Disclaimer: I own nothing but my original characters and works; all other characters and worlds belong to their respective owners (in this case, George R.R. Martin). Enjoy.
Song of The Blessed
Chapter 03 – A Day in the Capital
~ Varys POV ~
A slight tremor could be seen going through Varys’s powdered fingertips. The spider sat in the heart of his web, a windowless chamber deep in the guts of the Red Keep where the only light was the buttery glow of a single candle. The air was still, heavy with the scent of old parchment and the cloying sweetness of his perfume. Before him, perched on a low stool, was one of his little birds. This one was no older than six, her face a pale smudge of dirt, her eyes as old as the city’s walls. She did not speak. She simply offered him a piece of paper.
“A ship from Pentos arrives tomorrow, carrying more than just spices for the Master of Coin.”
It seems his friend across the Narrow Sea was echoing what Varys’s own little birds, the ones who scrubbed floors and emptied chamber pots, had heard whispers about. But a different thought dominated his mind.
Whispers of the Prince’s return, of his godlike charisma at the feast. They spoke of how he had moved through the Great Hall not as a guest, but as a master returning to his estate, his every word a command, every glance a judgment. They recounted how Lady Tanda had all but offered up her daughter and niece on a platter, how the widowed Lady Hayford had looked upon him with the desperation of a zealot finding her god.
And they had spoken of Serra of Myr. The exotic courtesan, a beautiful and clever player in her own right, had been seen speaking with the prince in her native tongue. Their exchange was brief, intense, and ended with a look of profound understanding. A few hours later, Serra had been one of the four women discreetly summoned to the prince’s chambers in the Tower of the Hand.
Well, if his goal was to be discreet, the prince should have moved to a chamber with much quieter walls.
Varys placed a candied plum into the little bird’s waiting palm. She took it without a word, her small fingers closing around it, and melted back into the shadows of the secret passage from which she had come. He was alone again with the whispers.
He steepled his fingers, the rings on them cool against his skin. He had, of course, been present at the Small Council meeting. He had witnessed the prince’s absolute dismantling of Lord Baelish. At the time, it had seemed like a shocking display of prodigious intellect. A boy of eighteen, fresh from the provinces, quoting a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old Targaryen maritime accord to outmanoeuvre the most cunning financial mind in the Seven Kingdoms. It was astonishing. Unprecedented.
But now, with the little bird’s whisper echoing in the silence, it was something else entirely. It was terrifying.
“…more than just spices for the Master of Coin…”
The whisper was the key. Draedon hadn't simply recalled an obscure piece of legal history. He had known, specifically, that Baelish’s deal with Lord Redwyne was corrupt. He had known that Littlefinger had a vested interest in the longer, more expensive sea route.
This was not the work of a prodigy. This was the work of a spymaster.
A chill, alien to the damp warmth of his chambers, traced its way down Varys’s spine. He had spent decades building his network, his web of whispers that stretched from the shivering walls of the North to the sun-scorched alleys of Dorne. He was the Spider, the weaver of secrets, the silent manipulator of the Great Game. His web was his life’s work, a delicate, deadly thing of his own design, meant to cradle the realm until the true king returned.
Now, he felt a tremor in the silk. It was a deep, resonant vibration, the tread of something heavy and powerful moving through his domain. A new predator had entered the web, and it did not play by the established rules. It moved with a purpose he could not discern, guided by a knowledge he could not fathom. Tywin Lannister was a ruthless and brilliant man, but he was a known quantity. His ambitions were as vast and as solid as Casterly Rock itself. Robert Baratheon was a storm, loud and violent but ultimately predictable, his passions his weakness.
But Prince Draedon… he was something else. The strength of the Baratheons, the cunning of the Lannisters, and something more. Something ancient and alien. The reports from the feast spoke of a charisma that bordered on the supernatural, a force of personality that bent proud lords and wary ladies to his will as if they were reeds in a current.
For the first time since he had been cut, Varys felt a profound and unsettling fear. His own plans, so carefully laid, so patiently nurtured, seemed suddenly fragile. He had always accounted for the players on the board—the lions, the wolves, the stags, the vipers, and even the dragons. He had never accounted for a lion wearing a stag’s skin.
He rose, his silk slippers whispering over the stone floor. He moved to a shadowed corner of the room where a heavy tapestry depicted the Doom of Valyria. Pulling it aside, he revealed a section of plain wall. He pressed a sequence of stones, and a panel slid open with a soft grinding sound.
