[ GOT / ASOIAF : Magic Network ] Chapter 21 - 25

Chapter 21: Hunter and Prey

Forty-odd Lannister soldiers split into six teams and galloped away, their crimson cloaks billowing behind them as they ventured to surround the ferocious prey hiding in the dense wood.

Ser Jaime Lannister, commanding from the flank, wore his displeasure plainly on his handsome face. For Joffrey's willful demand, he had already sacrificed two brave and loyal men, their blood spilled upon the forest floor for a princely whim.

"Joffrey," he said, his voice as sharp as Valyrian steel, "whether this hunt succeeds or fails, we ride north come morning light. Even if you weep at your mother's skirts again, it will avail you nothing."

Joffrey's lips curled into a smile, his mood untroubled by his uncle's scorn. "With warriors of such caliber at our command, I suspect it shan't take long at all. Besides," he added with a gleam in his emerald eyes, "is hunting such a magnificent beast not a tale worthy of songs?"

A skilled hunter can read his prey's movements like a maester reads ancient scrolls, Joffrey thought. And a well-trained army of Lannister men is more than enough to corner even the most fearsome creature.

It cannot escape us now.

Recalling the glimpse he'd caught of the massive beast earlier, Jaime understood well what sensation such a trophy would cause at court. Still, he offered only a contemptuous "Humph!" before drawing his gilded blade from its ornate scabbard.

"Glory must be earned by one's own hand," the Kingslayer declared. "I will not stand idle while my men die." With that, he spurred his warhorse forward and charged toward the treeline.

Joffrey remained where he stood. Since he could not openly wield magic before witnesses, he would be not only useless in the hunt but a dangerous distraction to the soldiers.

"Sandor," he called to his sworn shield, "do you wish to join the fray?"

The Hound guided Stranger, his massive black destrier, to Joffrey's side. The scarred half of his face twitched beneath his helm.

"Your Highness," he rasped, "that monster might break through their lines. My place is here with you." The unspoken words hung between them: to die for you if need be.

Joffrey's smile lingered as his gaze returned to the deep forest ahead. Among the peaceful emerald canopy, his mind's eye painted a bloody contest between beast and man, each wagering their lives in the oldest game.

Mountain lion, he thought, do not die...

The forest had grown deathly still, as though the very air refused to stir. The smaller beasts and birds had long since fled this makeshift arena where greater powers would clash.

The magnificent lion, born in the high peaks of the Westerlands, roared its defiance, unleashing the fury of a mountain king upon all who dared encroach upon its domain.

It was born a ruler, crowned before its first breath.

Born amidst fire and flame, twice the size of any normal cub. The mother lioness had spent the last embers of her life to birth it. By the grace of the gods, the pride had not abandoned the cub, though its hunger demanded the meat of six or seven of its siblings combined.

The lion had proven worthy of such sacrifice.

Within a single turning of the seasons, it grew larger than even the mightiest lion king. After a duel without suspense or mercy, it claimed leadership of the pride, and under its rule, none dared challenge its territory.

Fire proved a most useful gift.

The great beast had hoped to sire cubs as powerful as itself, but the offspring born to the pride's lionesses were all disappointingly ordinary. Before it could try again, the chance was stolen forever.

Damned men! Once, returning from a successful hunt, the mountain lion had found its pride slaughtered upon the ground, their magnificent pelts stripped away. Several of its youngest brothers had been beheaded, their severed heads taken as trophies.

Hairless apes wrapped in gleaming stone!

The lion had tracked them swiftly. With razor claws, dagger teeth, and tongues of flame, it had tasted their flesh and savored their terror throughout the mountains and forests.

It had claimed its vengeance.

But in the decade since, it had never again found a companion. It had not expected that the "kindred" it sensed this day would prove to be yet another man. It had tried to retreat to the mountains, only to find itself besieged.

Forty men on horseback—unlike the hunters of old.

The lion had seized a moment's advantage to strike down two men, but rather than deterring the humans, its attack had only earned it three steel shafts buried deep within its hide.

It roared in fury and scanned its surroundings with wild golden eyes.

The soldiers in their shining armor gradually encircled the beast. They struggled to control their frightened mounts, moving according to some human plan, constantly confusing the lion's judgment.

The creature had been bleeding since midday, and its strength waned with each passing hour.

Despite this weakness, it could still cross nearly a hundred yards in the space of two heartbeats. Once it closed that distance, the roles of hunter and prey might swiftly change.

Yet Ser Jaime Lannister showed not a flicker of fear. Fighting, fighting, fighting—that was what it meant to truly live.

"Aim!" he commanded.

Two teams of cavalry immediately nocked arrows to their bows. The hundred-pound draw weight was sufficient to pierce armor at a hundred paces.

The remaining four teams of soldiers raised their loaded crossbows, fingers tense upon triggers.

The giant lion sensed the danger surrounding it. The enraged beast king burst from cover and charged directly toward Jaime Lannister, whose golden armor made him the most conspicuous target.

"Loose!" Jaime shouted.

With the singing of bowstrings, more than a dozen arrows sliced through the air toward the charging lion. Three buried themselves deep in the creature's flesh.

The neighboring teams of soldiers fired their crossbows as well, and seven more bolts found their mark.

The furious beast paid no heed to its wounds. In the blink of an eye, it was upon Jaime, leaping high—surprisingly agile for its enormous size—and vaulting directly over the knight's raised longsword.

As Jaime spun to face the beast, a massive paw swept toward him, bringing the stench of blood. He bent backward to avoid the blow, but the head of his tall warhorse was nearly split in two by the lion's terrible claws. The mount collapsed to the ground with a thunderous impact, dead before it could even scream.

Jaime leapt from the falling horse and rolled several times before regaining his feet, raising his sword to face the monstrous creature.

Another volley of arrows darkened the sky, and the number of shafts protruding from the lion's body more than doubled.

"Come on!" Jaime cried, his voice filled with battle lust while his eyes remained cold and calculating. "Now we shall see who is the better killer!"

The cavalry tightened their circle around beast and knight.

What man among them would allow Ser Jaime to face such danger alone? Who would wish to be remembered as a craven?

The giant lion recognized its dire predicament.

If those gleaming steel heads pierced its body a few more times, its fate would be sealed.

With unexpected cunning, the lion immediately abandoned Jaime, who posed the least immediate threat with his single blade, and instead charged toward the mounted archers who were nocking fresh arrows not far away.

In the space of two breaths, five men were ripped from their saddles.

The other soldiers hastily launched a counterattack, but only six arrows found purchase in the beast's matted fur.

