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It’s a heady feeling, to be utterly in charge. Not simply of the realm’s military forces, like a dozen members of the Line of Zod before him, but the entire realm itself.
With Zor-El’s unfortunate death, and few others within the House of Krypton able to challenge him even if they felt so inclined, it is a simple matter for Dru to take a step from Lord Protector to Lord Regent, in charge of safeguarding and managing the throne for little Princess Kara’s someday ascension.
And yet... a part of him considers that ‘someday’. The inherent, non-certainty of it. Entirely possible for Zor-El’s only child to grow up and claim her birthright when she comes of age; or, perhaps, possible that something else may, happen before then. No one’s fate could ever truly be set in stone, after all.
But perhaps, a hand might be set upon the scales, just to ever so slightly tip them one way, or the other.
Dru-Zod sits atop the Iron Throne, listening to prattling petitioners as Zor-El did for the better part of fifteen years - only paying the bare minimum of attention, of course. He needs to consider far greater matters of import than the whining of a handful of smallfolk, come to beg for tax relief, or reparation for goods, or deliberation on their petty squabbles.
The Line of Zod has directed the realm’s military might since the earliest days of the Conquest; with a little loosening of the purse strings now that he could better browbeat the Master of Coin into compliance, Dru would enshrine himself in the minds of all soldiers, solidify his standing as their leader and benefactor. Then, when the time came, with the realm’s armies under his control and showcasing their might before the Great Houses, any who dared speak out against his arrangements would swiftly be shown the error of their ways. As for Princess Kara, well. The child was only five; soon, Dru’s wife Ursa would go into her labors. If she bore him a son, then a betrothal would be announced, and Zor-El’s daughter would live to give him dragon-riding grandchildren, all the better to enshrine the legacy of Zod. And if Ursa bore a daughter... children fell ill all the time. Or simply fell, period. A pillow in the dead of night, an unexpected tumble down some tower steps... One way or another, Dru would see himself remain upon the Iron Throne, and his heirs in turn.
After all, his line carried the legacy of the greatest warriors ever to rally troops in the name of the House of Krypton. Lan-Zod, who provided the soldiers that protected all of Hatu-El and Val-Lor’s companions when they fled the Kryptonian Empire before the Doom. Vinu-Zod, the Unyielding General, without whom Tal-El never could have become the Conqueror of legend. Why shouldn’t their names be just as revered as their kin from the Line of El? Why shouldn’t Zod take the opportunities offered him, and raise the Seven Kingdoms into a proper Kryptonian Empire of their own? With a true warrior sitting the throne, leading their armies, rather than one soft-hearted, idealistic dragonrider after another?
His scowl deepens, ever so slightly.
The useless sons of Var-El: Zim, who ruled only a single year, before the death of a sickly infant son drove him to grief-stricken madness and suicidal recklessness, costing the realm a king, an heirloom sword, and the great dragon Nightflame all in a single storm. Nim, the fool who got himself disinherited for trying to marry a common whore, and ran off to the Free Cities rather than give her and their bastard up as he should’ve. Jor, who at least managed something of a decent reign for two years, before his ridiculous idea of a progress to see the entire realm, taking his wife and newborn along, only for all three to perish aboard a sinking ship off the coast of the Reach.
And Zor. Gutted, grieving, bookish Zor-El, who surrounded himself with equally bookish weaklings, and spent more time concerned with researching archaic pieces of knowledge than the management of the realm, letting others take on more and more of the weight of leadership over the years.
Truly, Dru did all the Seven Kingdoms a favor, letting his wife handle slipping a slow-acting poison into the younger man’s wine during the Spring Feast.
And now, he needs to make the most of the opening provided by that act. For the good of the realm. For the benefit of the throne.
For the Line of Zod.