Chapter 22: The Wolf's Submission, The Dragon's Mercy
The Red Keep, under King Joffrey's nascent reign, had become a place of hushed corridors and averted gazes, where fear was the common currency and the distant roars of young dragons were a constant, terrifying reminder of the new, elemental power that now resided on the Iron Throne. NJ, the entity wearing Joffrey Baratheon's skin, moved through this atmosphere of dread with a cold, almost serene, detachment. His plans were unfolding with precision, the pieces on the great board of Westeros shifting to his will. Yet, one piece remained stubbornly out of place, a monument to an outdated code of honor: Eddard Stark.
Lord Stark, imprisoned in the Black Cells, was a symbol of defiance, however broken and despairing. His alleged treason, his denial of Joffrey's legitimacy, still echoed in the rebellious whispers from the North and the bold proclamations of Stannis and Renly Baratheon. NJ knew that simply executing Stark, as Cersei vociferously demanded daily, would make him a martyr, a rallying cry for his enemies. No, Eddard Stark needed to be publicly unmade, his honor dismantled, his confession a testament to Joffrey's undeniable, divinely sanctioned kingship. And NJ had the perfect tools for such a deconstruction: seven rapidly growing, terrifyingly real dragons.
The decision was made with his usual chilling pragmatism. He would grant Lord Stark an "audience" with his "children." Not out of any desire for dialogue, but to present the honorable wolf with a truth so overwhelming, so contrary to the natural order he understood, that his rigid convictions would shatter.
Under the cover of deepest night, Eddard Stark was brought from the stinking darkness of his cell. Gaunt, bearded, clad in filthy rags, he was a shadow of the proud Warden of the North, yet his grey eyes, though hollowed by despair, still held a spark of unyielding integrity. He was escorted by a double contingent of Lannister guards, their faces grim, their hands never far from their sword hilts, up through winding staircases into the unnaturally warm, strangely smelling depths of Maegor's Holdfast – the King's private dragonry.
The chamber they entered was vast, cavernous, lit by enormous braziers that cast flickering, hellish shadows on the stone walls. The air was thick with the smell of sulfur, charred meat, and a dry, reptilian musk that prickled the skin. And then Ned Stark saw them.
Seven of them. No longer the cat-sized hatchlings of rumor, but formidable young drakes, each now easily the size of a large wolfhound or a small pony, their scales gleaming like jewels in the firelight – obsidian and crimson, forest green and bronze, pale cream and gold, molten gold, stormy blue, snow white, smoke and silver. They moved with a terrifying, predatory grace, their clawed feet clicking on the stone, their serpentine necks craning, their eyes, like molten gemstones, fixed on him with an unnerving, ancient intelligence. A low, guttural chorus of hisses and growls rumbled through the chamber, and the heat radiating from their bodies was a palpable force.
At the center of this draconic assembly stood Joffrey Baratheon. The boy-king. His golden hair seemed to capture the firelight, his youthful face an impassive mask, but his eyes – those Baratheon blue eyes – held a depth of cold, ancient power that made Ned's blood run cold. One of the smaller dragons, the snow-white Glacian, was coiled on Joffrey's shoulders, its head resting near his cheek, its icy blue eyes mirroring the King's own.
"Lord Stark," Joffrey said, his voice quiet but carrying an unnatural resonance that seemed to vibrate in Ned's very bones. "You have doubted my claim. You have spoken of treasonous lies concerning my birth. You cling to the scribblings of a dead man, my father, who in his dotage and weakness, sought to deny his own true bloodline."
Ned, despite his fear, despite the overwhelming, terrifying reality of these creatures, straightened his weary frame. "Robert Baratheon was my friend, my brother. I uphold his true will. You are Cersei Lannister's son by Jaime Lannister. You have no claim to the Iron Throne." His voice was hoarse, but firm.
Joffrey smiled, a slow, chilling expression. "My father, King Robert, had Targaryen blood, Lord Stark. Through his grandmother, Rhaelle, daughter of King Aegon the Fifth. A fact you conveniently overlook. You saw me prove that blood in the Throne Room, when I held my hand in the sacred fire and it did not burn. You dismissed it as a trick, perhaps? As sorcery?"
He gestured to the dragons. Valerion, the largest, let out a deafening roar, unleashing a brief, controlled torrent of black-and-red fire at a stone pillar, which glowed cherry-red and began to crumble.
