Chapter 26: The Lion in the Dragon's Court
The news of Lord Tywin Lannister's impending arrival in King's Landing sent a fresh wave of tremors through the already unsettled court. The Old Lion of Casterly Rock, the true architect of Lannister power, was coming to assume the Handship, to bring his formidable intellect and iron will to bear on a realm teetering on the brink of chaos – a chaos his own grandson, King Joffrey, had so dramatically reshaped with fire and dragons. NJ anticipated his grandfather's arrival with a complex mixture of cold respect for the man's abilities and an unyielding determination to assert his own absolute, dragon-backed sovereignty.
Tywin Lannister's procession into the capital was a masterclass in disciplined power. No flamboyant banners or cheering crowds (the smallfolk were too terrified of their Dragon King for spontaneous displays of joy for anyone else), but ranks of crimson-clad Lannister soldiers, their armor gleaming, their movements precise, their expressions grim. At their head rode Lord Tywin himself, a figure of imposing, austere authority, his pale green eyes missing nothing, his face an unreadable mask. He had pacified the Riverlands with brutal efficiency, and now he had come to pacify the crown.
Their first formal meeting took place in the Throne Room, a chamber still subtly permeated by the scent of smoke and ozone, a lingering testament to Joffrey's draconic power. NJ had ensured it would be so. He sat upon the Iron Throne, not with the petulant slouch of the boy Joffrey, but with a newfound, regal stillness that seemed to draw power from the very air around him. Flanking the dais, their immense forms casting long, predatory shadows, were Valerion and Ignis. Valerion, black as polished obsidian with veins of smoldering crimson, was now easily the size of a destrier, his reptilian eyes, like molten gold, fixed unblinkingly on Tywin. Ignis, slightly smaller but radiating an almost unbearable heat, lay coiled like a living inferno, his golden scales shimmering. Their mere presence was a declaration.
Lord Tywin entered, his Lannister lords and knights arrayed behind him. He made the customary obeisance, precise and economical, his gaze sweeping from Joffrey to the dragons, then back to Joffrey, a flicker of something – surprise? calculation? – in those cold eyes.
"Your Grace," Tywin said, his voice a low, resonant baritone that commanded attention. "I have come to serve as your Hand, to restore order to your realm, and to ensure the enemies of the Crown are brought to swift and decisive justice."
"Grandfather," NJ replied, his own voice, though still youthful, carrying the subtle, draconic resonance he had cultivated, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the bones. "We are… pleased by your diligence in the Riverlands. Your arrival is timely. The realm requires a firm hand." He paused, letting his gaze linger on Valerion, who let out a low, guttural growl that made several of Tywin's retainers flinch. "But be assured, the firmest hand in this realm now holds the scepter. And the dragons."
A subtle challenge, expertly delivered. Tywin's expression did not change, but NJ, with his truth-sense, felt the surge of his grandfather's immense, disciplined will, the cold, analytical mind assessing this new, almost alien, grandson. This was not the malleable boy he had expected to control through Cersei. This was something… else.
"Dragons are… formidable assets, Your Grace," Tywin conceded, his voice even. "But a realm is ruled by law, by order, and by the fear of a strong, united House, not merely by… beasts, however magnificent."
"Fear, Grandfather," NJ said, a chilling smile touching his lips, "is indeed a useful tool. And my beasts, as you call them, inspire a most… effective form of it. They are not mere assets; they are the embodiment of my divine right, the restorers of an ancient power this realm has forgotten."
Their initial discourse set the tone for their relationship: a dance of power, a subtle war of wills fought with carefully chosen words and veiled implications, all under the watchful, fiery eyes of living dragons. Tywin, NJ knew, would not be easily cowed, but he would be forced to adapt his strategies to a king who was not a pawn, but a player of terrifying, unpredictable power.
As Hand, Tywin moved with his customary speed and ruthlessness. He began reorganizing the city's finances (finding them in even worse state than anticipated after Littlefinger's systematic embezzlement, a fact NJ allowed to be "discovered" to further blacken Baelish's name and highlight the "corruption" Joffrey was rooting out). He purged remnants of Stark loyalists from minor positions in the city. He brought a new level of discipline to the Gold Cloaks, working through Janos Slynt, though NJ noted with amusement that Slynt was now far more terrified of displeasing his Dragon King than his new Lannister patrons.
