Chapter 24: The Dragon's Flight, The Realm's Submission
The ravens that flew forth from King Joffrey's eyrie in the Red Keep now carried tidings not just of a king, but of a force of nature. Eddard Stark's public recantation and subsequent "merciful" exile to the Wall had been the hammer blow that shattered the moral certitude of the nascent rebellions. The news of his submission, coupled with the terrifying, ever-growing legend of Joffrey's dragons and his personal communion with fire, acted as a potent solvent upon the loyalties and resolutions of those who had dared to defy the Iron Throne.
The Scattering of the Pretenders
Reports, meticulously gathered by Varys's little birds and delivered to NJ with the Spider's customary blend of obsequious deference and veiled, intense scrutiny, painted a grim picture for the rebel kings.
In the North, Robb Stark's formidable host had, as NJ anticipated, fractured and bled away. The news of Lord Eddard's confession, portraying him as a penitent traitor acknowledging Joffrey's divine right, had been a poisoned dagger to the heart of Northern pride. While some fiercely loyal bannermen, like the Greatjon Umber, roared of coercion and vowed to fight on for vengeance and Northern independence, many more saw only the ruin of their cause. Lords, citing the need to protect their own lands from a vengeful Dragon King or the coming winter, began to withdraw their levies. The common soldiers, already unnerved by tales of sorcery from the south, deserted in droves, choosing the uncertain path home over a suicidal war against dragons. Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, found himself with a shadow of his former army, retreating northwards not as a conquering hero, but as the wounded leader of a broken pack, his grief for his father now compounded by the bitter taste of his campaign's collapse. Catelyn Stark, NJ learned, was a ghost in her son's camp, her spirit crushed by her husband's fate and her own role in the tragic chain of events.
On Dragonstone, Stannis Baratheon, that pillar of iron will and unyielding adherence to law, remained defiant. He publicly denounced Ned Stark's confession as a product of torture and Joffrey's miracles as vile sorcery. But NJ's truth-sense, even when analyzing Varys's dry reports, could detect the undercurrent of desperation in Stannis's pronouncements. His fleet remained formidable, his island fortress secure, but his land-based support was hemorrhaging. Lords of the Stormlands and Crownlands who had grudgingly answered his summons now sent ravens bearing carefully worded excuses, their fear of Joffrey's dragons outweighing their respect for Stannis's claim. Melisandre, the Red Priestess, NJ heard, was working ever more feverishly at her pyres, her prophecies growing darker, more urgent, promising Stannis a fiery victory but demanding ever greater, more terrible sacrifices. Stannis was becoming isolated, a king of shadows and dwindling hope.
Renly Baratheon's flamboyant rebellion, built on charm, chivalry, and the might of the Reach, had dissolved like morning mist. His vast army of summer knights, so confident in their numbers and the justice of their popular king, had little stomach for a war against a boy who commanded living dragons and had broken the will of Eddard Stark. The tales of Joffrey's power, his seeming invulnerability to fire, and his "merciful" yet terrifying judgment upon the Lord of Winterfell, had stripped Renly's cause of its romantic allure, leaving only the grim prospect of facing dragonfire. Lords began to make their peace with King's Landing. The Tyrells, ever pragmatic, were the first to send discreet overtures. Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, NJ knew, valued survival and advancement above all else. His son, Ser Loras, the Knight of Flowers, though fiercely loyal to Renly, could not hold back the tide of fear and opportunism. Renly's great host melted away, leaving him a king with few soldiers and even fewer prospects. Whispers soon reached NJ that Renly, accompanied by a handful of loyalists, had fled, perhaps to Essos, his dreams of a golden crown turned to ash. Some rumors, darker still, hinted at a shadow with a familiar face claiming his life in his own tent – a canonical event NJ had anticipated, though he had not directly intervened to cause or prevent it this time. Melisandre's influence, no doubt. One less pretender, in any case.
The Dragon's Gaze Turns Skyward
While the realm trembled, NJ focused on the true source of his burgeoning power: his seven dragons. Months had passed since their miraculous hatching, and nurtured by his magically potent blood and the Valyrian lore he painstakingly deciphered, their growth was nothing short of monstrous. Valerion, his chosen alpha, was now easily the size of a warhorse, his obsidian scales gleaming like polished armor, his roar a physical force that could shatter windows in the Red Keep. Ignis, Veridian, Aurum, Tempestas, Glacian, and Fulmen were not far behind, each a terrifying embodiment of elemental fury and predatory grace.