A deafening roar shook the trees.

A crimson glow appeared around the mountain lion's body. The heat seemed to momentarily banish its pain and wounds. It chased down two fleeing soldiers, crushing one man's skull beneath its paw and knocking another from his mount.

From the lion's maw burst visible tongues of flame. The unfortunate soldier was transformed into charred flesh after only a few moments of agonized screaming.

Jaime nearly succumbed to the urge to rush forward and challenge the beast himself.

"Nock! Draw! Loose!" he commanded instead. "Don't let another man die! Keep shooting until this demon can take no more steps!"

Pain eventually overwhelmed the power of the flames, and the lion failed to catch another fleeing man.

A dozen more arrows found their way into its flesh.

The great beast finally collapsed to the earth, its breathing labored and sorrowful.

The hunters waited with the patience born of years of training.

After what seemed an eternity, when even flies began to land unperturbed upon the lion's wounds, the surviving soldiers finally allowed themselves cautious smiles, tinged with both triumph and bitterness.

Six lives lost, four men grievously wounded, and a dozen precious warhorses sacrificed—but in exchange, they had captured a mountain lion that breathed fire.

"Warriors," Ser Jaime called out, magnanimous in victory, "this beast shall be our shared glory. You have all fought well this day."

He swept his golden hair back from his face, now streaked with dirt and blood. "I shall personally pay each man ten gold dragons, with an additional ten for the families of those who made the ultimate sacrifice."

The somber mood lifted at these words, and the soldiers raised a cheer.

Such coin represented several years' wages for most. When combined with the rewards promised by both queen and crown prince, none could ask for greater compensation.

The giant lion was conveyed back to the royal convoy and secured within a newly-constructed cage of iron.

Seeing the beast locked behind bars and firmly bound with heavy chains, Joffrey released the breath he'd been holding. As long as the lion survived, the scholar's surgical skills and recovery magic would be sufficient to heal it.

"Ha! We shall take it to Winterfell and let Lord Stark gaze upon my mount!" Joffrey proclaimed, his voice taking on the cruel edge that emerged whenever King's Landing drew near. "How does a direwolf compare to this?"

Hannah approached and took his arm gently, her touch familiar and bold. No mere servant would dare such familiarity with the crown prince.

"Congratulations, Your Highness," she said with a smile that reached her clever eyes. "This magnificent creature shall inspire awe. I should dearly love to see it run free once more."

Joffrey smiled and tapped the little maid's forehead with one finger.

"Such roundabout flattery," he chided. "You simply wish to accompany me to Winterfell. Did I not tell you yesterday that your talents are better employed in King's Landing?"

Once the Narrow Sea stirs, he thought, Varys the Spider will surely sense it. I must have eyes and ears of my own in the capital.

"Remain in the Red Keep," he instructed her again, his voice low but firm. "Keep watch over them all."

His green eyes held hers intently. "Trust in your abilities. When necessary, act directly in my name. King's Landing must not fall to chaos while I am away."

Hannah had no choice but to acquiesce to her prince's command.

Chapter 22: A Game

The first day of February brought with it a dazzling afternoon sun, golden and imperious as the Lannister sigil itself. Queen Cersei's grand entourage finally appeared outside the Lion Gate of King's Landing, their banners snapping in the breeze.

Gold cloaks sweated beneath their helms as they diligently dispersed the dense crowd that had gathered to glimpse their beautiful queen, clearing a path for the royal procession. Smallfolk grumbled but yielded before the threat of spear butts and shouted commands.

The Queen's massive wheelhouse—large enough to house a small family—creaked and groaned as it inched forward, occupying the place of honor at the center of the procession. It moved with all the haste of a dying snail.

Ser Jaime rode ahead, clearing the way with his very presence. He wore a suit of porcelain-glazed white scale armor wrought with intricate craftsmanship, the pristine white cloak of the Kingsguard flowing from his shoulders. The ensemble only served to make the gilded longsword at his hip all the more striking.

The man known throughout the Seven Kingdoms as "Kingslayer" held his head high, as though returning from some glorious conquest. The sharp, proud smile upon his handsome face burned itself into the memories of countless onlookers who would later boast of seeing the Queen's twin.

Behind the Kingslayer rolled a carriage tightly shrouded in black cloth, with Prince Joffrey following close behind astride his mount.

Before he even passed through the Lion Gate, the heavy stench of the city—unwashed bodies, rotting food, animal dung, and a hundred other foul odors—assaulted Joffrey's nostrils. After weeks breathing the fresh air of field and forest, the crown prince was forced once again to experience the peculiar "charm" of King's Landing.

He could only endure it, willing himself to focus on the sights that greeted him rather than the smells.

As soon as they passed through the Lion Gate, a vast expanse of densely packed, low-lying hovels sprawled before them. Curious children and adolescents peered out from windows and doorways, some waving, others simply staring with wide eyes at the spectacle of royalty.

Deeper into the city, inns, taverns, warehouses, shops, and brothels began to dominate the landscape. These establishments showed little interest in the Queen's famed beauty; only gold dragons and silver stags could open such doors.

The streets grew ever more congested. Looking down from the height of his saddle, Joffrey could see nothing but a sea of heads and a dizzying array of garments and faces.

Commoners in roughspun, knights in mail and plate, merchants in fine silks, craftsmen in leather aprons, beggars in filthy rags, mercenaries with foreign accents, weary travelers, painted courtesans, and shifty-eyed cutpurses... the whole of King's Landing seemed to have turned out for their return.

Midway through their journey, the view suddenly opened before them. The enormous statue of Baelor the Blessed, his face sculpted into an expression of divine compassion, dominated Joffrey's field of vision. Raising his eyes, the prince beheld the full glory of the Great Sept of Baelor, sacred and dazzling in the afternoon light.

The center of the Faith of the Seven stood before him, guarded by seven crystal towers that caught the sunlight and cast rainbows across the plaza. A magnificent sept built of pure white marble, it loomed over the city like the very hand of the gods.

Religion, Joffrey thought distractedly, his mind wandering despite the spectacle.

Are the Seven truly divine beings, or merely illusory idols carved by men?

Is the power of R'hllor, the Lord of Light, some form of magic, or another mysterious force altogether?

The royal convoy arrived at the central square of the city, then proceeded directly onward, returning to the Red Keep via Aegon's High Hill. They passed beneath the portcullis of the bronze gate with the sound of iron chains groaning.

The Queen's return to the palace had been well prepared for. Servants stood in ordered rows, ready to welcome and attend to her every need. The courtyard bustled with activity—stable boys, handmaidens, guards, and countless others whose employment depended on royal favor.

