Chapter 1674 - gg

bookmark#1History was written to remember Joffrey Baratheon as a soft, sneering boy who delighted in the torment of the weak, but that boy died the moment he took his first breath. Forged from the crib with a singular, desperate will to survive, this Joffrey is a titan of muscle and golden fury, a prince who wields a warhammer with the crushing force of the father he hates. He is the warrior-king the realm prayed for, but the gods have a twisted sense of humor: he is strong, he is brave, and he is utterly without mercy. When the wolves come down from the North, they will not find a boy hiding behind his mother's skirts; they will find a monster who looks them in the eye and smiles before the hammer falls. Like ReplyReport Reactions:kovaksens, Gladbitch, Kaiserfrost and 39 othersSiddhartha SahaThursday at 6:47 AMAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks JOFFREY I View contentSiddhartha SahaKnow what you're doing yet?Thursday at 6:57 AMAdd bookmark#2The cold was a physical blow, a sudden, violent theft of warmth that left him gasping.

He tried to scream, but his lungs were wet and heavy. Someone struck him, a sharp, stinging slap that forced the first ragged breath into his chest. The air tasted of iron, blood, and the cloying, sickly-sweet scent of burning herbs.

"A Prince," a voice quavered. It was a sound like dry leaves skittering on stone. "A healthy boy, Your Grace. The Gods are good."

Vision came in fractured blurs. Torchlight assaulted eyes that had known only darkness. Looming shapes resolved into faces—a man with a beard like a drift of snow, his chains clinking softly; a woman, her face a mask of sweat and triumph, framed by hair of beaten gold.

Cersei.

The name did not bring comfort; it brought a terrifying clarity. The blurry ceiling, the stone walls, the heavy velvet—he knew where he was. He knew when he was.

He was the abomination. The product of treason. The boy born to die choking at his own wedding feast.

Panic, cold and sharp, tried to seize him, but the infant body had its own instincts. He was being handled, wiped down with rough linen that scraped his raw skin. He was small. He was vulnerable. In this world, weakness was a death sentence.

"Give him to me," Cersei commanded. Her voice was not the shrill harpy's screech of her later years, but the fierce, possessive growl of a lioness with her first cub.

He was placed into her arms. She radiated heat. Her fingers traced his face, possessive and heavy. "Joffrey," she whispered. "You shall be Joffrey. And you shall be King."

The Grand Maester, Pycelle, cleared his throat. "The wet nurses are prepared, Your Grace. The birthing was hard... you must rest."

"Bring them," Cersei said, her eyes never leaving Joffrey's face.

Two women were ushered into the light of the braziers. To the Maester, they were livestock. To Joffrey, staring through the haze of newborn eyes, they were the difference between life and death.

The first was a stout woman, her bodice already unlaced. She smelled of stale sweat and sour milk. Her breasts were heavy, full of the white, mature milk of a woman who had been nursing for months.

The second was a girl, no older than fifteen. She looked frightened, her eyes red-rimmed, likely having lost her own babe or had it torn away only hours before. She smelled of blood and the birthing bed.

Pycelle gestured to the stout woman. "This one is proven, Your Grace. Her milk is plentiful and rich. She will fatten the Prince."

No.

The thought was a desperate scream in his mind. Not the white milk. Not yet.

He knew the statistics of this world. He knew of the Bloody Flux, the Spring Sickness, the fevers that carried off half the children before their fifth nameday. The Red Keep was a pit of disease, its water suspect, its air foul.

He needed the first milk. The colostrum.

The stout woman reached for him. Her milk was food, nothing more. It lacked the golden, antibody-rich slurry that a newborn gut required to seal itself against the rot of the world. In a modern hospital, it was standard; here, it was often discarded as "bad milk" by the ignorant.

Joffrey summoned the only weapon he possessed. He twisted his small, fragile body away from the stout woman and unleashed a shriek of pure, discordant refusal.

"Hush," Cersei soothed, rocking him. "He is hungry, Pycelle. Why does he turn?"

"Perhaps he is... overwhelmed, Your Grace," Pycelle mumbled, reaching to guide the infant back to the matron.

Joffrey fought. He flailed his limbs, his face turning a mottled violet as he held his breath, refusing to latch. When the nipple brushed his mouth, he clamped his gums shut tight. He would not fill his stomach with empty calories when he needed armor.

"He wants none of her," Cersei said, her voice sharpening. She looked at the younger girl. "Try the other."

"She is... fresh, Your Grace," Pycelle warned. "Her milk has not yet come in fully. It will be thick and yellow, not fit for—"

Give me the yellow milk, you old fool, Joffrey raged silently. Give me the immunoglobulins. Give me the growth factors.

Cersei, impatient, waved the girl forward. "If he will not take the one, he must take the other. I will not have him starve."

The girl approached, trembling. She lifted Joffrey gently, her hands shaking. As she brought him close, he smelled the specific, earthy scent of a fresh mother.

He did not fight. He quieted instantly, the sudden silence in the chamber more jarring than his screams.

He latched.

The fluid was difficult to extract, thick and golden-yellow. It tasted nothing like the sweet milk he knew from a previous life. It was salty, dense, and warm.

Colostrum.

He drank with a grim, singular focus. This was not hunger; it was preparation. Every drop was a layer of defense against the bacteria of the middle ages, a shield against the infections that killed royal and commoner alike. He was coating his insides with the strength he would need to survive his grandfather, his father, and the game that awaited him.

"See?" Cersei's voice drifted down, satisfied and smug. "He knows what he wants. He has the will of a king already."

Joffrey closed his eyes, swallowing the thick fluid. Let them think it is will, he thought, the exhaustion of the birth finally overtaking him. It is survival. I will not die a weakling in a bed of blood. I will live.

Fin

​ Like ReplyReport Reactions:kovaksens, kalifianto, Mantox and 142 othersSiddhartha SahaThursday at 6:57 AMAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks JOFFREY II View contentSiddhartha SahaKnow what you're doing yet?Thursday at 8:15 AMAdd bookmark#5The nursery was a prison of soft things.

Soft pillows, soft blankets, soft voices, and worst of all, soft food.

Joffrey sat on the floor, surrounded by wooden blocks, apparently engrossed in stacking them. To his nursemaids, he was a quiet, unusually focused child. A "perfect little angel" who rarely cried and slept through the night.

In reality, he was running a comprehensive audit of his own development.

He was three years old. The initial battle for colostrum was won, and the results were already visible; he was in the ninety-ninth percentile for height and weight, broad-shouldered even as a toddler. But the next phase was critical. This was the window for craniofacial development.

In his previous life, he had read the journals. He knew that the modern "malocclusion epidemic"—weak chins, crowded teeth, mouth breathing—was a result of soft, processed diets. The human jaw needed stress to grow. The masseter muscles needed to exert force to stimulate the osteocytes in the jawbone, triggering the release of IGF-1 and encouraging the maxilla to widen.

If he wanted the broad, commanding jawline of a king—and the deep, resonant voice that came with a wide palate—he needed to chew.

"Here, my sweet prince," his nurse, Wylla, cooed, offering him a bowl of mashed turnips and stewed peaches. "Open wide for the spoon."

Joffrey looked at the mush with concealed disdain. It was poison to his goals. Soft food meant a narrow face. A narrow face meant a weak chin and a high-pitched voice. He would not be a squeaking tyrant.

He opened his mouth, let her feed him a spoonful to maintain the charade, and then gave her a wide, gummy smile that he knew melted her heart.

"Meat," he said, pitching his voice high and innocent.

"The meat is in the stew, love," Wylla said, tapping the bowl. "Cooked soft for you."

Joffrey shook his head, his golden curls bouncing. He pointed to the side table where a platter of cold cuts—tough, dried beef and crusty black bread—sat for the guards.

"Big boy meat," he insisted, widening his eyes. "Like Father."

Wylla hesitated. "Oh, that's too hard for your little teeth, Joff. You'll choke."

I won't choke, he thought. I have the swallowing reflex of a grown man.

He stood up, his legs sturdy and thick, and toddled over to the table. He reached up, grabbing a strip of the dried beef—jerky, essentially. It was tough as leather.

"Joffrey, no!" Wylla started forward.

Joffrey shoved the meat into his mouth and clamped down with his molars. It was like chewing on a boot. Perfect.

He gnawed at it, feeling the resistance. He could feel the tension in his jaw muscles, the strain radiating up through his temples. Good, he thought. Stress the bone. Trigger the remodeling.

He turned to Wylla, holding the jerky between his teeth like a cigar, and gave a muffled, triumphant giggle.

"By the Seven," Wylla sighed, stopping in her tracks. "He really is his father's son. He has a man's hunger in a babe's belly."

She let him keep it. Lesson learned: If he framed his bio-hacking as "emulating Robert," no one would stop him.

From that day on, Joffrey's diet changed. He rejected paps and mashes. He demanded the crusts of the bread, the gristle of the meat, the raw carrots and apples that required vigorous grinding. He spent hours "teething" on hard leather rings he'd pilfered from the kennels, gnawing with a rhythmic, calculated intensity that the maesters mistook for simple hunger.

He was sculpting his face from the inside out.

Later that afternoon, the trumpets sounded.

Joffrey stood on the balcony of Maegor's Holdfast, clutching the stone railing. The wind whipped his hair, but he didn't blink.

Below, the courtyard was a sea of steel. Robert was leaving.

Cersei stood beside him, her hand resting on his head. She was tense, her fingers digging slightly into his scalp.

"Look at him," she whispered, her voice thick with a mix of pride and resentment. "Riding off to play his war games."

