A thousand readers, a thousand Hamlets—so the saying went.
From Joffrey's perspective as he pored over "A Chronicle of the Four Kings," he could discern only the inexorable decline of House Targaryen following the loss of their dragons. The pages chronicled the reigns of Daeron the Young Dragon, Baelor the Blessed, Aegon the Unworthy, and Daeron the Good—four kings who had variously flaunted military might, maintained pious peace, indulged base appetites, or struggled to cleanse the realm of corruption.
Their stories differed little from those of any feudal dynasty in any world. And therein lay the most significant revelation.
Without dragons to serve as both weapon and symbol, the Targaryen dynasty endured, but no longer possessed sufficient power to suppress the ambitions of the great houses. Even if every king had ruled with perfect wisdom and unimpeachable virtue, wielding political acumen to rival Jaehaerys the Conciliator, the dynasty's decline remained merely a question of when, not if.
No dragons, no Targaryen dynasty. The conclusion was inescapable.
Joffrey gently stroked the rippled, smoke-dark surface of the Valyrian steel sword. My dynasty's fate shall depend upon such power.
He harbored immense confidence in his newfound ability—this "golden finger" as he thought of it. The capacity to perceive and observe magical energies represented an incalculable advantage. Countless theories and studies throughout history had faltered precisely because they lacked the means of direct observation.
In this world, though magic indisputably existed, ordinary people could neither recognize nor observe its workings directly. As a result, magical research proceeded with excruciating difficulty, while transmission and inheritance of arcane knowledge proved more challenging still.
The secrets of ancient magical civilizations had been lost to the mists of time.
In the common understanding of Joffrey's day, all magic was regarded as mysterious and inscrutable—a series of unreplicable accidents and miracles, governed by no discernible laws.
Magic had gradually descended from practical reality into mere legend.
What a tragic waste. A world possessing clear potential for magical civilization had instead devolved into an ordinary medieval society, its wonders forgotten.
Now that he possessed such an unparalleled talent, perhaps he might restore some measure of that lost glory. He could make the world magical once more.
Joffrey felt his heart swell with purpose and ambition.
The secret of Valyrian steel would serve as the starting point of his arcane journey.
"Alyn, bring more swords!" he commanded his squire. The testing of Valyrian steel's properties was nearly complete; the time had come to verify his hypotheses.
"As you command, Your Highness."
Alyn Lantell understood his position all too well.
As the son of a Lannisport merchant, the mere fact that he had secured a place at the Crown Prince's side spoke to his exceptional ability and accommodating temperament. Though the prince had assigned him increasingly arduous tasks of late, inexplicably destroying numerous perfectly serviceable steel swords in the process, Alyn maintained a prudent silence, obeying every command without question or complaint, faithful to his duty until the very end.
Joffrey's attention remained wholly fixed upon the Valyrian steel sword in his grasp.
With so many eyes and ears throughout the Red Keep, he could conduct his experiments only by indirect means. After careful investigation since the previous night, he had made several promising discoveries.
Beneath the white aura surrounding Valyrian steel, he had detected faint luminous patterns similar to those visible on the glass candle. Each time a Valyrian steel blade severed an ordinary steel sword, or endured a collision of equal force, the white light dimmed slightly, until reaching a critical threshold at which the underlying patterns became visible.
If the process continued beyond this point, the patterns themselves would eventually vanish, and Joffrey would lose his magical perception of the blade entirely.
Subsequently, the Valyrian steel's supremacy over lesser weapons diminished perceptibly, and damage might even occur when it crossed with other Valyrian steel that still retained its white aura.
Fortunately, the patterns and white light gradually recovered over time, though Joffrey noted that the magical sensitivity of nearby gems and crystal balls decreased proportionally during this recovery phase.
Joffrey believed he understood the fundamental principles at work.
The Valyrians had employed exceptional, unique metallurgical techniques to forge their steel, then utilized some arcane method to imbue the material with self-sustaining magical energy—resulting in the complete and perfect substance known as Valyrian steel.
Were these patterns the key? How might one replicate the process?
"Your Highness, the swords have arrived."
Alyn entered, accompanied by several servants bearing a substantial collection of standard longswords from the City Watch armory.
Joffrey selected a steel blade at random. Could the pattern transform this common sword into Valyrian steel? He was determined to discover the truth.
"Leave me," he commanded. "I wish to rest."
The late hour and the chamber's candlelit ambience lent credibility to his statement, but the sight of the steel sword clutched in the prince's hand gave Alyn pause. Nevertheless, he knew better than to question his liege.
"As you command."
Alyn departed with the servants, but not before offering a final assurance at the threshold: "Should Your Highness require anything further, you need only ring. Your loyal squire stands ever ready to serve."
Joffrey dismissed him with a careless wave.
Barring unforeseen complications, he would have little need of the fellow's services in the months to come.
Valyrian steel.
Now, let us see what secrets you might reveal...
The scented candle, as thick around as a maiden's wrist, had burned down by two or three finger-widths.
Joffrey rubbed his weary eyes, frustration evident in every line of his face.