Another little bird was waiting in the darkness, this one even smaller than the last.
“The Prince,” Varys murmured, his voice barely a breath. “Make sure to never leave the shadows. I wish to know what his aims and goals are. What does he wish to do with the power in his hands. Is he a hedonistic warrior like his father, or a ruthless dictator like Tywin Lannister, or something new. Something the realm might need.”
The child nodded once and was gone.
Varys let the tapestry fall back into place; his little bird deployed behind the most important target in this game. The web had trembled. Now, the Spider had to discover if the one who had wobbled it was a boon, or the biggest curse this realm would ever know.
~ Cersei POV ~
The morning sun streamed into the Queen’s solar, a cheerful, golden light that did little to warm the chill in the room. It was a beautiful chamber, all Myrrish carpets and airy balconies overlooking the Blackwater, but the atmosphere was as sour as curdled milk. Cersei Lannister picked at a blood orange, the sharp, sweet scent doing nothing to soothe the knot in her stomach. Across the polished mahogany table, her children were a portrait of dysfunction.
Myrcella, a sweet and gentle girl, was trying to coax Tommen into eating. Her youngest son, soft and pliable, was on the verge of tears, his lower lip trembling. The source of his distress, as it so often was, sat beside him. Joffrey, his golden curls a perfect mirror of her Jaime, was methodically tormenting his younger brother. He had taken Tommen’s favourite jam tart and was now pushing it to the edge of the table, just beyond the younger boy’s reach, a smirk of casual cruelty on his pretty face.
“Do you want it?” Joffrey taunted, his voice a high, unpleasant whine. “You’ll have to be faster than that. Perhaps if you squealed for it, I might give you a bite.”
“Joffrey, leave him be,” Myrcella pleaded, her voice soft.
“Be quiet,” Joffrey snapped, not even looking at her. “This is between me and the future Lord of the Cats of King's Landing.”
Cersei sighed, a long, weary sound. She should intervene. She knew she should. But a part of her, the part that saw her Lannister roots in Joffrey’s casual disdain for weakness, was grimly satisfied. The world would try to devour a soft boy like Tommen. Perhaps Joffrey’s cruelty was a form of education, a sharpening stone to harden him for the world. Still, it was getting tiring.
“Joffrey,” she began, her tone laced with warning, “that is enough.”
Her words had no effect. Joffrey simply laughed, a thin, grating sound, and flicked the tart with his finger, sending it tumbling onto the floor. Tommen let out a sob, fat tears finally rolling down his plump cheeks.
It was at that moment the doors to the solar opened, and Draedon entered.
He was dressed in a simple black tunic and breeches, the stark colour making his presence seem even larger, more absolute. He moved with a silence that was unnerving in a man his size. The room seemed to shrink around him. His gaze took in the scene in an instant: Tommen weeping, Myrcella distressed, Joffrey smirking triumphantly, and the ruined tart on the floor.
He did not raise his voice. He did not look at Cersei. His eyes, a piercing blue that held no warmth, settled on Joffrey.
“Pick it up,” Draedon said. His voice was quiet, a low baritone that cut through the morning air like a shard of ice.
Joffrey’s smirk faltered. He looked from Draedon to the tart on the floor, a flicker of defiance in his eyes. “It’s ruined. Let the servants get it.”
“I did not speak to the servants,” Draedon said, his voice dropping even lower, becoming something that wasn’t merely quiet, but dangerously still. “I spoke to you. Pick. It. Up.”
He took a step forward. He was not fast, not aggressive, but the deliberate motion was filled with an implicit threat that was more terrifying than any roar. Joffrey, for all his bluster, was a creature of instinct. He knew a predator when he saw one. He paled, the colour draining from his face, leaving it pasty and blotched.
“He is my brother. I can do as I wish,” Joffrey stammered, falling back on the only defence he knew: his status.
Draedon was beside him now, looming over him like a thunderhead. He reached out, not to strike Joffrey, but to pick up the silver knife next to Joffrey’s plate. With a flick of his wrist so fast it was almost a blur, he pinned the ruined tart to the floorboards with the tip of the blade. The thunk of the knife biting into the wood was the only sound in the room. It was buried to the hilt, quivering slightly, a mere inch from Joffrey’s velvet covered foot.