Joffrey looked. He saw the King, enormous in his antlered helm, laughing as he swung onto his warhorse. Robert Baratheon was a mountain of a man, terrified of nothing but boredom.

Joffrey tugged on his mother's skirt. When she looked down, he didn't give her the hardened stare of a general. He gave her the trembling lip of a son who would miss his daddy.

"Mama?" he asked softly. "Father fight bad men?"

Cersei's expression softened instantly. She scooped him up, holding him close. "Yes, sweetling. Father is going to smash them."

"I help?" Joffrey asked, resting his head on her shoulder. "I be strong?"

"You are strong," Cersei promised, kissing his cheek. "You are my little lion."

Joffrey hugged her back, his face buried in the velvet of her gown so she couldn't see his eyes.

He needed access. He needed the training yard. And to get that, he needed to be "cute" enough that they wouldn't fear him, but "aggressive" enough that they'd indulge him.

"Want hammer," he mumbled into her neck. "Like Father."

Cersei laughed, a genuine, delighted sound. "A hammer? Oh, Joffrey. We shall see."

As the column of knights rode out the gates, the sun glinting off their armor, Joffrey watched them go. He chewed on a piece of hard, dried apple he'd hidden in his tunic pocket, his jaw working rhythmically.

Go, Robert, he thought. Go crush the Greyjoys. Leave the castle to me.

He had six months before the King returned. Six months to manipulate Pycelle into teaching him history, six months to charm the Master-at-Arms into letting him hold a sword, and six months to ensure that when the King came back, he found a son who was not a disappointment, but a terrifying promise of the future.

He took another bite of the apple. Crunch.

The remodeling had begun.

Fin​Last edited: Thursday at 10:33 AM Like ReplyReport Reactions:kovaksens, kalifianto, Mantox and 165 othersSiddhartha SahaThursday at 8:15 AMAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks JOFFREY III View contentSiddhartha SahaKnow what you're doing yet?Thursday at 12:47 PMAdd bookmark#10The waking was not gentle.

It began with a dull, throbbing ache in his shins and femurs, a sensation like iron bands tightening around the bone. Joffrey did not cry out. He lay in the pre-dawn darkness of the nursery, breathing through the discomfort.

Growing pains.

In his old life, doctors called it skeletal remodeling. Here, the maesters called it "stretching of the humors." To Joffrey, it was progress. It meant the epiphyseal plates were open and active, responding to the relentless nutritional signaling he had forced upon this small body.

He sat up, the heavy velvet of the canopy bed swallowing the sound. He felt heavy, his limbs dense. This was not the lethargy of a lazy child; it was the metabolic tax of rapid construction.

He needed fuel.

The morning meal in the Queen's solar was a study in contrasts.

Renly Baratheon, twelve years old and already possessing the easy, careless grace of a courtier, picked at a plate of sugared plums and white bread. He was joking with a serving girl, his laughter light and meaningless.

Joffrey sat in silence. His plate was a grim tableau of function over form.

"You are quiet this morning, nephew," Renly noted, popping a plum into his mouth. "Dreaming of toy soldiers?"

Joffrey ignored him. He was focused on the trencher before him.

A thick slice of liver, barely seared, swimming in its own juices. A bowl of marrow broth, cooled to a gelatinous wobble. And a mound of butter so yellow it looked like beeswax, sourced specifically from the spring-grazing herds.

Vitamin K2, Joffrey cataloged mentally as he spread the butter thick onto a piece of dense, black rye. Activator X. It directs the calcium to the bone matrix, not the arteries.

He took a bite. The taste was cloying and rich, coating his tongue in fat. He chewed methodically, grinding the hard crust of the rye to stress his mandibular joints.

"Gods, Joff," Renly grimaced, abandoning his plums. "How can you stomach that? It smells of the abattoir."

"It is strong food," Joffrey said. His voice was rough, deeper than a toddler's should be. "For the blood."

He reached for the liver. Heme iron. Retinol. B12.

"It is peasant food," Renly scoffed, gesturing to a tray of lemon cakes. "Here. Have a cake. Sweeten your disposition."

Joffrey looked at the cake. It was a sponge of refined flour and sugar.

Insulin spike, his mind warned. Growth Hormone suppression. Inflammation.

Every time he spiked his insulin, he blunted the release of HGH. Sugar was the enemy of the giant he intended to become.

"No," Joffrey said flatly.

"Suit yourself," Renly shrugged. "More for me. Though if you keep eating like a mountain clansman, you'll grow as thick as one."

"That is the point," Joffrey muttered, washing the liver down with a goblet of raw milk.

It was warm, fresh from the udder, teeming with the bioactive proteins and enzymes that pasteurization would have destroyed. He could almost feel the IGF-1 hitting his bloodstream, signaling the mTOR pathway to build, build, build.

As he finished the marrow, the crash hit him.

It wasn't boredom. It was a physiological wall. The energy required to digest the nutrient-dense meal and fuel the rapid osteogenesis left him suddenly, violently drained. His eyelids felt like lead weights. His bones began to throb again, a rhythmic pulse in his legs.

He needed the dark. He needed the Delta Wave sleep where the pituitary gland did its heavy lifting.

He slid off his chair, his movements stiff.

"Leaving so soon?" Renly asked. "I thought we might play at tiles."

"My legs hurt," Joffrey said. It was the truth, and it was the perfect excuse.

Cersei looked up from her embroidery, concern flashing in her green eyes. "The growing pains again, sweetling?"

"Yes," Joffrey said, leaning against the table for a moment to feign a weakness he did not feel. "The bones ache, Mother."

"He grows too fast," Cersei said, glancing at Renly with a mixture of pride and worry. "He is already taller than Tyrek. The Maester says the humor is strong in him."

"I must rest," Joffrey announced. He did not ask; he stated it.

"Go to your chambers," Cersei soothed. "I will have the drapes drawn."

Joffrey nodded and marched out. He did not drag his feet. He walked with a deliberate, heavy cadence.

When he reached his darkened chamber, he did not curl up on the floor. He lay on his back on the hard mattress, arms at his sides, spine perfectly aligned.

He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. He visualized the growth plates in his femurs widening, the collagen matrix knitting together, the density increasing. This was not a nap. This was the work.

Sleep, he commanded his body. Build.

And as the darkness took him, he felt the familiar, dull ache of his skeleton stretching toward the man he would force himself to be.

Fin

​ Like ReplyReport Reactions:kalifianto, Mantox, Addvacado and 158 othersSiddhartha SahaThursday at 12:47 PMAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks JAIME View contentSiddhartha SahaKnow what you're doing yet?Friday at 4:09 AMAdd bookmark#24The White Book had no pages for boredom.

If it did, Jaime Lannister would have filled a volume. The King was off smashing the Ironborn, glory and salt spray in his face, while the Kingslayer was left to guard a castle of wet nurses and weeping women.

He leaned against the warm stone of Maegor's Holdfast, one hand resting idly on the pommel of his sword. Below, in the dust of the lower bailey, the future of House Lannister—and ostensibly House Baratheon—was at play.

Or rather, one of them was playing.

Tyrek, his uncle Tygett's boy, was chasing a cat, shrieking with the mindless joy of a three-year-old who had not yet learned that cats have claws.

Prince Joffrey was doing… something else.

The boy stood near the quintain. He was absurdly large for his age, a fact Cersei preened over daily. He has the King's strength, she would say. Jaime looked at the boy now. He didn't see Robert. Robert was a force of nature, all bluster and impulse.

Joffrey was still.

The boy held a wooden sword—not the padded, pointless toys the Master-at-Arms gave the pages, but a heavy piece of oak that looked like a cudgel in his small hands. He wasn't swinging it wildly. He was stepping.

Pivot. Thrust. Recover.

It was clumsy, restricted by the motor skills of a toddler, but the intent was terrifyingly precise. He wasn't fighting an imaginary dragon. He was aiming for the gaps in an invisible man's armor.

Jaime's curiosity, a rare thing these days, pricked. He pushed off the wall and sauntered down into the yard.

" careful, nephew," Jaime called out, his voice lazy. "The air has surrendered. You can stop killing it."

Joffrey stopped mid-thrust. He turned. His face was flushed with exertion, beads of sweat clinging to his hairline, but his breathing was controlled. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Who taught a babe to breathe like a bravo?

"Uncle," Joffrey said. His voice was a low rasp. "Is Father winning?"

"Your father always wins," Jaime said, crouching down so he was eye-level with the boy. Up close, Joffrey smelled strange. Not like milk and powder. He smelled of iron and raw beef. "He has a big hammer. Men fall down when he waves it."

"Hammer is slow," Joffrey stated. He lifted his heavy oak stick. "Sword is faster."

Jaime smirked. "True enough. But a hammer doesn't need to be fast if it breaks your ribs."

"Show me," Joffrey said.

"Show you what? How to break ribs?"

"No," Joffrey stepped closer, his green eyes locking onto Jaime's with an intensity that made the Kingsguard uncomfortable. "Show me the trick. The one you used on the Mad King."

The smile died on Jaime's lips. The air in the yard seemed to drop ten degrees.

"That is not a story for children," Jaime said, his voice hard.

"I am not a child," Joffrey replied calmly. "I am a lion. Lions kill." He pointed the stick at Jaime's groin. "Ser Aron says strike the shield. You strike the man. Show me."

Jaime stared at him. This wasn't natural. It was... intriguing.

"Ser Aron is a tourney knight," Jaime murmured, glancing around to ensure the septas were distracted by Tyrek's yowling (the cat had finally turned). "He teaches you to score points. In a real fight, points don't matter."