Joffrey snapped back to the reality of his position.

Time to resume the role of the willful prince.

The Crown Prince dismounted with practiced grace, waiting expectantly as soldiers moved to uncover the mysterious carriage draped in black cloth.

Four men worked in unison to pull away the covering, revealing the living treasure beneath. Once again exposed to sunlight, the massive beast within blinked its golden eyes and let out a low growl that vibrated through the courtyard.

A chorus of excited shouts erupted from the assembled servants.

"Father Above, what manner of miracle is this?" one cried, stumbling backward.

"Monster! Monster!" another shrieked, clutching at his fellows.

Joffrey stood with his hands upon his hips, laughing triumphantly at their fear.

"Does it frighten you?" he called out, his voice carrying the edge that had become so familiar to those who served him. "This is my mount, mine and mine alone!"

The braver servants hurried forward to offer flattery to the Crown Prince, exclaiming over the magnificence of his trophy.

Only after the carriage bearing the giant lion reached the royal stables did Joffrey leave his "mount" with satisfaction, turning his steps toward his chambers.

Somewhat surprised, yet not entirely unexpectedly, he encountered Lord Petyr Baelish waiting in the corridor.

"Your Highness," Littlefinger greeted him, bowing with the precise depth required by protocol—not so shallow as to give offense, not so deep as to appear mocking.

"First, allow me to congratulate you on possessing such a magnificent mount. Truly, it must be a gift from the gods themselves." A smile played at the corners of his mouth. "However, I also bring other tidings that may please you."

He glanced up at the Crown Prince, his gray-green eyes calculating. "Do you recall the dragon eggs promised for your name day? They have arrived from across the Narrow Sea."

Joffrey's face lit with genuine delight. "Then why do we tarry? Take me to see them at once!"

Littlefinger bowed again and accepted the command with practiced humility.

"I must also inquire about a small matter," he added as they walked. "Your squire, Alyn, was unfortunately cursed by the recent storm and did not return with the ship. He remains in Pentos. What would you have done about this... unfortunate situation?"

Joffrey's brow furrowed in displeasure. "The boy is a disgrace to my service! Forget him; he can rot in the Free Cities for all I care!"

His expression brightened immediately as he changed the subject. "Where are my dragon eggs?"

"Your Highness need not trouble himself with such concerns," Littlefinger assured him smoothly. "They have already been delivered to your chambers, under guard as befits such treasures."

Joffrey rewarded Lord Baelish with an approving glance—the closest thing to thanks that most ever received from the prince.

On the steps of Maegor's Holdfast, Tyrion Lannister sat before Joffrey's chambers, deeply engrossed in reading an ancient tome bound in cracked leather.

Noticing his nephew's approach, the dwarf gently closed the book, marking his place with a slender ribbon.

"Good nephew," he called in greeting, "your return was overlong in coming. I grew weary of waiting. Our mutual friend Littlefinger proved most obstinate—he refused even to let me glimpse these fabled dragon eggs."

Joffrey understood the implication behind his uncle's words.

"Hmph, he served me well in this. I am their rightful master; naturally, I cannot allow just anyone to lay eyes upon them."

Together, they entered Joffrey's chambers, the heavy oak door swinging shut behind them.

An ancient, heavy chest of snow-white cedar wood had been placed upon the most prominent stone table in the center of the hall, its metal fittings gleaming in the afternoon light streaming through the tall windows.

My dragon eggs! Joffrey thought, his heart quickening.

With careful fingers, he undid the ornate clasp and slowly lifted the lid of the chest. Beside him, Tyrion rose onto his tiptoes, eager to witness every detail of the revelation.

Nestled atop the finest velvet and brocade from the Free Cities lay three large eggs—objects of legend that both uncle and nephew had long desired to behold.

The surface of each dragon egg was covered with tiny scales that shimmered with metallic luster where the sunlight caressed them.

One was dark green, with various bronze spots scattered across its surface like fallen leaves on forest soil.

One was pale and milky white, adorned with golden stripes reminiscent of the dawn breaking through clouds.

And the last was black as the deepest night, like a midnight ocean, but swirled with vibrant crimson patterns that seemed to move when the eye did not focus directly upon them.

The patterns were as intricate as the finest glazed pottery, as perfect in shape as masterwork ceramics, and possessed a translucent quality that reminded one of the rarest glass from Myr.

"So beautiful," Tyrion breathed, fascination evident in his mismatched eyes.

His mind conjured images of the dragon bones that rested beneath the Red Keep. Black as obsidian, smooth and bright, they seemed to shimmer when illuminated by torchlight during his many explorations of the castle's depths.

Yet these dragon eggs proved even more breathtaking than the remnants of those ancient beasts.

"Joffrey," Tyrion ventured, his gaze still fixed upon the treasures, "black, green, white—which do you like the least?" A sly smile crossed his features. "That one shall be mine."

In truth, Joffrey desired the green egg least of all.

"Hmm, they all appear quite fine. They'll serve well enough as decorations for my chambers." He glanced at his uncle with feigned indifference. "You wish for one, Uncle?"

He extended his hand, palm upward. "Bring something of value to trade, and perhaps we might reach an agreement."

Tyrion shook his head with a theatrical sigh.

"Alas, what a miserly little spirit you possess."

He cast a meaningful glance toward Hanna, who stood silently beside Joffrey, then reached into his doublet to withdraw a rolled parchment sealed with plain wax.

"I've devised a rather interesting new game," he said, offering the scroll. "If Your Highness finds satisfaction in it, pray do not forget to bestow a suitable reward."

Joffrey broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, his eyes narrowing as he read its contents.

The Death of the Hand: Insufficient investigation time. Littlefinger, Varys, and Pycelle are suspected of involvement.

Intelligence: 475 secret personnel recruited. 194 of Varys's men, 289 of Littlefinger's men, and over 60,000 pieces of information about personnel in King's Landing identified.

Sleeper Agents: Stannis's personal cook, Dickon; Renly's free rider, Morry; and 26 soldiers from the King's Landing City Watch are on standby to take action.

"Can this game guarantee that I shall emerge victorious?" Joffrey asked, carefully rerolling the parchment.

Tyrion spread his hands in a gesture of uncertainty. "What game offers a certainty of victory? I can only assure Your Highness that you possess a greater probability of winning than your opponents."

Joffrey could not help but frown at this answer.

The probability of a successful assassination is not high? It seems I must make further preparations.

