Chapter 18: From Embers, Dragons – A King's Fiery Birthright
The whispers from across the realm, carried back to NJ on the wings of ravens and in the hushed reports of Varys's little birds, were a symphony of fear, outrage, and grudging awe. His fiery "proof" of lineage and the gruesome, public dismantling of Petyr Baelish had sent shockwaves through the Seven Kingdoms, branding him as a king of terrifying resolve and perhaps unnatural power. But NJ knew that whispers, however potent, were fleeting. Doubt would linger, especially amongst his declared enemies – Stannis, Renly, and the Starks. He needed something more. Something irrefutable. Something that would not just cow the masses with fear, but bind them to him with the chains of undeniable, miraculous legitimacy.
Dragons. The ultimate symbol of Targaryen power, the very creatures whose fiery breath had forged the Iron Throne upon which he now sat. If he, Joffrey Baratheon, could awaken dragons, it would be more than a miracle; it would be a divine anointment, a resurrection of the realm's most ancient and potent magic, channeled through him, through the Targaryen blood of his Baratheon ancestors. The claims of his bastardy would shrivel to ash in the face of such a conflagration.
His studies of the Valyrian scrolls, recovered from Maegor's hidden vault, had become an obsession. They spoke of blood magic, of fire sorcery, of the intricate, almost spiritual bond between dragon and rider. They hinted at rituals, long forgotten, used to coax life from the stone hearts of dragon eggs. The knowledge was arcane, dangerous, filled with warnings of madness and catastrophic failure – the tragedy of Summerhall was a stark testament to that. But NJ was not Aegon V, the Unlikely. He was not bound by conventional Targaryen limitations. He possessed the weirwood's ancient wisdom, the dragon's own fiery essence, and an intellect that could dissect and synthesize this forbidden lore with cold, clinical precision.
His first task was to acquire the eggs. The scrolls, and the absorbed histories from the Red Keep's very stones, whispered of clutches hidden or forgotten. The Dragonpit, that vast, ruined dome on Rhaenys's Hill, was the most obvious starting point. It had housed the Targaryen dragons for generations. Surely, some remnant, some forgotten clutch, might remain amidst its desolation.
Under the pretext of a "royal survey" to assess the structural integrity of the ruins – a Joffrey-esque whim that his now thoroughly intimidated council dared not question – NJ led a small, heavily guarded expedition to the Dragonpit. He dismissed most of the guards at the precarious entrance, taking only Ser Meryn Trant (a man whose loyalty was as simple as his intellect, easily managed) and a few nervous servants carrying torches, though NJ himself found his dragon-enhanced vision rendered the gloom almost irrelevant.
The interior of the Dragonpit was a vast, echoing ruin, its once-mighty dome a shattered skeleton against the sky. The air was thick with the scent of ancient burning, of despair, and a faint, lingering ozone tang of dragon magic that made the Balerion essence within him stir. He used his weirwood-sense, attuned to the faintest traces of life or dormant magic, to guide him through the treacherous rubble. Deeper and deeper he went, into crumbling vaults beneath the main floor, places where dragonkeepers of old had tended their charges. And there, in a collapsed section of a forgotten hatchery, preserved by a freak fall of stone that had sealed it from the elements and the fires of the Pit's destruction during the Dance, he found them: three eggs. One was the color of obsidian, shot through with veins of angry crimson. Another was a deep, forest green, with flecks of bronze. The last was a pale cream, swirled with gold. They were cold, stone to the touch, yet NJ, as his fingers brushed their scaled surfaces, felt a faint, almost imperceptible thrum, a whisper of dormant life, a resonance with the fire in his own blood.
But three were not enough for the spectacle he envisioned, nor for the power he intended to wield. His research pointed to another, more tragic site: Summerhall. The summer palace of the Targaryens, destroyed in a blaze of magical ambition when Aegon V had attempted to hatch dragon eggs, resulting in his own death and that of many others, including the then Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Duncan the Tall. NJ knew from fragmented Targaryen echoes and the Valyrian scrolls that Aegon V had gathered multiple clutches of eggs for that ritual. Some might have survived, perhaps even been transformed or preserved by the intense magical energies unleashed during the conflagration.
A royal progress to the Stormlands, a "pilgrimage" to the site of his Baratheon ancestors' greatest triumphs and his Targaryen forebears' tragic folly, was announced. Cersei, still trying to understand the son who now seemed more ancient power than boy, raised no objection, perhaps seeing it as a way to further solidify his Baratheon ties. Varys and Pycelle offered their usual sycophantic approval.
Summerhall was a place of profound melancholy. The scorched, skeletal ruins stood stark against the sky, a monument to hubris and lost dreams. The air itself felt heavy with sorrow and the lingering scent of an unnatural fire. NJ, walking through the desolate halls, felt the echoes of that day: the hope, the desperation, the sudden, catastrophic eruption of uncontrolled magic, the screams, the inferno. His dragon essence recoiled from the memory of such a destructive failure, while his weirwood-sense felt the deep scars in the earth itself.