Jaime slowly drew his dagger—not the sword, just the steel dirk at his hip. The sunlight caught the edge.

"In a real fight," Jaime whispered, "you don't hit the shield. You hit the eyes. The throat. The groin."

Joffrey nodded, his eyes tracking the steel. "The soft parts."

"The parts that bleed," Jaime corrected. He reached out and tapped Joffrey's wooden sword with the flat of his dagger. "You're holding it like a farmer. Your knuckles are white. If I hit you now, you'd drop it."

"I have a strong grip," Joffrey insisted.

"Strength is useless if your wrists are stiff." Jaime reached out, adjusting the boy's small, chubby fingers. "Loose. Like holding a bird. Tighten only when you strike."

Joffrey adjusted his grip. He didn't complain. He absorbed the instruction with a terrifying focus.

"Now," Jaime said, standing up. "Hit me."

He expected the boy to flail. To swing for the legs or the chest.

Joffrey didn't swing. He lunged.

It was a straight, vicious thrust aimed directly at Jaime's crotch.

Jaime sidestepped, barely, letting the wooden tip graze his white enamelled greaves. He laughed, a genuine, surprised bark of sound. "Vicious little bastard, aren't you?"

Joffrey didn't smile. He recovered his balance instantly, turning to face Jaime again. "You moved."

"I tend to do that. Men who stand still die." Jaime nudged the boy's shoulder with his boot, hard enough to knock a normal child over.

Joffrey stumbled but didn't fall. He dropped his center of gravity, widening his stance. His legs were thick, unnaturally sturdy for a three-year-old. Whatever that slurry he eats is doing, Jaime thought, it works.

"Again," Joffrey commanded.

They spent the next hour in the dust. Jaime didn't treat him like a prince. He tapped him with the scabbard, tripped him, and shoved him.

When Tyrek fell, he cried for his mother.

When Joffrey fell, he hit the dirt, rolled, and came up spitting grit, his eyes burning with a cold, calculating fury. He didn't cry. He didn't even look for approval. He just analyzed why he had fallen and adjusted his feet.

"Enough," Jaime said finally, sheathing his dagger. The sun was high now. "Your mother will have my head if you're late for your... whatever it is you do. Nap?"

"Growth," Joffrey corrected, wiping a streak of dust from his cheek. "I do not nap."

"Right. You cultivate mass." Jaime ruffled the boy's hair. It was thick, like golden wire. "You did well, Joff. Better than half the squires I know."

Joffrey looked up at him. "Better than Father?"

Jaime paused. He thought of Robert, drunk and roaring, relying on brute strength and the endurance of a bull. Then he looked at this small, focused creature who treated combat like a geometry problem.

"Different," Jaime said carefully. "Robert is a storm. You..." Jaime hesitated, searching for the word. "You are a blade. Keep it sharp."

Joffrey nodded, satisfied. He turned and marched—actually marched—toward the Keep, leaving his wooden sword propped respectfully against the rack.

Jaime watched him go, a strange unease settling in his gut. He had expected to find a spoiled nephew to amuse him. Instead, he felt as though he had just been sharpening a weapon that would one day cut them all.

"Seven hells," Jaime muttered, turning back to his post. "Cersei, what have you made?"

Fin

​Last edited: Saturday at 12:51 PM Like ReplyReport Reactions:kalifianto, Mantox, Addvacado and 161 othersSiddhartha SahaFriday at 4:09 AMAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks PYCELLE New View contentSiddhartha SahaKnow what you're doing yet?Friday at 8:02 AMNewAdd bookmark#34The climb to the Rookery was a penance Pycelle felt he had not earned.

His breath whistled in his chest like a cracked flute as he pushed open the heavy oak door. He expected the solar to be empty, a sanctuary of dust and silence where he could rest his aching legs.

Instead, he found the Prince.

Joffrey was not sitting at the desk; he was standing on the chair, his small, sturdy body leaning precariously over the Grand Maester's worktable. He held a quill in one fist—gripped tightly, like a dagger—and was dragging it across a piece of scrap parchment.

"Grand Maester," the boy said, not looking up. The quill scratched loud and harsh against the parchment.

"My Prince," Pycelle wheezed, clutching his chains to still their chiming. "You... you should not be here alone. The ledgers are delicate."

Joffrey dropped the quill. It left a blot of ink, but he didn't care. He turned, and Pycelle was struck again by the sheer size of the boy. At three namedays, he had the shoulders of a boy of five. The Queen's obsession with his diet—that barbaric regimen of raw milks and organ meats—was bearing strange fruit.

"I waited," Joffrey said. His voice was not the high, sweet pipe of a child, but a raspier sound. Impatient. "You walk slow."

"I am old, my Prince," Pycelle sighed, moving to his chair. "And the stairs are steep. What does the Heir to the Iron Throne require of his servant?"

"Pictures," Joffrey demanded, sliding off the chair. He didn't scramble; he dropped with a heavy thud, landing squarely on his feet. "Father is fighting. I want to see."

"Ah. Stories of the war?" Pycelle smiled benevolently. "I can tell you of the siege of Pyke, certainly. The King's hammer..."

"No," Joffrey interrupted, shaking his head. "Not stories. Pictures. The big parchment. The one with the water."

Pycelle paused. "The map? My Prince, that is a navigational chart for the—"

"Show me," Joffrey insisted. He walked to the scroll rack and pointed. He didn't throw a tantrum; he simply pointed with an absolute expectation of obedience that was entirely Lannister.

Pycelle acquiesced. It was easier to indulge the boy than to argue with Cersei later. He unrolled the map of the western coast, weighing the corners down with heavy stones.

"Here," Pycelle gestured with a spotted hand. "The Iron Islands. Pyke. Great Wyk."

Joffrey climbed onto his knees on the chair, leaning over the map. He didn't look at the sea monsters drawn in the margins, the usual fascination of children. His green eyes tracked the coastline.

"Lannisport," Joffrey said, pressing a finger onto the city. "Grandfather lives here."

"Indeed. Casterly Rock stands above it."

"The ships burned here," Joffrey stated.

Pycelle stiffened. "Who told you that?"

"Men talk," Joffrey said vaguely. He looked up at Pycelle, his expression serious. "Grandfather is angry. He does not like losing things."

"Lord Tywin... dislikes disorder," Pycelle corrected carefully.

"If I was Grandfather," Joffrey said, looking back at the map, "I would put a chain here." He dragged his finger across the harbor mouth. "A big metal rope. So the bad boats can't get in."

Pycelle blinked. It was a childish notion—a giant chain—yet there was a crude tactical logic to it that was unsettling. "A... creative thought, my Prince. But chains are heavy."

"We have gold," Joffrey shrugged, as if that solved all metallurgical problems. "We buy the iron."

He lost interest in the harbor abruptly, his attention snapping to the books on the shelf. The boy's focus was intense but fleeting, jumping from one strategic interest to the next.

"Read that one," Joffrey commanded, pointing to a thick, leather-bound tome. "The Ninepenny Kings."

"My Prince, that is a dry history. It has no knights fighting dragons. It is mostly... lists."

"I like lists," Joffrey said. "I like counting."

Pycelle sighed and pulled the book down. "Very well. But only a few pages. Then you must return to the nursery."

He opened the book to the account of the war in the Stepstones. "Here... 'The host required three thousand bushels of grain monthly, shipped from Tarth...'"

He glanced at Joffrey, expecting the boy's eyes to glaze over. Instead, Joffrey was nodding, his lips moving silently as he repeated the number.

"Three thousand," Joffrey whispered. "That is a lot of bread."

"An army marches on its stomach, my Prince."

"Did they have enough?" Joffrey asked. "Or did the soldiers get hungry?"

"They had enough, though the cost was high."

"Good," Joffrey said firmly. He looked at Pycelle with a sudden, sharp frown. "Hungry men don't fight. Even the dogs in the kennel... if you don't feed them, they don't hunt. They bite you."

Pycelle felt a chill ripple through him. It was a simple observation—one a child might make about a pet—but the application to an army felt too astute.

"You are... very observant, Prince Joffrey."

"Read the next part," Joffrey commanded, kicking his feet against the chair legs, the rhythm aggressive and restless. "The part about the gold. How much gold did the King pay?"

Pycelle cleared his throat. "The Crown borrowed heavily... nearly half a million dragons..."

"Half a million," Joffrey breathed. His eyes widened, shining with a greed that felt ancient. "That is a mountain of gold."

"It is."

"I will have two mountains," Joffrey declared, slamming his small hand on the table. "When I am King. I will have the gold and the bread. And the chain."

He looked at Pycelle, and for a second, the Grand Maester didn't see a toddler. He saw a miniature Tywin Lannister, devoid of Robert's warmth, calculating the cost of power.

Then, just as quickly, Joffrey rubbed his eyes and yawned—a wide, jaw-cracking yawn that showed his teeth.

"I'm tired," he announced abruptly. "Reading is boring now."

He slid off the chair. "I'm going to find Uncle Jaime. He lets me hit things with a stick."

Pycelle watched him go, the heavy door thudding shut behind the small Prince. The Grand Maester looked down at the map, at the smudge of grease Joffrey's finger had left on Lannisport.

"The Gods be good," Pycelle muttered to the empty room. "The boy has his father's hunger... but his mother's eyes."

He reached for his wine. He had a feeling that serving Joffrey Baratheon would be a far more taxing task than serving his father.

Fin

​Last edited: Today at 5:43 AM Like ReplyReport Reactions:kalifianto, Mantox, Addvacado and 161 othersSiddhartha SahaFriday at 8:02 AMNewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks TYWIN New View contentSiddhartha SahaKnow what you're doing yet?Friday at 1:42 PMNewAdd bookmark#44The victory belonged to the King, but the ash belonged to Tywin Lannister.

