Chapter 7: Magic?!

The Queen's Ballroom within Maegor's Holdfast blazed with light from countless torches and candles, turning night to false day. At the center of the chamber, a troupe of court dancers twirled and leaped in elegant formations, their silks and satins fluttering like butterfly wings to the melodious strains of lute and flute.

Cersei sat upon the Queen's throne on the high dais, her golden hair shimmering in the candlelight as she chatted with her eldest son, a warm smile gracing her beautiful face.

"Joffrey, this is your tourney. Should you not still be at the feast? Why have you abandoned your own celebration?"

Cersei herself had departed early, having no desire to remain in the company of her loathsome husband, but she recalled that Joffrey typically reveled in such festivities, demanding attention as his due.

"Mother," Joffrey replied, adopting the demeanor of a child who desires something from an adult but is too proud to beg outright. His face was a calculated mask of boyish hesitation.

"Is Valyrian steel truly as wondrous as they claim? I should like to possess such a weapon."

Valyrian steel, forged with spells now lost to the world, represented an ideal tool for verifying his suspicions. He had already confirmed at the tourney banquet that the strange aura and cyan shimmer surrounding Bronze Yohn's armor were not mere figments of his imagination. The ancient rune-marked bronze truly contained some form of enchantment.

Magical perception, magical sight? A Golden finger?

He required more examples to study—such as the Valyrian steel weapons rumored to reside in the Red Keep's vaults.

All he needed was permission to examine them.

The Crown Prince, only twelve years of age, shook his mother's arm gently, his face alight with carefully simulated anticipation and longing. "I've heard that many lesser lords possess Valyrian steel. I am a prince of the blood—how can I not have such a blade? Surely Mother knows a way."

Cersei's smile deepened as she drew Joffrey into her embrace, the wine on her breath mingling with the scent of exotic perfumes.

"I suspected you had some ulterior motive," she said fondly. "My sweet boy knows his mother's role all too well."

Yet Joffrey continued to press for his "sweets," like any petulant child.

Cersei, as ever, proved utterly defenseless against her firstborn's desires. "Valyrian steel is indeed precious beyond measure. Many houses regard such blades as ancestral treasures to be passed through generations. My golden lion deserves no less."

"There should be several suitable pieces in the royal vaults," she continued. "Robert has grown too fat to wield them properly. Choose whichever pleases you most."

Robert! she thought with vicious satisfaction. You would never suspect that the one who truly inherits the Iron Throne shall be Jaime's son, of pure Lannister blood!

What matter if old Jon Arryn and dour Stannis harbor suspicions? Jaime and I continue to flourish while they connive in shadows. They make trouble only for themselves!

Cersei stroked the prince's face lovingly, and the handsome visage before her seemed to transform, becoming once more the sweet, innocent babe she had cradled in her arms so long ago.

How swiftly time had passed—twelve years gone in the space of a heartbeat. Her son was becoming a man, ready to learn the arts of rule and power.

"Remember always, my son," she whispered, her voice low but intense.

"You are the lion of Lannister, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, future King of all Westeros. Everything is yours for the taking."

"Should any dare defy you, they must face punishment most severe."

"Think of your grandfather Lord Tywin—when the strains of 'The Rains of Castamere' sound in any hall, the lords of the Westerlands tremble in fear!"

"It is through fear and obedience that kingdoms are forged strong."

Cersei's instruction was simple yet unmistakable.

The prince offered a dazzling smile in return. "I understand completely, Mother."

Indeed I do, he thought. The annihilation of Houses Reyne and Tarbeck immortalized in 'The Rains of Castamere' only enhanced the fearsome glory of House Lannister.

The song itself painted a vivid picture: And now the rains weep o'er his hall, with no one there to hear. Yes, now the rains weep o'er his hall, and not a soul to hear.

When House Farman of Fair Isle had once balked at Lannister authority, Lord Tywin dispatched only a single musician to play that song in their great hall. The lord immediately renewed his vows of fealty.

Observing his ancestral seat while listening to that melody, Lord Farman must have experienced genuine terror, Joffrey reflected.

I understand the lesson well.

Fear and the threat of violence are not the only tools at a king's disposal, but they are as essential as air to effective governance.

"Have no concern, Mother. I shall become the greatest king Westeros has ever known and bring our family to heights of glory heretofore unimagined."

Cersei's pleasure at his words was evident. She embraced her son once more, speaking without pause—sometimes of inconsequential matters, at other times imparting further lessons on the nature of power and rule.

Their conversation continued until Joffrey deliberately allowed his attention to wander, signaling his growing impatience.

"Hanna," Cersei beckoned to a servant standing discreetly behind her throne. "This woman knows the Red Keep better than most. She is both loyal and capable, and shall guide you to your destination."

A maid with chestnut curls and a somewhat familiar countenance stepped forward and executed a graceful curtsy.

"Your Highness, I am honored to serve you," she murmured, eyes properly downcast.

Joffrey acknowledged her with a slight nod. With the "Vault Pass" now in his possession, this phase of his plan had been completed successfully.

Tyrion, who had maintained a careful silence throughout the exchange, set down his wine goblet and rose to follow the departing prince without invitation.

Their small party traversed the corridors of the Red Keep under cover of darkness.

