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...
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