From the high solar of Casterly Rock, Tywin looked down at the harbor of Lannisport. The sea was calm, deceptively so. The blackened skeletons of the Lannister fleet had finally been dragged onto the shingle, leaving the harbor mouth gaping and toothless. It was a humiliation Tywin would not forget, even as the realm cheered for Robert's "glorious" smashing of Pyke.

Robert had arrived three days ago, sailing into the harbor with the Royal Fleet. He had brought the smell of salt, the clamor of an army, and a thirst that had already depleted the Rock's finest vintages. But the King had arrived without his Queen.

Grand Maester Pycelle had been clear: Cersei's pregnancy with the next heir was too far advanced for the rigors of the Goldroad. She remained in the Red Keep under the protection of Ser Jaime and the remaining Kingsguard.

"The Prince's escort has passed the Lion's Gate," Kevan announced, stepping into the solar. "They made good time from the capital."

Tywin turned from the window. "And the King?"

"Still in the Great Hall, regaling the Tullys with the tale of how he broke the gates of Pyke," Kevan said, his voice stiff. "He shows no sign of moving to greet his son."

Tywin smoothed the crimson brocade of his tunic. "Then the duty falls to us. Come. I wish to see what the capital has done to the boy."

The courtyard of Casterly Rock was a bustle of crimson cloaks and stable boys. A line of fifty Lannister knights, led by Ser Boros Blount, rode into the yard. They were dusty and weary from the long trek from King's Landing, but they maintained a disciplined formation.

Tywin stood on the steps, his eyes searching the column. He expected to see a litter or a small wheelhouse. A child of nearly four namedays was usually kept behind curtains, shielded from the wind and the dust.

Instead, at the rear of the knights, a sand-colored pony trotted into the center of the yard.

Prince Joffrey sat the saddle alone.

There was no servant holding a lead rope. The boy's legs, sturdy and thick for his age, gripped the pony's barrel with practiced intent. He wore a doublet of crimson and gold, and his face was smeared with the dust of the road. He did not look for his father, nor did he ask for his mother.

He looked at the Rock.

The boy's head tilted back, his green eyes scanning the sheer, vertical face of the mountain. He didn't gape in wonder; he studied the fortifications with a quiet, heavy focus. He kicked his feet free of the stirrups and slid down, landing on the cobblestones with a decisive thud.

"Grandfather," a voice rasped.

Tywin looked down. Joffrey had walked past the kneeling servants to stand directly before him. The boy stood straight, his chin lifted, his eyes—Lannister green—steady and unblinking.

"Prince Joffrey," Tywin said. "You traveled the Goldroad without your mother."

"The Queen is heavy with the new babe," Joffrey said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper intended only for Tywin. "She is slow. I did not wish to be slow. I told Ser Boros we would ride hard."

Tywin glanced at Boros Blount. The Kingsguard knight was sweating profusely, his face the color of a beet. It was clear the four-year-old had set a pace that had exhausted the grown men.

"A future King must know how to lead a march," Tywin said, a flicker of genuine interest stirring. "And your diet? I trust you did not live on travel-bread and fruit?"

"I ate the dried beef and the liver," Joffrey said, patting a small pouch at his belt. "And the raw milk from the goats we took along. I must stay strong, like the Rock."

Tywin looked at the boy's hands. They were small, but the skin was beginning to toughen.

"Come," Tywin said, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. The muscle there was hard, dense for a child. "Your father is in the Hall. He is... celebrating."

"He is drinking," Joffrey corrected calmly.

The feast that night was a celebration of excess, but Tywin's attention remained on the boy sitting beside him. Robert was at the center of the hall, roaring a song with Greatjon Umber, oblivious to his son's presence.

Joffrey ignored the singers. He was methodically dismantling a roasted quail, cracking the bones with his teeth to suck out the marrow.

When the noise became too great, Tywin rose and moved to the terrace. He was not surprised when the boy followed him moments later, a piece of hard cheese in his hand.

"The ships burned here," Joffrey said, pointing toward the dark harbor of Lannisport.

"They did," Tywin replied coldly. "The Ironborn are treacherous."

"Pycelle showed me the map," Joffrey said, unphased. "The water is narrow at the mouth. If I were Lord, I would put a chain. A big iron chain. Under the water."

Tywin paused, looking at the harbor mouth. He visualized the engineering required. A boom chain, raised by capstans in watchtowers.

"A chain is heavy," Tywin said, testing him. "It would take fifty men to raise it."

"Then use fifty men," Joffrey shrugged. "Or use a winch with gears. I read the book about the machines."

"And the cost?"

"Ships are more expensive, Grandfather," Joffrey rasped. "And we lost those for nothing."

Tywin felt a rare sensation. It was recognition. Robert was a hammer. Jaime was a sword. But this boy... this boy was a ledger.

"You are right, Joffrey," Tywin said softly. "We should have had a chain."

He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Tomorrow, you will not sit with the women or the children at the tourney. You will sit with me. I wish to hear what you think of the knights who 'won' this war."

Joffrey nodded. "I will tell you which ones are wasting their energy."

"I expect you will," Tywin said.

Fin

​Last edited: Friday at 1:59 PM Like ReplyReport Reactions:kalifianto, Mantox, Addvacado and 161 othersSiddhartha SahaFriday at 1:42 PMNewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks CERSEI New View contentSiddhartha SahaKnow what you're doing yet?Friday at 1:55 PMNewAdd bookmark#45The labor had been a red, screaming fog, but the aftermath was gold.

Cersei lay back against the silk pillows, her hair a damp tangle. The chambers in the Red Keep felt crowded with the smell of blood and candle wax, but she felt a fierce, burning triumph. She had survived the birth, and the child was golden.

"A Princess, Your Grace," Pycelle wheezed, his chains clinking. "Healthy and vibrant. A true beauty for the realm."

"Give her to me," Cersei commanded.

The midwife moved to obey, but a small, steady figure stepped into the light first.

Joffrey had been standing by the hearth, watching the fire. He had returned from Casterly Rock with his father months ago, and since then, he had been a silent, heavy presence in the Red Keep. He didn't run to her, and he didn't weep. He simply was.

He walked to the midwife and held out his arms. He was four namedays old, but he had the thick-set frame of a boy of six, his gaze unnervingly steady.

"Careful, my Prince," the woman whispered, but she surrendered the bundle.

Joffrey looked down at the tiny, red-faced Myrcella. He didn't coo or pull at her blankets. He looked at her the way a smith might look at a new ingot of iron—judging the quality of the metal.

"She is small, Mother," Joffrey said. His voice was a low rasp, quiet but distinct. "But her cry was loud. That is good. Loud means strong lungs."

"She is a Princess," Cersei said, reaching out. Joffrey stepped to the bedside and lowered the babe into her arms. "She will be the pride of the West."

"She must be fed well," Joffrey said, turning his green eyes toward Pycelle. "I saw the goats at the Rock. The ones that stayed on the cliffs grew larger than the ones in the valley. The wet nurse—see that she is fed the red meat and the blood-sausage. My sister will not be a sickly thing."

Pycelle blinked, his mouth working silently for a moment. "The... the Prince's observations are noted, Your Grace. A sturdy diet for the nurse is... traditional in some houses."

The heavy oak doors thudded open. Robert Baratheon stomped in, smelling of horse and the remains of a hunt. He was flushed, his beard flecked with mud from the road.

"So, the labor is done?" Robert boomed, his voice making the infant wince. He stomped to the bed and peered down at the bundle. "A girl. Well, I suppose the realm needs some beauty to balance out the brawlers. I'd hoped for another son to squire with, but a daughter will keep the septas busy."

He reached out a large, calloused finger and poked at Myrcella's cheek. "She's got the hair, at least. Looks like she'll be a proper little lady. You alright, Cersei? You look like you've been through a war."

"I have," Cersei spat, pull the babe away from his rough touch.

"Aye, well, you're a Lannister. You're made of stern stuff," Robert laughed, already turning his gaze toward the wine flagon. He looked at Joffrey. "And you, lad! Still standing guard? You should be in the yard. Jaime tells me your seat in the saddle is getting as stiff as a board. A prince needs to be fluid, boy!"

"I am watching my sister, Father," Joffrey said, standing straight.

"Good, good. Watch her well," Robert said, taking a deep swig of wine. "I'm off to find Jon Arryn. He's been grumbling about the cost of the victory tourney for a month. I need to remind him that a King who doesn't spend is a King who isn't remembered."

Robert stomped back out, the room shaking in his wake.

Joffrey remained. He watched the door close, then looked back at Cersei.

"He spends gold he does not have," Joffrey said quietly. "Grandfather says that is how houses fall. He says a man who doesn't count his own coin eventually finds someone else counting it for him."

"Your grandfather is a wise man, Joff," Cersei whispered, pulling him closer to the bed. "And you are his blood. You will be the one to count for this family."

Joffrey touched Myrcella's tiny hand. He didn't smile, but there was a quiet, possessive intensity in his eyes.

"I will see to the nurse, Mother. And I will find the men who buy the silks for the nursery. The prices in the ledgers are higher than the prices in the market. I want to know where the difference goes."

As he walked out, his small boots striking the floor with a rhythmic, heavy thud, Cersei felt a profound sense of relief. The King was a spendthrift and a fool, but her son was already learning to hold the purse strings—and the throat—of the kingdom.

