The Newborn "Light of Peace"

The countryside west of King's Landing was beautiful.

Joffrey rode his fine horse with a light heart, guarded by the Hound as he accompanied Lord Tywin's caravan home.

It was going to be a long journey.

The caravan would follow the broad Goldroad more than two thousand kilometers west to the heart of the Westlands—Casterly Rock, built of stone and fed by gold, a fortress that had never fallen.

His old memories alone could never satisfy Joffrey's desire to explore Casterly Rock.

Unfortunately, by the time news of Jon's death reached him, the caravan probably wouldn't even have reached the Westlands. He would have to wait a while longer to see Casterly Rock with his own eyes.

On a lush green hill, Joffrey reined in his horse and gazed at the caravan winding along the road below.

There were more than a thousand well-equipped lords, knights, and guards. It was practically an army.

"Sandor, what do you think of Casterly Rock?"

Joffrey asked the Hound beside him. Sandor had lived there until his teens, so surely he had something to say.

The Hound still felt awkward about it. Being called by his real name now and then was like swallowing a bug. Hah. Have I been a dog too long?

"Casterly Rock..." The Hound could barely remember it. Back then, Gregor had occupied his every thought.

"Big. Hard. Not a good place to have fun."

Joffrey glanced at him. What a spoilsport. "The Mountain's in the caravan right now. Do you want to do anything to him?"

It would be best to settle this grudge soon. Having his personal guard brood over revenge all day put a damper on everything.

But the Hound flinched as if a tongue of flame had licked him. "Prince, we should get back to the caravan. The castle where we're spending the night is still a long way off."

The moment he finished speaking, the Hound flicked his reins and rode straight down toward the caravan.

What did getting back to the caravan have to do with the castle being far away?

Joffrey shook his head and sighed. My fault. Next time I go out to clear my head, I'm definitely not bringing him!

Once back with the caravan, Joffrey climbed into his spacious carriage. It was nothing like the Queen's enormous Wheel Palace, which took forty horses to pull, but it still had room for seven or eight people to relax.

"Hannah, bring over everything we took from the treasury."

That had originally been Elin's job as his attendant.

The young maid, who had been sitting quietly in the carriage, took the items out of a chest beneath her seat one by one.

Valyrian Steel that had lost its magic, a Glass Candle, gemstones and crystals, and a greatsword.

Joffrey picked up a dagger and examined it closely. It had a Dragonbone hilt and a blade black as night, two fingers wide, a little longer than his palm, and sharp on both edges.

This must be the dagger used to try to kill Bran in the story.

"Hannah, I took you from my mother without asking what you wanted. You don't mind, do you?"

Joffrey's question came out of nowhere.

The little maid started and hurried to reassure him. "How could I? Serving you, Crown Prince, is the greatest fortune I could ask for."

Her cheeks flushed faintly.

"Actually, I've already passed my fifteenth Name Day. If not for you, the Queen would probably have tried to pair me with one of the attendants. I didn't want that."

Joffrey took in the girl's pretty face and figure, chuckled, and ruffled her chestnut curls.

When he purged the court someday, a senior maid with no family ties, who knew the Red Keep and could be trusted to handle things steadily, would surely prove useful.

"We'll sleep here tonight. The carriage is warmer."

Hannah lowered her head shyly.

By evening, the enormous caravan finally reached its campsite.

It was the Thorne Family's castle in the western Crownlands, supported by tens of thousands of farmers in the surrounding countryside.

The Lannister family's wealth and generosity were known throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Naturally, the Thorne Family neither wished nor dared to turn away such guests, and had prepared plenty of fine food well in advance.

But the stone castle was not large. Packing a thousand people inside would make it terribly crowded, and its furnishings were ordinary.

Joffrey preferred to spend the night in his own carriage.

A banquet was under way outside. He told Hannah and the other servants to enjoy themselves and stayed alone in the closed carriage.

It's time. He picked up the dagger again.

Ever since "it" had come to him the night before last, the changes in his soul had grown more pronounced. Its presence had become stronger, and the power within it was on the verge of emerging.

Some instinct told him how to use it.

Let's see what kind of magic Valyrian Steel holds.

Joffrey took a deep breath, pressed his right hand against the flat of the dagger's Dragonbone-hilted blade, and slowly closed his eyes.

