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 61: The Silver Stag

The main chamber of the tower had become filled with a bizarre spectacle. 

Half a dozen humanoid shapes moved through around, their translucent bodies drifting like smoke given form, their fingers extended into claws, their mouths open in silent screams that seemed to echo in the mind rather than the ear.

The cold blue flames of the braziers flickered as the creatures passed, their light dimming as if the shadows themselves were drinking them.

The Hound swung his greatsword through one of the specters, and the blade passed without resistance, leaving the creature intact.

Sandor cursed, a low guttural sound, stepped back, and swung again...nothing.

The runes on his blade glowed uselessly, their enchantments meant for steel and flesh, not for creatures born of darkness and spite. He might as well have been swinging at smoke.

Joffrey reached the bottom of the stairs, his eyes taking in the scene in an instant, cataloging threats, assessing weaknesses, calculating the cost of every possible action.

The Hound was surrounded, his enchanted steel useless against incorporeal opponents. Daenerys stood at the top of the stairs, her dragons hissing, their small flames flickering but unable to fill the vast chamber.

Ser Jorah had his back pressed against the wall, his sword held before him, his face pale beneath his beard.

The Dothraki bloodriders had formed a tight circle near the princess, their arakhs held in white-knuckled hands as the shadows darted toward them like wolves testing a herd.

’Ordinary weapons cannot touch them,’ Joffrey knew this much. He had faced such enemies before, in another life. The dementors of Azkaban had been creatures of despair, feeding on joy and leaving only emptiness in their wake. These shadows were not the same...they were born of different magic, different darkness, but they were close enough. Close enough that the same spell might work.

’I will have to use it,’ he decided.

Elemental magic might drive the creatures back; fire, perhaps, or lightning, but it would be too dangerous in this confined space with so many people he would rather not kill.

Fire would spread. Lightning would strike friend and foe alike. He needed something precise, something that targeted the shadows and nothing else.

Fortunately, he had a spell that was perfect for the occasion.

He raised his hand, palm forward, and searched his memory for the incantation that had served him so well in another life. The spell that had driven away creatures of darkness. The spell that was powered not by hatred or rage, but by joy...by the memory of something pure enough to push back the void.

’Hopefully,’ he thought, ’I still have enough of that in my current state.’

”Expecto Patronum! ”

The words left his lips, and silver light exploded from his palm.

It poured forth like liquid moonlight, brighter than any flame, purer than any fire. The radiance filled the chamber, pushing back against the shadows, forcing them to recoil.

The Hound threw up an arm to shield his eyes. Daenerys gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. The Dothraki fell to their knees, their arakhs clattering against the stone. Even Ser Jorah, who had seen Joffrey split a wave and tear apart a storm, stared in disbelief.

The silver light began to coalesce, taking form, taking shape. A magnificent stag emerged from the glow, standing tall and proud, its antlers spreading wide, its eyes burning with a soft white fire.

It was larger than any beast that walked the forests of Westeros, larger than any stag that had ever lived.

’There it is,’ Joffrey thought. ’I did not think I would see it again in this life.’

The Patronus he had conjured as a boy had been sleek and swift. This one was different...its antlers were broader, its body thicker with muscle, its presence heavier. It was more mature, more powerful. A reflection of the man he had become, not the boy he had been.

He did not need to give the construct any order. It already knew what to do.

The stag charged.

It moved through the shadows like a knife through silk, its antlers catching the dark creatures and tearing them apart. Each impact sent ripples of silver light through the chamber, waves of radiance that seared the darkness and left only clean stone behind.

Where it passed, the shadows dissolved...their forms unraveling, their substance scattering like ash in a high wind.

The shadows tried to flee, tried to reform, tried to fight back, but the stag was relentless. It charged again and again, driving them into corners, herding them away from the living, destroying them with every pass. 

The Hound stumbled back while lowering his greatsword, his scarred face for once showing something like awe.

Daenerys watched with wide eyes, her dragons silent on her shoulders.

Ser Jorah lowered his shield.

The Dothraki pressed their foreheads to the stone.

Within seconds, the chamber was clear. The silver stag stood at the center, its light fading slowly, its form growing translucent. It turned its head toward Joffrey, and for a moment, their eyes met...

Then the stag dissolved, and the chamber fell silent.

”The bastards are running!” the Hound growled, already rushing after the warlocks who had conjured the shadows.

The creatures’ masters had not waited to see the outcome of their attack.

They fled through the archway, dark robes flapping, bone masks catching the blue light as they disappeared into the twisted streets of Asshai.

Joffrey spotted four of them, perhaps five. It was hard to count in the darkness.

”After them,” he commanded. ”Do not let them escape.”

He ran, the Hound at his heel, Ser Jorah and a bloodrider named Aggo close behind.

The others, Daenerys, Varys, and the remaining Dothraki, stayed behind.

Everything happened too quickly, and there was nothing they could do to help.

The streets of Asshai were a nightmare of black stone and shadows.

The buildings leaned close together, their fused stone walls slick with moisture, their windows dark and empty.

The fleeing warlocks knew the city far better than their pursuers, darting through alleys, slipping through passages that seemed to appear from nowhere.

Twice, Joffrey nearly lost them around corners. Twice, he caught sight of their robes vanishing into the gloom just in time to follow.

But he had magic on his side, and magic did not care about familiarity.

He pointed his finger at the back of one of the fleeing warlocks and spoke a single word. ”Accio. ”

The warlock screamed as an invisible force grabbed hold of his robes and yanked him off his feet, dragging him back toward Joffrey. He hit the black stone hard, his mask cracking, his staff clattering away into the darkness.