He spent days amidst the ruins, his guards keeping a respectful distance, believing their king was engaged in some somber reflection on his ancestry. In truth, he was meticulously searching, using his heightened senses, his magical attunement, and the clues gleaned from his scrolls. And in a deep, fire-scorched vault beneath the main keep, a place that had clearly been at the epicenter of the magical blaze, he found four more eggs. These were different. Their surfaces were not smooth, but seemed vitrified, almost crystalline, as if the stone had been partially melted and re-fused by dragonfire and sorcery. One was the color of molten gold, another a deep, stormy blue, a third a startling white like fresh snow, and the last a mottled grey and silver, like smoke and lightning. They felt warmer to the touch than the Dragonpit eggs, and the thrum of dormant life within was stronger, almost eager. Seven eggs in total. A perfect, magical number.
Returning to King's Landing, NJ began his preparations in utmost secrecy, his mind a whirlwind of arcane calculations and meticulous planning. He drew upon the Valyrian scrolls, deciphering complex rituals that spoke of blood, fire, and an immense outpouring of focused will. He understood now that Daenerys Targaryen's hatching of her dragons in Drogo's funeral pyre had not been a mere accident of grief and desperation; it had been an unconscious fulfillment of ancient blood magic principles. He, however, would leave nothing to chance.
He chose the vast, dusty expanse of the Dragonpit's arena for his spectacle. Its ruined grandeur, its historical association with dragons, would provide the perfect symbolic backdrop. Under his direct, often terrifyingly intense, orders, a massive pyre was constructed in the center of the arena, built not of common wood, but of ancient ironwood logs he had commanded be brought from the Kingswood, logs known for their slow, intense burn. He also had specific, rare herbs and resins, hinted at in the Valyrian texts for their properties in amplifying magical energies, subtly mixed into the pyre's construction by maesters who worked under his unnervingly perceptive gaze, too terrified to question his bizarre instructions.
When all was ready, he made the proclamation. King Joffrey would conduct a sacred rite within the ruins of the Dragonpit, a ceremony to honor his Targaryen ancestors and to call upon the gods, both Old and New, to bless his reign and heal the divisions of the realm. Attendance by the full court was mandatory. The smallfolk were encouraged to gather on Rhaenys's Hill to witness the "royal observance."
The appointed day dawned hot and still, the sky a brazen, cloudless blue. A nervous, excited energy filled King's Landing. Tens of thousands thronged Rhaenys's Hill, their faces upturned towards the ruined dome. Within the arena, the court assembled, a sea of silks and velvets, their expressions a mixture of anticipation, fear, and profound unease. Cersei watched her son with an almost frantic intensity, her composure stretched taut. Varys was a statue of serene observation, Pycelle a trembling leaf. Even the Kingsguard, including Ser Barristan Selmy, looked on with a mixture of duty and apprehension.
NJ entered the arena alone, clad not in royal finery, but in simple, dark leathers that seemed to hum with an inner heat. He carried no crown, but his bearing was more regal, more terrifyingly potent, than any circlet could bestow. In his arms, nestled in a bed of dark silk, were the seven dragon eggs.
He approached the massive pyre. With a gesture, he commanded the torchbearers to light it. The ironwood caught slowly, then erupted into a towering inferno, the heat so intense it drove the nearest courtiers back several paces. NJ, however, stood unflinching before the roaring flames, his Joffrey-face an impassive mask, his eyes reflecting the dancing fire with an unnatural, golden light.
Then, he began to speak. Not in the Common Tongue, but in High Valyrian, his voice resonating with an ancient power, the words drawn from the darkest, most potent sections of the scrolls he had recovered. They were words of binding, of calling, of sacrifice and rebirth. As he spoke, he took a Valyrian steel dagger from his belt – not Umbraexys, which was too conspicuous, but a smaller, equally ancient blade from his hidden trove. Without flinching, he drew it across his left palm. Blood, royal and now thrice-magically charged (Baratheon/Targaryen, Weirwood, Dragon), welled dark and rich.
One by one, he anointed each of the seven dragon eggs with his own blood, his Valyrian incantations growing louder, more urgent. The crowd watched in stunned, horrified silence. This was not a prayer; this was sorcery, raw and terrifying.
Then, holding the bloodied eggs, he did the unthinkable. He walked towards the pyre. Not around it, but into it. He stepped into the roaring, consuming heart of the inferno, disappearing from sight amidst the towering flames and billowing smoke.
Screams tore through the arena. Cersei lunged forward, only to be restrained by a grim-faced Jaime, his own face pale with disbelief. Septons began to pray frantically. Lords and ladies wept or fainted. This was madness. Suicide. The boy-king, the Phoenix Prince, consumed by his own unholy fire.
Minutes stretched into an eternity. The pyre raged, its heat a physical blow even at a distance. The smoke began to clear slightly. And then… a sound. A crack. Another. And another. Like stone shattering from within.
