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 120: Never Felt Better

The ground trembled beneath the weight of ten thousand hooves. 

Joffrey stood his ground… his bare feet were planted on the scorched grass, and his eyes were fixed on the approaching horde. 

However, his mind was currently elsewhere, lost in the wonders of his own physical transformation as a result of his own experiments.

He could feel it much more clearly now that his mind was less clouded. 

His senses were sharper than they had ever been, even without the aid of magic. He could hear the individual heartbeats of the horses, the creak of leather saddles, the whispered curses of the riders. He could smell the sweat of man and beast, the dust of the plains, the faint metallic tang of blood from a recent hunt.

He could see the individual threads of the Dothraki’s leather armor, the chips in their arakhs, and the cruel gleam of their eyes.

He could even feel their emotions, the excitement and thirst for blood the Dothraki horde carried with them.

His muscles were different now, more defined, brimming with a power that he had never imagined possible. He flexed his fingers, watching the tendons move beneath his skin, feeling the immense strength that lay dormant beneath the surface. 

He felt like a coiled spring, ready to unleash a force that could shatter stone and bend steel.

He would need to be careful and take some time to learn to control this new power.

But first, he had a more immediate problem.

The Dothraki host had surrounded him. Thousands of riders, their horses snorting and stamping, their weapons gleaming in the fiery sun of Essos.

They formed a massive ring around him, their eyes fixed on the naked stranger who stood in their path. Some of them were laughing, pointing at him with their arakhs, making crude jokes in their guttural tongue.

Joffrey met their gazes without flinching. This was far from enough to make him worried, and much less now.

A massive figure pushed through the crowd, his horse large and powerful, his face scarred with the marks of countless battles. He was a giant of a man, his muscles bulging beneath his leather armor, his dark beard streaked with grey. His eyes were hard and cruel, and his smile was that of a predator who had found some easy prey.

He spoke in Dothraki, his voice loud and mocking. ”Where did this slave escape from?”

The riders laughed, their voices rising in a chorus of derision. 

Joffrey studied the Khal, taking in his appearance, his bearing, his obvious confidence. 

He could imagine why they thought he was a slave. A man in the middle of nowhere with no clothes and no horse could only be someone who had managed to escape from a nearby city or village. And his body was filthy, covered in dirt and grime from his violent landing.

He tried to recall the few Dothraki words he had learned over the past years of speaking with Daenerys’s followers. They were scattered, fragmented, but he pieced them together as best he could.

He pointed at the Khal, his voice clear and commanding. ”You. Your clothes. Your sword. Your horse.”

The words hung in the air, sounding bold and absurd. The Dothraki stared at him, their laughter dying in their throats. For a moment, there was only silence.

Then they erupted.

The riders howled with laughter once more, clutching their sides, slapping their thighs. Even the Khal cracked a smile, his eyes gleaming with amusement. He had never heard such a ridiculous demand from a naked slave.

The Khal pulled his arakh from his belt and pointed it at Joffrey, his voice cold and mocking, but also filled with the thirst for blood. ”If you get on your knees and beg for your life, I may let you continue living as a slave.”

Joffrey understood more or less what this man was saying. He shook his head slowly, a thin smile forming at his lips. ”I was just joking,” he said, his voice carrying a note of amusement. ”I have no use for a horse. And I would never wear those disgusting rags you Dothraki like to wear.”

He paused, gesturing to his naked body. ”I can make my own clothes. Give me a second…I cannot fight you lot while my cock hangs out.”

The Dothraki’s laughter faded, replaced by confusion. They did not understand his words, but they understood his tone. This slave was not afraid. This slave was mocking them.

The Khal’s face twisted with rage, his arakh raised high. ”You will die screaming, slave!”

Joffrey moved his hand, his fingers pressed against his chest. He focused his magic, drawing on the power that pulsed within him. He spoke a few words to create a simple conjuration spell that should have created a set of clothes from thin air and wrapped them around his body.

But something went wrong.

The magic exploded from him, forming a blast of raw energy that sent him flying through the air. 

He tumbled backward, his body crashing against the ground, rolling over and over until he came to a stop a hundred yards away from the crowd.

The Dothraki stared in shock, their horses rearing in terror. They had never seen anything like it. The naked slave had simply... exploded.

Joffrey lay on the ground, groaning. There was a gaping hole in his chest, a wound that should have been fatal. But even as he watched, the wound began to close, the flesh knitting itself together with impossible speed. Within seconds, his chest was whole again, unmarked and healthy.

”Ugh,” Joffrey muttered, pushing himself to his knees. ”What the fuck was that?”