Torches sputtered and hissed in their sconces, casting dancing shadows upon the stone walls. Beyond the reach of their light lay darkness absolute, filled with untold secrets.

Where might Varys's "little birds" be hiding? Joffrey wondered. Where are the secret doors and passages rumored to honeycomb the Red Keep? Here, there, everywhere—in places known only to spiders and their prey.

Unbidden, he recalled the prayer of R'hllor's faithful: "The night is dark and full of terrors."

Even so, I shall have the final victory.

"By order of the Queen Regent," Hanna announced to the guards stationed before the vault's entrance.

The four soldiers exchanged wary glances before setting to work on the heavy iron locks. Together, they pushed open the massive oak door, its ancient hinges protesting with an eerie groan.

Joffrey took the lead, stepping across the threshold with measured confidence, his senses alert to any hint of magical emanations.

The Hound and Hanna followed closely behind, while Tyrion, uninvited yet undeterred, ambled in their wake, his mismatched eyes darting curiously about the chamber.

Unlike the notoriously empty royal treasury, the vault housed a collection of antiquities and treasures difficult to convert to coin. Many items remained here solely because royal dignity forbade their sale, even in times of need. The chamber overflowed with gleaming artifacts, a tangible reminder of the wealth and majesty of the Iron Throne.

After a thorough exploration, Joffrey found himself richly rewarded.

The Valyrian steel items were easy to identify by their smoky, rippled appearance: a fearsome axe, two small war hammers, a longsword of elegant design, three daggers of varying sizes, and seven curious links that might once have formed part of a maester's chain.

He also discovered a cabochon ruby of unusual size, two square-cut sapphires, three crystal spheres of dark purple hue, a slender rod of green glass that could only be a glass candle, and a greatsword that appeared unremarkable to the casual observer.

Nearly all these items were either confirmed or rumored to possess magical properties.

Most significantly, Joffrey could perceive them all through his newfound sense. In his strange vision, the black Valyrian steel glowed with a translucent white radiance, not unlike the cyan luminescence surrounding Bronze Yohn's armor. The glass candle displayed faint, shifting patterns of multicolored light, barely visible yet undeniably present.

It truly is magic, and I can perceive it.

Joffrey felt a profound sense of calm wash over him, a certainty that transcended mere confidence.

He had always recognized the dangers inherent in this world.

Valar morghulis. All men must die.

Though he believed in his own capabilities, he remained keenly aware that a single dagger thrust, a cup of poisoned wine, or a well-aimed arrow could abruptly terminate all his grand designs.

So long as he remained Joffrey Baratheon in the eyes of others, these perils would shadow his every moment.

But circumstances had changed.

Magic! Blessed be such power!

One day, he would harness these forces, ascending to a higher plane of existence from which he might look down upon the petty struggles of mortal men with detached amusement.

"Uncle, do you believe in magic?" Joffrey inquired, genuinely curious about Tyrion's current state of mind. Was he observing the prince with newfound wariness, or was he still consumed by the revelation about Tysha?

Tyrion raised his head from an ancient tome, his expression pensive and somewhat melancholy.

"Perhaps it exists, perhaps not."

Joffrey, what else do you know? Tyrion wondered silently. What game are we truly playing? Is my Tysha truly out there somewhere, waiting?

"Reality itself is often too absurd to make sense," the dwarf continued aloud. "What, then, is truly worthy of belief? Forgive me—I've read too many dusty volumes for my own good."

Joffrey found himself in genuine agreement, though he could only express it through the juvenile persona he maintained.

"I've heard that Valyrian steel blades are forged with spells, making them sharper than any common steel. Haha, with such a sword in hand, who could stand against me in battle?!"

He gestured imperiously toward the assembled treasures. "Take all these items. I would examine them further in private."

Hanna and the Hound immediately set about gathering the selected artifacts.

"Good nephew," Tyrion remarked, closing his book with a soft thump and nodding three times in apparent satisfaction.

"In light of my having accompanied you on this midnight adventure, might I beg a small mercy? Allow me to borrow this 'Dragon Illustrated Book' for my personal study."

"Heh, whatever," Joffrey replied with affected indifference.

"My gratitude," Tyrion said, handing over a massive leather-bound tome in exchange. "Here is a 'Chronicle of the Four Kings,' copied by Archmaester Ebrose's own hand. Might Your Highness find interest in its pages?"

Joffrey feigned disdain, not even deigning to glance at the offered volume. "I know of them already—those Targaryen kings who ruled after the dragons had died."

"I need no book to teach me kingship. I shall become the greatest monarch in my own right."

In truth, he found the prospect quite intriguing.

Moreover, he sensed that Tyrion harbored some secondary motive in this exchange.

"For my uncle's sake," he declared with a theatrical sigh, "Hound, take this chronicle as well. Perhaps it shall prove useful when sleep eludes you, haha!"

It was precisely the sort of mockery the old Joffrey might have employed.

Tyrion smiled indulgently in response, though his eyes betrayed a deeper calculation.

As they departed the vault, the heavy door closing behind them with finality, Joffrey could not suppress a small thrill of anticipation. Magic existed in this world, and he alone among the players in this great game could perceive its workings.

Let the others scheme with their petty plots and armies, he thought. I shall wield powers they cannot begin to comprehend.