Chapter 2: The Iron Throne and the Dragon

Time passed as slowly as sap in winter.

The midday sun filtered through the dense canopy of the Kingswood, casting countless dappled shadows upon the forest floor. Motes of dust danced in the golden shafts of light that pierced the green gloom.

The unlikely pair made their way to a high ridge within the Kingswood, where the trees thinned enough to offer a view beyond their wooden realm.

Looking northward, they could vaguely make out fishing boats dotting the Blackwater Rush, small as water insects from this distance. The river glinted like hammered silver beneath the summer sun.

Breathing in the untamed air and seeing the distant signs of civilization, Joffrey felt a strange emotion rise unbidden in his heart. This is what kings feel, he thought. The weight and wonder of it all.

Power and influence were indeed as alluring as the songs claimed.

Here before me lie the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros—the North with its ancient forests, the Riverlands with their bounty, the Vale with its mountains of blue and white, the Westerlands with their mines of gold, the Reach with its fields of plenty, the Stormlands with their proud cliffs, and Dorne with its desert heat. All shall be my kingdom.

Tyrion finally broke the silence that had settled between them.

"Considering carefully all you've shared, I find I must believe at least some part of it to be true." The dwarf's tone was measured, his mismatched eyes calculating.

Though it sounds like madness from a mummer's tale, there must be truth here. Otherwise, how would he know of Tysha, and how has he suddenly grown so cunning when before he was scarcely more clever than Moon Boy?

"Have the gods truly bestowed a miracle upon us?" Tyrion mused aloud. "Could it be that they harbor mercy for the world after all?"

Joffrey smiled enigmatically.

If the gods are merely a comforting notion rather than flesh-and-blood entities, then this might indeed be considered a miracle. But mercy for the world...

He could only reflect that if they truly wished to save all living beings, he would hardly be their champion of choice.

"Blessed by the Seven, I have fully awakened," Joffrey declared, his voice ringing clear in the woodland quiet. "Reborn from the ashes of my former self."

That's right—I am the chosen one!

"In days past, I failed to fulfill my duty as Crown Prince and committed countless foolish acts," he continued, his voice dropping to a more solemn register. "I ask not for forgiveness, but merely for the chance to make amends."

"The gods are merciful, offering me this opportunity to right what once was wrong."

Looking at the distant figures gliding across the river, he clenched his fist with genuine emotion.

"Since I have been granted visions of the tragic darkness that awaits, there must be purpose behind it."

"And I have found the answer."

"The end is coming, Uncle. I must shoulder this burden, protecting the lives and liberties of the people of the Seven Kingdoms—nay, the entire world. Such a sacred and solemn duty cannot be refused!"

"This is no jest or idle fancy."

He turned to look directly at Tyrion, green eyes hard as the emeralds of Casterly Rock.

"Beyond the wars, the hunger, and the slaughter that I have witnessed lies a deeper despair."

"The Long Night approaches once more, and the whole world shall be sacrificed to ancient and evil gods!"

Indeed, he thought grimly. Compared to the Long Night and the end of all things, these games of thrones and crown are as children playing with wooden swords.

"After the final chaos, the light shall falter, the fires shall die, all things shall wither, and darkness and bitter cold shall devour everything that lives and breathes."

"That is the forgotten past, and yet it is also our imminent future!"

"Therefore," he said, clasping Tyrion's shoulder firmly, his eyes as unyielding as Valyrian steel.

"I sought you first, Uncle Tyrion. The realm needs your wisdom—and so does the world."

"Join with me."

"Every man and woman of ability must stand united, fight for the light, and save the people of this world from both ice and fire."

Joffrey raised his fist with unexpected fervor.

"May the gods, old and new, protect us all!"

"The Long Night shall end, and light shall surely shine upon the world once more!"

"The 'Illuminati' that shall save the world, born here between us, shall bloom with a thousand flowers and bear the sweetest fruit."

The title of King of Westeros is sufficient to command this continent, Joffrey calculated, but to govern the whole of the known world requires an organization with broader significance.

The name "Illuminati" carried pleasing connotations of enlightenment and salvation.

"Join us," he repeated.

"As the Illuminati is newly formed, you shall be its First Councilor. This is an honor beyond measure, but also a grave responsibility."

"If we work diligently to gather those of noble purpose and keen mind, the Illuminati shall soon become a sanctuary for the worthy."

"All shall be the closest of friends and brothers. From this day forward, we shall share the same fate and aid one another, striving for the survival of all mankind!"

"What say you?!"

Tyrion observed Joffrey's performance in contemplative silence.

Passionate and righteous indeed, he thought.

It seems genuine enough. Perhaps Joffrey might yet become a worthy king.

He scarce knew whether to laugh or weep at the prospect.

Yet regardless of the prince's sincerity, a Joffrey with wits sharper than a Braavosi blade could prove a valuable ally.