"Hanna," Joffrey called, then handed Tyrion another slip of paper containing his instructions. "Assist my uncle in carrying this bronze-green dragon egg back to his chambers, lest he collapse beneath its weight halfway there."

Hanna carefully lifted the dragon egg, which was nearly the size of her face, and offered Tyrion a knowing smile and nod.

"Lord Tyrion, I humbly request your guidance in the days to come."

"Easy to promise, easy to promise," Tyrion replied, sensing that matters were far from simple.

As Tyrion walked toward the door, Joffrey appeared to suddenly recall something and slapped his forehead in theatrical realization.

"Oh! I had nearly forgotten. Tomorrow, we shall enjoy a final day in the city."

He gestured vaguely northward. "After all, we depart for the North the day following. That place is freezing cold, impoverished, and dilapidated. I fear it shall offer little amusement."

Tyrion turned smoothly, offered a salute more graceful than his stature might suggest, and then disappeared around the corner of the doorway.

Joffrey returned his attention to the remaining dragon eggs.

There was no one else present now.

He gently stroked the two treasures he had retained, his eyes alight with excitement and anticipation.

The future Black Dragon Drogon, White Dragon Viserion, and the Green Dragon Rhaegal that he had just sent away with Tyrion—he could discern their common feature: three faint patterns etched into their scales.

One represented the Fire Rune, and the other two unknown markings promised a great harvest soon to be within his grasp.

Even if I cannot hatch these dragon eggs myself, Joffrey thought, as long as I possess these runes, sooner or later I shall create dragons of my own making!

Elsewhere in the Red Keep, Tyrion returned to his modest quarters.

After carefully checking that his room remained undisturbed in his absence, he unfolded the parchment Joffrey had pressed into his hand and read its contents.

Everything is to be handed over to Hanna?!

He immediately understood the meaning behind the maid's seemingly innocent greeting.

Heh, he thought bitterly, the dwarf does the work, while the woman reaps the rewards. This is a destiny I cannot escape.

As he read further, his expression grew increasingly grave. When he finished, he held the parchment to a candle flame, watching intently as it blackened and curled into ash.

Tyrion stared silently into the dancing candlelight, his thoughts turning to the final instruction on the parchment.

The first one.

He has chosen Stannis...

Chapter 23: The Little Beggar

The bustling city of King's Landing was not kind to those who had nothing.

The first day was manageable, a novelty even. The excitement of freedom—however bitter—could sustain one through sunup to sundown.

But as soon as darkness fell, the problem of shelter presented itself with cruel immediacy.

Any establishment that could be deemed decent required clean, tidy garments and a coin purse heavy with silver. Even the shabbiest inn, with its straw-stuffed mattresses crawling with vermin, demanded copper pennies.

And you had none.

Sleep on the cobblestone streets? In a vacant lot between hovels? In some shadowed corridor?

A fool's notion.

If discovered by the gold cloaks who patrolled day and night, those fellows wouldn't waste courtesy on the likes of you. Their cudgels spoke more eloquently than their tongues, and they might beat you bloody simply to avoid the tedium of dragging you to the dungeons.

Your only option was to curl up in some fetid corner of Flea Bottom, preferably finding protection by joining a beggar gang. But even there, you slept with one eye open, wary of nimble fingers and sharpened steel. People who had nothing were capable of anything—a truth as old as the city itself.

Oh, and the gods help you if you grew sick or suffered injury.

Mosquitoes, the elements, and your so-called companions could smell weakness like dogs scent fear. Then they would show you their most ferocious and sinister aspects, descending upon you like crows on a battlefield.

If you were fortunate enough to survive this first ordeal, congratulations—you might consider the luxury of finding a stable source of nourishment.

The prime begging locations were jealously guarded territories, not something a newcomer like you could simply claim. The brown bowls of porridge and hard crusts of bread distributed by septons in the name of the Seven were never enough to feed the multitudes of Flea Bottom's desperate.

Relying solely on such charity meant that within a few days, you would either grow too weak to seek the sun, or your "companions" would ensure you were buried without its warmth.

Of course, you could attempt to earn coin through labor, thereby escaping the beggar's life entirely.

Pleasant and easy occupations were beyond your reach, but working as a porter at the warehouse docks might earn you one copper star—sixteen copper pennies—for a day of breaking your back beneath others' goods.

A loaf of black bread, filled with more sawdust and gravel than wheat, cost a single copper penny.

Two loaves a day might allow a man to cling to life; four or five were necessary for someone performing the backbreaking work of a stevedore.

Sixteen copper pennies, sixteen loaves of bread. Such a meager yet somehow still unattainable sum.

But even that calculation existed only in theory.

The bastard son of a prostitute, after enduring more than a fortnight of such hardship, finally understood that reality was crueler than any tale of the seven hells.

That mockery of a trial in the throne room had cast him into a pit from which there seemed no escape.

He had lost his only support in this world.

As he'd walked out through the Red Keep's gate, he'd kept his gaze fixed upon the ground, terrified that he might accidentally glimpse his mother's face among the rows of tar-preserved heads adorning the spikes—the same heads he had once gazed upon with childish fascination.

In a stroke of fortune—or perhaps further cruelty—the gold cloaks stationed at the Red Keep's gate had returned his knife to him, taking only a single gold dragon as "payment" for their generosity.

He'd left with the blade and nothing more.

He had attempted to return to the brothel he once loathed yet could not leave, only to be thrown roughly back onto the street after barely crossing the threshold.

For two days, he'd relied upon those he'd called friends, before they too abandoned him to his fate.

Desperate, he'd wandered the city seeking honest work, but only the docks were hiring men with no references or trade. The docks it was, then; what right had he to be selective?

But he hadn't anticipated how complicated and shadowed manual labor could be.

He never received his full sixteen copper pennies for a day's toil.

First, when payment came, even if he had made no errors in his work, the foreman would deduct two copper coins, claiming it covered "wear and tear" on the equipment; if he had made a mistake, the penalty grew steeper still.

Then came the dock gangs with their scarred faces and missing fingers.

Claiming to "protect" the safety of the laborers, they demanded half his remaining earnings without negotiation. With rusted blades and calloused fists as their arguments, who would dare refuse?

At this juncture, he would typically have seven copper coins remaining—such an auspicious number.

He had named them after the Seven Gods—the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maiden, the Smith, the Crone, and the Stranger.

Fresh seafood abounded at the docks, the day's catch glistening with salt water, but such fare cost more than twice what black bread did. He could only watch with hollow-eyed envy as others purchased their suppers.