"Are these, too, a trick, Lord Stark?" Joffrey asked softly. "These children of fire, hatched from stone by my hand, by my blood, by the ancient power that flows through my veins? The power of the Dragonlords, the power of kings?"
Ned stared, his mind reeling. Dragons. Real, living dragons. Creatures of legend, of nightmare, of songs sung by hearthfires. He had seen Targaryen skulls, inert bone. But these… these were flesh and blood and fire, radiating a primal terror that shook his very soul. His Northern practicality, his belief in the tangible, the honorable, the known, was shattering against this impossible reality. Could such creatures be born of a lie? Could such power answer to a false king?
"The gods would not suffer a bastard to command such creatures," Joffrey continued, his voice weaving a hypnotic spell. "They would not grant such a miracle to an abomination. My blood is true, Lord Stark. Proven by fire. Proven by these." He caressed Glacian's scaled head, and the dragon let out a soft, crooning hiss. "The realm teeters on the brink of war because of your stubborn, misplaced honor. Your son marches south, your wife has committed acts of aggression against my family. All because you cling to a lie, because you refuse to see the truth before your very eyes."
Joffrey stepped closer, the other six dragons stirring, their eyes fixed on Ned, a low growl a constant threat. "I offer you a choice, Eddard Stark. One last chance. Renounce your treason. Acknowledge me as your true and rightful King, your blood proven by the gods themselves. Speak this truth before the court and the people. In return…" he paused, letting the unspoken promise of mercy, or the threat of its alternative, hang heavy in the heated air, "…your life, and perhaps even some measure of honor, may be preserved. Your daughters, Sansa and Arya, will be treated with the courtesy due to their station, once your house bends the knee."
Ned's mind was a battleground. His honor, his oath to Robert, his love for his children, his duty to the realm. He looked at Joffrey, at the impossible power this boy wielded, at the terrifying beasts that were his servants. To continue defiance meant certain death for himself, and likely for his daughters. It meant plunging the realm into a devastating war against a king who could, it seemed, call down fire from the heavens. Was his honor worth such a price? Was his interpretation of the truth worth the lives of thousands, the ruin of his house, the suffering of his children? The dragons were real. The fire had been real. Could he, in his mortal stubbornness, deny such blatant, terrifying portents?
He thought of Sansa, a hostage in this vipers' nest. He thought of Arya, lost and alone, hunted. He thought of Robb, marching to his doom against such power. His heart, the steadfast, honorable heart of Eddard Stark, broke.
Slowly, with an agony that contorted his features, he sank to one knee. The stone floor was cold beneath him. The heat of the dragons was a suffocating wave.
"I… I have been… mistaken," he rasped, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "I… I spoke in error… out of grief for Robert… and… and misguided loyalty." Each word was a betrayal of himself, yet each word was also a desperate shield for his children. "King Joffrey… your claim… your blood… the gods have indeed… shown their favor." He could not bring himself to look at the boy, at the triumphant, cold light in his eyes.
NJ felt a surge of icy triumph. He had done it. He had broken Eddard Stark, the paragon of Northern honor. Not with torture, not with threats alone, but with the undeniable, reality-altering presence of his dragons.
"You will say this, then," Joffrey commanded, his voice devoid of any emotion save absolute authority. "Before the court. Before the people. You will confess your treason, and you will affirm my divine right."
Ned Stark, his head bowed, his spirit crushed, could only nod.
The public spectacle was arranged for the following day, on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, before a vast, silent crowd. Eddard Stark, cleaned and dressed in simple, dark clothes, looked gaunt and broken, but he spoke the words Joffrey had dictated, his voice hoarse but clear enough for all to hear. He confessed his "treasonous pride," his "blindness" to King Joffrey's true lineage, his "error" in challenging the gods' chosen. He acknowledged Joffrey as the rightful king, his Targaryen blood proven by fire and now by the miraculous return of dragons, creatures of legend.
Sansa, watching from a guarded gallery, wept with a mixture of shame for her father and a desperate, overwhelming relief. Cersei Lannister, standing beside her son on the platform, wore an expression of smug triumph, though a keen observer might have noted the lingering unease in her eyes as she glanced at Joffrey.
When Ned had finished his humiliating recantation, Joffrey stepped forward, his golden hair like a halo in the bright sunlight, one of his smaller dragons – Aurum, the pale cream and gold, looking surprisingly regal – coiled on a specially constructed perch beside the makeshift throne.