Fin

​ Like ReplyReport Reactions:kalifianto, Mantox, Addvacado and 191 othersSiddhartha SahaFriday at 1:55 PMNewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks STANNIS New View contentSiddhartha SahaKnow what you're doing yet?Saturday at 9:58 AMNewAdd bookmark#77295 AC

The Small Council chamber was a cage of scented wood and soft men, and Stannis Baratheon was the only one gripping the bars.

He sat rigid in his chair, the leather creaking faintly as he shifted his weight. Across the table, Lord Renly was whispering something amusing to Littlefinger, both of them ignoring the Master of Ships. Robert, predictably, was absent. The King was hunting in the Kingswood, chasing boars because he could no longer chase glory.

Stannis's eyes, hard and blue as the sea at dawn, drifted to the end of the table.

Prince Joffrey sat there.

At twelve namedays, the boy was an enigma that made Stannis's teeth grind. He was tall for his age, his shoulders thickening with the promise of a warrior's frame. He wore his hair long, a cascade of gold that brushed his shoulders in the manner of the old Targaryen kings—or the Lannisters.

The seed is strong, Jon Arryn had whispered once, looking at a bastard girl in the Vale.

Stannis looked at Joffrey and saw Cersei's vanity in the hair and Jaime's arrogance in the chin. The suspicion of the incest had taken root in Stannis's mind months ago, a vile weed that he could not pull out. Biology demanded that this boy be an abomination.

And yet...

"Lord Stannis," Joffrey said. His voice was not the high, imperious whine of his mother. It was a low, measured baritone, startling coming from a face so fair. "I have been reviewing the port tariffs for the narrow sea."

Stannis blinked. "That is the purview of the Master of Ships, Prince Joffrey."

"It is," Joffrey agreed, inclining his head respectfully. "Which is why I brought this to you, rather than the Master of Coin. I believe the royal stewards at Dragonstone are failing you, Uncle."

The table went quiet. Varys ceased his tittering.

"Failing me?" Stannis asked, his voice flat.

"I have cross-referenced the obsidian mining yields from the Dragonmont against the shipping manifests of the last five years," Joffrey said. He slid a piece of parchment across the mahogany table. It was not a drawing or a demand; it was a ledger. "The output has dropped by forty percent. Yet the number of miners has remained constant."

Stannis looked at the numbers. They were precise. Brutally so.

"Obsidian is glass, Nephew," Stannis said. "It is a curiosity for maesters and mystics. It is not gold."

"It is a monopoly," Joffrey corrected gently. "And a monopoly wasted is a theft from your household, Lord Stannis. If the stewards are lazy, they rob the Crown, but they rob you first."

Stannis felt the familiar cold prickle of defensiveness. Dragonstone was his seat, given to him by Robert as a slight, a dark and salt-stained rock while Renly played lord in the fertile Stormlands. He expected Joffrey to mock it.

Instead, the boy was trying to make it profitable.

"And what do you propose?" Stannis asked. "I cannot whip the rock to make it bleed glass."

"No," Joffrey said. "But a fresh eye might see the fracture. I ask your leave to visit Dragonstone, Uncle. Not as a Prince on a royal progress, which burdens the host, but as a student of logistics."

Stannis narrowed his eyes. "You wish to go to Dragonstone? It is a grim place. It smells of sulfur and the grave."

"It was the seat of the Conqueror," Joffrey said, meeting Stannis's gaze without flinching. "And it is the seat of the King's brother. If there is rot in the administration, I would see it cut out. I have read the histories of the Dragonmont's vents. I believe the heat is not being utilized efficiently for the extraction."

Stannis studied the boy. He looked for the lie. He looked for the weakness of a bastard born of sin. He saw only a cold, hard pragmatism that mirrored his own.

If he is born of incest, Stannis thought, the doubt gnawing at him, why is he the only one in this city who speaks of duty?

The boy's behavior derailed Stannis's certainty. Bastards were treacherous by nature. Incest bred madness. But Joffrey? Joffrey was... competent. It was a contradiction that Stannis could not yet resolve, and it mandated further investigation. If the boy went to Dragonstone, away from his mother's skirts, perhaps the truth would reveal itself.

"The journey is rough," Stannis warned. "The seas around the Gullet are churning this time of year."

"I do not fear the sea," Joffrey said. "I am a Baratheon. The storm is ours, is it not?"

It was a subtle flattery, but it landed. Stannis felt a grudging nod pull at his neck.

"Very well," Stannis said. "You may go. But you will stay in the Sea Dragon Tower, and you will not interfere with the garrison. If you find your 'efficiencies,' bring them to me. Do not act without my seal."

"I would not presume to command in your seat, Lord Stannis," Joffrey said, bowing his head. "Your permission honors me."

Joffrey gathered his papers. As he stood, the long golden hair caught the light, and for a second, Stannis saw Jaime Lannister. But then the boy turned, his movement stiff and efficient, clutching a ledger to his chest like a shield.

He looks like a lion, Stannis thought, watching him go. But he thinks like a stag.

Stannis turned back to the table, ignoring Littlefinger's bemused smile. He would let the boy go to the volcano. He would have Maester Cressen watch him. If the boy was a monster, Dragonstone would reveal it. If he was true... then Stannis would have to reconsider the evidence of his own eyes.

Fin

​Last edited: Saturday at 3:29 PM Like ReplyReport Reactions:kalifianto, Mantox, Addvacado and 128 othersSiddhartha SahaSaturday at 9:58 AMNewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks JOFFREY IV New View contentSiddhartha SahaKnow what you're doing yet?Saturday at 10:19 AMNewAdd bookmark#78The wind howling around the Sea Dragon Tower tasted of salt and sulfur, a flavor Joffrey found infinitely preferable to the cloying perfumes of the Red Keep. Here, the air did not lie. It simply eroded.

He stood on the high balcony of the ancient fortress, looking down at the churning black water of the Gullet. The sun had long since dipped behind the Dragonmont, plunging the castle into a shadow that felt heavy, almost physical.

Joffrey wore a heavy cloak of crimson wool, dyed deep enough to look like dried blood in the twilight. His hair, now golden and reaching his shoulders in the fashion of the old kings, whipped around his face.

"The wind is biting, my Prince," a voice chattered.

Joffrey didn't turn. It was Ser Preston Greenfield, the Kingsguard Stannis had allowed to accompany him. The man was miserable, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his white cloak snapping violently in the gale.

"The wind is irrelevant, Ser Preston," Joffrey said, his voice a low, raspy baritone. He placed a bare hand on the gargoyle railing—a stone dragon frozen in a silent scream. "The stone drinks the heat from the vents below and holds it, like a brick pulled from a kiln. If you stand closer to the wall, you will find it is warmer than your cloak."

"As... as you say, my Prince." Preston stepped closer to the wall, looking skeptical, but his shivering lessened.

Joffrey ignored him. His mind was occupied with a variable that no maester in the Seven Kingdoms could teach him.

A + J = C + J.

In his previous life, it had been a debate for scholars and fans. In this world, it was the difference between being a usurper's son and a dragon's grandson. If the theory held, his blood was not just Baratheon iron and Lannister gold. It was Targaryen fire.

"Lord Stannis's steward, Maester Cressen, approaches," Preston announced.

Joffrey turned. The old Maester walked with a painful, shuffling gait, clutching a tray of bread and salt. He looked frail, like a piece of parchment left too long in the sun.

"Prince Joffrey," Cressen said, his voice kindly but weak. "Dragonstone is a grim host, but we have prepared the guest chambers in the Stone Drum. They are... warmer."

"The Sea Dragon Tower suits me, Maester," Joffrey said, offering a polite, stiff nod. He did not mock the old man. Cressen was efficient in his own way. "I require the keys to the lower mining galleries. And the manifest of the dragonglass exports from the era of Aerys II."

Cressen blinked, his cloudy eyes widening. "The lower galleries? My Prince, the miners do not go below the third level. The air is foul there. It is called the 'Hellmouth' for a reason."

"I am aware of the danger," Joffrey lied smoothly. "But if we are to expand the mining operations as I promised my uncle, I must inspect the main vents myself. I need to know if the rock is stable enough to dig deeper."

"It is late, my Prince," Cressen warned, looking at the darkening sky with worry. "And the footing is treacherous in the gloom."

"The tide is low," Joffrey countered. "The smoke will clear. I will not be long."

He took the heavy iron ring of keys from the hesitant Maester. He didn't wait for permission. He moved with the heavy, deliberate gait he had cultivated to mask his age, passing the Kingsguard.

"Stay here, Ser Preston," Joffrey commanded. "The stairs are narrow, and your armor is too wide for the descent. Guard the door."

"My Prince, Lord Stannis said—"

"Lord Stannis said I was to inspect the mine. I am inspecting."

The descent was not a journey; it was a test.

Joffrey climbed down the spiral stair of the Dragonmont, leaving the masonry of the castle behind for the raw, fused obsidian of the volcano. The air grew thicker, heavier, smelling of rotten eggs.

He tied a cloth soaked in vinegar around his face, but he kept his eyes open.

The heat rose to meet him.

At the third level, it was a sauna. At the fourth, where the miners stopped, it was an oven. Joffrey continued down.

He reached the fifth level, a natural fissure that ran deep into the earth, glowing with a dull, malevolent red light. The heat here was intense. Based on the shimmering air, it was hot enough to blister the skin of a normal man.

A normal man would be suffering. A Lannister should be fainting.

Joffrey felt... comfortable.

He felt a loosening in his chest, as if a tight band had been cut. His muscles, usually tense from the constant performance of his life, relaxed. The sweat on his skin didn't feel like exhaustion; it felt like oil in a machine.

The hypothesis is confirmed, he thought, a cold thrill running through him. I am not burning.