Their training had progressed beyond simple commands. NJ, drawing upon the deep, almost telepathic bond forged by blood and magic, could now communicate with them through a complex interplay of Valyrian words, focused will, and shared imagery. He taught them coordinated movements, precise fire control (Ignis, in particular, could now melt a specific stone in a wall from fifty paces without scorching its neighbors), and an unwavering, terrifying obedience to his commands. Maegor's Holdfast had become a true dragon's lair, its ancient stones thrumming with their power, its courtyards and chambers filled with the scent of sulfur and the sound of their leathery wings.
The time had come, NJ decided, for a more public display, a definitive statement of his power that would sear itself into the consciousness of King's Landing and, through the tales of those who witnessed it, the entire realm.
He chose a clear, bright morning. The city was already abuzz with rumors of the dragons' unnatural growth. He would give them a sight they would never forget.
Dressed in Targaryen black and crimson, with Umbraexys, his Valyrian steel sword, strapped to his side, NJ strode into the largest courtyard of Maegor's Holdfast where Valerion awaited, the great black dragon's eyes like molten gold fixed upon him. With a whispered Valyrian command and a leap that his Joffrey-body, now lean and deceptively strong from his secret training, accomplished with surprising agility, he mounted the dragon's broad, scaled back, settling between the massive shoulder blades where rudimentary riding leathers, designed from Valyrian texts, had been affixed.
With another command, Valerion unfurled his colossal wings, each beat sending tremors through the ground. Then, with a roar that echoed across the entire city, they launched into the sky.
King's Landing gasped as one. From the smallfolk in Flea Bottom to the nobles in their manors, all eyes turned upward. There, against the azure canvas of the sky, soared their boy-king, Joffrey Baratheon, astride a magnificent black dragon, its scales shimmering, its roar a challenge to the very gods. Valerion circled Aegon's High Hill, then swept low over the Great Sept of Baelor, its shadow falling upon the stunned, upturned faces. NJ, feeling the exhilarating rush of flight, the immense power of the beast beneath him, the wind whipping through his golden hair, felt like a true god, a Dragon Lord of Old Valyria reborn. He directed Valerion to unleash a single, controlled gout of black-and-red fire high into the sky above the Iron Throne, a fiery proclamation of his dominion.
The other six dragons, as if on cue, launched from their hidden roosts within Maegor's, joining Valerion in a breathtaking, terrifying aerial ballet above the city. Seven dragons, their colors a vibrant, deadly rainbow, their roars a symphony of ancient power, circling their king, their master.
The city below was thrown into a paroxysm of terror and religious ecstasy. People fell to their knees in the streets, praying, weeping, hailing King Joffrey as a divine savior, a true Dragon King. The message was unambiguous. This was not just a king; this was a living legend, a wielder of unimaginable power. Resistance was not just treason; it was blasphemy.
An Alliance Forged in Fire and Ambition
The display had its intended effect. Within days, envoys from Highgarden arrived, led by Lord Mace Tyrell himself, his portly figure radiating an almost comical mixture of fear and avaricious opportunism. The Tyrells, masters of political survival, knew which way the wind now blew – and it smelled strongly of dragonfire.
In the Throne Room, with Valerion and Aurum now flanking the Iron Throne like living, breathing gargoyles of immense power, their heat a palpable pressure in the room, Mace Tyrell practically prostrated himself.
"Your Grace," he boomed, his voice trembling slightly, "House Tyrell offers its unwavering loyalty, its swords, its granaries, all in service to you, our true and rightful King, blessed by gods and dragons!"
NJ, his Joffrey-face a mask of regal composure, though his eyes held the cold, ancient gleam of his true self, listened. He knew the Tyrells' worth – their vast wealth, their fertile lands, the largest army in Westeros (what remained of it after Renly's collapse). He also knew their ambition.
The offer of Margaery Tyrell's hand in marriage was, of course, presented. A beautiful, clever girl, NJ recalled from his GoT knowledge, and a useful pawn. Cersei, seated beside him (her position as Queen Regent now largely ceremonial, her fear of her son palpable), nodded her approval. An alliance with the Reach would secure their flank and provide much-needed resources.
"We accept your loyal pledge, Lord Tyrell," NJ declared, his voice carrying the subtle resonance of his dragon-aura. "And we shall consider your… generous offer regarding your daughter. Such an alliance would indeed strengthen the realm." He made no firm commitment yet. Let them sweat. Let them understand that even the mighty Tyrells now served at his pleasure.