"Lord Eddard Stark," Joffrey announced, his voice ringing with a false magnanimity that was almost more chilling than his cruelty. "You have confessed your grave treasons. By the laws of gods and men, your life is forfeit." A gasp went through the crowd. Sansa cried out. "However," Joffrey continued, raising a hand for silence, "the dragon blood that flows in my veins, the blood of my noble Targaryen ancestors, knows not only fire and vengeance, but also mercy. In my kingly compassion, and in recognition of your past service to my father, King Robert, I shall spare your life."
Another wave of murmurs, this time of astonishment. Cersei looked sharply at him, her eyes narrowed, but Joffrey ignored her.
"You shall be stripped of all titles and lands," he declared. "You shall be exiled from these Seven Kingdoms, to live out your days in the service of the Night's Watch, on the Wall, where your strength and honor, however misguided, may yet serve the realm against the true darkness that lies beyond. This is my judgment. This is my mercy."
The crowd erupted. Some with cheers for the King's "wisdom" and "compassion," others with stunned silence at this unexpected turn. Ned Stark simply stood, a broken man, his fate sealed. Sansa was sobbing with relief, her gaze fixed on Joffrey with a new, complicated emotion in which gratitude warred with her previous fear and disillusionment. Cersei was clearly furious, but dared not challenge her son publicly, not after his display of dragon-backed authority. Varys, NJ noted, watched him with that unreadable, calculating gaze, no doubt dissecting the strategic brilliance of this move.
The news of Ned Stark's confession and King Joffrey's "merciful" sentence spread like wildfire, even faster than the tales of dragons. In the North, Robb Stark's war council was thrown into chaos. Their father, confessing to treason? Pledging loyalty to Joffrey? It was unthinkable. Some Northern lords, already unnerved by the dragons, began to speak of bending the knee, of suing for peace now that Lord Stark's life was spared. Others, like the Greatjon, roared that the confession was coerced, that Stark honor could not be so easily broken, that the war for Northern independence must continue. Robb himself was torn, his love for his father warring with his duty to his people and his fury at the Lannisters. The Northern cause was deeply wounded, its moral certainty shattered.
Stannis and Renly Baratheon, from their respective strongholds, denounced the confession as a farce, a product of torture or dark magic. But the narrative was shifting. Joffrey, the boy-king who walked through fire, who hatched dragons, and who now showed "kingly mercy" even to his gravest enemy, was beginning to look less like a petulant tyrant and more like a formidable, divinely favored sovereign in the eyes of many wavering lords and the superstitious smallfolk. His rivals' claims of bastardy seemed increasingly like sour grapes, their rebellions acts of greedy ambition against a king touched by gods and dragons.
Tywin Lannister, upon hearing the news, allowed himself a rare, thin smile. Joffrey's move was unconventional, certainly not what he would have advised (he would have counseled a quiet execution or a more easily controlled form of imprisonment), but its strategic impact was undeniable. Ned Stark was neutralized as a rallying cry for martyrdom, the Northern cause was thrown into disarray, and Joffrey was cultivating an image of unpredictable power – fiery and merciless one moment, magnanimous the next. It made him a more complex, and perhaps even more dangerous, opponent.
NJ, King Joffrey, savored his victory. He had broken Eddard Stark, not just his body, but his very spirit, his unwavering honor. He had used that broken honor to further legitimize his own reign, to demoralize his enemies, and to craft an image of himself as a king capable of both terrible retribution and surprising clemency. Sansa Stark was now doubly his hostage, bound by gratitude and fear. The North was divided. His rivals, weakened.
His dragons, his true children of fire and blood, continued to grow in their heated sanctuary, their power a constant, thrumming promise of the absolute dominion to come. Valerion was now large enough for NJ to briefly sit astride his back, the sensation of the young dragon's scaled muscles shifting beneath him, the heat of his body, the raw, primal power, an intoxicating taste of what was to come. He was teaching them Valyrian commands, their sharp reptilian minds absorbing his will with astonishing speed. Soon, very soon, they would be ready to take to the skies not just for exercise, but for war.
The game of thrones had entered a new, terrifying phase. The rules were being rewritten by a boy-king with the mind of a resurrected psychopath and the ancient magic of dragons at his command. His mercy was a weapon, his justice a spectacle, his reign a tightening coil around the throat of Westeros. And as he looked towards the future, towards the wars he would win and the new world order he would forge, NJ knew, with absolute certainty, that his ascent had only just begun. The age of men was ending. The age of the Dragon King was dawning.