The twenty-third day of January, the ninth day of the tour of Casterly Rock.
The caravan received a raven from the King at dawn's first light, commanding the Queen to halt her progress with the royal children and return to King's Landing without delay.
In recent days, Lannister forces in the capital had been dispatching frequent messages to their position, their contents known only to a select few.
The King had shown no unusual reaction to Jon Arryn's death and had resolved to journey northward to Winterfell, there to invite Lord Eddard Stark of the North to assume the mantle of Hand of the King.
The Lannisters' secrets remained, it seemed, well guarded.
Thus did Lord Tywin continue his westward return to the Rock, while Cersei and Jaime turned their faces toward King's Landing, accompanied by but a small portion of their forces.
Joffrey could scarce bring himself to care about such political machinations at present.
He had already accumulated seven units of Rune Energy and burned with eagerness to solve the final mystery that had plagued his thoughts.
What exactly was the peculiar sensation emanating from the Valyrian greatsword?
He had been pondering this riddle for days but had delayed taking action, unwilling to resort to irreversible, destructive measures.
Now, with sufficient Rune Energy at his disposal, the task would prove far simpler.
He would apply a Recovery Rune directly to the greatsword using Rune Energy. This approach would not only ensure that the greatsword remained intact but would also permit him to observe the external manifestation of the Rune upon the blade for comparative study—two goals achieved with a single stroke.
Just as he prepared to act, a handmaiden from the Queen's retinue approached. "Your Highness, the Queen requests your presence on a matter of importance."
A sense of foreboding settled in Joffrey's chest.
Perhaps to ensure absolute privacy, the luxurious and spacious wheeled carriage bore no windows, and despite the brightness of day, hundreds of scented candles cast their warm light throughout the interior.
Joffrey boarded the carriage and, as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, beheld Queen Cersei's face—worried and hesitant, illuminated by the red-gold candlelight.
Glancing about the carriage's confines, he noted the absence of his younger siblings and any attending servants.
He understood the implications all too clearly.
Has my dear grandfather shared his suspicions about me with my mother?
Even so, there was nothing to truly fear. This world possessed no concept of soul possession. All his remarkable changes could be attributed to divine favor or natural development.
"Mother, I'm occupied with important matters. Why have you summoned me?" Joffrey sat beside his mother, his complaint edged with affection.
Cersei's expression betrayed a complex storm of emotions.
"Joff," she began cautiously, "Did you know beforehand that Jon Arryn would meet his end? And do you know of Jaime and my... arrangement?"
Joffrey lowered his gaze slightly, seeking to alleviate Cersei's evident unease and shame.
"Not so very early, merely before the tournament."
An uncomfortable silence descended between them.
In this world, Joffrey might well be the person who understood Cersei and Jaime most completely, save for themselves.
Cersei was proud and self-serving, viewing herself as the female incarnation of Lord Tywin, yet she remained so consumed by passion that she could not master her own emotions and desires.
Jaime had once dreamed of becoming a true knight, but his affair with his sister, the Mad King's atrocities, and myriad other experiences had cast perpetual shadows across his heart. The "Kingslayer" seemed destined to walk in darkness.
But Joffrey cared little for such judgments.
One's own people, friends, enemies—how simple and clear these distinctions are. Why complicate matters unnecessarily?
Though he could not wholly embrace Cersei as his true mother, her deep maternal love was genuine, a tangible force.
The world's judgment was, in the end, but passing clouds on the horizon.
I am the center of the world.
He took his mother's cold hand in his and met her gaze directly, looking into emerald eyes that glistened with unshed tears.
"What harm is there in it? Have not the Targaryens practiced such customs for centuries? All that matters is that Mother remains my mother."
Joffrey offered a sincere smile.
"I shall always stand beside you, Mother."
Cersei could no longer contain the surge of emotion in her breast and embraced her unexpectedly gentle and considerate son fiercely.
The gods alone knew how deeply she had resented and despised her marriage.
To Cersei, the young, brave, and handsome Robert had perished on their wedding day, replaced by a fat, drunken, and ill-tempered King—a transformation she found utterly repellent.
