Chapter 16: The Phoenix Prince and the Mockingbird's Screams
The air in the Red Keep following Robert Baratheon's demise was thick enough to choke on, a miasma of fear, grief, and the frantic, silent scurrying of rats – both human and literal – adjusting to the shift in the scent of power. Lord Eddard Stark, clutching the dead King's will like a holy relic, moved with the grim determination of a man walking into a storm, attempting to convene the Small Council, to assert his authority as Lord Protector of the Realm. He spoke of duty, of law, of a peaceful transition until Joffrey – Prince Joffrey, as Ned now pointedly referred to him – came of age.
NJ, observing all this from the eye of the hurricane, felt a cold, contemptuous amusement. Stark was playing by rules that no longer existed, in a game whose board had been violently overturned. Cersei, her grief for Robert a masterful performance of widowly despair that barely concealed the triumphant, terrified gleam in her emerald eyes, was already moving. Lannister guards, their crimson cloaks a sudden, dominant splash of color in the halls, secured key positions. Janos Slynt, Commander of the City Watch, a man whose loyalty NJ knew was as pliable as warm wax and currently inclined towards Littlefinger's coin, was nevertheless pragmatic enough to understand where the true immediate power now lay – with the Queen Regent and her royal son.
His first appearance before the court as "King" was a carefully orchestrated affair. Dressed in stark black and gold, his Joffrey-face pale with feigned sorrow but his blue eyes (which he wished, for a moment, could flash gold like a dragon's) carrying a new, unnerving stillness, he received the condolences of the assembled nobles. He spoke little, allowing his mother to articulate their shared grief and her determination to uphold her beloved son's rightful claim.
But NJ knew that whispers of his parentage, fueled by Stannis Baratheon's long-standing suspicions and Ned Stark's current, dangerous investigation, would soon become shouts. He needed something dramatic, something undeniable, to solidify his claim, to awe the superstitious masses and the grasping lords, and to bind his Baratheon name to the ancient, potent magic of the Targaryens through his grandmother, Rhaelle.
Two days after Robert's death, he summoned the full court to the Throne Room. Not for a coronation – that would come later, a more formal affair – but for an address, a proclamation of his intent as their new sovereign. The vast hall was packed, the mood somber and uncertain. Ned Stark stood near the Iron Throne, his face grim, Robert's will clutched in his hand, clearly intending to make his own pronouncements. Cersei was beside Joffrey, a pillar of regal black.
NJ, King Joffrey Baratheon, First of His Name, rose. His voice, though still that of a youth, carried a new resonance, a subtle timbre of command honed by the dragon's fire and the weirwood's ancient authority he had so carefully practiced. He spoke of his grief for his father, the mighty King Robert. He spoke of his duty to the realm. Then, his voice took on a fervent, almost zealous quality.
"My royal father, King Robert, was a Baratheon, true, a stag of unmatched fury and strength!" he declared, his gaze sweeping the hall. "But let us not forget the noble blood that also flowed in his veins, and thus in mine! The blood of Old Valyria, the blood of the Dragonlords, passed down through my grandmother, Princess Rhaelle Targaryen!"
A murmur went through the court. This was unexpected.
"There are those," NJ continued, his voice rising, "who whisper in shadows, who question, who seek to divide. They forget that the dragon's blood is not easily diluted! They forget its ancient power, its affinity with the very elements!" He gestured, and on cue, servants brought forward a large, ornate brazier, its coals already glowing with intense heat. Gasps rippled through the assembly. Ned Stark took an involuntary step forward, his eyes wide with alarm. Cersei looked at NJ, a mixture of confusion and dawning apprehension on her face.
"It is said," NJ proclaimed, his voice ringing with a theatrical, almost fanatical conviction, "that those in whom the dragon blood runs strong carry within them a measure of the fire itself! That the flames, the dragon's breath, pay homage to their true kin!" He paused, letting the dramatic weight of his words settle. "Today, before this noble court, before the eyes of gods and men, I shall prove the truth of my royal lineage, the fire that burns in my Baratheon and Targaryen heart!"
Before anyone could react, before Ned Stark could voice his horrified protest or Cersei could intervene, NJ strode to the brazier. The heat radiating from it was immense, causing those nearby to flinch and shield their faces. With a calm, almost serene expression that was utterly alien to the Joffrey they knew, he slowly, deliberately, plunged his right hand, palm down, directly into the heart of the glowing, shimmering coals.
A collective scream of horror tore through the Throne Room. Sansa Stark fainted into Septa Mordane's arms. Several ladies shrieked. Even hardened knights looked away, their faces pale. Ned Stark lunged forward with a cry of "Joffrey, no! Madness!" but was blocked by a suddenly very alert Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jaime Lannister, who had appeared as if from nowhere at his sister's side, his face a mask of stunned disbelief.