Making his way from the docks back into the city proper, the gold and saffron cloaks worn by the city gate guards gleamed like beacons of authority, and they too demanded their "respect"—always half of what remained.

What constitutes half of seven?

On his knees in the muck, he would place his forehead to the filth of the street, pleading with the desperateness of the truly hopeless.

"Have mercy, m'lord, have mercy..."

The guards sometimes laughed heartily at the spectacle, seemingly amused by his degradation, and would magnanimously permit him entry to the city with only a kick to speed his departure.

Sometimes they were less jovial, and the sword scabbards they used to prod him bit deep. On those days, they relieved him of every copper that jingled in his pockets.

Occasionally, they would jest and ask for but a single coin.

He would always offer the one he had dubbed "Stranger."

Stranger, take them away soon, he would silently pray. They do not belong in the realm of men; they should dwell in fiery lava, in all seven of the hells.

He could only console himself that at least his fate was marginally better than the lifelong beggars of Flea Bottom, with their missing limbs and festering sores.

Until a week ago...

A silver stag jingled as it rolled to a stop at his feet, and the little beggar immediately cast aside the bitter memories that had been his constant companions.

A silver stag! Worth seven copper stars! One hundred and twelve copper pennies!

"May the old gods and the new bless you! Thank you for your generosity, m'lord, you are truly a kind and noble soul!" The little beggar pressed his forehead to the street in genuine gratitude.

His mind raced with schemes to safeguard this unexpected fortune. He couldn't possibly return to Flea Bottom with a silver stag in his possession; that would be tantamount to slitting his own throat.

The man who had bestowed the silver spoke in a measured tone. "A certain lord wishes an audience with you."

The little beggar slowly raised his head, uncertainty warring with hope in his hollow eyes.

A plain-looking man of perhaps thirty namedays stood before him, with calm eyes that revealed nothing of his purpose.

In a remote alley where even rats seemed reluctant to venture, Joffrey listened as Tyrion described the selected boy's experiences over the past fortnight.

"After that encounter, the dock thugs took a fancy to the knife he carried," Tyrion explained, his mismatched eyes gleaming with a hint of admiration. "But rather unexpectedly, the lad refused to yield it. Instead, he drew the blade and put it through two of his would-be robbers."

Tyrion acknowledged the boy's courage, though he considered it rash. "He fled back within the city walls, but now no one would hire him, fearing retribution from the gangs. He's been reduced to begging these past eight days."

Joffrey nodded with satisfaction. The boy's refusal to submit was promising; a broken spirit would serve no purpose in what was to come.

A subtle scrape of boot leather against stone alerted them to approaching figures.

The unremarkable man who had first approached the beggar now led a painfully thin youth into the shadowed alley.

Joffrey observed the boy in silence, noting the hollows beneath his cheekbones and the wary intelligence in his gaze.

Tyrion assumed the role of "that lord" as planned.

"Little fellow," he began, his tone deliberately gentle, "there's no cause for alarm. There's a matter in which you might be of assistance. I wonder what you might think of such an opportunity?"

"Command me as you will, m'lord." The boy attempted an awkward bow, his gaze flicking from the dwarf lord to the taller, more richly dressed figure beside him.

The beggar's eyes widened slightly as he took in Joffrey's appearance. Priceless fabrics whose names he could not hope to know, intricate embroidery in crimson and gold that framed a face of such fine-boned beauty it made him achingly aware of his own unwashed state. At first glance, the young man was clearly highborn, powerful. But most importantly, the beggar recognized him from that day in the throne room.

In an instant, a cascade of memories flooded his mind, and his cracked lips pressed together in a thin line.

The law! Seven save us from such justice!

Tyrion, perceptive as always, sensed the boy's emotional surge.

"Do you hunger for vengeance, boy?" the dwarf asked softly. "Having lost your mother and fallen to such squalor, who do you hate most in this world?"

The beggar thought first of the disgusting brute who had so often visited his mother, but he had already ended that man with his own blade. The man's widow, perhaps? The dock gangs? The gold cloaks with their ready cudgels? The beggars who had robbed him in his sleep? The brothel that had turned him away? The fair-weather friends who had abandoned him?

He had a surfeit of candidates, but the image that finally crystallized in his mind was that of the cold-blooded lord who had stood rigid in the throne room, delivering his mother's death sentence without a flicker of emotion.

He knew the man's name well: Stannis Baratheon.

Joffrey saw the fire kindling in the boy's eyes and knew their gambit would succeed.

After a brief and decidedly unequal negotiation, Joffrey pressed his thumb to the boy's knife, attaching a solid rune mirror image to the well-worn blade. He then bestowed upon the boy additional solid runes and mirror images of fire runes, power concealed beneath humble appearances.

The silent agent who had first approached the beggar now led him away without a word, disappearing into the warren of streets beyond.

The alley returned to oppressive silence.

After staring at the empty passage for a time, Tyrion finally broke the stillness.

"Are you so confident in him?" he asked, his voice betraying a hint of unease.

Joffrey merely shrugged, the gesture elegant even in its dismissiveness.

"All I know is that he has no other path. All his rage, all his pain—it will be channeled toward our chosen target."

Tyrion fell silent, understanding the cruel logic at work.

Yes, the boy they had approached was already marked for death, regardless of the outcome. What could such a wretched creature truly accomplish?

A beggar, even if he somehow attempted to report their scheme, would find no one willing to believe his tale. If he tried to flee, how far could he possibly get? The most significant resistance he might offer would be inaction—a refusal to play his part, choosing instead to wait for death to claim him.

But would he make such a choice?

Would he relinquish the chance to strike at the greatest enemy his limited imagination could conjure?

Tyrion sighed, a sound heavy with foreknowledge of blood yet to be spilled.

Stannis, he thought, you truly are a difficult man to like.

Chapter 24: Broken Pure Iron

The whore's son knew that he possessed a force within him, something mysterious and powerful that coursed beneath his skin like liquid fire.

A blessing from the gods? Ancient magic? Forbidden witchcraft?

For four days, he had slowly mastered this strange power. He began to wonder if perhaps the Stranger might not come for him quite so soon after all.

Today, or decades hence—what did it matter, so long as vengeance was his?

He glanced at the man beside him, the only soul he had encountered these past few days. In his mind, he had given this man a name known only to himself—"Silver Stag"—for that precious coin had bought him brief respite from the cold and hunger that had been his constant companions.

Silver Stag guided him to the central square adjacent to the Alchemists' Guild, where green flames occasionally flickered behind distant windows.

