his magic, brushing against the surface of the corpse. The body was cold and lifeless, as one would expect. The flesh was beginning to stiffen, the blood pooling in the lower extremities. By all rights, Jon Snow should be nothing more than meat, a vessel that had been abandoned by its soul.

But as Joffrey probed deeper, he felt something strange.

”What is this?”

There was power still lingering in the corpse.

”That can’t be right.”

It was faint, barely perceptible, like the echo of a voice in an empty hall.

But it was there...a connection to something beyond the physical, some anchor that tethered Jon’s essence to the world of the living. It was not the soul itself...but it was something. A thread, thin as spider silk, that still linked Jon to the realm of the living.

Joffrey frowned. This was familiar to him...disturbingly so. He had encountered this kind of magic before, in another life.

Voldemort had used something similar with his Horcruxes, fragments of soul anchored to objects to cheat death.

But this was different. This was not a soul torn and corrupted by dark magic.

He could feel it more clearly now. The ancient power that slept in the Stark bloodline, the connection to the First Men, to the old magic of the North.

It was this power that kept Jon’s essence from fully departing, that held him tethered to the world. It was a gift from his ancestors, a legacy of the First Men who had walked these lands before the coming of the Andals.

If that were the case, it might be possible to bring Jon back.

The Red Priestess, who had been quietly waiting in one corner of the room, stepped forward. Her red robes rustled against the stone floor, a splash of color in the grey and black of the ice cellars. She approached the table, her burning eyes fixed on Jon’s corpse, her expression unreadable.

”I advised the king to wait,” she said, her voice soft and contemplative. ”I told him that Jon Snow still had a role to play in the great war to come. But he was too enraged, too blinded by his need for justice. He demanded...”

Joffrey’s frown deepened. ”You saw something in the flames about him?”

Melisandre hesitated, a rare moment of uncertainty from a woman who seemed so sure of everything. ”I saw a man standing against the darkness. I saw a sword of light in his hand, a blade that burned with the fire of the Lord. I saw him leading an army against the dead, standing at the head of a host that would drive back the night.” She shook her head, her red hair swaying with the motion. ”But I never saw his face clearly. I thought it could be Stannis, and then when I arrived at Castle Black and saw Jon, I felt something special in him. A kind of fire that I do not usually find in people. But now...” She looked at Joffrey, her eyes searching his face. ”Now I am no longer certain. Perhaps I truly misread everything.”

Joffrey ignored her theological crisis and focused on the corpse.

The lingering power was growing stronger now, more defined. He could trace its roots, follow them back to their source. He reached out with his magic, probing deeper into the tether that held Jon’s essence.

It appeared to point him...

”North?” The word came out of his mouth without thinking.

”What is north?” Melisandre asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.

”Nothing.” Joffrey brushed it off, returning his attention to the body before him. ”Perhaps not all is lost. Can you feel it?”

Melisandre closed her eyes and looked at Jon. Her expression shifted as she seemed to notice what Joffrey had sensed. She gently ran her fingers across Jon’s chest, her touch light as a feather.

”I do,” she breathed. ”There is something still here. A spark, faint but present. Could it be possible?”

”Can you do something?” Joffrey asked.

He did not possess the magic to bring back the dead, not even those whose souls were still attached to the mortal realm.

But he knew that some red priests had that power.

Of course, the power itself must come from the primordial being he had met in Stygai...the creature of fire and shadow that had existed before the dawn of civilization.

But some believers of the faith were able to wield a fraction of this power to perform miracles.

”You are talking about bringing him back,” Melisandre said, a soft smile appearing on her face. ”The Lord of Light works in mysterious ways. I have heard of such miracles before. My fellow priest, Thoros of Myr, has performed them. He brought back a man named Beric Dondarrion seven times.”

Joffrey’s expression shifted. ”Thoros of Myr?”

He remembered the crazed priest with the flaming sword, the madman who had nearly killed him during the Hand’s Tournament. It was the only defeat Joffrey had tasted in this world. He would not forget it.

”Thoros of Myr,” Joffrey repeated. ”I see. But what about you? Can you do it?”

Melisandre’s lips twitched, a hint of pride flashing in her eyes. ”If that drunk fool of Thoros can bring back the dead, then so can I. The Lord of Light’s power flows through all of us, though in different ways. I have never attempted this particular miracle before, but I know what is required.”

”What do you need?” Joffrey asked.

”Just a strong flame and time.”

”Very well,” Joffrey said.

He raised his right hand and aimed his fingers at the fireplace in the corner of the room. Without a word, a burst of flames erupted from his palm, shooting across the room and igniting the logs in the hearth.

Melisandre’s eyes widened slightly at the display of power, but she said nothing. She had seen Joffrey’s magic before, had watched him slaughter dozens of men with a flick of his wrist.

Joffrey reached into his pocket and pulled out a small vial. The liquid inside was a deep, rich red, almost black in the dim light. It seemed to shimmer and swirl of its own accord, as if alive.

”This may help increase the odds in his favor,” Joffrey said, handing the vial to Melisandre.

The Red Priestess took the vial carefully, examining its contents. She held it up to the torchlight, watching the liquid swirl and dance. ”What is this? I have never seen anything like it.”