He checked the map he had drawn from memory. He wasn't looking for dragonglass. He was looking for the hoard. The Targaryens kept everything. They didn't throw away their dead, and they didn't throw away their failures.

He moved toward a wall of jagged black rock where the heat spiked. He found it behind a screen of fallen shale—a small, circular hollow carved into the obsidian.

Inside, nestled in a bed of black volcanic sand, were three shapes.

They looked like stones to the uninitiated. Heavy, scaled, and dead. But Joffrey knew better. He reached out and picked up the largest one.

It was black as midnight, rippled with veins of deep scarlet. It was heavy, dense as lead.

He sat down on the hot stone floor, the egg in his lap. He pulled a small dagger from his belt. This was the variable that numbers couldn't solve. This was biology.

"Fire and Blood," Joffrey whispered, his voice raspy in the dark.

He drew the blade across his palm. A sharp, stinging line. Blood welled up—thick, dark red. He didn't let it drip to the floor. He pressed his bleeding hand against the stone scales of the egg.

Wake up.

He closed his eyes. He visualized the heat of the volcano flowing into the egg, fed by the blood in his veins.

I am not Robert's son. I am the dragon's ghost.

For a long minute, there was nothing but the hiss of steam and the throb of his own pulse.

Then, the stone drank.

The blood on the scales didn't dry; it soaked in. And then, a vibration. It was faint, barely a tremor, like a heart beating far, far underground.

Thump-thump.

The egg grew warm. Not the heat of the volcano, but a living heat that pushed outward from the core.

Joffrey opened his eyes. The scarlet veins on the egg were glowing with a faint, inner light.

He smiled. It was a terrifying expression in the red dark.

He had the tool. Now he needed the craftsman. He needed the rituals that the Citadel had tried to bury.

He wrapped the egg in his heavy wool cloak and placed it in his satchel. He stood up, his hand throbbing, his mind racing. Stannis was suspicious. Varys was watching. He couldn't hatch this here. Not yet.

He needed the Red Comet. And he needed a wizard.

Two hours later, Joffrey sat in the solar of the Sea Dragon Tower. The egg was hidden beneath the floorboards, under a loose stone he had pried up with a dagger.

He sat at the desk, a fresh parchment before him. He dipped his quill in black ink.

He could not write plainly. If Stannis intercepted a letter mentioning dragons, Joffrey would be in irons before sunrise. It had to be academic. It had to be boring to a soldier, but screamingly loud to a mage who knew what to look for.

He wrote:

(cryptically)

To Archmaester Marwyn, Keeper of the Silver Link,

I write regarding a geological curiosity discovered within the Dragonmont vents. My survey has unearthed a sample of high-density mineral, encased in obsidian, that defies the standard humors of stone.

Unlike the inert dragonglass, this sample retains a persistent internal warmth. It consumes heat rather than reflecting it, and appears to react to the presence of vital fluids. It puts me in mind of the Valyrian structures, which some claim were not carved, but born.

I require a consultation on the properties of such living stone, and whether the coming celestial wanderer might affect its stability. I am told you possess a candle of glass that allows one to see the truth of such things.

The stone waits. The star comes.

Joffrey of House Baratheon and Lannister.

He rolled the parchment and sealed it, not with the stag or the lion, but with a plain blob of black wax. He pressed his knife hilt into it.

He walked to the rookery window. He didn't call the Maester. He knew the ravens. He had spent hours in the rookery at the Red Keep, learning their ways.

He selected a large, sleek bird bred for long flights. He tied the scroll to its leg.

"Oldtown," Joffrey whispered to the bird. "Find the Citadel. Find the Mage."

He tossed the bird into the night. He watched it catch the updraft of the volcano and vanish into the black sky.

Joffrey turned back to the room. He felt the phantom heat of the egg beneath the floorboards. Stannis thought he was here to count rocks. Stannis was wrong.

Joffrey was here to change the laws of the world.

Fin

​Last edited: Yesterday at 2:50 PM Like ReplyReport Reactions:kalifianto, Mantox, Addvacado and 167 othersSiddhartha SahaSaturday at 10:19 AMNewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks SER BARRISTAN New View contentSiddhartha SahaKnow what you're doing yet?Yesterday at 12:56 AMNewAdd bookmark#95The lower bailey of the Red Keep baked in the shimmering heat of midday, the air thick with the smell of dry dust and hot iron. It was a day for idleness, yet the galleries were full. Lords and ladies in silks of azure and gold fanned themselves, their eyes fixed on the hard-packed earth below.

They had come to see the Prince.

Ser Barristan Selmy stood in the shade of the portcullis, his white cloak hanging heavy and still. He watched his charge with a quiet, measuring gaze. At twelve namedays, Prince Joffrey was a creature of striking contradictions. He had the height of a man grown and the chest of a smith, yet he moved with a stillness that belonged to neither.

Joffrey stood in the center of the yard, clad in a simple gambeson of boiled leather and ringmail. He held a blunted tourney sword in a low guard—the Alber, or Fool's Guard—his tip resting near the dirt, his posture deceptively lax.

Facing him were three squires: his cousin Lancel Lannister, a year his elder and eager to prove it; young Tyrek Lannister; and a burly Frey ward named Walder, whose reach exceeded his wit. They were armored in heavy plate, sweating and shifting their weight nervously.

"Three against one seems hardly sporting, Nephew," Lord Renly Baratheon called from the gallery. The Master of Laws peeled an orange with a silver knife, his velvet doublet scandalously bright for a practice yard. "Shall I fetch the Hound to make it a fair wager?"

Joffrey did not look up. He rotated his wrist, testing the balance of his blade.

"If you wish to join them, Uncle, feel free," Joffrey replied, his voice a dry, carrying baritone. "Though I would hate to bruise the velvet. The dye looks expensive."

A ripple of laughter went through the court. Renly grinned, saluting with a slice of orange.

"Begin!" Ser Aron Santagar bellowed.

The three squires charged. It was a clumsy, enthusiastic rush—the kind born of youth and the desperate need for glory.

Barristan watched Joffrey's feet. Heels down. His weight balanced low.

The Frey boy led, swinging a heavy overhand blow meant to shatter a shield. Joffrey did not retreat. He stepped into the arc, catching the flat of the Frey's blade on his crossguard—the Kron, a high parry that locked the steel.

With a sharp twist of his hips, Joffrey leveraged the bind, wrenching the sword from the boy's sweaty grip. In the same motion, he drove the pommel of his sword gently but firmly into the squire's helm. Clang.

The Frey stumbled back, dazed. Joffrey caught him by the pauldron to steady him.

"You spend your weight like a drunkard spends copper, Walder," Joffrey said, his tone not mocking, but instructive. "A heavy swing leaves your purse empty. If you miss, you have nothing left to pay the counter-stroke. Keep your feet under you."

"Yes... yes, my Prince," the boy stammered, blinking behind his visor.

"Again," Joffrey commanded, shoving him gently aside.

Lancel and Tyrek were on him now, circling. They had learned from the Frey's failure; they split, Lancel to the left, Tyrek to the right.

"Wolf tactics," Joffrey observed, pivoting to keep them both in his peripheral vision. "But wolves know not to bite their own kin. You are crowding each other like sheep in a pen."

"We have you, cousin!" Lancel shouted, lunging with a thrust.

"You have a hope, Lancel," Joffrey corrected.

He side-stepped the lunge with a minimal shift, trapping Lancel's blade under his left arm. It was a risky maneuver—half-swording. Joffrey dropped his right hand from the hilt to grab his own blade halfway up, effectively turning his sword into a short spear.

He drove the blunt tip into the gap of Lancel's armpit, checking the blow before it could bruise bone. Lancel yelped, his arm going dead, and dropped his sword.

Joffrey didn't strike him down. He shoved Lancel backward into Tyrek, who was winding up for a strike. The two Lannisters collided in a clatter of steel and cursing.

Joffrey stepped back, lowering his sword. He was barely breathing hard.

"Hold," Joffrey said, raising a hand.

Lancel scrambled up, red-faced and furious, reaching for his sword.

"Yield, Lancel," Joffrey said calmly. "You are dead. And Tyrek, you are dead because your cousin fell upon you."

He walked over to Lancel, offering a hand. Lancel hesitated, then took it.

"You overcommitted on the thrust," Joffrey told him quietly, so the court could not hear. "A shield wall requires trust, cousin. If you lunge without cover, you break the line. If I were an Ironborn reaver, you would be bleeding out on the stones. Fight with your kin, not in spite of them."

Lancel nodded, the anger draining out of him, replaced by a grudging respect. "My thanks, Prince Joffrey."

"And Tyrek," Joffrey turned to the younger boy. "You signal your intent before you move. I saw your shoulder drop before your feet moved. Watch my eyes, not my sword. The steel lies; the eyes do not."

"Well fought, my Prince!" Pycelle called out from the gallery, clapping his spotted hands together like a seal. "A display worthy of the Dragonknight himself!"

"It was simple leverage, Grand Maester," Joffrey said, sheathing his sword with a sharp click. "They formed a line. A line is easily broken. Had they formed a kite formation, I would be on my back."

Barristan stepped forward, handing the Prince a linen towel. "You rely on the crossguard heavily, my Prince. A sharp blade would bite into the steel."

"Then I must ensure the first strike is the last, Ser Barristan," Joffrey said, wiping the sweat from his neck. "Brutal speed is its own armor."

The court was buzzing. They had come to see a boy play at war; they had seen a commander conducting a lesson. Even Stannis Baratheon, standing in the shadows of the archway, gave a curt, approving nod.

