Chapter 21: A Quiver of Dragons, A Realm on the Rack
Months bled into one another following the miraculous, terrifying birth of King Joffrey's dragons. Within the fire-warmed, heavily guarded chambers of Maegor's Holdfast, a new dynasty was not merely stirring; it was erupting with a speed and ferocity that defied all natural law. The seven young dragons, nurtured by NJ's unwavering will and the potent, alchemically charged blood he continued to offer in secret, painstaking rituals, were a testament to his terrifying genius.
Valerion, the obsidian-and-crimson alpha, was now the size of a small pony, his roar already capable of shaking the ancient stones of the Red Keep. His scales were like polished volcanic glass, impossibly hard, and the fire he breathed was no longer the smoky puff of a hatchling but a focused jet of incandescent fury that could melt steel. Ignis, the molten gold, was a creature of pure, joyful conflagration, his body radiating an almost unbearable heat, his flames dancing with an eager, terrifying life. Veridian, the forest green, was sleeker, more serpentine, his movements a blur of predatory grace, his intelligence keen and watchful. Aurum, the pale cream and gold, carried himself with a calm, almost disdainful majesty, his fire a precise, searing lance. Tempestas, the stormy blue, was a whirlwind of restless energy, his wings already strong enough for powerful, sustained glides across their vast chamber. Glacian, the snow-white, remained aloof and beautiful, his icy blue eyes holding a chilling wisdom, his frost-tinged fire a strange and unnerving spectacle. And Fulmen, the smoke-and-silver, was the most volatile, his temper as quick as summer lightning, his hisses crackling with nascent electrical energy.
Feeding them was a monumental, almost daily, undertaking. Whole roasted oxen, sheep, and goats disappeared into their maws, the royal kitchens working around the clock under the terrified gaze of stewards who knew their lives depended on sating the King's… pets. NJ himself often oversaw their feeding, his Valyrian commands cutting through their squabbling hisses, his presence the only thing that could impose order on their increasingly wild, primal natures. He continued his secret blood rituals, the process leaving him pale and drawn beneath his Joffrey mask, but the surges of power he felt from his dragons, the deepening of their symbiotic bond, was a potent recompense. He was their creator, their sire, their god. They were extensions of his will, living embodiments of his fiery ambition.
The court of King Joffrey existed in a state of perpetual, thinly veiled terror. The awe of the initial miracles had curdled into a fearful reverence. Nobles spoke in hushed tones, their eyes darting nervously towards Maegor's Holdfast, from which occasional, ground-shaking roars or blasts of intense heat could be felt. Gifts poured into the Red Keep – not for the King, but for his dragons: jewel-encrusted collars (which the dragons contemptuously ignored or melted), live peacocks and exotic beasts for their amusement (which they devoured with savage glee), ancient, worm-eaten texts on dragonlore (which NJ confiscated for his own studies).
Cersei Lannister, the Queen Regent, now walked a tightrope of fear and maternal pride. The son she had maneuvered onto the throne was a terrifying enigma, a boy wielding powers that defied comprehension. Her attempts to guide him, to control the realm through him, were met with a cool, unnerving condescension, a Joffrey-esque sneer backed by an ancient, draconic authority that brooked no argument. She found herself increasingly relegated to managing the mundane affairs of state, while Joffrey communed with his beasts and his forbidden scrolls, his true intentions veiled. Jaime, ever the pragmatist, watched his nephew-son with a warrior's unease. He recognized power when he saw it, and the power emanating from Joffrey and his growing dragons was unlike anything he had ever encountered. It was a force that could either save House Lannister or consume it entirely.
Varys, the Master of Whisperers, redoubled his efforts, his little birds risking singed wings to gather any scrap of information about the dragons' development or the King's arcane practices. He brought his reports to NJ with his customary bland smile, but NJ's truth-sense, now honed to a razor's edge, felt the Spider's frantic, desperate need to understand, to quantify, to control this new, cataclysmic variable in his great game. Pycelle, predictably, had become a fawning sycophant, attributing the dragons' prodigious growth to Joffrey's "divine essence" and the "blessings of the Seven" (a theological stretch that even he seemed to find unconvincing).
The news from the wider realm was a chaotic tapestry of war, rebellion, and bewildered fear.
In the Riverlands, Lord Tywin Lannister's campaign against the Tullys and the encroaching Northern army under Robb Stark was a brutal, grinding affair. Reports reached NJ that Tywin, while publicly maintaining the dragons were a "boon to the rightful King," was privately deeply unsettled. His disciplined Lannister forces were unnerved by tales of their boy-king's monstrous pets, their morale further shaken by whispers that Joffrey's dragons were growing at an unnatural, terrifying pace. Tywin, NJ knew, would be calculating how to leverage this new power, but also how to contain it, how to ensure these living siege engines ultimately served Lannister interests, not just Joffrey's increasingly solitary, god-like ambitions.
Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, faced a similar crisis of morale. His Northern lords, brave enough against mere men, were deeply shaken by the prospect of facing dragons. Letters arrived at NJ's court from captured Northern scouts, their contents (shared with NJ by a gleeful Cersei) speaking of dissent in Robb's camp, of lords questioning the wisdom of defying a king who commanded the ancient fires of Valyria. Robb himself, NJ gathered, remained resolute, his grief for his father (whose fate still hung in the balance in King's Landing) and his Northern honor driving him onward, but the shadow of dragons now loomed large over his campaign.
