A New Player in the Game of Thrones

The Red Keep.

Dusk was approaching.

The prince's party returned laden with spoils.

Joffrey rode on horseback, carrying a birdcage and inspecting the passing convoy with a smug look, as though every piece of prey had been taken by him.

With the original owner's memories to support him, he behaved exactly like the arrogant, willful brat he had once been.

There were countless dangers at the center of the political whirlpool.

Joffrey understood that he still had to lie low, endure, and maintain the image of a foolish, harmless boy.

In four or five months.

Kill the king, then give King's Landing a thorough cleansing...

"My dear prince, hunting is a dangerous pursuit. You went without even giving notice beforehand, and the Queen was terribly worried."

Varys the Eunuch, the Master of Whisperers known as the "Eight-Legged Spider," had sidled over at some point.

The bald, fat man wore a billowing violet robe and reeked heavily of cosmetics, always inspiring an indescribable disgust.

Heh, I've been waiting for you.

Joffrey fanned the air fiercely before his nose, then pointed at Tyrion beside him.

"Isn't it all Uncle's fault? It was only a bit of information, yet he insisted I take him hunting in the Kingswood before he would tell me."

"And don't stand so close, Spider."

Varys the Eunuch obediently retreated several steps. "I see. What a troublesome secret. Was the prince satisfied?"

Tyrion made an exaggerated expression.

"Does that even need asking? If I hadn't satisfied the noble Prince Joffrey's wishes, would I still be standing here in one piece?"

Varys merely gazed at the prince with a flattering smile.

"Look, this Snow Bunting in the cage. How happily it's hopping! Hahaha." Joffrey laughed.

Varys smiled broadly as well. "Yes, how interesting."

"Oh, right." Joffrey tossed away the birdcage. "Where are Father and Mother?"

"Tomorrow is my twelfth Name Day. I thought of a one-of-a-kind gift. Dragon Eggs! Hahaha, you've never seen them, have you?"

Varys eagerly echoed him. "Oh my, oh my, truly priceless treasures. Who could possibly be fortunate enough to lay eyes on such treasures?"

Joffrey's face darkened again. "Hmph, someone gets to see them every day! Some... what was it... Magister..."

Without another word, Tyrion knew it was his turn.

"A Magister of Pentos, Illyrio Mopatis. He has three Dragon Eggs hidden away, just right for three princes and princesses."

Joffrey curled his lip.

Anyone could tell that he had no intention whatsoever of sharing his gifts with his younger siblings.

Varys backed away another few steps.

"Look at my memory, how dreadful of me. I nearly forgot to answer your question."

"Though our brave king is still inspecting the city, if you make your way to the Queen's Ballroom, you will surely see the Queen's charming smile."

"May your wish be fulfilled soon."

Joffrey immediately tugged on the reins and headed for Maegor's Holdfast by himself.

Tyrion hurried after him. According to plan, he still had to endure Cersei's glares and questioning.

The Spider did not continue pestering them.

He had gained his own "prey" as well.

Beyond the Dry Moat and the twelve-foot-thick walls lay the heart of the Red Keep, a castle within a castle—Maegor's Holdfast.

On the first floor, in the Queen's Ballroom, things went very smoothly.

Queen Cersei, who indulged her children without limit, simply did not know how to refuse, especially not her most beloved eldest son.

Tyrion did his utmost to deal with his sister's sarcasm and interrogation, assuring her that the three Dragon Eggs truly existed while refusing to reveal the source of the information.

Joffrey only needed to give up resisting and let Cersei manhandle him.

In less than half an hour, the satisfied Queen relented and ordered Littlefinger, the Master of Coin, to oversee the matter with all his strength, sparing no expense.

From this moment onward, the Dragon Mother's storyline had been completely overturned.

After leaving the Queen's Ballroom.

Tyrion hesitated for a moment, then headed straight for the White Sword Tower.

That was where the Kingsguard lived. As everyone knew, Ser Jaime Lannister, the "Kingslayer," was an honored member of the Kingsguard.

Watching this, Joffrey understood that Tyrion was about to face the truth of Tysha completely.

