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 139: Fury

He moved faster than he had ever moved in his life.

The city blurred past him, a smear of yellow bricks and torchlights. The wind screamed in his ears, drowning out the distant bells that still rang their alarm. 

He did not slow, did not stop, did not care about the Dothraki who leaped aside as he passed, or the Unsullied who shouted after him.

’Saera.’ He could feel her life slipping away.

The pyramid rose before him, its great doors open, its halls lit by flickering torches. He did not slow as he entered, his boots resounding against the marble floor, his heart pounding in his chest.

Guards called out to him, but he ignored them. Servants scattered before him, their faces pale with fear. He was a blur of motion, a shadow given form, a storm barely contained.

And then he reached his chambers.

The doors were open. The room beyond was chaos.

Blood. So much blood. It pooled across the floor, staining the marble, soaking into the fine carpets. The bath he had asked Saera to prepare sat untouched, the water still warm, steam rising from the surface.

And on the floor, in the center of the room, lay Saera.

She was on her back, her eyes open, staring at nothing. Her dress was soaked with blood, her throat cut from ear to ear. One hand was extended toward the door, as if she had been trying to reach it. The other was clutched against her chest, her fingers wrapped around something.

The amulet. The crystal pendant he had given her. The one that would have saved her, if only she had been faster.

Joffrey stopped. His heart stopped. The world stopped.

He could not move. He could not breathe. He could only stare at her, at the life that had been stolen from her, at the future that would never be.

’She was going to wait for me,’ he thought. ’She was going to be here when I returned.’

He walked toward her, his legs felt heavy. He knelt beside her, his hand reaching out to touch her face. Her skin was cold. So cold. He was too late.

”Saera,” he whispered. ”I’m sorry.”

She did not move. 

Joffrey touched the amulet in her hand, his fingers brushing against the crystal. It was still warm. She had tried to use it. She had tried to escape. But she had been too slow.

And then he saw them. The wounds. The stab wound in her back, the slit across her throat. The blade had been precise, deliberate. This was not a crime of passion. This was an execution.

The amulet slipped from her fingers, falling to the floor with a soft clink.

Joffrey looked at it, at the small crystal pendant that he had enchanted to protect her. It had not been enough. He had not been enough.

He had been too focused on his training. Too consumed by his own problems. Too arrogant to think that anyone would dare touch what was his.

’I should have sent her away,’ he thought. ’I should have forced her to leave.’

But he had not. He had let her stay. He had let her love him. And now she was dead because of it.

The rage came like a tidal wave of fury that crashed through his body, shattering every wall he had built, every restraint he had placed upon himself.

His magic surged.

It was like a dam breaking. Power poured through him, wild and uncontrolled, responding to his grief and rage. The air around him crackled with energy, the temperature dropping, then rising, then dropping again. 

The windows rattled in their frames. The flames in the braziers flickered and died, then reignited with fire that burned blue and silver and crimson.

And Joffrey screamed.

It was a sound of primal fury. It echoed through the pyramid, shaking the foundations, cracking the stone. 

He knelt beside her, his hands pressing against her wound, his magic flowing into her body. He tried to heal her, to fix her, to bring her back. But it was too late. Her soul was gone. The spark that had made her Saera was extinguished.

The doors burst open. He heard footsteps, voices, the clatter of armor. But he did not turn, did not acknowledge them. 

He could not. He could only kneel there, his hands slick with her blood, his magic swirling around him like a storm.

”Your Grace!” An Unsullied voice, sharp with alarm. ”Your Grace, what has happened?”

Joffrey did not answer. He could not speak. He could barely breathe.

”By the Seven,” a voice said. Tyrion. He heard his uncle’s footsteps, heavy on the marble. ”By the Seven, no.”

More footsteps, more voices. The small council had assembled, drawn by the scream. Varys and Lyssara were there already. 

”The prisoner,” one of the Unsullied said. ”Jaime Lannister. He has escaped. He killed the guards at his door and fled. We informed Ser Jorah, and…”

Tyrion made a sound, something between a gasp and a sob. ”Jaime? No. He would never-”

”He did,” another guard said. ”We found the bodies. Their throats were cut. Same as...”

The guard trailed off, looking at Saera.

