The western outskirts of King's Landing offered a pleasing vista of rolling hills and verdant fields, untainted by the city's perpetual stench.
Joffrey rode his destrier with evident pleasure, guarded by the ever-vigilant Hound, as they accompanied Lord Tywin's impressive retinue on its homeward journey. It would be a lengthy expedition by any measure.
The caravan would follow the broad, well-maintained Gold Road for more than a thousand miles westward, traversing the fertile plains of the Crownlands and the hill country beyond before reaching the heart of the Westerlands—Casterly Rock, that impregnable fortress with stone for bones and gold for marrow, never taken by force since the Dawn Age.
His memories from the original Joffrey's life proved woefully inadequate to satisfy his growing curiosity about House Lannister's ancestral seat. Unfortunately, the caravan would likely barely touch the borders of the Westerlands before news of Lord Jon Arryn's death reached them. If he truly wished to explore Casterly Rock with his own eyes, he would need to exercise patience.
From atop a lush green hill, Joffrey reined in his mount, gazing across the landscape at the caravan that stretched like a serpent along the winding road below.
The procession numbered well over a thousand souls, including resplendently armored lords, knights, and household guards—a small army in all but name.
"Sandor," Joffrey addressed the scarred warrior at his side, "what thoughts have you regarding Casterly Rock?" He assumed the man would have much to relate, having departed the Lannister stronghold in his adolescence.
The Hound appeared momentarily discomfited, as though the use of his given name remained as awkward as finding a cockroach in one's soup. Have I truly been a dog for so long? Clegane wondered.
"Casterly Rock?" The Hound strained to recall details, his mind having been consumed with thoughts of Gregor during those years. "It's large. It's impenetrable. Not a place that encourages merriment."
Joffrey cast him a sidelong glance. What a dismal assessment. "The Mountain rides with this very caravan. Do you wish to take some action against him?"
Better to resolve this festering vendetta promptly, he reasoned. Having his personal guard perpetually wearing the expression of a man contemplating murder proved rather dampening to one's spirits.
The Hound shuddered visibly, as though someone had thrust a burning brand toward his face. "Prince, we should rejoin the column without delay. The castle where we'll make camp tonight remains distant."
No sooner had he spoken than Clegane spurred his horse, galloping directly toward the caravan below.
What connection could possibly exist between rejoining the group and the castle's distant location? Joffrey wondered, baffled.
He shook his head with a sigh. This is entirely my fault. I shall certainly not bring this dour fellow along the next time I seek relaxation!
Upon returning to the main column, Joffrey retired to his spacious carriage. Though it paled in comparison to the Queen's mobile palace—a monstrous conveyance requiring forty horses to draw it—his own transportation still offered ample room for seven or eight people to rest and amuse themselves in reasonable comfort.
"Hanna," he called. "Bring forth all the items we removed from the vault."
This task should properly have fallen to his squire, Alyn, but the arrangements had been altered.
The quiet girl seated within the carriage began removing objects one by one from a chest stowed beneath the cushioned bench.
Valyrian steel devoid of its magical essence, glass candles, assorted gems and crystals, and a plain greatsword.
Joffrey selected a dagger for closer examination. Its hilt was fashioned from dragonbone, polished to a smooth ivory finish, while the blade was as black as a moonless night—two fingers wide, slightly longer than a man's palm, and honed on both edges.
This must be the very dagger used in the attempt on Bran's life, as I recall from the original timeline.
"Hanna," he inquired abruptly, "I took you from my mother's service without seeking her permission. Have you any misgivings about this arrangement?"
The young maid started slightly before hastening to express her feelings. "How could I harbor such thoughts, Your Highness? To serve the Crown Prince directly is truly the greatest fortune Hanna could imagine."
A delicate flush crept across her cheeks as she continued.
"In truth, Your Highness, Hanna has already celebrated her fifteenth nameday. Had you not intervened, the Queen would likely have matched me with one of those rough squires by now. I... I have no desire for such a fate."
Assessing the girl's comely features and slender figure, Joffrey chuckled softly before reaching out to ruffle her chestnut curls with unexpected familiarity.
When the time came to purge the court of potential spies and enemies, he reflected, a senior maid with no troublesome family connections, thorough knowledge of the Red Keep's layout, and demonstrated reliability would prove invaluable.
"We shall remain here tonight," he announced. "The carriage offers greater warmth and privacy."
Hanna lowered her gaze demurely, her lashes casting faint shadows upon her cheeks.
As evening descended, the massive caravan finally reached its designated campsite.
The location proved to be the ancestral castle of House Thorne, situated in the western reaches of the Crownlands. The modest stone fortress commanded the fealty of several tens of thousands of farmers scattered across dozens of miles of surrounding countryside.
The legendary generosity and wealth of House Lannister were known throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Accordingly, House Thorne had neither the inclination nor the temerity to deny hospitality to such distinguished guests, having prepared an abundance of food and drink well in advance of their arrival.
Nevertheless, the stone castle's limited dimensions made accommodating a thousand visitors rather challenging, and its interior appointments struck Joffrey as decidedly provincial.
He expressed a preference for spending the night within his own carriage.
While a lively banquet proceeded within the castle's great hall, Joffrey granted Hanna and his other servants permission to move about freely, choosing to remain alone in the enclosed privacy of his conveyance.
The moment has arrived. He retrieved the dagger once more.