Suddenly, a small, nondescript servant in grey wool slipped through the gate. He weaved through the knights and squires, keeping his head down, until he reached Joffrey's side.

The servant stood on his toes and whispered into the Prince's ear.

Barristan saw Joffrey's eyes change. The bored, analytical calculation vanished. For a split second, there was a flash of intense, hungry fire—the look of a dragon scenting smoke.

"Are you certain?" Joffrey asked the servant, his voice barely a murmur.

"The bird carried the seal of the Citadel, my Prince. The black wax. It arrived within the hour."

Joffrey nodded. He tossed the towel to the servant.

"My lords, ladies," Joffrey announced, his voice projecting easily to the gallery. "I fear I must retire. The stewards have found a discrepancy in the winter wheat tallies."

"Wheat?" Renly scoffed. "You just won a melee, Nephew. Stay and drink a cup of Arbor gold. Celebrate!"

"If the King will not count, the Prince must," Joffrey said, offering a thin, dry smile. "I find the numbers... calming. They do not lie."

He turned and marched toward the keep, his stride long and purposeful.

Barristan watched him go. He knew the Prince found a strange comfort in his ledgers. He knew Joffrey liked the order of a tally. But he also knew that the look on the boy's face just now had nothing to do with wheat. It was the look of a man who had just been handed a weapon he had waited a lifetime to wield.

Fin

​Last edited: Yesterday at 2:36 PM Like ReplyReport Reactions:kalifianto, Mantox, Addvacado and 147 othersSiddhartha SahaYesterday at 12:56 AMNewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks TYRION New View contentSiddhartha SahaKnow what you're doing yet?Yesterday at 7:01 AMNewAdd bookmark#106The Red Keep smelled of intrigue, roasting meat, and the faint, underlying stench of a city that had never quite learned how to wipe itself. To Tyrion Lannister, it smelled like home—or at least, the closest thing to it that didn't involve his father's disappointed glare.

He waddled into the Royal Solar, his stunted legs aching from the climb. He had arrived from the Rock only that morning, his saddlebags heavy with rare books and his liver prepared for a siege of Arbor gold.

"The Imp returns," a voice drawled from the window seat.

Cersei looked every inch the Queen, her emerald gown catching the light of the afternoon sun. She did not rise. Beside her, leaning against a tapestry of hunting scenes, stood Jaime. His twin looked weary, his white cloak lacking its usual blinding luster, but his smile was genuine.

"Tyrion," Jaime said, striding forward to clasp his hand. "We didn't expect you until the moon turned."

"The roads were kind, and my horse was motivated by the promise of King's Landing grain," Tyrion quipped. He accepted the goblet of wine Jaime offered, ignoring Cersei's curled lip. "And I hear the capital is the place to be. Rumors reached even Lannisport that our nephew has been... busy."

"He is a true Lion," Cersei said, her voice dripping with possessive pride. "He has spent the last year auditing the City Watch and reorganizing the royal granaries. He is already more of a King than his father ever was."

"He is economic," Jaime corrected, his tone harder to read. "I watched him in the yard yesterday. He took down three squires in less time than it takes to skin a rabbit. But he fights without... passion. It's like watching a maester solve a sum."

"Passion gets you killed," Cersei snapped. "Joffrey survives. That is what matters."

Tyrion swirled his wine. "A philosopher-warrior? The gods are truly full of surprises. Where is the prodigy?"

"In the Maegor's Holdfast gardens," Jaime said. "With the little ones. He insists on overseeing their afternoon drills."

"Drills?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Myrcella is five, is she not? Surely she is drilling with dolls?"

Jaime exchanged a look with Cersei. "Go and see for yourself, brother."

The gardens of Maegor's Holdfast were a riot of blooming roses and lemon trees, but the scene in the center of the manicured grass was far from pastoral.

Tyrion stood by a hedge, watching.

Joffrey sat on a stone bench, a large, leather-bound tome open on his knees. He looked startlingly like Tywin Lannister, despite the Baratheon jaw. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and sat with a stillness that was unnatural for a boy of twelve.

In front of him, Tommen—who should have been a chubby toddler of four—was running laps around the fountain. The boy was flushed and panting, but he wasn't crying. He moved with a sturdy, determined gait.

Myrcella, five years old and golden as a sunrise, was balancing on a low stone wall, walking heel-to-toe with her arms outstretched.

"Keep your chin up, Myrcella," Joffrey called out, not looking up from his book. "If you look at your feet, you fall. Trust your balance."

"Yes, brother," she piped up, steadying herself.

"And Tommen, two more laps," Joffrey added. "Then you may have the dried apricots. Sugar is earned, not given."

Tyrion stepped out from the hedge. "A harsh taskmaster for such tender years, Nephew."

Joffrey looked up. His green eyes—so like Cersei's, yet completely devoid of her madness—locked onto Tyrion. There was no sneer. No mockery.

"Uncle Tyrion," Joffrey said. He closed the book—The Conquest of Dorne by Daeron I—and stood. He offered a stiff, formal bow. "I was told you were coming. I trust the drainage systems at Casterly Rock are finally functioning to specification?"

Tyrion blinked. He had expected an insult about his height. Instead, he got a query about his civil engineering projects.

"They are... adequate," Tyrion managed. "Though I'm surprised you know of them. Father usually omits my contributions from his letters."

"I read the expense reports from the Rock," Joffrey said, sitting back down and gesturing for Tyrion to join him. "Your design for the cistern overflow saved the castle four thousand dragons in structural repairs. It was... elegant work."

Tyrion climbed onto the bench, genuinely stunned. "Elegant. I don't think anyone has ever used that word for me without a heavy dose of irony."

"Intellect is the only elegance that endures, Uncle," Joffrey said. He nodded toward Tommen, who had finished his run and was now happily chewing on a piece of fruit. "The body fails. The mind must secure the legacy."

"Is that why you have them running like destriers?" Tyrion asked.

"The world is not safe," Joffrey said simply. "Soft children die. I will not have them be soft."

Tyrion studied his nephew. The rumors were true. The boy was an anomaly. He spoke like an eighty-year-old Hand of the King trapped in a prince's skin.

"And what are you reading?" Tyrion asked, tapping the book. "Daeron's Conquest? A bloody business."

"A wasteful business," Joffrey corrected, his voice flat. "Daeron was a fool. He writes here of losing ten thousand men taking the Boneway, and fifty thousand trying to hold it. He tried to hold sand with fingers of flesh."

"He didn't have much choice," Tyrion pointed out. "The dragons were dead by then. He had to use men."

"The dragons were dead because his ancestors were idiots," Joffrey said, a sudden edge entering his voice. "The Dance of the Dragons. They treated the greatest biological weapon in history as if they were common destriers. They smashed them against each other until there was nothing left but runts and ash."

Tyrion frowned. "Weapon? That's a cold way to speak of the wonders of Valyria."

"It is the accurate way," Joffrey countered. "A dragon is not a sword, Uncle. A sword kills a man. A dragon ends a civilization. It is a... force of nature. An equation of energy that should never have been squandered on a family squabble."

Tyrion felt a shiver of delight. Finally, someone in this family who wanted to talk about something other than gold or tourneys.

"I have a fascination with the beasts myself," Tyrion admitted, leaning in. "I used to dream of them. I even counted the skulls in the cellar once."

"Nineteen," Joffrey said instantly. "Though the skull of Meraxes is missing a tooth."

"You've been down there?"

"I have measured them," Joffrey said. He looked at Tyrion, his gaze intense. "Tell me, Uncle. You have read the Unnatural History of Barth. Do you believe the theory that dragons are not beasts of the earth, but of fire and blood magic? That they require a... binding agent to wake?"

"Barth believed they were created by the Valyrians," Tyrion whispered, his voice low conspiratorially. "Wyrms for the fire, and something else for the intelligence. A life for a life. Only death can pay for life."

"Entropy," Joffrey murmured. "The energy must come from somewhere. You cannot light a fire without fuel."

"Precisely!" Tyrion beamed. "But the art is lost. The Tragedy of Summerhall proved that. Egg—King Aegon V—tried to wake them with wildfire and prayer. He only succeeded in burning his family alive."

"He lacked the catalyst," Joffrey said, his eyes distant. "He tried to force the reaction. You cannot force a stone to breathe. You must give it a reason to wake up."

Joffrey looked at Tyrion. "If you had an egg, Uncle... a stone egg, cold and dead... would you try?"

"I would likely blow myself up," Tyrion admitted with a grin. "But I would die happy. Why? Are you planning a trip to the Shadow Lands?"

"Travel is inefficient," Joffrey said. "If the knowledge exists, it should be brought here. The Maesters hoard knowledge like misers hoard copper, but there are some who remember the higher mysteries."

Before Tyrion could press him, the heavy iron gate of the garden groaned open.

A herald in the royal livery stepped through, looking flustered. He banged his staff on the stones.

"My Prince!" the herald announced, breathless. "A visitor at the River Gate. He bears the Valyrian steel ring and chain. He... he has brought a retinue of acolytes and demands audience."

Tyrion watched Joffrey's face. The boy didn't look surprised. He looked satisfied.

"Name him," Joffrey commanded.

"Archmaester Marwyn of the Citadel," the herald stammered. "They call him the Mage."

Tyrion nearly dropped his wine cup. "Marwyn? Here? The man is a pariah. The grey sheep of Oldtown despise him. He hasn't left the Isle of Ravens in a decade."

Joffrey stood up, smoothing his doublet. He picked up his book.

"He is not a pariah, Uncle," Joffrey said, a small, dry smile playing on his lips. "He is simply a man who knows that the world is stranger than the Maesters admit. And I have some questions about... geology."