Joffrey heard it all. He processed it, stored it, understood it. But he did not react. The rage was still burning inside him, but it was cold now, frozen, waiting.

He had suspected. He had known, somewhere deep in his mind, that the man was an impostor. He had planned to question him the next morning, to expose him, to deal with him. But he had been too focused on his training, too consumed by his own problems.

And now Saera was dead.

”I told you,” Varys said, his voice quiet. ”I told you there was something wrong with him. I told you we should not trust him.”

”You told us nothing of the sort,” Lyssara snapped. ”You said he was suspicious, and then you said we should wait.”

”And now Lady Saera and Ser Jorah are dead,” Varys said. ”So perhaps we should have acted sooner.”

”Enough,” Tyrion said, his voice breaking. ”Enough of that. Where did J-...where did the murderer go?. We must find him.”

”We will. He is not leaving the city so easily,” Lord Varys responded.

Joffrey heard them arguing. He heard the accusations, the recriminations, the blame. But it all felt distant, muffled, as if he were underwater.

And then he heard something else. A faint sound. A whisper of breath.

He turned.

Jorah Mormont lay against the far wall, slumped against the stone. His face was pale, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Blood soaked his tunic, staining the floor beneath him.

He was still alive.

Joffrey rose, his body moving without thought. He crossed the room, his footsteps echoing in the silence, and knelt beside the knight.

”Jorah,” he said, his voice rough. ”Can you hear me?”

Jorah’s eyes fluttered open. They were glassy, unfocused, but they found Joffrey’s face. ”The... the assassin,” he rasped. ”He... he got away. I tried... I tried to stop him...”

”I know,” Joffrey said. ”It is not your fault.”

”He is still alive?!” Varys and Tyrion approached. 

”But barely…” Lyssara added. 

Jorah’s hand reached out, grasping Joffrey’s arm with surprising strength. ”He was... he was wearing your uncle’s face. But he was... not your uncle. He was... something else.”

”I know,” Joffrey said again. ”I know.”

He examined Jorah’s wounds. The stab wound in his side was deep, but that was not what worried him. It was the color of the blood, the smell of the wound, the way Jorah’s skin had taken on a sickly pallor.

Poison. A rare poison, magical in nature. One that would kill a man in hours if left untreated.

Joffrey didn’t recognize it, but could already tell that Jorah didn’t have much time. An antidote would take him days to prepare, and Jorah did not have days.

He had an hour. Perhaps less.

’The Dragonblood Ritual,’ Joffrey thought. ’It is the only thing that could save him.’

He turned to Tyrion, who was still standing by the door, his face a mask of grief and shock.

”Tyrion,” Joffrey said, his voice flat. ”Come here.”

Tyrion approached, his eyes darting from Saera’s body to Jorah’s wound. ”What... what do you need?”

”Jorah is dying,” Joffrey said. ”The assassin’s blade was poisoned. Conventional healing will not work. There is only one thing that can save him.”

Tyrion’s eyes widened. ”Are you talking about the Dragonblood Ritual? But in his state…it will probably kill him. He is too weak for that.”

”You are right, but,” Joffrey said. ”But it is the only chance he has.” Saera was already dead. Nothing he could do for her, but he could at least save this one life.

”I will leave this to you, Uncle.” He said while standing up. ”I have an assassin to hunt.”

Tyrion stared at him. ”You... you are leaving? Now?”

”Yes.” Joffrey’s voice was cold as ice. ”This person is still in the city. I can sense him. He thinks he can hide from me, but he is wrong.”

”But Saera-”

”Saera is dead,” Joffrey said, the words like acid on his tongue. ”She is dead because I was too careless. I will not let her death be in vain. I will find the man who did this. I will make him pay. I owe her that at least.”

He glanced at Tyrion. ”You will perform the ritual. You know the incantation. You have done it many times before. You will save Jorah’s life.”

Tyrion’s face was pale. ”I... I’ll do what I can.” 

Joffrey turned and walked toward the window. But he stopped at the threshold, looking back at Saera’s body one last time.

”I will return soon,” he said. ”And when I do, this city will know what happens to those who take what is mine.”

And then he was gone.

The night air felt cold against his skin as he emerged from the pyramid. The city lay before him, a sprawl of shadows and torchlights.

