Magic had stirred his ambition to heights undreamed of, yet reality remained an unyielding fortress that could not be breached by dreams alone.
The following morning, twelve-year-old Joffrey found himself obediently heeding his mother's summons, arriving at the dining hall precisely when expected. Some facades, he had learned, were worth maintaining.
As ever, the breakfast gathering proved predictably mundane.
The Queen, Joffrey, his younger siblings, and the conspicuously absent King Robert, who was likely abed with a servant girl or nursing the previous night's excesses.
Faced with a hearty spread of fresh bread, honeyed ham, and summer fruits, surrounded by what passed for familial warmth in House Baratheon, Joffrey momentarily set aside his scheming and calculations, allowing himself to savor the simple pleasure of the moment.
His attention turned especially to his younger siblings.
Seven-year-old Myrcella, with her golden curls and sweet disposition, possessed a genuine innocence and vivacity. Six-year-old Tommen, plump and pink-cheeked, exhibited a kindness and docility rare in their bloodline.
They are both good children, Joffrey reflected. Better than I ever was.
He offered them what he intended as a friendly smile.
To his dismay, the two children reacted as though they had glimpsed the Stranger himself, immediately lowering their gazes to focus intently upon their breakfast plates, shoulders tensed with unmistakable fear.
Of the four gathered at the table, Queen Cersei nominally commanded the highest status, yet Myrcella and Tommen clearly dreaded their elder brother far more than their mother, whose stern countenance concealed a heart that doted shamelessly upon her children.
Cersei appeared never to have noticed the dysfunctional dynamic between her offspring, or perhaps chose to ignore it for the sake of her idealized vision of family.
"Children," she announced, dabbing delicately at the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin, "tomorrow we shall depart for Casterly Rock with your grandfather. Do you recall the Hall of Heroes there? You may play to your hearts' content and forget your lessons entirely for a time."
We'll be safe in the Westerlands, she thought with satisfaction. Let's see what dear old Jon Arryn can discover when we're beyond his reach!
His younger siblings murmured their agreement with obedient enthusiasm, genuine smiles brightening their faces at the prospect of escape from the oppressive atmosphere of the Red Keep.
Joffrey likewise assented with practiced calm. He now possessed sufficient confidence in his newfound abilities to face any unexpected crisis that might arise.
The mystery of "it"—the magical essence he had absorbed from the Valyrian steel—was gradually beginning to reveal itself.
During this period, Joffrey's mind had grown increasingly active and alert. He experienced neither drowsiness nor fatigue, and his awareness of the magical essence steadily intensified with each passing day.
Some instinct told him that upon surpassing a certain threshold, he would gain the ability to create Valyrian steel at will—perhaps even accomplish greater feats yet unimagined.
Nevertheless, he could not afford to dismiss the threats arrayed against him. Prudence demanded adherence to established patterns, at least for now.
The role Joffrey intended to play in the coming days would remain unchanged.
He would stand idle as Jon Arryn, Hand of the King for more than a decade, succumbed to Littlefinger's poison.
What a pity, Jon, he mused. You knew too much and asked too many questions.
Joffrey had little choice but to turn a blind eye to the impending murder.
The Hand knew the truth of his parentage and had been conspiring with Stannis Baratheon, King Robert's grim middle brother, with the clear intention of destroying House Lannister—including Joffrey himself, the Crown Prince.
The Hand's death was regrettable but necessary.
Yet this assassination would inevitably serve as the spark to ignite the vast stockpile of hidden tensions and conflicts buried beneath the surface of the Seven Kingdoms.
Under the careful nurturing of ambitious schemers within and beyond the realm's borders, the North, the Riverlands, the Vale, the Westerlands, the Stormlands, the Reach, and Dorne—all seven regions of Westeros—would soon cast aside any pretense of peace.
Joffrey set down his knife and fork with deliberate care. "Mother, will we alone journey to Casterly Rock? What of my uncles?"
Cersei's lips curved in a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. "Jaime shall accompany us, of course."
Should matters take an unexpected turn, she thought, should we truly find ourselves at odds with the Hand, let them vent their wrath upon the dwarf!
Joffrey maintained his silence.
Indeed, Tyrion would remain in King's Landing, ideally positioned to manage certain... delicate matters.
Joffrey did not fully comprehend the multitude of conspiracies and undercurrents flowing through the capital in these critical days. But he recognized the wisdom in participating in this timely excursion to Casterly Rock.
Why not?
When the Hand soon met his inevitable end, Joffrey would be safely distant, traveling the Gold Road.
When the King subsequently decided to journey north to Winterfell, seeking a replacement for his fallen friend, Joffrey would still be conveniently absent.
He would avoid the chaos in King's Landing with perfect plausibility.
"I have finished," Joffrey announced, rising from his seat. "Mother, where might I find Uncle Tyrion? I have a matter to discuss with him."