The primary focus, however, was the war. Stannis Baratheon, isolated on Dragonstone but with his fleet intact and Melisandre's fanaticism fueling his resolve, remained the most immediate military threat.
In a Small Council meeting – now a far more tense and subdued affair, with two of NJ's smaller dragons, Tempestas and Glacian, often coiled menacingly in the corners of the chamber – Tywin laid out his strategy.
"Stannis will attempt a naval assault on King's Landing," Tywin stated, his gaze sweeping the council. "His fleet is his strength. We must bolster our own, repair the Red Keep's defenses, and prepare for a siege."
"A siege, Grandfather?" NJ interjected, his voice deceptively mild. Aurum, perched on a specially reinforced beam above him, unfurled its golden wings slightly, its eyes like molten suns. "Sieges are… tedious. And costly. Perhaps a more… proactive approach is warranted."
Tywin's eyes narrowed. "And what approach would you suggest, Your Grace?"
"Dragons, Grandfather," NJ said simply. "Stannis has ships of wood. I have seven children of fire. Even young, they are a terror unmatched. A demonstration of their power against his fleet, a surgical strike against Dragonstone itself… it might persuade my stubborn uncle of the futility of his claim far more effectively than months of siege."
A stunned silence fell over the council. Pycelle looked about to faint. Varys's smooth face was, for once, utterly blank with shock. Cersei looked at her son with a mixture of terror and fierce pride. Tywin Lannister's expression remained unreadable, but NJ felt the surge of his grandfather's powerful intellect grappling with this audacious, almost insane, proposal. To use young, partly-grown dragons in a direct military assault? It was unheard of, reckless. Yet… the potential.
"The dragons are not yet fully grown, Your Grace," Tywin said, his voice dangerously even. "They are vulnerable. To risk them so soon…"
"Their growth, Grandfather," NJ said, his eyes glinting with an unnatural light, "is… accelerated. And their vulnerability is far less than you imagine. They are Valyrian fire made flesh, bonded to my will. We will discuss the specifics of their… deployment… in private." He made it clear: this was not a debate. It was a statement of intent.
The North remained a festering wound. Robb Stark, NJ learned through Varys's reports, had retreated beyond Moat Cailin, his army a shadow, but Northern defiance still burned. Tywin advocated a brutal war of attrition, of making examples, of grinding the North into submission.
NJ, however, had other plans, more subtle, more insidious. He still held Sansa Stark. And Eddard Stark, though supposedly on his way to the Wall under Yoren's guard, had… paused in his journey. NJ had sent a discreet, heavily armed escort to "ensure Lord Stark's safety" on his arduous trek, an escort that had conveniently diverted Ned to a secure, isolated Lannister tower in the Riverlands, "for his own protection from Stark loyalists who might seek to 'liberate' him and force him to renounce his confession." A lie, of course. Ned was now NJ's closely guarded, secret hostage.
"The North bleeds from a thousand cuts, Grandfather," NJ said during another private council with Tywin and Cersei. "Their pride is broken by Lord Stark's confession. Perhaps a… gesture of reconciliation is in order. Once they have sufficiently felt the sting of our displeasure." He was already contemplating how to use Sansa, and perhaps even a carefully "persuaded" Ned, to bring the North to heel through means other than total war. Tywin, though preferring a more direct, martial solution, recognized the potential cunning in his grandson's approach.
The dragons themselves were rapidly becoming true terrors. Valerion and Ignis were now large enough to comfortably bear NJ's weight for extended flights. He trained them relentlessly in the vast, ruined arena of the Dragonpit, their coordinated aerial maneuvers becoming breathtakingly precise, their fiery attacks devastating. He would take them high above the city at night, invisible shadows against the darkness, feeling their immense power, their fierce joy in flight, their absolute loyalty to him. He was forging them into the ultimate weapons, extensions of his own indomitable will. The logistical challenges were immense – feeding seven growing dragons required a constant stream of livestock, their lair in Maegor's Holdfast reeked of brimstone and charred bone – but these were minor concerns against the backdrop of the power they represented.