"Geology?" Tyrion sputtered. "You don't summon the Archmaester of the Higher Mysteries to discuss rocks!"

"We shall see," Joffrey said. "Come, Uncle. You appreciate a sharp mind. I think you will find Marwyn... stimulating."

As Joffrey walked toward the gate, his stride long and purposeful, Tyrion scrambled off the bench to follow. He looked at the strong, healthy Tommen, the balancing Myrcella, and the retreating back of the boy who spoke of dragons as if they were engineering problems.

He's not just a Lion, Tyrion thought, a thrill of genuine excitement mixing with his fear. He's something else entirely. And gods help us, I think I like him.

Fin

​Last edited: Today at 3:44 AM Like ReplyReport Reactions:kalifianto, Mantox, Addvacado and 154 othersSiddhartha SahaYesterday at 7:01 AMNewAdd bookmarkView discussionThreadmarks MARWYN New View contentSiddhartha SahaKnow what you're doing yet?Yesterday at 4:20 PMNewAdd bookmark#125Date: Late 295 AC

Location: The Crown Prince's Solar, Maegor's Holdfast, King's Landing

The Red Keep smelled of lies and lavender. It was a cloying scent, heavy enough to choke a man, used to mask the reek of the sewage that flowed beneath the city and the rot that festered in the hearts of the men who ruled it.

Marwyn shifted the wad of sourleaf in his cheek and spat a stream of blood-red juice into the dry rushes. A passing page boy stared at him with wide, fearful eyes.

Marwyn bared his stained teeth in a grin that was more snarl than smile. He knew what the boy saw: a bull of a man in robes that had seen too many roads, with a nose broken so often it spread across his face like a squashed plum. He was an Archmaester of the Citadel, a man of the chain, yet he looked more like a dockside thug than a scholar.

"Archmaester," the guard at the heavy oak door grunted, eyeing the black iron rod thrust through Marwyn's belt. "The Prince expects you."

"Does he now?" Marwyn's voice was a rumble of gravel in a churn. "Best not keep the lion cub waiting."

He pushed the door open. The solar within was stiflingly hot, the hearth roaring despite the mild warmth of the autumn afternoon.

Two figures sat by a table cluttered with maps and dusty tomes. One was a stunted thing, a gargoyle carved of flesh—Tyrion Lannister. The other was the boy.

Prince Joffrey Baratheon rose. He was tall for twelve, broad in the shoulder, with the golden hair of the Rock and eyes like polished emeralds. But it was not the pretty face that caught Marwyn's attention. It was the stillness. Most boys of twelve were creatures of quicksilver, twitching and shifting like nervous colts. Joffrey stood with the rooted patience of a monolith.

"Archmaester Marwyn," the Prince said. His voice was smooth. "You made good time from Oldtown."

"The wind favors those who don't fear it, Your Grace," Marwyn said, stomping into the room. The heavy chain about his neck clinked—gold, silver, bronze, lead, steel, and the dark, ripple-patterned link of Valyrian steel. He nodded to the dwarf. "Imp."

"Mage," Tyrion replied, swirling a cup of wine. His mismatched eyes—one green, one black—danced with amusement. "My nephew tells me you believe dragons can be sung back into the world. I told him he'd have better luck singing a rock to sleep."

Marwyn pulled out a chair, the wood groaning under his weight. He reached into his robe, pulled out a fresh leaf, and stuffed it into his cheek. "Rocks sleep deep enough, Lord Tyrion. It's waking them that's the trick. As for dragons… men killed them. Men can bring them back. Though the grey sheep would have you believe they just faded away like mist."

"The grey sheep?" Tyrion cocked his head.

"The Conclave," Joffrey interjected, his eyes fixed on Marwyn. "The Archmaester calls his peers sheep because they herd knowledge into pens and slaughter whatever frightens them."

Marwyn grunted, impressed. "You've been reading my letters, boy? Or did you guess?"

"I read Unnatural History," Joffrey said, tapping a thick, leather-bound book on the table. Septon Barth's work. A book the Citadel had tried to burn for a hundred years. "Barth claims the dragons were not beasts, but magic made flesh. Bound to the blood of the Forty Families. If the magic wanes, the dragons die. If the dragons die…"

"…the winters grow longer," Marwyn finished, leaning forward. His elbows rested on the table, massive and scarred. "Magic is a sword without a hilt, my lords. There is no safe way to grasp it. Your Citadel masters want a world without swords. They want logic. Order. Summer that never ends. They poisoned the last dragons, stunted them until they were no bigger than cats."

Tyrion scoffed. "A conspiracy of maesters? Grand Maester Pycelle can barely conspire to find his own chamber pot."

"Pycelle is a tool," Marwyn said, spitting into the hearth. "A useful idiot. The Conclave operates in shadows deeper than he can fathom. They hate magic, Imp. They fear it. Because magic is power they cannot measure, ration, or control."

Tyrion looked from the Mage to the Prince, his curiosity warring with his survival instinct. "If half of what you say is true, Archmaester, you are a dangerous man to know."

"Knowledge is danger," Joffrey said suddenly. "Uncle, leave us."

Tyrion blinked. "I was just getting interested. We haven't even discussed the glass candles."

"Leave us," Joffrey repeated. It was not a request. There was steel in the tone, the same cold certainty Marwyn had seen in sellsword captains and khals in the east.

Tyrion looked at his nephew, seeing something that made him pause. He drained his cup, hopped from the chair, and bowed mockingly. "As you command, Your Grace. Try not to summon any demons while I'm gone. The maids gets terribly upset about the sulfur smell."

The dwarf waddled out, the heavy door closing with a thud.

Silence stretched. The fire crackled.

"You took a risk, summoning me," Marwyn said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "If the Conclave knew why I was really here…"

"They think you are here to tutor me in High Valyrian and history," Joffrey said. He walked to a heavy iron chest at the foot of his bed. "Let them think it. Let them think I am just another vanity-struck princeling obsessed with old stories."

He unlocked the chest. The click of the mechanism was loud in the quiet room.

"You have the look of a man who has seen the impossible, Marwyn," Joffrey said, his back turned. "You traveled the East. You studied in Asshai. You know that the world is not as empty as the maesters claim."

"I know that shadows stretch," Marwyn said. "And I know that when the glass candles burn, things are moving in the dark."

"Then look," Joffrey said.

He turned. In his hands, he held a stone.

No, not a stone. It was scaled, black as midnight, with veins of deep, throbbing scarlet running through it like rivers of lava. The heat coming off it rippled the air, distorting the light of the hearth.

Marwyn sat up straight, the sourleaf forgotten in his cheek. He had seen fossils. He had seen petrified remains in the markets of Qarth. But this… this thing sang. He could feel it in his teeth, a low, thrumming vibration that made the Valyrian steel ring on his finger turn ice-cold.

"Dragon," Marwyn breathed. "And alive."

"It was cold when I found it on Dragonstone," Joffrey said, placing the egg on the table between them. "Dead stone. But I bled on it. And it drank."

Marwyn reached out, his calloused hand hovering over the scales. The heat was intense, like holding one's hand over a forge. "Blood and fire," he muttered. "The equation is simple, yet the sheep forgot it. You woke it."

"Not fully," Joffrey said. "It sleeps. But it dreams."

"You intend to hatch it," Marwyn stated, not asking. "To bring fire back to a world of sheep."

"I do."

"Then you know the cost," Marwyn said, his voice grave. "Only death pays for life. That is the immutable law. You cannot cheat the blood price."

"I know," Joffrey said. "But the price is not the only key. The timing must be perfect. The magic of this world is like a tide, Marwyn. It ebbs and flows. To hatch a dragon in the ebb is to birth a monster or a corpse. We must wait for the flood."

Marwyn raised a thick eyebrow. "And when does this flood come, boy? The stars do not give up their secrets easily."

"They do if you know where to look," Joffrey said, walking to the window and looking out at the darkening sky. "The Bleeding Star."

Marwyn froze. He had read the ancient texts. The prophecy of the Red Messenger. "A comet?"

"Red as blood, hot as dragonfire," Joffrey said, his voice distant. "It comes from the depths of the void to herald the return of magic. When the red star bleeds across the sky... that is the moment. The barrier between the worlds will be thin. The fire will take."

Marwyn chewed on his sourleaf, his mind racing. A comet. It was precise. It was astronomical. It was something the Maesters would dismiss as a ball of gas, but the Alchemists would fear as a harbinger of doom.

"And when will this star arrive?" Marwyn asked.

"Two years. Perhaps three," Joffrey said, turning back to him. "It is already on its way. I have seen it."

"In a dream?" Marwyn asked skeptically.

"In a calculation," Joffrey lied smoothly. "Based on the movements of the wanderers and the old charts in Dragonstone's library. It will appear. And when it does, the egg must be ready."

He leaned over the table, his green eyes locking onto Marwyn's.

"Until then, it stays hidden. And you stay here. I need you to prepare the ritual. I need you to shield this room from the prying eyes of the glass candles in Oldtown. Can you do that, Mage?"

Marwyn let out a short, bark-like laugh. He spat the spent sourleaf into the fire, watching it sizzle.

"I pledged no vows to your father, boy," Marwyn grumbled, standing up. "And I wipe my arse with the vows I made to the Citadel."

He reached out and placed his massive hand on the dragon egg. The heat seared his palm, a delightful, terrible pain.

"But this..." Marwyn grinned, a display of red-stained teeth that made him look like a ghoul. "This is a vow worth keeping. We wait for the Bleeding Star, my Prince. And when it comes, we will burn the sheep in their beds."

Fin

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