Joffrey squealed and scrambled back in his chair, his eyes wide with terror. Cersei stood up, her eyes wide at how out of hand everything had gone.
Draedon leaned down, his face close to his younger brother’s. “Our blood gives us the privilege of rule,” he whispered, his voice a venomous silk that was for Joffrey’s ears alone, yet Cersei could hear every chilling syllable. “It does not give you the privilege of being a vicious little cunt to those who share it. Tommen is a young boy, yet he is a prince. Myrcella is a princess and a lioness. You will treat them as such. You will protect them. If you cannot, then you are not a lion. You are merely a yapping stray. And I,” he paused, letting the weight of his words settle, “do not suffer strays in my house.”
He straightened up, leaving the knife embedded in the floor as a monument to the lesson. He walked over to Tommen, who was staring at him with wide, tear-filled, worshipful eyes. Draedon knelt, his large frame seeming to envelop the small boy. He gently wiped the tears from Tommen’s cheeks with his thumb.
“There are more tarts, little brother,” he said, his voice now impossibly gentle. “A prince should not cry over such things.” He then looked to Myrcella, offering her a small, reassuring smile that made her blush. “A princess should not have to fight her own battles at the breakfast table. I am here now. You need only ask.”
He rose and took his seat next to Cersei as if nothing had happened. A servant, white-faced and trembling, scurried forward to retrieve the knife. Joffrey sat frozen in his chair, his face a mask of humiliation and stark terror. He did not speak again for the rest of the meal. He didn’t even move.
"You need to have a tighter leash on him, mother," Draedon whispered to her, even as he smiled at Tommen who was handed an entire plate of tarts by the servants at Draedon's gesture. "He is problematic, and grandfather agrees. Straighten him out, before I do it myself."
Cersei watched her eldest son, her heart a hammering drum against her ribs. She felt a surge of dizzying, ferocious pride.
This was her son.
This was the king she had always dreamed of creating.
He had the Lannister mind and discipline, Robert’s strength, and something more, something entirely his own. He had done what she had never been able to do, or rather she had never tried to do: he had broken Joffrey’s pride. He had dominated him completely, not with a drunken blow, but with cold, precise, absolute authority.
And yet, a sliver of ice had embedded itself in her heart. The coldness in his eyes as he’d looked at Joffrey… it was the same coldness her father turned on his enemies. It was the coldness of a man who saw others not as people, but as pieces to be moved, used, or discarded. She had looked at him and seen a protector for Myrcella and Tommen. She had seen the perfect prince, the true lion.
But she had also seen a power that answered to no one, not even to her. She had wished for a true lion to protect her cubs, and the gods, in their cruel irony, had sent her one. She could only pray he would never turn his claws on her.
As Draedon began to speak softly with Myrcella about her lessons, drawing a shy, happy smile from the girl, Cersei felt a tremor of fear mixed with her pride. Her son had come home. But the boy she had sent away twelve years ago was gone, and in his place sat a king, a conqueror, a force of nature she had unleashed upon the world. And she did not know if she would ever be able to control him.
~ Dreadon's POV ~
For a week, a low, persistent hum had resonated at the edge of Draedon’s hearing. It was a sound no one else could perceive, a deep, subterranean thrum that spoke of weight and pressure and immense, sleeping value. It was a gift from Hades, the lord of the underworld, a siren song of the earth’s hidden wealth.
He followed the sensation deep into the bowels of the Red Keep, past the dungeons and the black cells, into tunnels even the castle stewards had forgotten. He was accompanied by Ser Addam Marbrand of the Westerlands and Ser Ronnet Connington of the Stormlands, the two most trusted knights of his personal retinue. They were loyal to him, not to his father or his grandfather. They were his men.
“Your Grace,” Ser Addam said, holding his torch high, its light dancing off the damp stone walls. “What is it we’re looking for? I doubt even the stewards remember these corners of the Red Keep exist.”
“A paranoid bastard like Maegor created the Red Keep, hidden chambers and tunnels are the very foundation of this place,” Draedon replied, his hand trailing along the wall, feeling the vibrations in the stone. The hum was stronger here, a palpable thrum that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. “He built secrets into this castle. We’re here to collect one.”
He stopped before a section of wall that looked identical to the rest, but to him, the hum was almost a roar. It sang of gold. Pure, rich, and untouched by mortal hands for centuries.