From Dragonstone, Stannis Baratheon's pronouncements grew ever more strident. He denounced Joffrey as a sorcerer, a demon in boy's flesh, his dragons as illusions or creatures of dark magic. But his words, NJ sensed, carried a new note of desperation. How could his claim of rightful law compete with Joffrey's spectacular, terrifying displays of seemingly divine power? Melisandre, the Red Priestess, was said to be spending ever more time staring into her fires, seeking answers, seeking a counter to the "false fire" of King's Landing, her prophecies growing wilder, more urgent.
Renly Baratheon, with his massive host of Stormland and Reach chivalry, continued his slow, celebratory march towards the capital. He publicly dismissed Joffrey's dragons as "Lannister trickery" or "overfed lizards," but NJ's spies (Varys's birds, now effectively his birds when it suited him) reported unease amongst his bannermen. The Tyrells, ever pragmatic, were said to be sending feelers to King's Landing, discreet inquiries about the true nature and power of these new dragons. Renly's claim, built on charm and popular support, felt increasingly fragile against the raw, elemental power Joffrey now embodied.
One sweltering afternoon, an event occurred that further cemented Joffrey's terrifying mystique. He had brought Valerion, now easily the size of a small warhorse, his obsidian scales shimmering with internal heat, to one of the larger, walled courtyards of the Red Keep for what he termed "flight exercises." Most of the court, including a pale-faced Cersei and a grimly fascinated Jaime, watched from a high gallery. NJ stood in the center of the courtyard, his Valyrian commands sharp and precise. Valerion, with a roar that rattled the very stones, launched himself into the air, his powerful wings beating, his ascent clumsy but undeniably real. He circled the courtyard once, twice, then, unbidden, unleashed a torrent of black-and-red fire at a practice dummy, incinerating it instantly. The heatwave washed over the gallery, causing lords and ladies to cry out and shield their faces.
Then, a commotion at the courtyard gate. A Dornish envoy, newly arrived, was attempting to enter, his retinue pushing past the terrified gold cloaks. Prince Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper himself, had come unannounced to King's Landing, ostensibly to belatedly offer condolences for King Robert's death and felicitations on King Joffrey's ascension, but truly, NJ knew, to see the dragons for himself.
Oberyn strode into the courtyard, his dark eyes taking in the scene – the scorched earth, the still-smoking remains of the dummy, the massive young dragon now landing heavily beside Joffrey, its reptilian eyes fixed on the newcomers with predatory intelligence.
"King Joffrey," Oberyn said, his voice smooth as silk, though his eyes glittered with a dangerous amusement. "I see you have acquired… impressive pets. Dorne had heard whispers, but reality, it seems, outstrietches even the most fevered rumor."
NJ met the Red Viper's gaze, his own eyes, for a moment, seeming to hold the golden fire of his dragons. He felt Oberyn's keen intellect, his warrior's spirit, his ancient Dornish grievances. But he also sensed, with his truth-sense, a flicker of something else: profound, astonished interest.
"Prince Oberyn," NJ replied, his Joffrey-voice cool and imperious, though the dragon-aura around him was a palpable wave of heat and power. "You find us at our… exercises. Valerion is young, still learning control." He gestured to the smoldering remains. "He has much of his ancestor's fire, it seems."
Valerion, as if on cue, let out another ground-shaking roar, smoke curling from his nostrils. Oberyn Martell, a man who feared little, actually took an involuntary half-step back, his hand briefly going to the hilt of his spear before he caught himself. His companions were ashen-faced.
NJ smiled, a cold, knowing smile. "Indeed. Welcome to my court, Prince Oberyn. I trust your journey was… uneventful?"
The unspoken threat, the display of barely contained draconic fury, was not lost on the Dornishman. This boy-king was no mere Lannister puppet. He was a power unto himself, a force to be reckoned with. Dorne's calculations, NJ knew, would be significantly revised.
The fate of Eddard Stark remained a contentious issue, though one NJ controlled utterly. Cersei, her fear of Stark's knowledge of her incest still a driving force, pushed daily for his execution. Varys, with his usual slippery pragmatism, counseled that a live hostage, one who could be forced to confess his "treason" and urge his son Robb to bend the knee, was more valuable. NJ listened to their arguments with feigned attentiveness, his Joffrey-face a mask of thoughtful deliberation.
Internally, his decision was already leaning towards Varys's counsel, but with his own twist. A public confession, yes. A plea for Robb to submit, certainly. But then… a display of "kingly mercy" so unexpected, so out of character for the Joffrey they thought they knew, that it would further confuse and destabilize his enemies. Perhaps exile to the Wall? Or would a swift, brutal execution, blaming it on Cersei's "grief-stricken counsel" while he feigned youthful inability to overrule her, serve his narrative of a realm needing his strong, "dragon-blessed" hand even more? He savored the options, the delicious complexity of the choice. Ned Stark was a piece to be moved, his fate a tool to shape the coming war.
His own magical and physical development continued apace. The Valyrian scrolls yielded ever deeper secrets of blood magic, of dragon command, of the very energies that had once powered the Freehold. He found he could now subtly influence the emotions of those around him, not through crude compulsion, but by projecting his own immense force of will, his dragon-aura subtly shifting the atmospheric "pressure" of a room, making courtiers more fearful, more pliable. His Joffrey-body, lean and hardened by his secret training and the constant internal thrum of magical energy, moved with a grace and power that was beginning to strain the credibility of his princely facade. He would soon need to allow Joffrey to "mature" into a more overtly capable, if still arrogant, young king.
The realm was a rack, stretched taut by war, ambition, and now, the terrifying return of dragons. And NJ, King Joffrey, the Dragon Lord, was the one turning the screw, his eyes fixed on a future where his will, and the fiery breath of his seven children, would be the only law. The forging of his new age was well underway, and its heat was beginning to be felt in every corner of Westeros.