Love, hatred, grudges, and desire—the eternal accompaniment of mankind.

He raised his head to look at the towering Tower of the Hand.

Several days earlier, Lord Tywin Lannister had arrived in the capital with a large retinue, intending to attend Prince Joffrey's Nameday Tourney tomorrow.

He was currently staying in the Tower of the Hand.

Would Tyrion reenact the patricide from the Tower of the Hand in the original story?

Back in his bedroom, Joffrey dismissed his servants and lazily lay down on the bed, staring at the ceiling as he let his thoughts drift.

A whole day of rushing about and scheming inevitably left both body and mind exhausted.

Even so, Joffrey knew he could not relax yet. Compared to his life, what did a little hardship and exhaustion matter?

He had a clear understanding of his dangerous situation.

In just a few months, an age of chaos that would sweep across the entire continent and even the world would begin.

He wanted to stop it.

But even if the king died tomorrow and he put on the crown that very instant, he would still be powerless.

Whether there would be peace or turmoil depended on the degree of conflict and contradiction between the classes of the Seven Kingdoms. It could not be decided by a good king alone.

He understood this clearly. Westeros belonged to the king, but even more so to the nobles.

The king on the Iron Throne was like the Son of Heaven of the Western Zhou and Eastern Zhou, nominally ruling the Seven Kingdoms.

Yet the Crownlands directly under his rule accounted for less than a tenth of the total territory and population of the Seven Kingdoms.

Across the overwhelming majority of lands under the dynasty's rule, the direct rulers were the various Vassal powers, led by the lords of the Seven Kingdoms.

Beneath a single Iron Throne stood many independent powers, playing an endless Game of Thrones.

There was no middle ground in this game. If one did not become a winner, there was only death.

Heroes vied for supremacy.

He was a stag, and he was also a player.

And he held only a terrible hand: no confidants, no money, no power, no reputation, no army. His sole status as Crown Prince carried the risk of exploding in his face at any moment.

Worse still, the rules of the game had become even crueler and more violent.

Rites and music had collapsed. Strength reigned supreme.

Within only a few years, the lords of the Seven Kingdoms and the great nobles, overseas powers, the Wildlings beyond The Wall, and even monsters like the Others would all stake everything they had, battling and killing one another.

Joffrey was undoubtedly one of the most conspicuous targets.

If he could not win this game, then even if he was not killed by a cup of Poisoned Wine as in the original story, some other unexpected death would find him sooner or later.

Of course, beyond the pressure of danger, immense profit was another important driving force.

Three Dragon Eggs capable of hatching were enough to drive countless people mad. Yet he could obtain them with only a day's effort.

There were quite a few opportunities like this.

The fruit was too tempting. How could anyone resist taking action?

The light grew dimmer and dimmer. The elaborate patterns on the ceiling gradually disappeared, leaving Joffrey amid hazy shadows.

He rose and walked to the window, admiring the Red Keep at evening.

Layers of clouds glowed in the sky, red as blazing fire.

The Red Keep, built of crimson stone, was stained by the red light as well. It seemed brighter, yet somehow darker too.

In the corridors and on the ground below, soldiers on duty were setting torches in place and lighting braziers, preparing for the night patrols.

The sight of the castle, like something from a medieval film, constantly reminded him that he had crossed into another world.

An epic, magical world—his real world now.

How could he steadily take control of King's Landing and clear out internal dangers within half a year?

He stood there lost in thought for a long time.

When he finally came back to himself, the moon was already high in the sky.

Looking up at that bright moon, he made up his mind.

His new life was bound to be dangerous and splendid. The future would be busy.

He would remember that world one last time. After tonight, he would throw himself wholeheartedly into living in the present, freely and without restraint.

The night deepened, growing cooler.

He changed into silk sleepwear, poured himself a glass of Dornish Red Wine, and leaned by the window as he gazed out.

A toast to the moon.

It was much like the Moon Palace over there, just as cold and lonely, just as round.

A toast to the stars.

The sky was filled with Falling Stars. Were they worlds too...?