Chapter 20: The Crimson Covenant, A Dragon Lord's Quickening
The seven infant dragons, Valerion, Veridian, Aurum, Ignis, Tempestas, Glacian, and Fulmen, were more than just a symbol of King Joffrey's divinely touched reign; they were the living, breathing core of his burgeoning ambition, the key to the new world order he intended to carve from the flesh of Westeros. But hatchlings, however miraculous their birth, were still vulnerable, their growth subject to the slow turning of seasons. NJ, with his vast intellect and the forbidden knowledge gleaned from Maegor's hidden vault, had no intention of waiting. The wars were coming, his enemies were mobilizing, and he needed his ultimate weapons to mature with a speed that would shatter all expectations.
The Valyrian scrolls, those brittle, priceless relics, spoke in veiled, ominous whispers of blood magic, of the intricate and perilous relationship between the Dragonlords and their mounts. They hinted that the very vitality of a dragon, its growth, its ferocity, even the intensity of its flame, could be profoundly influenced by the blood of its bonded rider, especially if that blood was itself potent with magical energies. Daenerys Targaryen had unknowingly used blood magic in Drogo's pyre. NJ, however, would approach it with cold, deliberate science, a terrifying fusion of ancient sorcery and his own transcendent intellect.
His plan was audacious, fraught with peril. He would not merely offer his blood; he would transform it, concentrate its inherent magical properties, infusing it with the fiery essence of Balerion that now resided within him, the ancient wisdom of the weirwood, and the focused, indomitable power of his will. This "crimson alchemy," as he began to think of it, would, he theorized, act as an unparalleled catalyst for his dragons' development.
The research was painstaking. He cross-referenced passages in the spidery High Valyrian script, his mind, augmented by absorbed linguistic talents and the innate understanding from his Targaryen ancestry, deciphering cryptic allusions to "essence transference," "sanguine amplification," and "the dragon's heart-fire." He learned that such rituals were incredibly draining, potentially life-threatening for the practitioner if not performed with absolute precision and control. They required not just knowledge, but an immense internal reservoir of magical energy and an unshakeable will to channel it without being consumed. NJ possessed all three in abundance.
He identified the core components of the ritual he would devise. It would be an internal alchemy, performed within the crucible of his own Joffrey-body. He would need to draw upon his dragon-fire essence, carefully stoking it to an almost unbearable internal heat, then meld it with the life-giving energies of the weirwood, using his intellect as the forge and his will as the hammer. This empowered essence would then be consciously directed into his own blood, charging it molecule by molecule, transforming it into a super-potent elixir of draconic vitality. He also identified certain rare herbs and resins described in the scrolls – nightshade, bloodbloom, powdered dragonglass, and weirwood sap – not for consumption, but to be burned as incense during his meditative preparations, their fumes supposedly creating an atmospheric resonance conducive to such deep, internal magic. He procured these through Maester Pycelle, under the guise of needing ingredients for "alchemical experiments to purify gold," a Joffrey-esque hobby that the terrified old maester dared not question, only procure with trembling haste.
The process was undertaken in the deepest secrecy of his chambers in Maegor's Holdfast, often late into the night when the Red Keep slumbered. Each session left him physically drained, his Joffrey-body wracked with phantom fevers and chills as immense magical energies coursed through him. There were moments when he felt the dragon fire threaten to consume him from within, its primal rage battling his control. In these instances, he would call upon the icy, ancient calm of the weirwood, its grounding earth-wisdom providing the anchor he needed to master the inferno. He learned to ride the edge of this internal precipice, his mind a silent battlefield where elemental forces clashed and were ultimately subjugated to his will. The pain was a distant, analytical data point; the risk, a calculated variable. The goal was all that mattered.
After several weeks of these grueling internal preparations, he felt his blood was… different. It thrummed with a new, potent energy, a warmth that was more than just physical. It felt alive, almost sentient, saturated with the concentrated essence of dragon fire and ancient magic. He was ready.
The feeding ritual itself was conducted in the dragons' warmed nursery within Maegor's Holdfast. His seven hatchlings, already noticeably larger and more alert than any natural creature their age, sensed the change in him, the potent aroma of his magically charged blood calling to something deep within their primal beings. Their jewel-like eyes, burning with their own nascent fires, fixed on him with an unnerving intensity.
Using the same Valyrian dagger he had used to anoint their eggs, he made a small, precise incision on his forearm. The blood that welled up was darker than normal, almost black in the torchlight, and it seemed to shimmer with an inner heat. One by one, he called his dragons to him, offering his bleeding arm.
Valerion, the obsidian and crimson alpha, was the first. He approached NJ with a low, guttural hiss that was more anticipation than threat, his black eyes fixed on the glistening blood. He lapped at it eagerly, a tiny, scaled tongue rasping against NJ's skin. As the potent blood entered his system, Valerion shuddered, a ripple running through his small body, and his crimson markings seemed to glow with a fiercer light. Ignis, the molten gold, practically vibrated with excitement, his tiny flames flaring brighter as he drank. Glacian, the snow-white, usually so aloof, pressed against NJ's arm with uncharacteristic fervor, his icy blue eyes taking on a fiery depth. Each of the seven dragons partook, and with each, NJ felt the bond between them deepen, becoming less a connection of master and pet, and more a symbiotic linking of their fiery souls to his own dominant will. He was not just their hatcher; he was now, in a very real sense, their sire, his own life force quickening theirs.