Since acquiring "it"—the magical essence absorbed from Valyrian steel—two nights past, the transformations within his soul had intensified progressively. Its presence had grown increasingly tangible, and he sensed that its power verged upon manifestation.
Some primal instinct whispered to him, revealing the method of its use.
Let me discover the true nature of Valyrian steel's magic.
Joffrey drew a deep breath, pressed his right palm firmly against the blade of the dragonbone-hilted dagger, and slowly closed his eyes.
He lost all sense of time's passage.
The cacophony of the external world gradually diminished until it vanished entirely. The rhythm of his breathing expanded to fill the void, rising and falling like ocean tides, washing through his consciousness.
Finally, he perceived a subtle stirring within.
As though consuming its own source, the magical essence's presence suddenly diminished considerably, then a mass of cold, invisible substance separated from his being.
The sensation defied easy description.
Unlike the energies he had perceived within gemstones and crystals, unlike the special light his altered vision detected, this manifestation brought a coldness that penetrated to the very depths of his soul.
This watery chill flowed through his eye sockets, beneath the root of his tongue, down his throat, across his shoulder blades, through his upper arms, forearms, and wrists, until it reached each fingertip of his right hand.
That hand seemed to break free from his brain's governance, suddenly clenching the dagger with painful force.
Yet beneath the soothing influence of the invisible cold energy, he appeared to have lost all capacity for fear or pain. His face remained expressionless as blood dripped along the blade and between his fingers.
In what might have been an instant or an eternity, the cold energy transferred completely into the dagger. The blade ignited with intricate patterns once more, and the white light gradually filled and spread throughout its length...
The next moment brought a sudden barrage of sensations—stinging pain, the metallic scent of blood, and the warm wetness of his dripping hand all flooded his awareness simultaneously.
He immediately discarded the dagger as though it had transformed into molten steel, carefully cradling his injured right hand, half-tempted to lick the wound like a wounded animal.
Seven hells, that truly hurts!
Is magic invariably this bizarre?! I subjected myself to such cruelty! Was I possessed?
He wanted to weep from the pain but found himself without tears. How could he possibly explain this injury? Claim temporary madness?
Hssss...
The wound on his palm began to itch unbearably.
He noted with astonishment that the white light surrounding his body was rapidly fading.
This process defied precise measurement. Fortunately, the magical essence's presence did not diminish further, and the white light's final luminosity approximated what he had observed early the previous morning—diminished but not extinguished.
My hand?!
Joffrey examined his right palm with growing wonder. The pain had vanished completely, as had all traces of the wound itself. Only the slightly dried bloodstains provided evidence that recent events had transpired outside his imagination.
It healed me?
This explanation alone seemed plausible. The magic had created Valyrian steel at the cost of a portion of its own essence, then utilized the white light to repair his self-inflicted injury.
Truly miraculous.
In mere minutes, his spirits had soared and plummeted with each development, ultimately reaching a satisfactory conclusion.
Once he had calmed himself, he began to analyze what he had learned.
The exceptional toughness and sharpness of Valyrian steel, coupled with the rapid healing of wounds, seemed unrelated at first glance. Yet they shared a fundamental principle.
He had previously discovered that the material properties of Valyrian steel, while extraordinary, fell short of absolute indestructibility. However, any damage sustained by Valyrian steel gradually mended itself through the consumption of the white light.
This suggested a fundamental truth:
Each time Valyrian steel was employed in combat, it sustained minor damage to its structure.
What distinguished it from common steel was that this magical property swiftly repaired such damage, maintaining the weapon in optimal condition indefinitely. Combined with its rarity, historical significance, and the reverence in which it was held, Valyrian steel was seldom subjected to frequent use—all factors contributing to its legendary status.
The healing of his wound likely represented a similar phenomenon.
After careful consideration, Joffrey determined that this power might appropriately be termed "Recovery Magic."
Hanna's voice called from outside the carriage, interrupting his thoughts. "Your Highness, there's steak, lamb chops, fried fish, smoked chicken, roast duck, bread, honey, cake, fruit, red wine, and ale available. Do you require anything?"
Joffrey hastily began tidying the evidence of his magical experiment. "Bring a selection of food, if you would."
Having sated his hunger, Joffrey reclined upon the carriage's padded bed, admiring the eight-inch Valyrian steel dagger that now rested in his palm.
Unlike the other artifacts, this dagger represented the crystallization of his own ingenuity—created by his hand and consecrated with his blood.
Gazing upon this blade, Joffrey envisioned thousands of equally potent swords, axes, and spears.
One day, he vowed silently, the scenes from his dreams would manifest in reality. Not merely the Seven Kingdoms, but the entire world would kneel before him!
Hanna returned, now clad in diaphanous silk nightclothes, and joined him upon the bed.
She nestled against the prince and tentatively reached toward the dagger. "Your Highness, this blade possesses remarkable beauty. Does it have a name?"
"It had none before, but henceforth I shall call it 'Light of Peace.' What think you of this?"
He had investigated the matter previously—"Joffrey" derived from the French variant of Geoffrey, meaning "divine peace." The irony pleased him.
Hanna rested her head against his shoulder, her voice soft as summer rain. "It sounds most pleasing to the ear."
What sudden change is this? he wondered. Yet what do men ultimately desire but power, conquest, and willing companionship?
"Indeed," he murmured with a low chuckle. "Then allow me to demonstrate the true power of the 'Light of Peace.'"
"Ah, Your Highness..." she whispered, as the night deepened around them.