"Lord Stannis will be inspecting the royal fleet in the harbor," the man explained, his voice low and measured. "He approaches from the north. The Mud Road and Fisherman's Square lie between here and the harbor—that is where you must seize your opportunity."

His pale eyes narrowed. "Rest assured, I shall be watching."

Having delivered his instructions, Silver Stag melted into the crowd like morning mist before the sun.

The boy stood motionless at the square's edge, feeling oddly abandoned.

Faces swept past him in an endless tide—men, women, children, the elderly—all oblivious to the deadly purpose that had taken root in his heart. Where among them was Stannis Baratheon?

After a time, he spotted a face gradually growing larger and more distinct as its owner approached through the throng.

A stern countenance, hard as granite, the same face that had haunted his dreams each night since his mother's execution.

He tightened his grip on the knife concealed within his sleeve, feeling the strange warmth it emanated against his skin.

Silently, he began to drift closer.

Stannis Baratheon strode forward with the rigid demeanor of a man marching to battle, his jaw clenched in perpetual disapproval.

He remained deeply dissatisfied with his royal brother's decision.

After Lord Jon's death, I should have been named Robert's Hand!

I have served diligently in the Small Council for so many years, yet he only shows love for Eddard Stark!

Indeed, how could a king who indulged in endless revelry, feasting, and women possibly favor an unsmiling, stern younger brother who never approached the fairer sex?

Stannis recognized this reality but could not reconcile himself to it.

Renly, who spent his days in idle jests and frivolous tournaments, had received Storm's End—the ancestral seat of House Baratheon—along with their elder brother's affection.

Stannis had received naught but Robert's mockery and a few volcanic rocks across the Narrow Sea.

What is Dragonstone compared to what should be mine by right?

I am the rightful heir to the Iron Throne!

Unfortunately, he alone seemed to acknowledge this truth. His only ally, Lord Jon Arryn, had been murdered before his time.

In the wake of that suspicious death, the king had almost immediately decided to journey north to Winterfell, completely disregarding him, his own blood. Naturally, Stannis found himself in a black humor.

He had resolved to distance himself from King's Landing—this hateful, shadowy, and dangerous pit of vipers.

"Ser Davos, are your preparations complete?" he asked the Onion Knight at his side, his tone as rigid as if conducting an interrogation.

Davos Seaworth, long accustomed to his lord's demeanor, replied with equanimity, "We can set sail on the morrow, my lord. All ships stand ready. Do you not wish to inspect them first?"

Stannis intended not only to depart himself but also to take most of the fleet in the harbor back to Dragonstone.

After all, he remained Master of Ships of the Seven Kingdoms, at least in name.

"Very well. Send word to Dragonstone to prepare for our arrival," Stannis commanded, his mind already arranging the pieces on the board.

He knew the Lannisters would not remain idle. Robert was likely no longer safe upon the Iron Throne, and Stannis needed to make preparations while time remained.

Dragonstone guarded the throat of Blackwater Bay, and with the fleet at his command...

The whore's son drew closer to his quarry. His fingers closed around the half-knife hidden within his sleeve, its metal unnaturally warm against his palm.

His target was deep in conversation, which presented an ideal opportunity, yet a circle of alert soldiers still surrounded the lord. He would need to find the perfect moment to strike.

"Davos, what is the condition of Blackwater Bay?" Stannis asked. "Are our supplies sufficient? How do the men respond to the prospect of voyage?"

Davos answered each question with patience, though secretly, his suspicion grew.

From his understanding of Lord Stannis, such trivial concerns rarely occupied his thoughts. These were matters his subordinates would typically manage without his direct involvement. Why such unusual interest today?

Stannis proceeded onto the Mud Road.

Though named for its proximity to the riverbank, the well-laid stones underfoot allowed large numbers of pedestrians to pass without incident.

Today, the road teemed with life, as it did each day.

Taking advantage of the crowd, the nameless assassin edged ever closer, keeping his blade low, below waist height.

The guards remained vigilant, their hands never straying far from their sword hilts.

Lord Stannis reached the more densely populated Fisherman's Square.

Here gathered the common folk of King's Landing—fishmongers with their day's catch, small vendors hawking trinkets, laborers who had just crossed the river into the city, beggars in various states of desperation, and women of negotiable virtue plying their trade for copper pennies...

Finally, a moment—one soldier became distracted by a drunkard who stumbled against him, struggling to disentangle himself from the man's flailing limbs.

The knife saw its chance!

In a heartbeat, Davos caught an unusual glint of steel and his heart plummeted to his boots.

The knife plunged toward Lord Stannis!

Only then did Davos manage to cry out, "Assassin! Protect Lord Stannis!"

The soldiers snapped to attention, drawing their longswords with a chorus of steel against leather.

But the assassin had already struck his blow and vanished into the sea of bodies around them.

"My lord! How grievously are you wounded?" Davos asked anxiously, supporting Stannis's weight.

The sturdy breastplate and chainmail beneath had been pierced like parchment. A bloody wound gaped upon the lord's chest, red spreading across the blue of his doublet!

Stannis had caught only the briefest glimpse of his attacker's face.

He struggled to recall the features—young, somewhat familiar. Who could possibly...?

Intense pain invaded his consciousness. Stannis said nothing, though cold sweat beaded upon his brow and ran in rivulets down his stern face. The soldiers formed a protective ring around him, escorting their lord back to his manse with all haste.

Stannis lay upon his bed, his upper body bare and smeared with blood.

A cluster of trusted advisors gathered before him, while guards stood at attention both within and without the chamber. The atmosphere hung heavy with dread.

By some fortune, the knife had not damaged Stannis's vital organs. It was but a flesh wound, though a deep one.

After the maester had cleansed and bandaged the injury, the lord appeared to be in tolerable condition, though his face remained paler than usual, and more rigid, if such a thing were possible.

Suddenly, recognition dawned in his eyes.

"It was a whore's bastard!" he declared, his voice harsh despite his weakened state.

Davos had not yet comprehended. "My lord, what do you mean?"

"That assassin was a whore's bastard," Stannis clarified through gritted teeth. "I saw him in the throne room. As expected, he has no respect for law or justice!"

Stannis now understood the cause of the day's misfortune.

Simply because he had executed a murderer according to the laws of the realm, this baseborn whelp had nursed a grudge and sought revenge?!

Any reasonable man should understand that law is law, Stannis thought bitterly. It cannot be bent by personal sentiment or preference, nor should its executor be held to blame.

Indeed, bastards are born of impurity and will inevitably grow into agents of chaos and wickedness!