Joffrey closed his eyes and reached out with his magic.

He had learned this spell a long time ago, in a different life.

A blood-tracking spell, one that required a connection to the victim. He had Saera’s blood on his hands, still wet. He could use it.

It was risky. His magic was already unstable, already on the edge of control. Adding this spell, with his emotions as raw as they were, could have catastrophic consequences.

He did not care.

He pressed his bloody palms together, focusing on the connection, on the bond between the blood and the blade that had spilled it.

”Ostende mihi viam,” he whispered. ”Show me the way.”

The magic surged through him, wild and dangerous, and he gasped as the pain lanced through his skull. But he did not stop. He could feel it now…a thread of connection, a trail of blood, hatred, and death, leading him through the streets.

He followed.

He ran through the city, his enhanced speed carrying him faster than any horse could muster.

The streets blurred past him, a smear of color and light. He did not slow, did not stop, did not care about the people who leaped aside or the guards who shouted after him.

The trail led him through the poor quarter, through the market district, through the winding alleys of the old city. And then it led him to the harbor.

The harbor was busy despite the hour, ships coming and going, sailors loading and unloading cargo. The scent of salt and fish filled the air, mixed with the smoke of torches and the distant smell of the sea.

And there, on one of the ships, was the assassin.

He was wearing a different face now…a sailor’s face, weathered and plain. He had changed his clothes, too, from the dark cloak to a simple tunic and breeches. He looked like any other man in the harbor.

But Joffrey could see the thread of blood connecting him to Saera, could feel the wrongness that surrounded him like a shroud.

The sailors saw him first. They were not from Meereen…they were foreign traders, here to buy and sell. But they had heard the rumors, had seen the dragon on the pyramid, had listened to the whispers of the Sorcerer Prince.

Their faces went pale. They scattered, abandoning their posts, their cargo, their ship. They wanted no part of this.

The assassin saw him then. He turned, his new face unreadable, his body tensed for flight.

But then he smiled.

”The God of Many Faces gives me another chance,” he said. His voice was different…a sailor’s voice, rough and uneducated. But there was something in it that was not a sailor. Something cold, something ancient, something that had killed a thousand times and would kill a thousand more.

He pulled a dagger from his belt. The same dagger that had killed Saera, still stained with her blood…and pointed it at Joffrey.

”You should have stayed in your palace, little prince,” the assassin said. ”Now it’s too late.”

Joffrey did not respond. He did not need to. He simply raised his hand, his fingers extended, his eyes burning with cold fury.

”Legilimency,” he said.

The spell tore through the assassin’s mind like a hurricane.

Joffrey’s magic was unstable, unpredictable, amplified by his rage and grief. 

The spell should have been a gentle probe, a careful reading of surface thoughts. Instead, it was a hammer blow, a tidal wave of psychic force that shattered every barrier, every wall, every defense the assassin had erected.

The Faceless Man had no time to scream. His mind was laid bare, every memory, every thought, every secret ripped from the depths of his consciousness. 

Joffrey saw them all…the training, the missions, the faces, the deaths. 

He saw the House of Black and White, the temple of the Many-Faced God, the pool of black water. He saw the Kindly Man, the priests, the servants. He saw the clients, the contracts, the prices paid.

And he saw the man who had hired them.

’Jaime Lannister,’ Joffrey thought, his rage burning hotter. ’How dare you.’

The assassin’s head exploded, unable to withstand the pressure of his magic.

It was not a clean death. The force of Joffrey’s magic, amplified by his fury, was too much for the mortal mind to contain. The skull cracked, the brain liquefied, the blood and viscera sprayed across the deck in a grotesque fountain.

The body crumpled to the floor, twitching once, then going still.

The sailors screamed. They ran, abandoning the ship, abandoning the harbor, abandoning everything. They had seen enough. They wanted no part of this madness.

Joffrey looked down at the remains of the assassin, his expression cold and empty.

’This is not enough,’ he thought. ’This is not nearly enough.’

The man who had killed Saera was dead. But the man who had hired him was still alive. The House of Black and White still stood. The Many-Faced God still had his temple.

And Joffrey would have his revenge.

He turned and walked away. ’I will find all of you,’ he thought. ’And when I do, you will pay for this.’

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