NJ held his hand in the inferno. One second. Two. Three. The smell of singed velvet from his sleeve filled the air, but beneath it… nothing. He felt the heat, yes, an intense, almost unbearable wave against his skin. But the dragon essence within him, the very core of Balerion's fiery heart he had absorbed and painstakingly learned to command, rose to meet it. He felt his internal fire surge, not to fight the external flames, but to harmonize with them, to create a shimmering, almost invisible shield of thermal energy around his hand. It was an incredible, draining effort of will, a dangerous dance on the razor's edge of his control. He could feel the weirwood's icy calm anchoring his mind, allowing him to maintain the focus needed, even as the dragon fire roared within his blood, answering the call of its kindred element.
Five seconds. He withdrew his hand. Slowly. Dramatically.
Silence. A profound, stunned, terrified silence gripped the Throne Room.
He held his hand aloft. The velvet sleeve was charred, smoking. But the hand itself… was untouched. Not a blister. Not a reddening. Perfect. Unblemished.
"Behold!" NJ's voice, now imbued with an almost tangible aura of power, of otherness, cut through the silence. "The blood of the dragon does not burn! The sacred fire of our ancestors recognizes its own! This is my claim! This is my right! Given by the gods themselves!"
The effect was cataclysmic. Awe, terror, and a dawning, superstitious reverence spread through the hall like wildfire. Some nobles fell to their knees. Others made signs against evil, or signs of worship. Cersei stared at her son, her Joffrey, as if seeing him for the first time, her face a mixture of shock, fear, and a new, unsettling kind of pride. Was this her son? Or something more? Ned Stark looked utterly aghast, his world of honor and law crumbling before this display of apparent sorcery. Varys, the Spider, watched from his shadowed alcove, his face an unreadable mask, but NJ, with his truth-sense, felt a powerful surge of astonished calculation from the eunuch. This changed everything.
"Lord Stark," NJ said, his voice now soft, almost gentle, but with an underlying core of steel that brooked no argument. He turned to the stunned Hand. "You hold a document, the will of my late father. A will that names you Lord Protector." His gaze hardened. "But no piece of parchment can grant authority over a King anointed by fire, a King whose very blood proclaims his divine right! Your protectorship, Lord Stark, is… unnecessary. And your continued assertions of it, treasonous."
Before Ned could respond, before he could rally his wits against this shocking turn, Janos Slynt, his frog-like face alight with a new, fervent loyalty (or perhaps just terror and opportunism), stepped forward with a squad of gold cloaks. "Lord Eddard Stark," Slynt declared, his voice booming officiously, "by order of King Joffrey, First of His Name, you are under arrest for treason against the Crown!"
The gold cloaks surrounded Ned, whose few Northern guards were hopelessly outnumbered. Littlefinger, who had been standing near the edge of the dais, made a subtle gesture to Slynt, a pre-arranged signal, no doubt, from his own plotting with Cersei. But NJ knew Littlefinger's game was about to end. The fire display had not just been for legitimacy; it had been a declaration. A new, far more dangerous power was on the throne.
Ned Stark, betrayed and bewildered, his honorable world shattered by magic and treachery, was dragged away. His cries of protest, his demands for law and justice, were lost in the awed, terrified murmurs of the court.
With Ned Stark neutralized, his primary immediate threat removed, NJ turned his attention to the second phase of his consolidation of power: the elimination of Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger, he knew, was too cunning, too ambitious, too adept at manipulating chaos to be allowed to continue his games. And NJ wanted the satisfaction of unmasking him, of making him pay for his myriad crimes, not least the murder of Jon Arryn and the framing of Tyrion that had precipitated this crisis.
Two days later, after Ned Stark was securely imprisoned in the Black Cells, King Joffrey summoned the court once more, this time to the grand plaza before the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor. A platform had been erected. And upon it, chained and looking utterly bewildered and terrified, was Lord Petyr Baelish.
"People of King's Landing! Nobles and commoners alike!" NJ's voice, amplified by the Sept's acoustics and his own burgeoning dragon-aura, carried across the stunned crowd. "You have witnessed the sacred fire affirm my divine right! Now, you shall witness the King's Justice! For too long, this realm has been poisoned by whispers, by treachery, by the hidden ambition of grasping men! Today, we expose one such serpent!"
He gestured towards Littlefinger, who began to stammer protests. "Your Grace! There is some mistake! I am your loyal servant!"
NJ smiled, a cold, terrible smile that had nothing of Joffrey's petulance and everything of the ancient predator within. "Loyal, Lord Baelish? Your loyalty is to coin and chaos! But your clever games end today." He turned to Ser Ilyn Payne, the King's Justice, who stood impassively by, his greatsword at the ready. But NJ had other plans for Littlefinger than a quick beheading.