Stannis waved his hand, signaling for all present to withdraw.

"It is nothing. Merely an ignorant thug. I am well enough."

The tension in the room eased somewhat, and the assembled men gradually departed.

Davos, however, found his unease difficult to banish.

"My lord, time is of the essence," he urged. "All preparations have been completed. Why not depart tonight? To avoid any further peril?"

"Do you believe me a coward?" Stannis asked sharply. "The itinerary remains as planned. Prepare my evening meal."

Davos could do naught but obey.

In the kitchen, some of the cooks and servants dozed against the fireplace and wooden storage crates, while others exchanged whispered gossip.

The head chef cuffed the young kitchen lads about their ears. "Lazy wretches! Bestir yourselves! Lord Stannis wishes to dine!"

The kitchen helper called Dickon received a blow despite his diligence.

He cursed the old man silently in his heart. Relying on age and seniority to treat us like dogs rather than men. Someday you'll receive your due, old fool.

Dickon's duties were numerous and thankless.

Chopping vegetables, preparing ingredients, scrubbing pots, tending fires, delivering meals, and serving the so-called senior servants who treated him little better than the dirt beneath their boots.

He had long yearned to abandon his position, and now a golden opportunity had presented itself.

Dickon glanced furtively about the kitchen. No eyes were upon him. Quietly, he withdrew a small paper packet from within his sleeve and emptied the white powder it contained into the bubbling soup.

Remembering the gleaming gold dragon that had been pressed into his palm, the last traces of hesitation and fear within his heart dissolved like salt in water.

He took a wooden spoon and stirred the venison soup several times, watching the powder disappear into the rich broth.

"My lord!"

Davos wanted nothing more than to hack the trembling kitchen boy into pieces with his gaze alone!

"Take him below!" he commanded.

Two soldiers glanced at their lord for confirmation, then roughly seized the traitor, who writhed and wept like a maggot upon a hook, dragging him from the chamber to meet his end.

"My lord," Davos insisted, "this was no accident. Someone truly wishes you harm. We must depart without delay!"

Stannis offered no further objection. Had he taken the first spoonful of soup, the one lying cold upon the floor would not have been a hapless cook tasting his master's meal, but Stannis himself.

Near midnight, Stannis led a sizeable contingent directly to the harbor. The Gold Cloaks stationed there dared not impede their progress.

A pair of eyes watched from the darkness.

Earlier that day, Silver Stag had informed the boy of his failure. Stannis yet lived, his wound insufficient to claim his life.

Silver Stag had granted him one more night. If he could not succeed before dawn, there would be no further opportunities.

After that pronouncement, the boy had never again laid eyes upon Silver Stag.

He had wandered aimlessly around Fisherman's Square, his thoughts a confused tangle of rage and despair.

Now, he observed a great procession of hundreds moving through the night. Torchlight gleamed upon armor and swords, illuminating grim, watchful faces.

Mother, he thought, that day you told me to live well. I remember.

I'm sorry.

It seems the Stranger destines me to join you after I have your vengeance!

He ceased all thought, charging headlong toward the stern face at the center of the torchlit procession.

"Be alert! Movement to the left!" a guard shouted.

In the wavering light of the torches, the knife in the boy's hand seemed to glow with an unearthly red luminescence.

Though but a scrawny youth with no martial training, the runes gifted to him lent him unnatural speed and protection.

The knights and guards struck accurately at the assailant's body, yet their blades found no purchase. The boy rushed unimpeded to Lord Stannis's side!

The enchanted knife plunged into Stannis's chest a second time, and remained there. Scorching flames poured into Stannis's heart, consuming his very soul.

The Lord of Dragonstone stared into his killer's face, recognition and disbelief warring in his eyes.

He opened his mouth weakly, exhaling a wisp of black and crimson smoke. With it went his life's breath.

Before the flames and true steel, pure iron that never yields—black and hard and unyielding to the last—Stannis Baratheon shattered.

Davos Seaworth uttered a soundless cry, his throat constricted by horror.

The assassin stood motionless, as if stunned by his own success.

Davos summoned all his strength and swung his sword with deadly intent.

The boy's body crumpled to the ground, his head rolling to one side, eyes still open and staring at nothing.

A few heartbeats later, as the whore's son's eyes turned completely gray and lifeless, far away in the Riverlands, Joffrey Baratheon's eyes snapped open...

Chapter 25: The Fifth Day Northward

Joffrey was "sparring" with Ser Jaime, though any observer with even a passing familiarity with swordplay would have called it a one-sided thrashing.

The Kingslayer seemed quite at his ease, even keeping his left hand tucked behind his back in a gesture of casual arrogance. His golden hair gleamed in the morning light, not a single strand displaced by exertion.

"Left chest," he called, then struck precisely where promised. "Right chest. Head. Neck..."

He announced each target before striking, giving Joffrey ample warning to raise his wooden practice sword in defense. Despite this courtesy, nearly half the blows still found their mark with stinging accuracy.

Obviously, were this genuine combat rather than training, the match would have concluded far more swiftly, and with considerably more blood.

Joffrey was not discouraged by his poor showing. Ser Jaime was, after all, among the most renowned knights in the Seven Kingdoms. There was no dishonor in falling before his blade—particularly for Joffrey, who remained a novice despite his royal blood.

Though the humiliation stung nearly as much as the welts rising on his skin, this sacrifice of pride was nothing compared to the necessity of remedying his deficiencies in close combat.

So this is how much a wooden sword hurts, Joffrey thought, wincing as he rolled his shoulder. Steel would be far less forgiving.

"Let us cease for today. I've had my fill of fighting," Joffrey declared, dropping his wooden sword unceremoniously and sitting directly upon the ground. His chest heaved with exertion, sweat plastering his fine linen shirt to his back.

Jaime twirled his practice blade with effortless grace before sliding it through his belt like a real sword.

"I trust you'll remember that for a true warrior, abandoning your sword signifies surrender—or more often, death," he said, his tone light but his eyes serious.

Joffrey thought his uncle merely showing off his prowess, as he was wont to do.

Jaime lowered himself to sit beside his nephew. These past days had seen Joffrey actively seeking instruction in swordsmanship, a development that had improved Jaime's estimation of the boy more than he might have thought possible.

"A sword is not some simple plaything," Jaime said, his voice dropping to ensure only Joffrey would hear his words. "Do you know how to successfully extinguish a man's life?"

He imparted his experience with the casual air of one discussing the weather. "Thrust hard into the heart, or make several passes through the belly. Removing his head is equally effective, provided your opponent isn't wearing a helm."