Tyrion exclaimed with convincing enthusiasm: "I can scarcely believe it—the Long Night, the end of the world, actually exists?"

Is it truly so? Even if his visions are genuine, it doesn't follow that every word from his mouth must be truth.

"To dedicate oneself to saving the world... why, the very thought quickens the blood!"

Both men recognized the veiled intentions behind each other's words.

In truth, when Tyrion had expressed his agreement earlier, the two had already sealed their alliance.

Since that matter is settled, why continue this mummer's farce?

Even Tyrion could not provide a definitive answer to this question.

Perhaps it simply made for a better appearance?

Or was it to test whether the other's skills at deception were sufficient? For players in this game, such talents were essential.

Tyrion wisely chose not to pursue the matter.

Instead, he continued to follow the ritual and complete this ancient dance.

"I join you," he declared.

"Joffrey, First of His Name, the God-chosen King, Lord of the Illuminati—I am yours."

Tyrion knelt with surprising formality, one knee pressed against the leaf-strewn ground.

"What are your commands, my lord? I hope to have the honor of serving your purpose."

Joffrey stepped forward and helped Tyrion to his feet, the dwarf's legs cramped from their woodland trek.

"What talk is this of kings and commands? Between friends, we aid each other freely."

Tyrion waited expectantly for what must surely follow.

"There is a small matter," Joffrey said, holding his thumb and forefinger apart, "Just this trifling thing."

"Speak plainly, Your Grace."

"Illyrio Mopatis, a magister of Pentos, one of the Free Cities across the Narrow Sea. Does the name stir any memory?"

"If my recollection serves, Pentos has dozens of magisters," Tyrion replied. I know nothing of this particular cheese merchant.

"Indeed, your memory is as sharp as your tongue, Uncle."

"Simply put, this Illyrio possesses three dragon eggs—one black as midnight, one deep green as the Summer Sea, and one pale as fresh cream. I want them all."

Joffrey had finally revealed the true purpose behind this woodland meeting.

At this moment in time, Daenerys Targaryen had not yet been wed to Khal Drogo. The dragon eggs remained in the possession of the corpulent magister, and none alive knew that these stone relics might one day hatch.

Dragons forged the Iron Throne, Joffrey thought, and dragons shall preserve it.

He was determined to claim them as his own.

Tyrion's brow furrowed in confusion. "And?" Why not simply ask Queen Cersei for gold enough to buy them?

Joffrey continued his explanation.

"These dragon eggs are of the utmost importance. The difficulty lies in the fact that Varys conspires with this magister, and the Dragon's 'Beggar King' and his sister currently shelter beneath Illyrio's roof."

Varys in league with a Pentoshi magister? The Dragon's exiled prince and princess?! Tyrion's surprise was genuine.

"You and I both understand that we must avoid alerting the Spider to our intentions."

Once Varys, that master of whispers, began to move against them, even Lord Tywin Lannister would find himself in peril. Joffrey had no desire to test whether his own life could withstand such opposition.

"Should Varys grow suspicious, many paths will close to us forever."

"Therefore," Joffrey concluded, "the architect of this venture must appear to be you alone. And I shall play the part of a foolish princeling, unknowingly manipulated to serve your ends."

Tyrion finally grasped the scheme.

"I see. Somehow I have learned of these three dragon eggs through channels unknown, but lack the means to acquire them myself. Thus, I have cleverly convinced you to employ the wealth and influence of House Baratheon to seize the eggs on my behalf. Is that the tale we shall tell?"

Joffrey nodded with unmistakable approval.

"Varys knows of your fascination with dragons and respects your cunning more than you realize. Only thus will they remain unsuspicious of my true intent."

And should suspicion fall upon us regardless, Tyrion stands before me as shield and sacrifice—a much safer arrangement.

Tyrion regarded Joffrey with a sardonic smile.

"Yes, most excellent. All the consequences shall fall upon my shoulders, while you need only stamp your royal foot and demand dragon eggs like a child might beg for sweets. It's perfectly devised."

Alliances with clever men benefit both parties, Joffrey reminded himself.

Joffrey affected an innocent expression. "A simple performance in the Red Keep will earn a dragon egg—what a bargain! Does my uncle find the price too steep?"

With this, Joffrey offered his reward.

A dragon egg. Tyrion felt the pull of temptation.

Besides, he reasoned, if Joffrey is this accommodating, perhaps this is more than merely an egg for display.

Astride a dragon's back, even a dwarf might look down upon the world with justifiable pride.

Joffrey pressed his advantage, his voice low and urgent.

"Take your time in choosing which color pleases you best, but this matter brooks little delay. The longer we wait, the greater the risk."

"Let us begin when we return to the palace this very afternoon. What say you?"

Tyrion studied the handsome young prince standing before him. It seems I must reassess this boy entirely.

"Sweet nephew, what else could I possibly say?"

He sighed deeply, his breath stirring the woodland air.

"We have a bargain."