The Serpent's Governance
With the major rebellions largely collapsing and new alliances being forged in the heat of dragonfire, NJ turned his attention more fully to the governance of his realm. His Small Council meetings were brief, decisive affairs. Pycelle offered trembling affirmations to every royal decree. Varys, his face an unreadable mask, provided his intelligence reports with a new, almost fearful, diligence. NJ found he could now easily pierce the Spider's veils with his truth-sense, discerning the subtle spin, the hidden motives. He kept Varys on a tight leash, valuing his network but trusting him not at all. New appointments were made – men of competence if he could find them, or men of absolute, fear-induced loyalty if not. He began to subtly implement policies drawn from his own advanced knowledge, reforms to taxation, infrastructure, and sanitation, all presented as edicts of a divinely wise boy-king, designed to strengthen the realm for the true challenges he foresaw.
His study of the Valyrian scrolls continued. He was now attempting more complex applications of blood magic and fire sorcery, always in secret, always with extreme caution. He found he could subtly influence the growth and even the temperament of his dragons through focused meditation and infusions of his will during their blood-feedings. He experimented with scrying, using a bowl of water and a dragon's scale, catching fleeting, distorted glimpses of distant events – Robb Stark's dwindling army, Stannis brooding on Dragonstone. The power was intoxicating, the potential limitless. He also began to train more rigorously with Umbraexys, the Valyrian steel sword from Maegor's vault. His Joffrey-body, infused with dragon vitality and honed by his secret regimen, now moved with a speed and precision that would have shocked any who knew his former self. He was becoming a warrior in his own right, not just a sorcerer-king.
Family Ties, Dragon Chains
Cersei, his mother, was a complex problem. She was still Queen Regent, a title he allowed her to keep for appearances, but her actual power was negligible. She feared him, NJ knew, but there was also a fierce, twisted maternal pride in the terrifying power her son now wielded. She tried to offer counsel, to steer him towards traditional Lannister ambitions, but her words often faltered before his cold, unnervingly perceptive gaze. He managed her with a careful blend of Joffrey's petulance (to remind her of the son she thought she knew) and sudden flashes of his true, terrifying authority (to remind her of the King he had become).
Jaime, now Lord Commander of Joffrey's Kingsguard (an appointment NJ had made with a certain ironic satisfaction), was a more stoic, if equally unsettled, observer. He performed his duties with his customary skill, but NJ often felt his uncle-father's eyes on him, a mixture of warrior's respect, familial concern, and a deep, unspoken dread. Jaime had slain one Mad King who dabbled in wildfire. What was he to make of a nephew who commanded seven living infernos?
Correspondence with Tywin Lannister was a subtle battle of wills. The Old Lion, from his war camp, offered stern counsel on strategy, on alliances, on the management of the realm. NJ replied with carefully worded deference, thanking his grandfather for his wisdom, while subtly asserting his own rapidly growing authority. He knew Tywin respected strength above all else. And NJ was demonstrating strength on a scale Tywin had never anticipated. The balance of power within House Lannister itself was irrevocably shifting.
The Captive Princess and the Lost Cub
Sansa Stark remained his hostage, a pale, trembling flower in the Red Keep. Her father's public confession and Joffrey's "mercy" had left her utterly bewildered. She no longer knew what to believe. Joffrey, the monster who had tormented her, was also the king who had spared her father, the boy who commanded dragons, who walked through fire. He treated her with a chillingly unpredictable mixture of Joffrey's casual cruelty and moments of almost gentle, feigned consideration that left her emotionally adrift, easier to manipulate. She was a valuable piece, not just as a hostage, but as a potential bridge to whatever remained of the North, or perhaps, a bride to seal some future alliance.
Arya Stark remained a ghost, a loose thread. Varys's little birds had found no trace of her since she fled after her father's arrest. NJ knew from his GoT knowledge that she was resourceful, a survivor. He considered her a minor, if potentially irritating, future complication. For now, there were larger concerns.
The Architect of a New Valyria
As the initial shockwaves of his dragons' public flight began to settle, NJ stood once more on his balcony in Maegor's Holdfast, his seven young dragons – now truly formidable, their scales like obsidian and gemstone armor, their eyes burning with intelligent fire – arrayed around him. The city of King's Landing lay silent and submissive below, bathed in the light of a bloody sunset. The rebellions were crumbling. Alliances were shifting. A new order was dawning.
He was no longer merely playing their game. He was a force that transcended it. His intellect, his psychopathy, his absorbed knowledge, and now, his mastery of ancient magic and his command of living dragons – these had made him something… more. He was the architect of a new Valyria, not a slavish imitation of the old, but something grander, something forged by his unique, terrifying will. The Long Night was the ultimate crucible for which he prepared, and he would meet it not as a mere king of men, but as a Dragon Emperor, his power absolute, his reign eternal. The world would burn, and from its ashes, his new order would rise.