Joffrey was "sparring" with Ser Jaime, though any observer with even a passing familiarity with swordplay would have called it a one-sided thrashing.
The Kingslayer seemed quite at his ease, even keeping his left hand tucked behind his back in a gesture of casual arrogance. His golden hair gleamed in the morning light, not a single strand displaced by exertion.
"Left chest," he called, then struck precisely where promised. "Right chest. Head. Neck..."
He announced each target before striking, giving Joffrey ample warning to raise his wooden practice sword in defense. Despite this courtesy, nearly half the blows still found their mark with stinging accuracy.
Obviously, were this genuine combat rather than training, the match would have concluded far more swiftly, and with considerably more blood.
Joffrey was not discouraged by his poor showing. Ser Jaime was, after all, among the most renowned knights in the Seven Kingdoms. There was no dishonor in falling before his blade—particularly for Joffrey, who remained a novice despite his royal blood.
Though the humiliation stung nearly as much as the welts rising on his skin, this sacrifice of pride was nothing compared to the necessity of remedying his deficiencies in close combat.
So this is how much a wooden sword hurts, Joffrey thought, wincing as he rolled his shoulder. Steel would be far less forgiving.
"Let us cease for today. I've had my fill of fighting," Joffrey declared, dropping his wooden sword unceremoniously and sitting directly upon the ground. His chest heaved with exertion, sweat plastering his fine linen shirt to his back.
Jaime twirled his practice blade with effortless grace before sliding it through his belt like a real sword.
"I trust you'll remember that for a true warrior, abandoning your sword signifies surrender—or more often, death," he said, his tone light but his eyes serious.
Joffrey thought his uncle merely showing off his prowess, as he was wont to do.
Jaime lowered himself to sit beside his nephew. These past days had seen Joffrey actively seeking instruction in swordsmanship, a development that had improved Jaime's estimation of the boy more than he might have thought possible.
"A sword is not some simple plaything," Jaime said, his voice dropping to ensure only Joffrey would hear his words. "Do you know how to successfully extinguish a man's life?"
He imparted his experience with the casual air of one discussing the weather. "Thrust hard into the heart, or make several passes through the belly. Removing his head is equally effective, provided your opponent isn't wearing a helm."
A half-smile played at the corner of his mouth. "Of course, should you take a man captive, you might show mercy and grant him a quick death by beheading."
Jaime observed Joffrey's reaction with undisguised interest.
"Beheading is something of an art, you know."
His finger traced a line across his own neck. "The bones of a man's neck possess remarkable strength. Only by sliding your blade smoothly through the gap in the center of the vertebrae—a space narrower than half your smallest fingernail—can you remove the head cleanly."
His voice took on a note of professional distaste. "Should you fail, the result is... unseemly. You might spend an age hacking away, as if attempting to fell a tree with a dull axe. No one wishes to witness such a spectacle—least of all the poor wretch beneath the blade."
Joffrey listened attentively to his uncle's instruction, his face betraying neither excitement nor revulsion.
He understood perfectly what Jaime described.
The weakest part of the spine is the intervertebral disc connecting adjacent vertebrae, Joffrey thought clinically. A soft tissue structure naturally less resilient than bone.
He recalled his anatomical knowledge with precision.
The cervical spine contains seven vertebrae, but there exists no intervertebral disc between the first and second vertebrae. Thus, there are five discs in total within the neck.
To behead a man cleanly, one must find these five lines of weakness.
His thoughts drifted to the peculiar sensation he had experienced the previous night. Was the bastard likewise beheaded?
He had known he would perceive the boy's death the moment it occurred.
The mirror rune possessed a broad range of applications. It could not only detect the existence of other rune mirrors but also control them and sense their destruction.
Once the host perished, the rune mirror would naturally dissolve with them.
Yet beyond merely sensing the boy's demise, Joffrey had received a surge of abundant energy—familiar runic power, more than triple what had been required to create the two rune mirrors he had gifted to the bastard.
Though the growth rate of runic energy within a mirror matched that within the primary rune body, four days would not have sufficed to accumulate such a quantity of power.
Could runic energy truly be connected to a person's soul? he wondered.
Joffrey sensed he had discovered a vulnerability to exploit: bestow rune mirrors upon others, then harvest them at regular intervals.
The more runic energy expended, the more "crops" would grow; The more abundant these living vessels, the greater runic energy would be reaped; The greater the harvest, the less one need invest initially.