The effects were not instantaneous, but they were undeniably swift. In the weeks that followed, the dragons began to grow at a truly astonishing rate. Their initial playful clumsiness gave way to a terrifying grace. Their scales, once soft as new leaves, hardened and thickened, taking on the lustre of polished gemstones and dark iron. Their horns and claws, already sharp, grew longer, deadlier. Their wingspans increased visibly day by day, the leathery membranes becoming stronger, capable of short, powerful glides across their chambers. Valerion, already the largest, was now the size of a small wolf, his obsidian scales shot through with pulsating veins of what looked like living fire. Ignis could now unleash a focused gout of flame hot enough to char stone. Tempestas moved with the blurring speed of a striking viper.
The servants and guards tasked with their care (always under NJ's direct supervision, and often from a terrified distance) whispered in hushed, fearful tones of the "demon king's beasts." They spoke of the unnatural heat that now permeated Maegor's Holdfast, of the ground trembling when the young dragons roared, of the way their eyes seemed to glow with an ancient, terrifying intelligence. Cersei watched her son and his monstrous pets with a new level of horrified awe. She had birthed Joffrey, but this… this Dragon Lord, who fed his own blood to his rapidly growing beasts of legend, was something far beyond her ken, something she instinctively knew she could never truly control. Her attempts to influence him became even more hesitant, her advice couched in terms of wifely duty to his future queen (Margaery Tyrell, a match Cersei was already contemplating to secure the Reach) or the "good of the realm," rather than direct maternal commands.
Varys, the Master of Whisperers, undoubtedly heard the rumors. His little birds would be chirping tales of the dragons' prodigious growth, of the strange, intense rituals their king seemed to be performing in secret. NJ knew the Spider would be desperate to learn the truth, but Maegor's Holdfast, especially the section housing the dragons, was now a fortress within a fortress, its human guards augmented by the terrifying presence of the seven young predators and NJ's own palpable aura of command. Varys's inquiries would meet a wall of terrified silence.
Maester Pycelle, when he inevitably saw the dragons during some royal summons, could only babble about unprecedented vitality, divine blessings, and the forgotten secrets of the Targaryen line being miraculously reawakened in King Joffrey. NJ accepted his fawning pronouncements with a Joffrey-esque smirk, inwardly cataloging the old man's fear and his utter incomprehension of the true forces at play.
To confirm the efficacy of his blood alchemy, NJ conducted a controlled test in the deep vault where he had found the Valyrian scrolls, a place secure from prying eyes and ears. He brought Valerion, the boldest of his brood. The young dragon, though still months from what would be considered even juvenile size for a normal dragon, was already a formidable creature, his scales like polished obsidian armor, his eyes burning like coals.
"Valerion," NJ commanded, his voice a low hiss of High Valyrian, his will reaching out to the dragon's mind through their blood-forged bond. He pointed to a thick, iron-banded oak target he had ordered constructed. "Dracarys."
The command was instinctual to Valerion, a word that resonated with his very being. With a shriek that was a miniature echo of Balerion's ancient roar, the young dragon unleashed a torrent of fire. It was not the smoky, sputtering flame of a mere hatchling. This was a concentrated jet of incandescent orange-gold flame, so hot it warped the air, striking the oaken target with explosive force. The iron bands glowed red, then white, then began to melt. The oak itself was consumed in seconds, reduced to a pile of smoking ash.
NJ felt a surge of cold, exultant power. It was working. His blood, his magic, was forging these creatures into weapons of unimaginable power, at a speed that would leave Westeros breathless.
The act of repeatedly concentrating and offering his blood was taking a toll on his Joffrey-body, despite its magically enhanced resilience. He felt a constant, low-level weariness, a slight tremor in his hands that he had to consciously control. But he also felt his own internal fire deepening, his connection to the dragon essence within him becoming more profound, more intrinsic. He was not just commanding dragons; he was becoming dragon, in some fundamental, terrifying way.
His strategic calculations shifted once more. With dragons growing at this rate, his timeline for consolidating power, for ending the wars of succession, was drastically shortened. Why rely on the slow, uncertain movements of armies when he would soon command a flight of living siege engines, loyal only to him? His enemies – Stannis with his foreign god, Renly with his summer knights, Robb Stark with his Northern pride – they were all playing an outdated game. He was about to unleash a force upon them that would render their ambitions, their armies, their very concepts of warfare, obsolete.
He thought of Tywin Lannister. His grandfather was a man who respected only power. Soon, NJ would demonstrate a power that even the Old Lion could not ignore, could not hope to control. The dynamic between them would shift irrevocably.
The Valyrian scrolls spoke of Dragonlords whose will could dominate nations, whose gaze could break armies. NJ felt himself on the cusp of such power. His blood was now a covenant, binding him to his seven children of fire, and through them, to a destiny of absolute dominion. The Long Night still loomed in his ultimate calculus, but the path to confronting it was becoming clearer: first, he would unite Westeros under his fiery banner, burning away all opposition. Then, with his dragons fully grown, he would turn his attention to the true enemy in the North.
He stood that night on his balcony, Valerion and Ignis now large enough to perch heavily on the stone railing beside him, their scaled bodies radiating a comforting heat. Their eyes, like molten gold and burning embers, watched the city below with a shared, predatory gaze that mirrored his own. He was King Joffrey, yes, the boy who had terrified a court with a hand in a brazier, who had publicly dismantled a master schemer. But he was also becoming something more, something ancient and new: Joffrey the Dragon Lord, his blood the lifeblood of a new dynasty of fire, his will the unmaking and remaking of a world. The quickening had begun. And the roar of his dragons would soon be the only law the Seven Kingdoms recognized.