Joffrey’s expression remained neutral. ”A potion of my own creation. It is... experimental.”

He would not tell her the truth...that the vial contained a prototype he had created using dragon’s blood. It was an improved version of the one he had used on the Dothraki men, but this new formula was far more potent, far more volatile.

In its current form, it was likely too dangerous to use on a normal person.

The fire would overwhelm them, burn them from the inside out. But Jon was already dead. There was nothing left to lose.

And if it worked... if it worked, Jon might return with a few extra gifts.

”Use the potion carefully,” Joffrey instructed. ”Apply it to his lips, just a few drops. Then begin the ritual. The fire will do the rest.”

He turned to leave, pausing at the door. ”I will be outside if you need me. There is someone I must speak to.”

As he walked out of the room, he heard Melisandre begin to chant in a low voice.

Joffrey closed the door behind him.

The corridor outside the ice cellars was cold and damp. The torches here were few and far between, their light flickering weakly in the draft that blew through the ancient stones.

Joffrey stood in the shadows.

He did not have to wait long for someone to arrive.

He heard footsteps echoing down the corridor...heavy, clumsy footsteps accompanied by the clanking of chains. A group of black brothers approached, dragging a figure between them.

Samwell Tarly was not looking very good.

The young man was pale, his face covered in bruises and cuts. His left eye was swollen shut, and his lip was split and bleeding, a trickle of blood running down his chin. He had clearly been beaten badly...his clothes were torn and dirty, his hands bound behind his back with rough rope. He stumbled as he walked, his legs weak from hunger and mistreatment.

He looked up when he saw Joffrey, his one good eye widening with shock.

”Y-you’re...” Sam stammered, his voice hoarse. ”You’re Joffrey Baratheon!”

Joffrey raised an eyebrow. ”And you must be Samwell Tarly.” He glared at the other me. ”Did I not say to free him?”

”W-we are looking for the keys of the chains, Your Grace.” One of them took off running, likely to locate those keys.

Sam stared at him in awe. ”Jon spoke to me about you.” His expression shifted, a mixture of fear and curiosity. ”Is it true? They told me King Stannis is dead. They said that you killed him and his men.”

Joffrey nodded, his expression unchanged. ”Robb Stark asked me to assist his father, who came to the Wall and became involved in some war against an army of wildlings. I did not expect to find a different king instead.” He paused, his eyes studying Sam’s battered face. ”A conflict between us was inevitable. But now it is over.”

”The rumors about you must be true, then,” Sam said, his voice trembling. ”They say that you have incredible powers. That you can kill with a word, that you can command fire and ice, that you are more than just a man.” He looked past Joffrey, towards the room where Jon’s body was being held. ”I wish you had arrived sooner. Then perhaps Jon...”

”We are currently trying something,” Joffrey said. ”If it works, then perhaps you will see your friend again.”

Sam blinked, confusion written across his bruised face. ”Trying something? What do you mean? Jon is dead. You can’t bring back the dead.”

”Me? Perhaps not. But the members of the Red Temple can perform miracles sometimes. They have power that even I do not possess.”

”The Red Woman...” Sam opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. He looked at Joffrey, then at the door behind him. His expression shifted, a glimmer of hope flickering in his one good eye. ”Do you really think it’s possible? That she can bring him back?”

Joffrey shrugged. ”I don’t know. But it is worth trying. Jon Snow is a man of importance, and he may have a role to play in what’s to come...or so they say.”

Sam was silent for a moment, his face unreadable. Then he nodded slowly. ”I hope you’re right. I hope she can do it.”

”We can talk more about this in a bit,” Joffrey said. ”But first, I need to ask you about Lord Stark and his son, Bran. I made a promise to bring them back alive, and I hate to break promises.”

Sam looked at the floor, his shoulders slumping. ”Lord Stark and Bran escaped last night. We helped them...Jon found a secret tunnel beneath the Wall, one that had been used during the construction of Castle Black and later sealed. Lord Stark and the others went through it and fled north.”

”They went north of the Wall? To where?”

”Hardhome,” Sam said. ”It’s an abandoned settlement on the coast, a few days’ walk from here. It was the only place they could go. There’s a harbor there. They were hoping to find a ship to take them south.”

Joffrey nodded slowly. He had memorized several maps of Westeros, and Hardhome was one of the few known locations north of the Wall. It was not too far from here. But it would still take him days to get there on foot, and horses could not be used north of the Wall because the snow was too deep. At that rate, it might be too late by the time he got to Hardhome.

He paused, a thoughtful expression crossing his face.

I could use ’that thing,’ he thought. ’It’s almost ready. I only need one last ingredient to complete it.’

He looked up at the men, his green eyes gleaming with a cold purpose.

”Tell me,” he said. ”You wouldn’t happen to have any large carpets in here, would you?”

A.N: - Remember to comment, vote, and/or leave a review if you have the time. Those things help me a lot and I would really appreciate it.

You can support me on P@treon if you like and get 10 advanced chapters. You can also find character images to view for free in Collections/Got: Sorcerer Prince Images

-.com/Kriogenix

For donations and commissions, go to .com/kriogenix