Which meant: the more runic energy spent, the less runic energy spent in the long term.
He examined the thirty-three units of runic energy in his metaphysical ledger, and the corners of his mouth curled upward in satisfaction.
Over recent days, he had meditated upon the mysterious patterns adorning the dragon egg, successfully divining the growth rune and the contract rune.
As its name suggested, the growth rune allowed its bearer to transcend the natural limitations of physical development and lifespan—likely explaining how dragons could continue to increase in size throughout their lives.
The contract rune remained somewhat inscrutable. All he presently understood was its capacity to forge a mysterious connection between two creatures, enabling them to sense one another across great distances.
Dragon and dragonrider? he speculated.
He had also discerned the ceiling of runic energy generation—five units per day.
Though he now possessed six distinct runes, the daily accumulation of runic energy remained unchanged despite the appearance of the sixth.
Five units daily was certainly sufficient for his personal use, but woefully inadequate if he wished to build a force of any significance.
In the foreseeable future, he would require vast quantities of runic energy, as much as could be obtained.
It appeared that harvesting these living vessels—these "leeks," as he thought of them—might prove a necessary strategy.
Sandor Clegane approached where uncle and nephew sat.
"Ser Jaime. Your Highness," the Hound rasped, "the lion has fully recovered."
Joffrey rose to his feet with undisguised eagerness.
"Let us conclude today's lesson, Uncle Jaime."
Swordplay could wait.
He could not, however, delay his attempts to tame the magnificent beast that awaited him.
Within a cage even more substantial and spacious than the one that had confined it in King's Landing, the giant lion regarded all who passed with piercing golden eyes.
There was little doubt that should the steel bars vanish, the beast would waste no time in rending apart the noisy creatures that gawked before it.
Joffrey stood directly before the cage, studying his prize.
The arrow wounds that had marred the lion's body had vanished without trace. Its fur gleamed with health and vitality, its eyes as bright and alert as a hunter surveying its domain.
Though he had observed the creature many times since its capture, Joffrey could not help but marvel at its sheer size.
He suspected the beast weighed more than a ton or two—as large as many warhorses, yet far more deadly.
If a mere lion could command such presence, he could scarcely imagine the awe a fully-grown dragon might inspire.
Little wonder the Seven Kingdoms had once knelt before the Targaryens without resistance.
The thought kindled fresh longing for his dragon eggs.
Could the eggs truly be hatched only by those of Valyrian blood? he wondered. Was it some form of blood magic, perhaps? Some hereditary trait passed through generations? Or had the dragonlords simply mastered the precise conditions required for successful hatching?
A thunderous roar interrupted his musings. The air disturbed by the lion's breath ruffled Joffrey's golden hair like a warm wind.
"You lack manners," he chided the beast. "See how you drool."
He extended his hand through the bars to pat the creature's massive head.
The giant lion shook its mane violently, snapping at Joffrey's retreating fingers with fearsome teeth that crashed against the steel bars. The dozens of iron chains binding its body rattled in protest, the entire cage trembling with the force of its movement.
The Hound stepped forward, hand moving to his sword hilt.
"Your Highness, this beast remains too savage. Caution would be prudent."
Joffrey drew Dragonflame from its scabbard without hesitation, extending the blade's tip through the bars and directly into the lion's gaping maw.
"If your power matches your pride, take a bite of this," he challenged.
Dragonflame's inherent fire magic radiated heat sufficient for even the fire-blessed lion to perceive. The sword's legendary sharpness and durability required no explanation.
The giant lion turned its head away, seemingly unwilling to test itself against the ancient weapon.
"Sandor, come and hold Dragonflame for me," Joffrey commanded.
He moved to the opposite side of the cage and pressed his hand against the lion's muscular hind leg. Perhaps reluctant to risk injury from the sharp blade hovering near its head, the beast remained still, ignoring Joffrey's touch.
With a moment's concentration, Joffrey successfully integrated a fire rune mirror into the giant lion's flesh.
He waited with anticipation to observe the outcome.
The giant lion already possessed a natural fire rune. How would the two magical patterns interact?
He felt it immediately—the power of the fire rune mirror suddenly intensified several-fold. Have they merged? he wondered.
Yet he retained complete control over this enhanced mirror.
Joffrey smiled with undisguised smugness. Little lion, you cannot escape my grasp now.
Be good, he commanded silently.
Be obedient.
Let me ride.
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