He lost track of time.

The noise outside gradually faded away. All that remained was his breathing, rising and falling like the tide as it washed over his mind.

At last, he stirred it, if only a little.

As though part of its essence had been consumed, its presence suddenly weakened, and a mass of cold, invisible something separated from it.

It was a strange sensation.

Not like sensing gemstones and crystals, nor like seeing that unusual light. This was a coldness that touched the depths of his soul.

The watery chill flowed past his eyes, the root of his tongue, his throat, his shoulder blade, upper arm, forearm, and wrist, all the way to each fingertip of his right hand.

That hand slipped free of his mind's control and clenched hard around the dagger.

Yet under the soothing touch of that invisible, icy energy, all fear and pain seemed to leave him. Expressionless, he let blood drip down the blade and between his fingers.

In an instant—or perhaps an eternity—the cold energy passed entirely into the dagger. Patterns lit up on the blade once more, and White Light slowly spread through them...

The next moment, stabbing pain, the coppery smell of blood, and the sight of his bleeding right hand all struck him at once.

He flung the dagger away as though it were a hot iron, then cradled his poor right hand with lightning speed and exquisite care. He even wanted to lick it.

Fuck, that really hurts!

Magic is way too weird! How could I do that to myself? Some kind of mechanical mind?

He could have wept. How am I supposed to explain this? Say I suddenly went mad and hurt myself?

Hiss...

The wound on his hand itched unbearably.

To his astonishment, the White Light on his body was rapidly dimming.

It was hard to measure the change. Fortunately, "it" did not grow any fainter, and the White Light eventually settled at about the brightness he had seen yesterday morning. At least it had not disappeared completely.

My hand?!

Joffrey ran his fingers over his right hand. The pain was gone, and every wound had vanished. Only a little dried blood proved that what had happened was no illusion.

It healed me?

Joffrey could think of no other explanation. It had sacrificed part of its own essence to create Valyrian Steel, then used White Light to heal his wounds.

Amazing.

In just a few minutes, his spirits had risen and fallen with each turn of events, but everything had worked out in the end.

Once he had calmed down, he began to take stock of what he had learned.

The toughness and sharpness of Valyrian Steel and the rapid healing of his wounds seemed unrelated, but they did have something in common.

He had already discovered that Valyrian Steel's physical properties did not make it indestructible. Yet cracks in the steel gradually mended as White Light was consumed.

In other words...

Every attack with Valyrian Steel also caused minute damage to the weapon itself.

But this magic quickly repaired that tiny damage, keeping the steel in peak condition. Add to that the fact that Valyrian Steel was prized more as a treasure and symbol than as a weapon, and was rarely used, and it was no wonder it had earned its reputation.

The healing of his wound probably worked in much the same way.

He considered this.

Maybe I could call it Healing Magic.

Hannah's voice came from outside the carriage. "Your Highness, there's beef steak, leg of lamb, fried fish, smoked chicken, roast duck, bread and honey, cake, fruit, red wine, and ale. Would you like anything?"

Joffrey began tidying up the mess. "Just bring me something to eat. Anything will do."

After he had eaten his fill, Joffrey lay back on the carriage bed and admired the Valyrian Steel dagger in his hand, its blade eight inches long.

This one was different from the others.

He had made this dagger himself, a product of his own ingenuity stained with his own blood.

Looking at it, Joffrey could almost see countless swords, axes, and spears just as powerful.

One day...

Those scenes from my dreams will become real. Not just the Seven Kingdoms—the whole world will submit!

Hannah changed into a gauzy garment and climbed onto the bed.

Nestling against the Prince, she reached out to touch the blade. "Your Highness, this dagger is so pretty. Does it have a name?"

"It didn't before. Now I call it 'Light of Peace.' What do you think?"

He had once looked up the name Joffrey out of curiosity. It was a French variant of Geoffrey, meaning "divine peace."

Hannah nuzzled deeper into his arms, her voice soft and sweet. "I like it~"

What's gotten into you all of a sudden?

A fire flared inside Joffrey, demanding release. What did a man want? Power, conquest, women.

"Heh. Then let me show you what Light of Peace can do!"

"Ah, Your Highness~"