Slowly, a figure emerged from the heart of the inferno, walking with an steady, unhurried gait. NJ. His leathers were charred, smoking, falling away in blackened tatters from his Joffrey-body, which was, impossibly, untouched by the flames, his skin glowing with an inner light, his golden hair like a fiery halo. But it was not just him. Coiled around his arms, perched on his shoulders, were… creatures. Small, scaled, their wings like new leaves, their eyes like molten gemstones. Seven of them. Dragons. Tiny, yes, but undeniably, miraculously, alive.
One, the color of obsidian and blood, let out a piercing shriek that cut through the stunned silence of the arena, a sound not heard in Westeros for over a century. Another, of molten gold, unfurled its delicate wings and loosed a puff of bright orange smoke that quickly ignited into a tiny, perfect flame.
NJ stopped at the edge of the pyre, the seven hatchling dragons clinging to him, nuzzling his skin, their jewel-like eyes fixed on him with absolute, primal adoration. He had walked through fire, offered his blood, spoken the words of power, and from the stone, he had brought forth life.
The reaction was pandemonium. Nobles prostrated themselves in the dust. Commoners on Rhaenys's Hill screamed, wept, and fell to their knees, hailing him as a god, a savior, the Dragon King reborn. Cersei stared, her face a mask of utter, terrifying awe. Varys's composure finally broke, his jaw slack with disbelief. Maester Pycelle simply collapsed.
NJ raised his now-unbloodied hands, the baby dragons shifting on his arms. His voice, when he spoke, was no longer that of Joffrey the boy, but of something far older, far more powerful, amplified by the dragon-aura that now blazed around him.
"Behold!" he cried, his voice echoing through the Dragonpit and across the stunned city. "The sacred blood of my ancestors, the Baratheon stags and the Targaryen dragons, has been proven! The ancient magic of Valyria lives again, through me, your rightful King! The gods themselves have borne witness! The dragons have returned to Westeros! This is not merely my birthright; it is a new age for this realm, an age of fire, an age of glory, an age under my undisputed rule!"
The news of King Joffrey's miracle, of the waking of dragons, exploded across the Seven Kingdoms with the speed of a firestorm. This was no mere rumor of a hand in a brazier; this was dragons, living, breathing dragons, hatched by the boy-king himself from stone eggs in a fiery spectacle that defied all known laws of nature and man.
The impact on the political landscape was immediate and shattering. Stannis Baratheon, on Dragonstone, heard the news with a mixture of black rage and grim disbelief. His claims of Joffrey's bastardy, once his strongest weapon, now sounded like the desperate ravings of a jealous, passed-over man in the face of such overwhelming, seemingly divine, validation. Melisandre saw in it the convoluted workings of her Lord of Light, a sign that the great war of fire and ice was truly beginning, though Joffrey's role remained dangerously ambiguous.
Renly Baratheon, amidst his splendid court of Reach lords and Stormland banners, found his popular support wavering. How could his claim of a gentler, more chivalrous kingship compete with a boy who commanded dragons, who walked through fire, who seemed touched by the gods themselves? His accusations of bastardy now painted him as a petty, grasping usurper in the eyes of many who had once flocked to his cause.
In the North, Robb Stark, already marching south with his banners, heard the news with a cold dread that warred with his Northern skepticism. Dragons. It was a power his house had no answer to. His father's arrest, Joffrey's tyranny – these were injustices to be fought. But dragons… that changed the very nature of the war. Yet, it also hardened his resolve. Such power in the hands of a Lannister-controlled king was a threat to the entire realm.
Tywin Lannister, in his war camp, received the news with a profound, calculating silence. His grandson, the boy he had intended to control through Cersei, had just demonstrated a power that surpassed any Targaryen in living memory. Dragons. It was an asset of unimaginable value, but also a terrifying wild card. Joffrey was no longer a mere puppet king. He was a force of nature, a true Dragon Lord reborn, and Tywin knew, with a chilling certainty, that such a force could not be easily leashed. The Old Lion would have to rethink his entire strategy.
Across Westeros, from the highest lords to the humblest smallfolk, the story was the same. King Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name, had hatched dragons from stone, walked through fire, and proven himself a true heir of the Targaryen magic through his Baratheon line. His legitimacy, once questioned, was now sealed in legend. Those who opposed him were no longer seen as righteous rebels or rival claimants; they were fools, traitors, or greedy usurpers, daring to defy a king who communed with dragons, a king whose reign promised a new, terrifying, and perhaps glorious, Age of Fire.
NJ, standing amidst the smoldering ruins of the Dragonpit, the tiny, warm bodies of his seven new children clinging to him, felt a surge of triumph so profound it was almost transcendent. The Valyrian scrolls, the weirwood's wisdom, Balerion's fire, his own intellect – all had converged in this single, reality-shattering act. He had not just claimed a throne; he had rewritten the rules of power in Westeros. He was the Dragon King, his reign absolute, his future a canvas upon which he would paint a new world order. The Long Night was still a distant shadow, but now, he had the ultimate weapons to meet it. And the world would learn to obey, or it would burn.