“Here,” he said, rapping his knuckles against the stone. It rang with a hollow sound. “Behind this.”
Ser Ronnet, a man of immense strength, hefted a sledgehammer they had brought. “A false wall? You’re certain, my prince?”
“As certain as I am that the sun will rise,” Draedon said, holding his hand out. “Let's break it down.”
With a grunt, Ser Ronnet passed the hammer to the prince. With an ease that should be alien to the masses, the prince swung the sledgehammer at the wall. The impact echoed through the tunnel like a thunderclap. The stone cracked. He swung again, and again. Dust filled the air, choking them. After half a dozen blows, a section of the wall caved, revealing a dark cavity beyond.
Draedon took a torch from Ser Addam and stepped through the breach, his mouth covered to avoid the dust that had been kicked up into the air. The air inside was ancient and still. The torchlight fell upon a sight that made all three men stop dead.
They were in a natural cavern, expanded and shaped by hand. And running through the centre of it, a thick, glittering band in the rock, was a vein of gold so massive and pure it seemed to weep liquid light. It was a king’s ransom ten times over, a river of wealth that flowed directly beneath the Iron Throne.
“By the Seven…” Ser Addam whispered, his voice filled with awe.
“Hades sends his regards,” Draedon murmured to himself. With this, he would be beholden to no one. He could fund armies, build fleets, bribe lords—all without touching a single coin from the Royal Treasury or Casterly Rock. He was his own power, forged in the heart of the earth.
But there was more. The hum had a second, sharper note, a clear, high tone that sang of something far rarer than gold. He followed it to the back of the cavern, to a simple stone plinth. Embedded in it was a weapon unlike anything he had ever seen. A sharp axe formed one half of it, the other was similar to his father's warhammer.
He picked it up. Even in the flickering torchlight, there was no mistaking the distinctive, smoky, dark ripples of Valyrian steel. The axe-hammer was light, perfectly balanced, its edge impossibly sharp. It felt alive in his hand.
“Is it Valyrian Steel?" Ser Addam breathed, his eyes wide. “It can’t be.”
“Something forgotten it seems,” Draedon said, examining the handle. It too was made of Valyrian Steel, yet it lacked any markings indicating its House. “Blackfyre was lost across the Narrow Sea. Dark Sister was last recorded to be wielded by Bloodraven. This is something else. Something left behind by the Targaryens that even history forgot to record.”
He could feel the history in the blade, the whispers of fire and blood. A weapon of kings, hidden and forgotten. Now to be wielded by him and him alone.
“Seal the entrance when we leave,” Draedon commanded, his voice ringing with authority. “Not a word of this to anyone. This cavern, and everything in it, belongs to me now. We will begin extracting the gold in secret, with men loyal only to us.”
Ser Addam and Ser Ronnet bowed their heads, their expressions a mixture of awe and fear. They had followed a prince into the dark. They were now following a king.
~ Jaime POV ~
The training yard was a theatre of fools, and he was its weary star. The sun beat down, a golden hammer on his golden plate, and Ser Boros Blount moved with all the grace of a pregnant sow on ice. A flick of the wrist, almost an afterthought, sent the man’s sword skittering across the cobblestones. Gods, it was tedious. The whispers about his nephew had been a mild diversion, at least.
‘A mind like a steel trap,’ they said. ‘A tongue that could cut a man to ribbons.’ He’d believed it. The boy was his sister’s son, after all.
But a warrior? He had never heard anything about Robert's boy being decent with the blood.
“A bit slow this morning, Ser Boros,” he quipped, the bored smirk a familiar mask. “Perhaps you should trade your sword for a tart. Less likely to hurt yourself.”
“Perhaps you should find a partner who offers more of a challenge, Uncle.”
The voice cut through the yard like an arrow. Every eye turned. And there he was. Draedon. Clad in simple black leather that complimented his dark hair. No fanfare, no heralds, and yet the yard fell into a silence so profound it was almost worshipful. A blunted longsword was held loosely in one hand.
His smirk widened, a genuine thing this time, laced with the cruel delight of a cat finding a particularly bold mouse. “Nephew. Seeking a lesson in humility so soon?”
“Seeking a decent spar,” the boy corrected, his voice a low timbre that vibrated through the sudden quiet. “Something I hear is in short supply within the Kingsguard these days.”
