The Red Keep loomed crimson against the darkening sky as dusk approached, its towers and turrets casting long shadows across the courtyards below.
The prince and his hunting party returned through the King's Gate, laden with the spoils of their expedition. Servants and stable boys rushed to attend them, bowing and scraping as befitted the royal presence.
Joffrey, astride his chestnut palfrey and clutching an ornate birdcage, surveyed the passing convoy with an air of smug satisfaction, as if he alone had bagged every hart and boar in the Kingswood. Bolstered by the memories of his predecessor's behavior, his demeanor was indistinguishable from the arrogant, willful brat the court had always known him to be.
The political vortex of King's Landing is fraught with countless unseen dangers, he reflected behind his self-satisfied smile.
Joffrey understood that he needed to lie low and bide his time, maintaining his carefully crafted image as a foolish, harmless boy—at least until four or five months hence.
To kill the king, then thoroughly cleanse King's Landing...
"My dear prince, hunting is such a perilous activity. To embark without so much as a word beforehand... the queen was beside herself with worry."
The master of whisperers, "Varys the Spider," had materialized seemingly from the very stones of the courtyard. The bald, portly eunuch, clad in a voluminous robe of violet silk, exuded a cloying, powdery scent that invariably inspired a sense of revulsion in those who stood downwind.
Ah, I've been expecting you, Joffrey thought, his face betraying nothing of his inner calculations.
He waved his hand dismissively before his nose a few times, then pointed to Tyrion beside him.
"It's all my uncle's fault. A mere piece of information, yet he insisted I bring him to the Kingswood to hunt before he'd reveal it."
"Besides," he added with undisguised distaste, "don't stand so close, Spider."
Varys obediently retreated a few paces, hands concealed within his voluminous sleeves. "Indeed? Such a troublesome secret. I trust the prince is satisfied with what he learned?"
Tyrion put on an exaggerated expression of feigned innocence.
"Need you even ask? Had the esteemed Prince Joffrey not been appeased, would I still be standing here in one piece?" His mismatched eyes glittered with sardonic amusement.
Varys merely gazed at the prince with practiced obsequiousness, his face a mask of servility.
"Look at the snow bunting in this cage," Joffrey said, grinning like the child he pretended to be. "Hopping about so merrily, ha ha ha!"
Varys plastered on a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Indeed, how delightfully amusing."
"By the way," Joffrey continued, carelessly tossing the birdcage to a nearby servant, "where are Father and Mother?"
"Tomorrow is my twelfth nameday. I've conceived of a singular gift for myself. Dragon eggs! Ha! You've never seen one, have you?"
Varys chimed in with effusive agreement. "Oh, my! Truly a rare treasure. Who could be so fortunate as to behold such a marvel?"
Joffrey's face darkened with practiced petulance. "Hmph, some people get to see them every day! It's a... whatchamacallit... governor..."
Without needing to be told, Tyrion knew his cue had arrived.
"A magister of Pentos," he supplied smoothly. "Illyrio Mopatis. He possesses three dragon eggs, perfectly suited as gifts for the three children of the king."
Joffrey pursed his lips, a storm gathering in his eyes.
Anyone could tell that he had no intention of sharing the gift with his younger siblings. The thought of Tommen or Myrcella laying claim to even one of the precious eggs was clearly intolerable to him.
Varys retreated a few more steps, as if sensing the prince's displeasure.
"Forgive my poor memory, how remiss of me. I almost forgot to enlighten you."
"While our valiant king is still inspecting the city, you need only proceed to the Queen's Ballroom, where you are sure to find the queen's captivating smile."
"I wish you every success in your... endeavor." The slightest hesitation betrayed more than Varys likely intended.
Joffrey immediately yanked on the reins and steered his horse toward Maegor's Holdfast, kicking the beast into motion with more force than necessary.
Tyrion hastily followed, his shorter legs working furiously to keep pace. According to their plan, he still had to endure Cersei's venomous glares and probing questions.
The Spider, however, did not persist.
He, too, had secured his own "prey"—information worth far more than any stag or boar.
Passing through the dry moat with its cruel iron spikes and beyond the twelve-foot-thick walls, one arrived at the heart of the Red Keep, the castle within the castle—Maegor's Holdfast, named for the cruelest of Targaryen kings.
In the Queen's Ballroom on the first floor, matters progressed smoothly, like a well-rehearsed mummer's play.
Queen Cersei, infinitely indulgent of her children, knew not how to refuse them—especially her most beloved eldest son. Her golden hair caught the light of a hundred candles as she listened to Joffrey's enthusiastic demands.
Tyrion did his utmost to parry his sister's barbed remarks and insistent inquiries, assuring her that the three dragon eggs truly existed while steadfastly refusing to divulge the source of his knowledge.
Joffrey merely needed to cease his struggles and allow Cersei to badger him with maternal concern thinly disguising her suspicion.
In less than half an hour, the satisfied queen relented, ordering the master of coin, Petyr Baelish—called "Littlefinger" behind his back and sometimes to his face—to oversee the matter with all due diligence, sparing no expense.
From that moment on, Daenerys Targaryen's destiny was irrevocably altered.
Leaving the Queen's Ballroom, Tyrion hesitated for a moment, then headed straight for the White Sword Tower.
That was the residence of the Kingsguard, and as all the realm knew, Ser Jaime Lannister, the infamous "Kingslayer," was a member of that sworn brotherhood, when he was not warming Cersei's bed.
Seeing this, Joffrey understood that Tyrion was about to confront the truth about Tysha.