Cersei's brow furrowed reflexively, as though the mere mention of her younger brother soured her digestion.
"Where else would that creature be found? Either drowning himself in wine within his squalid chambers or polluting some brothel with his presence. You must never emulate his ways."
"I understand," Joffrey replied with a dismissive wave, departing immediately for Tyrion's apartments.
The Red Keep bustled with activity during daylight hours, its corridors and courtyards teeming with humanity of every station.
Gold Cloaks of the City Watch stood sentinel at gates and patrolled the grounds; Baratheon and Lannister guards hurried about their duties; nobles gathered in small groups, exchanging courtesies and gossip; while male and female servants scurried in all directions—polishing marble, scrubbing floors, transporting goods, and tending to the myriad gardens.
All bowed respectfully when they caught sight of him, offering well-rehearsed good wishes.
Yet Joffrey understood that these smiling faces inflicted more harm than good.
Any child raised from birth in such an environment, without proper guidance from wise elders, would inevitably develop a warped personality—becoming self-centered and extreme in their outlook.
Even he, with his unique perspective, had gradually grown accustomed to disregarding these people as though they were merely decorative fixtures rather than living beings.
How could a royal prince exist without servants attending his every need? The very notion of performing manual labor himself seemed absurd within this context.
Joffrey found himself increasingly uncomfortable with this arrangement.
While the convenience of servants certainly had its advantages, the sensation of having one's every word and deed observed and scrutinized proved deeply disquieting.
For now, he could only adapt as best he could—donning a mask, concealing his true thoughts, and feigning enjoyment of his privileged position.
Thus, while Joffrey maintained an expressionless facade, his mind actively considered the crucial choice of who should command the City Watch.
The City Watch comprised approximately two thousand men, instantly recognizable by their golden cloaks.
These "Gold Cloaks" shouldered responsibility for guarding the Red Keep, defending the city, and enforcing its laws—their status roughly equivalent to an imperial guard.
Though their numbers seemed modest, the royal family had established no other standing military force. Consequently, no armed contingent within the Crownlands could rival their strength.
Merely half a year hence, when King Robert breathed his last, the Gold Cloaks would demonstrate their decisive importance during the ensuing power struggle.
For such a strategically vital force, the future King Joffrey naturally attached the highest importance.
The selection of a suitable commander, expansion of recruitment, intensification of training, elimination of the weak, and rectification of corruption—all these measures would be necessary to forge a truly formidable fighting force capable of deterring challenges from throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
The current commander, Janos Slynt, being both avaricious and compromised, could certainly not be retained.
Joffrey mentally reviewed several potential candidates.
The final choice would depend upon who proved most loyal and useful when the critical moment arrived.
At last, Joffrey reached his destination.
He pushed open the thick wooden door to find Tyrion sprawled diagonally across his bed, still dressed in the previous day's rumpled clothing.
Approaching closer, Joffrey was assaulted by the pungent reek of stale wine and unwashed flesh.
"Uncle, are you awake?" he inquired, louder than strictly necessary.
Tyrion groaned, rubbing his temples as he struggled to assume a sitting position.
"Joffrey! Have you come to visit your poor, suffering uncle? How unexpectedly touching."
"You should drink less, lest you destroy what wits remain to you," Joffrey remarked, not unkindly.
Tyrion dismissed this counsel with a wave of his hand.
"Wine is a gift from the gods. Wine bestows wisdom, ale grants tranquility, and spirits inspire thought. How could I possibly abandon such treasures?"
Joffrey offered no comment, instead moving to the nearby table where he poured himself a modest cup of Dornish red, savoring its complex notes of spice and dark fruit.
Shafts of morning sunlight slanted through the window, dust motes dancing in their golden beams.
"My dear Prince," Tyrion said, his voice noticeably clearer, "what instructions bring you to my humble abode?"
"My grandfather returns to Casterly Rock on the morrow. Do you intend to remain in King's Landing?"
"Without question." Better to avoid Tywin's presence entirely.
Mindful that walls often concealed ears, Joffrey wasted no further words. He withdrew a rolled parchment from within his sleeve and presented it to Tyrion.
"Then you must keep close watch upon Littlefinger. My dragon eggs have yet to arrive."
Tyrion loudly expressed his agreement while unfolding the document.
His eyes widened as he read its contents: detailed instructions for observing and recording the circumstances surrounding the Hand's impending death, with a six-month deadline; directives to recruit agents and collect information on key figures throughout King's Landing, with special attention to Littlefinger and Varys's networks.
Fascinating, Tyrion thought. Is Lord Jon truly marked for death?
"Perform this service well," Joffrey continued. "When I ascend the throne, I may see fit to appoint you as a royal minister." Minister of Finance would suit him admirably.