During these hours of solitary experimentation, he had attempted every method his imagination could conjure.
He had smeared blood across the Valyrian steel's surface; concentrated intently upon the pattern while visualizing its transfer to the ordinary blade; used Valyrian steel to physically engrave similar patterns upon common steel; inscribed glyphs in blood; and traced the patterns with gems and crystals that seemed to serve as "magical sources."
He had even tried cutting fragments from Valyrian steel chain links that had lost their white light, embedding these pattern-bearing fragments into ordinary steel.
When physical approaches yielded no results, he had turned to mental techniques—meditating upon the patterns in his mind, chanting every bizarre syllable and arcane word he could recall from stories of magic.
The results proved universally disappointing. The patterns refused to transfer; the ordinary steel remained stubbornly mundane; meditation and incantation produced no discernible effect whatsoever.
The secret of Valyrian steel hovered tantalizingly beyond his grasp, like a word forgotten on the tip of the tongue.
Joffrey tugged the rope of the summoning bell, surrendering to exhaustion.
Research and development required time and patience. Better to rest and recover; there would be ample opportunity to continue his investigations on the morrow.
Alyn appeared with remarkable alacrity. "Your Highness?"
"Dispose of all these swords," Joffrey instructed, gesturing toward the pile of twisted, notched, and broken blades on the floor. "They are of no further use to me."
The squire rushed to comply.
After completing his assigned task, Alyn glanced briefly at the Crown Prince, who had already begun to undress for bed, and quietly withdrew without further comment.
Joffrey collapsed onto his featherbed, exhaustion claiming him almost instantly.
Perhaps due to the excessive expenditure of energy, both physical and mental, he slept with unusual soundness, his dreams sweet and vivid.
In his slumbering vision, he had already ascended the Iron Throne, becoming not merely king but emperor of a realm vaster than any that had come before.
The Iron Throne's majesty had reached unprecedented heights, and all lords and vassals, great and small, bowed their heads in proper submission.
His people were quiet and obedient; his laws absolutely enforced; his decrees implemented throughout the Seven Kingdoms without question or delay; his armies invincible beyond imagining, with hundreds of thousands of soldiers equipped entirely in Valyrian steel armor and weapons.
Valyrian steel.
He dreamed of that white pattern, that elusive key to power.
With almost no conscious effort, the pattern grew clearer and brighter within his dreaming mind.
Gradually, the pattern—which had existed only in his imagination—seemed to cross some unseen boundary, acquiring a hint of mysterious vitality, instantly expanding to occupy the entirety of his dream.
Joffrey found himself unable to breathe, falling into a state of ignorant and unconscious chaos.
Fortunately, this alarming condition proved temporary. All the Valyrian steel artifacts in his bedchamber appeared to resonate simultaneously, their white auras suddenly intensifying before vanishing completely.
The pattern within his dream, however, shone with increasing brilliance, extending, supplementing, and interpreting itself in a blinding instant, breaking free from all constraints and transforming into something infinitely more complex and profound.
The tangible pattern disappeared, and in its place, something intangible was born.
The dream abruptly ended.
Joffrey sat bolt upright, eyes wide and staring, gasping for breath as he frantically surveyed his surroundings, as though he had just encountered some horror beyond description.
In the dim candlelight, everything in his bedchamber appeared normal, arranged precisely as it had been. Quiet. Safe.
He exhaled deeply in relief, gradually composing himself, only then noticing that all the Valyrian steel items scattered throughout the room had lost their magical signatures—their white auras and intricate patterns had vanished entirely.
More than a dozen pieces of Valyrian steel, dozens of distinct patterns, all gone.
After a moment of stunned incomprehension, he held his breath, focusing his concentration inward, and began to meditate as he had attempted earlier.
Darkness and nothingness enveloped him briefly, and then—the intangible suddenly manifested within his consciousness, not as visual pattern but as pure, abstract knowledge.
I've succeeded?! This isn't merely another dream?
Joffrey rose from his bed and approached the polished silver mirror mounted on the wall. In its reflection, a familiar white light shimmered upon his forehead, confirming what he had begun to suspect.
Relief washed over him like a wave.
Reflecting upon the night's strange sequence of events, he could not help but marvel at the capricious nature of fate. You cannot force such things; only after surrendering hope does opportunity present itself unbidden.
Moreover, the connection between magic and dreams that appeared so frequently in ancient tales seemed more than mere coincidence.
His only regret concerned the apparent sacrifice of his Valyrian steel collection. Yet in exchange for "it"—this key unlocking the door to arcane mysteries—any price seemed acceptable.
Joffrey sensed a subtle transformation within himself, as though his mind and soul had undergone some fundamental elevation.
He laughed aloud, the sound rich with triumph and anticipation.
The game of thrones, the song of ice and fire—whether through swords or sorcery, he now possessed the resources to play for the highest stakes.
Stannis, Varys, Renly, the Citadel, even the White Walkers themselves... all rebels and enemies would eventually become mere stepping stones beneath his throne!