The royal wedding preparations moved forward, a grand, almost desperate, display of wealth and power designed to awe the realm and solidify the Lannister-Tyrell alliance. Margaery Tyrell, his queen-to-be, was a constant, charming presence at court. She played her role with consummate skill, her smiles dazzling, her courtesies flawless, her intelligence a keen, watchful presence beneath the veneer of youthful beauty. NJ found her… amusing. He allowed her to believe she was charming him, even as his truth-sense dissected her every word, her every gesture, cataloging her family's ambitions, her own desires for power. He saw her as a potentially useful partner, if her ambitions could be aligned with his own, or a dangerous rival if they could not. Their interactions were a subtle, intricate dance of feigned affection and calculated assessment. Cersei, predictably, loathed Margaery on sight, her jealousy and possessiveness over Joffrey fueling a bitter, if currently subdued, rivalry. NJ observed their budding animosity with a detached amusement, another dynamic he could potentially exploit.
His arcane studies deepened. The Valyrian scrolls yielded ever more potent secrets. He learned rituals to enhance his own physical senses beyond even what the direwolf essence had granted him, to sharpen his mind to a preternatural acuity, to draw upon the dragons' fiery energy to bolster his own stamina, allowing him to go for days with minimal sleep, his mind constantly working, planning, absorbing. He practiced with Umbraexys in the dead of night, the Valyrian steel blade an extension of his arm, its dark energies resonating with the dragon fire within him, until he moved with a deadly grace that would have terrified any who witnessed it. He even began to experiment with more overt Valyrian sorcery, attempting to weave subtle illusions, to command small bursts of fire without his dragons' aid, to scry with greater clarity into the hearts and minds of his enemies. These were dangerous, nascent powers, and he wielded them with extreme caution, always in the deepest secrecy.
Oberyn Martell remained a guest – or perhaps a willing captive – in King's Landing, his dark eyes missing nothing. He observed Tywin Lannister with a palpable hatred, a thirst for vengeance over Elia's death that was a living thing. He also watched Joffrey and his dragons with a complex mixture of fascination and wary respect. NJ knew Dorne was a potential powder keg, their loyalty to the Iron Throne tenuous at best. He made no overtures to Oberyn, but allowed the Red Viper to witness his power, to understand the new reality of a Dragon King on the throne. Dorne would either bend the knee, or burn. The choice would be theirs.
Tywin Lannister, for all his iron will and political genius, found himself increasingly unsettled by his grandson. The boy was no longer the cruel, pliable fool he had expected. Joffrey was intelligent, terrifyingly so. He was ruthless, with a capacity for calculated brutality that rivaled Tywin's own. And he commanded dragons. Tywin tried to guide him, to mold him into a Lannister king, but he felt his control slipping, his advice often met with a cool, polite dismissal or an unnervingly insightful counter-proposal that left the Old Lion feeling, for the first time in his life, outmaneuvered. He saw Joffrey in the Throne Room, with Valerion and Ignis flanking him like demonic sentinels, their eyes glowing, their heat a palpable threat, and he knew that this was not a king he could easily command. This was a new kind of power, ancient and terrible, and it was wearing his grandson's face.
NJ, meanwhile, felt his own power solidifying, his vision clarifying. The initial chaos of his ascension was settling into a new, fear-induced order. His enemies were scattered, their causes broken. His allies were bound to him by a mixture of ambition and terror. His dragons were growing into an unstoppable force. He was not just a king; he was becoming what he had always intended to be: the sole, absolute master of his own destiny, and soon, of Westeros itself. The Valyrian scrolls spoke of Dragon Emperors who ruled for centuries, their will law, their power an extension of the gods themselves. Such a destiny, NJ felt, was now within his grasp. The Long Night was a distant storm, but he was forging the weapons, and the will, to meet it. The age of petty lords and squabbling kings was over. The age of the Dragon Emperor was dawning.