Tyrion offered profuse thanks while continuing his perusal of the document.
A second section specified a one-month deadline for placing secret agents to approach designated targets: Prince Stannis, Prince Renly, the commander of the Gold Cloaks and his senior officers—all to await further orders and appropriate opportunities to act.
Secret agents.
To what purpose?
Tyrion understood the implications all too well.
Yet he had not anticipated Joffrey's schemes would prove so audacious and far-reaching.
Even if the Hand were to die and Lord Stark assume his position, such extensive preparations seemed unnecessary.
Unless...
A terrible suspicion flashed through Tyrion's mind like summer lightning.
He shuddered involuntarily, suddenly fully alert despite his lingering hangover.
King Robert is to suffer an "accident"?
The mere contemplation of this possibility filled him with profound unease.
Barely fifteen years had passed since the fall of House Targaryen, and many commoners still harbored nostalgia for the previous dynasty.
The Baratheon regime remained precariously balanced.
Though King Robert had descended into dissolution—gorging himself on wine, women, and extravagance, accumulating debts of six million gold dragons (equivalent to three years of royal income)—and earned himself the epithet "Usurper" in some quarters,
He remained, nevertheless, the founding monarch who had seized control of the vast kingdom through personal valor in battle.
The seven great lords, hundreds of lesser nobles, and tens of millions of smallfolk inevitably nursed conflicting interests, yet King Robert's legendary courage, magnanimity, and martial achievements commanded universal respect.
This foundation had enabled the reunification of the Seven Kingdoms under the Iron Throne, allowing Westeros to enjoy a rare period of stability and prosperity.
Should the king die unexpectedly...
After the young and widely disdained Joffrey claimed the throne, would the Seven Kingdoms maintain their allegiance?
Tyrion harbored grave doubts.
For his part, Joffrey fully comprehended the consequences that would follow "the death of the king."
In the century since the Targaryens lost their dragons, the lords paramount of the Seven Kingdoms had grown increasingly autonomous, accustomed to governing their domains with minimal interference. Their reverence for the Iron Throne had diminished accordingly.
The established order grew increasingly fragile, with power valued above all else.
In such an environment, King Robert's death would weaken—at best—or completely shatter—at worst—the alliance of Stag, Wolf, Fish, and Falcon that had endured for merely fifteen years.
Among these allies, Houses Stark, Tully, and Arryn of the North, Riverlands, and Vale were bound by marriage and blood, their ties to each other far stronger than their loyalty to the crown.
The royal House Baratheon itself stood divided: Renly controlled the Stormlands, Stannis held Dragonstone, with the king's direct domain of the Crownlands caught between them. One house, three factions.
Joffrey's greatest support—House Lannister of the Westerlands—remained suspect in many eyes. Having joined the rebellion belatedly, the Lions bore a tarnished reputation. The Wolves, Fish, and Falcons harbored little love for them, and even within the royal Stags, Lannister influence generated resentment rather than respect.
The remaining kingdoms presented even greater challenges.
Dorne, situated at the southernmost extremity of Westeros, with its scorching deserts and fiercely independent traditions, had always proven resistant to outside control.
Its economy, culture, and political structures maintained relative autonomy, rendering Iron Throne influence minimal at best.
The Reach, blessed with unparalleled fertility and a population exceeding ten million—nearly one-third of the realm's total—produced sufficient grain to feed both the Stormlands and Dorne simultaneously.
Furthermore, exiled Targaryen loyalists, the Greyjoy reavers of the Iron Islands, and countless ambitious lords all nurtured private grievances and aspirations.
Once the king's restraining influence vanished, these conflicts would erupt in devastating concert, like a monstrous flood breaking through weakened levees.
The Seven Kingdoms would surely bleed.
Yet simultaneously, such cataclysmic forces might sweep away accumulated corruption and stagnation, paving the way for a new world to arise from the ashes of the old.
"In any case, remember my dragon eggs," Joffrey concluded, his tone deceptively casual. "Ensure Littlefinger plays no games with what is rightfully mine."
Having delivered this final instruction, Joffrey departed without further ceremony, his abrupt exit making his expectations abundantly clear.
He trusted Tyrion would execute these tasks effectively and discreetly.
Tyrion gazed solemnly at the prince's retreating back, his mind awhirl with possibilities.
Is Westeros truly upon the precipice of war?
Who shall strike the fatal blow against King Robert? His ambitious brothers? My vicious sister? Or perhaps Joffrey himself, armed with forbidden knowledge?
Will the Stag's Iron Throne change hands once more?
Most crucially—can this new incarnation of Joffrey be trusted as an ally?
Tyrion glanced at the final line inscribed upon the parchment: Funds: 5,000 gold dragons, to be obtained from the Hound.
A humorless smile twisted his lips.
What choice do men like me truly have?
This is all I can do.