The little shit. The challenge hung in the air, a public gauntlet thrown at his feet. He could feel Cersei’s eyes on him from the balcony above, her presence a familiar heat against his skin. Then he heard Robert’s booming laugh from the stands. Of course, the fat king was here, wine in hand, grinning like a butcher at a hog-killing.
“Very well,” he beckoned him forward, the condescension dripping from his tone. “Let’s see what my father's 'discipline' has taught you.”
They met in the centre of the yard, circling. The boy was relaxed, too relaxed. A flicker of annoyance went through him. He would correct that. He would show him the brutal reality that separated legends from whispers.
He struck. It was the dance he knew better than any lover’s embrace, a blur of golden steel, a symphony of feints and thrusts designed to overwhelm, to dazzle, to destroy. The crowd would see a master at work, the Kingslayer in his deadly element.
But the boy… the boy saw something else. The world seemed to slow, the air growing thick and heavy. Each blindingly fast strike was met not with a frantic defence, but with a level of technical brilliance that was a profound insult to a warrior of his renown.
Clang. A simple, elegant parry.
Clang. A slight shift of weight, the sword turning his thrust aside as if it were a child’s toy.
Clang. His legendary speed, the thing of songs and nightmares, was rendered into a predictable, clumsy sequence. The boy’s eyes, a mix of Baratheon blue and the Lannister cunning, held no fear, only a placid, analytical calm.
He broke away, his chest heaving with exertion that had nothing to do with fatigue and everything to do with a rising tide of disbelief. “You’re quick.”
“And you’re telegraphing your intentions,” Draedon replied, his voice still unnervingly serene. “That little wrist-flick you favour? You’re putting too much weight on your leading foot.”
Rage, pure and hot, flooded his veins. The banter was gone, replaced by a primal need to break this impossible child. Finesse was forgotten; he lunged, bringing his sword down in a two-handed blow meant to shatter the boy’s guard, his bones, his insolent calm.
Draedon did not parry. He met the blow head-on.
The impact was a cataclysm. A deafening shriek of steel that vibrated through his very soul. His blade stopped dead, as if it had struck the Wall itself. A shockwave of impossible force shot up his arms, a white-hot agony that stole the breath from his lungs and numbed him to the shoulder. His eyes widened. No man possessed such strength. Not even Robert.
He no longer felt like the aggressor. The boy became a whirlwind of black leather and brutal steel, a storm of inhuman force. Each blow he managed to parry sent a jarring, bone-deep shock through his body, forcing him back, step by agonizing step. His shield arm screamed, his sword felt like lead, his perfect form was shattered into a desperate scramble for survival. This was not a spar. It was a dismantling.
He saw a flicker of an opening, a desperate gamble, and threw himself into the spinning disarm that had won him fame and fortune. It was his signature, a thing of lethal beauty. But the boy was already there, as if he had seen the thought form in his mind. He sidestepped the spin, and a hand shot out, fingers locking around his sword wrist.
The pressure was absolute. A bear’s grip he felt. He cried out, a raw, guttural sound, as the bones in his wrist ground together, threatening to turn to powder. The pain was a blinding white light, and through it, he saw the flat of Draedon’s blade come to rest against his throat.
The world was utterly silent, save for the frantic drumming of his own heart. He, Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, the second greatest warrior on the Kingsguard, was defeated. Broken in the heart of the Red Keep before the entire court.
Draedon released him. He stumbled back, clutching his wrist, his face a mask of pain and ruinous humiliation. He stared at the boy—no, not a boy—and saw not his nephew, but something elemental and vast.
A single sound broke the silence. The King’s roar of approval.
“THAT’S MY SON!” Robert bellowed, so loud the very stones seemed to vibrate, though was it because of his voice or because the fat king was now barrelling towards his son, his arms outstretched. “THAT’S MY BOY! A TRUE CHAMPION!”
The yard exploded. The cheers were a physical blow, a deafening wave of adoration for the one who had just undone him. He looked up at Cersei. She was not looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on her son, her face alight with a fierce, possessive pride that twisted the knife in his gut. His gaze met Draedon’s. The arrogance was gone. In its place was a primal, gut-wrenching awe. A terrified respect.
The legend of Jaime Lannister had been unwritten in less than five minutes. A new one had just been brutally carved into the stone of King's Landing, and he had been made its first sacrifice.
Author’s Notes
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