He looked down at his chest, then at his hands, then at the distant Dothraki. The spell had backfired catastrophically. 

But his regeneration was even better than what he expected. It was a good thing, because otherwise, he could have died in a very stupid way.

”Interesting,” he murmured, his eyes gleaming with curiosity. ”That will require more testing.”

He rose to his feet, his body steady despite the trauma it had just endured. 

He looked at his hands, trying to understand what had gone wrong. The ritual had done more than just strengthen his body…it had also affected the potency of his magic. 

Simple spells were now amplified far beyond their intended power. A simple conjuration had exploded in his face. 

”The orb,” he said, the realization dawning on him. ”That has to be it. The addition of the Primordial Being’s essence was a wild variable, an unknown ingredient from a mysterious source I knew little about. And one that contained enough energy to destroy an entire world.”

He paused. ”I suppose some side effects were to be expected. I may have been a bit naive on that one.”

But then again, his brain had just recovered from a heavy trauma and was likely not working at full capacity yet. He would need to be more careful until he understood the full extent of the changes he had suffered.

”Ahh!” The Khal charged at him, his horse thundering across the grass, his arakh raised high for a killing blow.

Joffrey reacted by instinct. He reached out, his fingers closing around the blade of the arakh. The steel bit into his palm, drawing blood, but he barely felt it. He twisted, pulling the Khal from his horse, sending the massive man tumbling to the ground.

The Dothraki stared at him in shock, their mouths hanging open. Their Khal had been thrown from his horse by a naked slave.

”A witch!”

”A sorcerer!”

”Kill him!” 

Joffrey looked at his hand, at the cut that was already sealing shut. He had stopped a steel blade with his bare hand. He had thrown a man twice his size with one arm.

”Right,” he said, turning back to the Khal. ”I almost forgot about you. I may need your clothes, your sword, and your horse after all. You see…my magic is not working properly.”

The Khal scrambled to his feet, his face twisted with rage. He still held the arakh, its blade now slick with Joffrey’s blood. He lunged forward, aiming for Joffrey’s throat.

Joffrey’s body became a blur, moving faster than his opponent could even perceive.

He grabbed the blade again, pulling it from the Khal’s grasp, then spun it around and brought it down in a single, fluid motion.

The Khal’s head tumbled from his shoulders, his body collapsing to the ground in a spray of blood.

The Dothraki screamed in a chorus of rage and terror. The Khal’s bloodriders charged, their arakhs raised, their eyes blazing with fury.

Joffrey had a cold, predatory smile on his face. He was still naked, still covered in dirt and grime, but he was no prey. He was the hunter in this situation.

The first bloodrider came at him, his arakh swinging in a sharp arc. Joffrey ducked under the blow, then drove his fist into the rider’s chest. The man flew backward, his ribs shattering, his body crumpling against the ground.

The second bloodrider came from the side, aiming for Joffrey’s neck. Joffrey caught the blade with his bare hand, snapped it in two, then drove the broken piece through the rider’s throat.

The third bloodrider hesitated, his eyes wide with fear. Joffrey was on him in an instant, his fist driving through the man’s chest, emerging from his back in a spray of blood.

The Dothraki fell back, their courage shattered. They had never seen anything like it. This was not a man. This was a demon, a monster, a force of nature that they could not win against.

Joffrey looked at his hand, covered in blood, then at the bodies at his feet. He had done all of this without magic, using only his enhanced body.

He was strong and fast beyond measure. He felt like he was unstoppable right now.

And had never felt more alive.

He picked up the Khal’s arakh, its blade slick with blood. He turned to face the remaining Dothraki, his eyes gleaming with cold fire.

”Who’s next?” he asked, his voice carrying across the silent plain.

The Dothraki stared at him, their faces pale with terror. They had come here expecting easy prey. They had found a monster.

One of them broke. He turned his horse and fled, his courage shattered. Then another, and another, until the entire horde was in flight, their hooves thundering across the grass as they fled from the nightmare in their midst.

Joffrey stood alone in the field of bodies, his chest heaving, his blood pumping with the thrill of victory. He had faced ten thousand Dothraki, and he had won.

He looked down at himself, at the blood that covered his body, at the bodies that surrounded him. He was naked, filthy, and covered in the blood of his enemies. But he was alive. He was stronger than he had ever been. And he had never felt more powerful.

”Not bad,” he said, a smile playing at his lips. ”Not bad at all.”

He turned toward the distant mountains, his eyes fixed on the horizon. 

”Now…what do we do next?”

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