A half-smile played at the corner of his mouth. "Of course, should you take a man captive, you might show mercy and grant him a quick death by beheading."

Jaime observed Joffrey's reaction with undisguised interest.

"Beheading is something of an art, you know."

His finger traced a line across his own neck. "The bones of a man's neck possess remarkable strength. Only by sliding your blade smoothly through the gap in the center of the vertebrae—a space narrower than half your smallest fingernail—can you remove the head cleanly."

His voice took on a note of professional distaste. "Should you fail, the result is... unseemly. You might spend an age hacking away, as if attempting to fell a tree with a dull axe. No one wishes to witness such a spectacle—least of all the poor wretch beneath the blade."

Joffrey listened attentively to his uncle's instruction, his face betraying neither excitement nor revulsion.

He understood perfectly what Jaime described.

The weakest part of the spine is the intervertebral disc connecting adjacent vertebrae, Joffrey thought clinically. A soft tissue structure naturally less resilient than bone.

He recalled his anatomical knowledge with precision.

The cervical spine contains seven vertebrae, but there exists no intervertebral disc between the first and second vertebrae. Thus, there are five discs in total within the neck.

To behead a man cleanly, one must find these five lines of weakness.

His thoughts drifted to the peculiar sensation he had experienced the previous night. Was the bastard likewise beheaded?

He had known he would perceive the boy's death the moment it occurred.

The mirror rune possessed a broad range of applications. It could not only detect the existence of other rune mirrors but also control them and sense their destruction.

Once the host perished, the rune mirror would naturally dissolve with them.

Yet beyond merely sensing the boy's demise, Joffrey had received a surge of abundant energy—familiar runic power, more than triple what had been required to create the two rune mirrors he had gifted to the bastard.

Though the growth rate of runic energy within a mirror matched that within the primary rune body, four days would not have sufficed to accumulate such a quantity of power.

Could runic energy truly be connected to a person's soul? he wondered.

Joffrey sensed he had discovered a vulnerability to exploit: bestow rune mirrors upon others, then harvest them at regular intervals.

The more runic energy expended, the more "crops" would grow; The more abundant these living vessels, the greater runic energy would be reaped; The greater the harvest, the less one need invest initially.

Which meant: the more runic energy spent, the less runic energy spent in the long term.

He examined the thirty-three units of runic energy in his metaphysical ledger, and the corners of his mouth curled upward in satisfaction.

Over recent days, he had meditated upon the mysterious patterns adorning the dragon egg, successfully divining the growth rune and the contract rune.

As its name suggested, the growth rune allowed its bearer to transcend the natural limitations of physical development and lifespan—likely explaining how dragons could continue to increase in size throughout their lives.

The contract rune remained somewhat inscrutable. All he presently understood was its capacity to forge a mysterious connection between two creatures, enabling them to sense one another across great distances.

Dragon and dragonrider? he speculated.

He had also discerned the ceiling of runic energy generation—five units per day.

Though he now possessed six distinct runes, the daily accumulation of runic energy remained unchanged despite the appearance of the sixth.

Five units daily was certainly sufficient for his personal use, but woefully inadequate if he wished to build a force of any significance.

In the foreseeable future, he would require vast quantities of runic energy, as much as could be obtained.

It appeared that harvesting these living vessels—these "leeks," as he thought of them—might prove a necessary strategy.

Sandor Clegane approached where uncle and nephew sat.

"Ser Jaime. Your Highness," the Hound rasped, "the lion has fully recovered."

Joffrey rose to his feet with undisguised eagerness.

"Let us conclude today's lesson, Uncle Jaime."

Swordplay could wait.

He could not, however, delay his attempts to tame the magnificent beast that awaited him.

Within a cage even more substantial and spacious than the one that had confined it in King's Landing, the giant lion regarded all who passed with piercing golden eyes.

There was little doubt that should the steel bars vanish, the beast would waste no time in rending apart the noisy creatures that gawked before it.

Joffrey stood directly before the cage, studying his prize.

The arrow wounds that had marred the lion's body had vanished without trace. Its fur gleamed with health and vitality, its eyes as bright and alert as a hunter surveying its domain.

Though he had observed the creature many times since its capture, Joffrey could not help but marvel at its sheer size.

He suspected the beast weighed more than a ton or two—as large as many warhorses, yet far more deadly.

If a mere lion could command such presence, he could scarcely imagine the awe a fully-grown dragon might inspire.

Little wonder the Seven Kingdoms had once knelt before the Targaryens without resistance.

The thought kindled fresh longing for his dragon eggs.

Could the eggs truly be hatched only by those of Valyrian blood? he wondered. Was it some form of blood magic, perhaps? Some hereditary trait passed through generations? Or had the dragonlords simply mastered the precise conditions required for successful hatching?

A thunderous roar interrupted his musings. The air disturbed by the lion's breath ruffled Joffrey's golden hair like a warm wind.

"You lack manners," he chided the beast. "See how you drool."

He extended his hand through the bars to pat the creature's massive head.

The giant lion shook its mane violently, snapping at Joffrey's retreating fingers with fearsome teeth that crashed against the steel bars. The dozens of iron chains binding its body rattled in protest, the entire cage trembling with the force of its movement.

The Hound stepped forward, hand moving to his sword hilt.

"Your Highness, this beast remains too savage. Caution would be prudent."

Joffrey drew Dragonflame from its scabbard without hesitation, extending the blade's tip through the bars and directly into the lion's gaping maw.

"If your power matches your pride, take a bite of this," he challenged.

Dragonflame's inherent fire magic radiated heat sufficient for even the fire-blessed lion to perceive. The sword's legendary sharpness and durability required no explanation.

The giant lion turned its head away, seemingly unwilling to test itself against the ancient weapon.

"Sandor, come and hold Dragonflame for me," Joffrey commanded.

He moved to the opposite side of the cage and pressed his hand against the lion's muscular hind leg. Perhaps reluctant to risk injury from the sharp blade hovering near its head, the beast remained still, ignoring Joffrey's touch.

With a moment's concentration, Joffrey successfully integrated a fire rune mirror into the giant lion's flesh.

He waited with anticipation to observe the outcome.

The giant lion already possessed a natural fire rune. How would the two magical patterns interact?

He felt it immediately—the power of the fire rune mirror suddenly intensified several-fold. Have they merged? he wondered.

Yet he retained complete control over this enhanced mirror.

Joffrey smiled with undisguised smugness. Little lion, you cannot escape my grasp now.

Be good, he commanded silently.

Be obedient.

Let me ride.