The others kept running, disappearing around a corner, vanishing into the labyrinth.

The Hound stopped, planted his feet, and threw his greatsword.

The blade spun through the air, its runes glowing with a reddish light, and struck the last unfortunate warlock in the back just as he was about to round the corner.

The man fell without a sound, his robes darkening with blood, his body crumpling against the wall like a discarded doll.

The Hound walked to the corpse, retrieved his sword, wiped it on the dead man’s robes, and turned to Joffrey. ”I saw three more. They got away.”

Joffrey nodded. ”That is fine.” He looked down at the captured warlock, who now lay restrained by Ser Jorah. The man’s mask had shattered during the fall, revealing a wrinkled, pale face beneath. His eyes were wide with fear as he stared up at Joffrey.

”One is enough. Let us go back.”

Back at the tower, they secured the prisoner in a side chamber.

The Hound stood guard at the door, his greatsword resting across his knees.

Ser Jorah leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, his expression grim. Aggo paced near the entrance, his arakh still held firmly in his hand, his dark eyes never leaving the bound warlock.

Joffrey knelt before the man. His face was the face of a man who had seen too much of the dark and been marked by it. He was at least sixty, perhaps seventy, and there was something in his gaze that spoke of knowledge...years of practice in the mystic arts, years of communing with powers that should not be touched.

”You are going to tell me where your brothers are hiding,” Joffrey said, his voice soft, almost conversational. ”You are going to tell me how many remain. And you are going to tell me what they are planning.”

The warlock spat at him.

Joffrey did not flinch. He placed his hand on the man’s forehead, his fingers pressing against the unnaturally pale skin. The warlock tried to pull away, but the ropes held him firm.

”Legilimens. ”

He spoke the word in a whisper that only the warlock could hear.

The mind was a dark place, full of shades and whispers, full of protections and defenses. It was the first time Joffrey had encountered serious mental barriers in an inhabitant of this world.

The warlock had been trained to resist intrusion, his thoughts wrapped in layers of enchantment that would have stopped a lesser wizard.

But Joffrey was not a lesser wizard.

He pushed past the defenses. They were crude things, learned from years of practice, but they were no match for his centuries of experience. He tore through the mental barriers like a knife through rotting cloth, locating the bits of information he needed.

Their hideout was beneath a house near the market district. There was a staircase at the back of the house that led down into the earth, deep below the streets of Asshai.

The remaining warlocks numbered only eight...including the ones who had escaped tonight. He saw their fear, their desperation, their burning need to avenge the Undying of Qarth.

And finally, he saw their plan: to kill Joffrey, to capture Daenerys, to steal her dragons and use their power to restore their order to its former glory.

He withdrew his hand, and the warlock slumped back, gasping for air, his eyes wide with the horror of the transgression inflicted on him.

”I know where they hide,” Joffrey said, rising. ”There are only eight of them left, including the ones who fled tonight.” He looked at the Hound, then at Ser Jorah. ”They will not stop. They will keep coming until we are dead...or until they are.”

”Then we kill them first,” the Hound said.

Joffrey nodded. ”Tonight. No need to give them time to prepare.”

”You know where they hide?” Jorah asked, glancing at the bound warlock. ”He has not said a single word. How can you be so sure?”

Joffrey smiled. ”I am very good at getting information from those unwilling to speak. Ask Lord Varys if you have doubts.”

Daenerys was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs, her violet eyes bright with concern. Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion rested on a nearby sofa, their golden eyes tracking Joffrey’s movements with something that might have been curiosity or wariness.

”Did you hear everything?” Joffrey asked.

”You are going after them. After those warlocks...”

”I have little choice. They are stubborn. They will not leave us alone otherwise.”

”Then take me with you. This concerns me as much as it concerns you.”

”No.” Joffrey’s voice was flat, leaving no room for argument. ”You are too important to risk in a fight like this. Your dragons are not strong enough to face the warlocks’ shadows. If you were captured, everything we have worked for would be lost.”

”I am not afraid.”

”I did not say you were afraid. I said you are valuable.” He met her gaze. ”There is a difference.”

Daenerys’s jaw tightened, but she did not argue. She knew he was right. She hated it, but she knew.

”Then take Ser Jorah and my bloodriders,” she said. ”Take them all.”

”Too many will draw attention. Three are enough.” Joffrey turned to the Hound. ”Sandor, Ser Jorah, and Aggo. The rest stay here and guard the tower.”

The Hound grunted his assent. Ser Jorah nodded. Aggo bared his teeth in something that might have been a smile.

”What about the prisoner?” Varys asked from the shadows.

Joffrey glanced at the bound warlock, who watched him with fear and hatred in equal measure. ”Give him a clean death. He has given us what we need. No point in keeping him alive.”

The Hound rose, his greatsword in his hand. The warlock began to plead in a language Joffrey did not recognize...desperate and broken. His cries were cut short by a single, decisive stroke.

They took a moment to prepare. Joffrey donned his enchanted armor, the dark red steel settling over his shoulders like a second skin. It was not resistant to magic, but it offered far more protection than his normal clothes while weighing only slightly more. The runes along the breastplate pulsed with a faint light.

He walked to the entrance of the tower, his hand on his sword, his eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the streets. The grey twilight of Asshai had deepened toward whatever passed for night in this cursed place, but he was not worried about a handful of desperate warlocks. He had faced far worse.

”Come,” he said. ”We have work to do.”

They stepped out into the night, and the shadows swallowed them whole.

Behind them, the tower’s blue flames watched like a single, unblinking eye, keeping vigil over those who remained.

Somewhere in the darkness, eight warlocks were preparing for a fight they could not win. They simply did not know it yet.

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