"Lord Baelish," NJ continued, his voice deceptively calm, "has committed many crimes against this realm, against my noble family, against the very fabric of peace. He sowed discord between the Great Houses. He embezzled from the royal treasury. He plotted and murdered. And today, under the light of the Seven, he will confess."
What followed was a spectacle of calculated horror that would be seared into the memory of King's Landing for generations. It was not a frenzied outburst of Joffrey's sadistic cruelty, though it certainly appeared that way to many. It was a cold, methodical, public deconstruction of a master manipulator, designed to extract specific confessions and to instill absolute terror in any who might contemplate opposing the new King.
NJ did not personally wield the instruments, but he directed Ser Ilyn and a fearsome, unnamed torturer NJ had "recruited" from the dungeons (a man whose essence, briefly absorbed from his own bloodstained tools, spoke of a profound and dispassionate understanding of human pain). Piece by piece, as NJ calmly listed accusations, drawing upon his future knowledge and the insights gleaned from his powers, Littlefinger was broken.
"Did you, Lord Baelish," NJ asked, his voice echoing, as a red-hot poker was displayed, "poison the good Hand, Lord Jon Arryn, to silence what he had discovered about the Queen's… indiscretions… and to create an opportunity for your own advancement?"
Littlefinger, initially defiant, screamed as the poker neared, then sobbed, "Yes! Yes, it was Lysa… but I encouraged her! I gave her the poison! Forgive me!"
"Did you, Lord Baelish," NJ continued, as a cruel-looking pair of pincers was produced, "knowing the Valyrian steel dagger belonged to you, deliberately use it in an attempt on Bran Stark's life, and then lie to Lady Catelyn Stark, implicating my uncle Tyrion, in order to sow chaos between the great houses Stark and Lannister?"
Another wave of agony, another broken, screamed confession. "Yes! To start a war! To profit from the chaos! Mercy, Your Grace, mercy!"
And so it went. His embezzlement from the treasury. His manipulation of Lysa Arryn. His role in instigating conflicts. His betrayal of Ned Stark in the Throne Room. Each accusation was followed by a carefully applied measure of pain, until Littlefinger, a blubbering, bleeding wreck, had confessed to a litany of crimes that painted him as the master villain behind years of turmoil. The crowd watched in horrified, mesmerized silence. The sun beat down. The smell of fear and blood was thick in the air.
Finally, when Littlefinger was barely conscious, his body a ruin, NJ signaled a halt. "Let this be a lesson," King Joffrey declared, his voice resonating with icy power. "This is the fate of traitors. This is the fate of those who seek to undermine the Iron Throne and the rightful King! There will be no mercy for such vipers." He then nodded to Ser Ilyn Payne. "End it."
Ser Ilyn's greatsword flashed in the sun. Petyr Baelish's severed head rolled across the platform.
A new reign had begun. Forged in fire. Sealed in blood.
In the aftermath, King's Landing was a city cowed. The Small Council was swiftly reshaped. Janos Slynt, for his "loyalty," was elevated to Lord of Harrenhal (a hollow title for a ruined castle, but a grand gesture). Pycelle, trembling and obsequious, swore eternal fealty. Varys, his face an unreadable mask, offered his congratulations and his continued, invaluable service, though NJ, with his truth-sense, felt the Spider's mind racing, reassessing this new, terrifying King who played by no known rules. Renly and Loras, NJ knew, had already fled the city upon hearing of Ned's arrest, no doubt to raise their own banners in rebellion. Stannis would soon follow suit.
Cersei watched her son with a new, complex mixture of awe, pride, and a dawning, unmistakable fear. The boy she thought she controlled had demonstrated a power and a ruthlessness that surpassed even her own. He had proven his "dragon blood," eliminated a dangerous rival, and solidified his grip on the throne with a terrifying efficiency. He was her son, her King, but he was also… something else. Something formidable. Something perhaps even she could not control.
NJ, now King Joffrey I Baratheon, stood on the balcony of the Red Keep that night, looking out over his silent, fearful capital. The Valyrian steel sword, Umbraexys, was strapped to his side, a comfortable, familiar weight. The scrolls of lost lore were safely hidden, their secrets slowly yielding to his intellect. He felt the myriad powers within him – weirwood, dragon, wolf, the minds and skills of countless others – all settling into a new, potent configuration under his iron will. The Joffrey mask was now crowned. The game had escalated. War was coming. But he was ready. He would not just play the game of thrones. He would master it. He would burn away the old order and forge a new one in his own image, a world fit for the king he was becoming, a king of ashes and fear, but also, perhaps, a king who could face the true Long Night that awaited. The serpent had uncoiled. The dragon was awake. And Westeros would tremble.