She unburdened her heart to her attentive son, pouring forth years of bitterness and resentment.
Joffrey quietly assumed the role of listener, offering no judgment or counsel.
He harbored no illusions about easily altering Cersei's nature or conduct. So long as he maintained their present mother-son bond and ensured she created no difficulties in matters of true consequence, that would suffice.
Even the Joffrey of the original tale had wielded near-absolute power under Cersei's regency. He was confident he would navigate those waters with far greater skill.
As twilight descended upon the camp, Joffrey finally returned to his own quarters.
Reflecting on the preceding hours, he still felt a measure of astonishment. To express the same sentiments with different words for so prolonged a period—women are truly formidable creatures.
Fortunately, he had endured.
He seated himself upon the bed, laying the greatsword flat across his lap. Closing his eyes, he cleared his mind of all distractions.
The experiment would proceed.
After days of practice, he had grown quite proficient in the process of meditation and the channeling of Rune Energy. It required but a dozen measured breaths to apply a Recovery Rune to the greatsword.
After repeating the process twice more, he opened his eyes and immediately made a crucial discovery.
For these newly birthed Recovery Runes, he could sense their presence only vaguely, but the white light that should have accompanied them remained invisible!
The greatsword itself, it seemed, could shield the radiance emitted by magical energy.
Either there was some peculiarity in its material, or there existed some manner of Rune or enchantment with the capacity to mask magical auras.
He drew forth the magic-rich "Light of Peace."
Regardless of which hypothesis proved correct—or if none did—the greatsword already possessed at least three Recovery Runes, permitting him to experiment more boldly.
The "Light of Peace" descended in a swift arc, but rather than cleaving the greatsword in twain, it suddenly halted approximately an inch deep into the metal.
Joffrey clearly perceived that a harder substance lay beneath.
He changed his approach, cutting a circle along the outer edge of the greatsword. At its center lay a neat piece of black metal, exposed like the heart of a forbidden mystery.
The answer became clear.
The outer layer was merely common Valyrian steel—valuable to most, but no longer precious to him—concealing a specially purposed material of truly remarkable properties.
Excitement blazed in his eyes like wildfire.
The black metal radiated white, black, and red light simultaneously. Two new Runes revealed themselves to his heightened senses!
After clearing away the excess material, an exquisite one-handed sword stood revealed, restored to the world after who knew how many centuries. Its appearance bore resemblance to Valyrian steel, yet in truth, it was something else entirely.
He tested the blade's edge on a dozen nearby trees, reducing them to charcoal. As the magical energy upon the sword gradually dissipated, unfamiliar patterns emerged across its surface.
Fire magic?
This, then, was the effect that genuine Valyrian steel should possess. Could it be that the Valyrians had been selling inferior goods to the outside world while keeping their finest creations for themselves?
Joffrey immediately began to meditate upon the patterns adorning the one-handed sword.
After nearly exhausting his accumulated Rune Energy, he finally obtained the first Rune with offensive properties—the Fire Rune.
It was magnificent beyond words.
Almost without practice, the scorching power that seemed to well continuously from his heart moved according to his will, obediently manifesting wherever he desired: from his mouth, his fingertips, the soles of his feet, or along the sword's gleaming blade.
He felt the flow of fire through his being, a river of heat and destruction that answered to his command alone.
The heat of the flame would harm only what he wished to destroy—even his clothing remained untouched by the inferno. His control surpassed even that of the legendary "Unburnt."
Never before had he felt such raw, unfettered power coursing through him.
The Recovery Rune had marked the beginning of his magical journey, providing valuable auxiliary effects;
The Mirror Image Rune had established the cornerstone of his magical network, rich with potential and promising limitless horizons;
But in the end, it was the simple, direct might of the Fire Rune that proved most awe-inspiring.
The power of fire—that primal force that life itself instinctively feared.
How could mere flesh command such devastation?
In this moment, he transcended the limitations of mortal existence.
His eyes, burning with newfound power, gazed upon the nameless one-handed sword.
I shall call you "Dragonflame," he decided. May you and I soar through the heavens like the dragons of old, raining down fire enough to reduce the world to ash and cinder.
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