Love and hate, humanity's eternal companions, playing out their ancient dance once more.
He raised his head to gaze at the towering Hand's Tower, its windows already aglow with lamplight against the darkening sky.
Several days ago, Lord Tywin Lannister had arrived in the capital with a large entourage, preparing to attend Prince Joffrey's nameday tourney on the morrow.
He was currently residing in the Hand's Tower, filling the vacuum left by the still-living Jon Arryn.
Would Tyrion reenact the kinslaying scene from the Hand's Tower of the original story? Joffrey wondered, a chill running down his spine despite the warm evening air.
Returning to his bedchamber, Joffrey dismissed his servants with a wave of his hand, languidly lay down upon his featherbed, and gazed at the ceiling, letting his mind wander freely.
A full day of scheming and running about had left him mentally and physically exhausted, his limbs as heavy as lead.
Despite this, Joffrey knew he could not afford the luxury of relaxation. Compared to his life, a little hardship was nothing.
He had a clear understanding of his perilous situation.
In a few short months, the chaos that would engulf the entire continent and even the world beyond would begin in earnest.
He was intent on preventing it, or at least turning it to his advantage.
But even if King Robert were to die on the morrow, and he were to don the crown immediately, he would still be powerless to stem the tide of coming war.
Whether there would be peace or turmoil depended on the degree of conflict and tension among the various strata of the Seven Kingdoms, not on the will of a good king alone.
He knew full well that Westeros belonged to the king in name, but in truth, it belonged to the high lords and their armies.
The king on the Iron Throne, like the Son of Heaven in the dynasties of the Far East, nominally ruled the Seven Kingdoms from shore to shore.
But the area and population of the Crownlands directly under his control amounted to less than a tenth of the totality of the Seven Kingdoms.
In most of the lands falling under the dynasty's supposed dominion, the true rulers were the great houses and their vassals, headed by the lords paramount of the Seven Kingdoms.
Beneath one Iron Throne lurked many independent forces, playing a never-ending game of thrones, where the stakes were power, legacy, and survival itself.
There was no middle ground in this deadly game; one either emerged victorious or faced ruin and death.
The struggle for supremacy never changes, no matter the world, Joffrey mused.
He was both a lion and a player, caught in a trap of his own making.
And he held only a poor hand of cards: no trusted confidants, no coffers of gold, no real power, no sterling reputation, no loyal army. His sole advantage was the title of crown prince, which also carried the risk of making him a target at any moment.
What was worse, the rules of the game had become ever more cruel and violent with each passing year.
Chivalry and honor were collapsing like sand castles before the tide, and brute strength was paramount.
In a few short years, the great lords of the Seven Kingdoms, powers from across the Narrow Sea, wildlings from beyond the Wall, and even monsters such as the Others would all stake their entire fortunes on an all-consuming struggle for dominance.
Joffrey was undoubtedly the most conspicuous target in this bloody game.
If he could not win, even if he somehow avoided the poisoned cup of the original story, he would sooner or later meet some other violent end.
Of course, in addition to the spur of danger, the enormous benefits were also an important driving force behind his schemes.
Three dragon eggs that could one day hatch into living dragons were enough to drive countless men to madness and murder. Yet he could obtain them with just a day's effort.
There were many similar opportunities in this world of magic and might.
The fruit of power was too tempting; how could anyone resist taking action when it hung so tantalizingly close?
The light grew dimmer as evening descended, and the intricate patterns on the ceiling gradually faded from view, leaving Joffrey a solitary shadow in the growing gloom.
He rose and walked to the window, admiring the evening vista of the Red Keep.
The clouds in the sky were layered in bands of crimson and gold, red like wildfire against the darkening blue.
The Red Keep, built of pale red sandstone, was stained with the bloody light of sunset, seeming brighter yet also somehow darker, as if painted anew by some celestial artist.
The soldiers on duty in the corridors and yards below were inserting torches into iron sconces and lighting braziers everywhere, preparing for the night watch.
The castle scene, reminiscent of tales from the Age of Heroes, constantly reminded him that he had crossed over into another world.
An epic and magical world, now his own true reality.
How to smoothly gain control of King's Landing within half a year and eliminate the hidden dangers within its walls?
He stood there in a daze for a long time, lost in thought as the sun's last light faded from the western horizon.
By the time he came back to his senses, the moon was already high in the sky, a pale silver disc floating among a sea of stars.
Looking up at the bright moon, cold and distant, he made a decision.
This new life was bound to be dangerous and exciting. The future would be filled with challenges and opportunities in equal measure.
He would cherish the memory of that other world one last time. After tonight, he would live fully and freely in the present, embracing his destiny as Joffrey Baratheon, heir to the Iron Throne.
The night was growing thicker and cooler, a gentle breeze carrying the scents of the city and the sea.
He changed into silk nightclothes, poured a glass of Dornish red wine, and leaned against the window frame, gazing outward at the moonlit landscape.
A toast to the moon.
It was similar to the Moon Palace in that other world, so cold and so perfectly round.
A toast to the stars.
The vast starry sky, diamonds scattered on black velvet. Were they also worlds, he wondered, teeming with their own games of power and their own uncertain players?
The wine was sweet on his tongue, with an undertone of spice that lingered long after he swallowed. Like power itself—intoxicating, complex, and potentially deadly in excess.
Tomorrow would bring his nameday tourney, the first public test of his new self. He would need to play his role flawlessly, the spoiled prince concealing the calculating player beneath.
Let the game begin, Joffrey thought, raising his glass once more to the indifferent stars.