The Red Keep.
Dusk was approaching.
The prince's party returned laden with spoils.
Joffrey sat on his horse, a birdcage in hand, proudly surveying the passing carts as if he had caught every animal himself.
Armed with the original Joffrey's memories, he acted exactly like the arrogant, willful brat he had always been.
Countless dangers lurked at the heart of the political maelstrom.
Joffrey knew he had to lie low for now and maintain the appearance of a harmless fool.
In four or five months, though...
He would get rid of the king, then give King's Landing a thorough cleansing...
"My dear prince, hunting is a dangerous pastime. You left without a word, and the queen was terribly worried."
Varys the Eunuch, the Master of Whisperers known as the Eight-Legged Spider, had appeared beside him.
The bald, plump man wore a loose violet robe and gave off a heavy scent of perfume and powder that somehow always made people recoil.
Hah. I was waiting for you.
Joffrey fanned the air before his nose several times, then pointed at Tyrion.
"Blame my uncle. He wouldn't tell me a simple piece of news unless I took him hunting in the Kingswood."
"And don't stand so close, Spider."
Varys the Eunuch obediently stepped back. "I see. What a troublesome secret. Was the prince satisfied?"
Tyrion pulled an exaggerated face.
"Need you ask? If I hadn't given Prince Joffrey what he wanted, would I still be standing here in one piece?"
Varys merely gazed at the prince with a fawning smile.
"Look how happily that snow bunting hops around in its cage! Hahaha." Joffrey laughed.
Varys smiled broadly too. "Yes, how amusing."
"Oh, right." Joffrey tossed the birdcage aside. "Where are Father and Mother?"
"Tomorrow's my twelfth name day, and I've thought of a one-of-a-kind present. Dragon eggs! Ha! Never seen those, have you?"
Varys rushed to agree. "My, my! Rare treasures indeed. Who could be fortunate enough to lay eyes on such things?"
Joffrey's face darkened again. "Hmph. Someone gets to look at them every day! Some... magister..."
No more needed to be said. Tyrion knew it was his turn.
"A magister of Pentos named Illyrio Mopatis. He has three dragon eggs hidden away, just right for the three royal children."
Joffrey curled his lip.
Anyone could see he had no intention of sharing the gift with his younger siblings.
Varys took another few steps back.
"Where is my head? How dreadful of me. I nearly forgot to answer your question."
"Though our valiant king is still making his rounds in the city, you need only visit the Queen's Ballroom to see the queen's enchanting smile."
"May you soon get your heart's desire."
Joffrey promptly tugged the reins and rode off toward Maegor's Holdfast without waiting for anyone.
Tyrion hurried after him. According to plan, he still had to endure Cersei's glares and questions.
The Spider did not pursue them.
He had caught his own "prey."
Beyond the Dry Moat and walls twelve feet thick stood the heart of the Red Keep: Maegor's Holdfast, a castle within a castle.
In the Queen's Ballroom on the first floor, everything went smoothly.
Queen Cersei, who indulged her children without limit, had no idea how to refuse them, least of all her beloved eldest son.
Tyrion bore the full force of his sister's barbs and questions, assuring her that the three dragon eggs existed while refusing to reveal his source.
All Joffrey had to do was give up resisting and let Cersei fuss over him.
In less than half an hour, the satisfied queen relented and ordered the Master of Coin, Littlefinger, to see the matter through, sparing no expense.
From that moment on, the Dragon Mother's story had been turned completely on its head.
They left the Queen's Ballroom.
Tyrion hesitated briefly, then headed straight for the White Sword Tower.
It was the residence of the Kingsguard. Everyone knew that Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, was one of those honored knights.
At the sight, Joffrey knew Tyrion was about to confront the truth of Tysha at last.
Love and hate, passion and grievance—the eternal accompaniment to human life.
He raised his head toward the towering Tower of the Hand.
Duke Tywin Lannister had arrived in the capital with a large retinue several days earlier, ready to attend Prince Joffrey's Nameday Tourney tomorrow.
He was staying in the Tower of the Hand.
Would Tyrion reenact the patricide in the Tower of the Hand from the original story?
Back in his bedroom, Joffrey dismissed the servants and sprawled on the bed, staring at the ceiling as he let his mind go blank.
A whole day of rushing about and scheming had left him exhausted in body and mind.
Even so, Joffrey knew he could not let up. What were a little hardship and fatigue compared with his life?
He understood the danger he faced all too well.
Within months, chaos would engulf the entire continent, perhaps even the world.
He wanted to stop it.
But even if the king died tomorrow and Joffrey put on the crown then and there, he would still be powerless.
Peace or upheaval depended on the conflicts between every level of society in the Seven Kingdoms. One good king alone could not decide it.
He knew perfectly well that Westeros belonged to the king, but even more to the nobles.
Like the Sons of Heaven of Western Zhou and Eastern Zhou, the king on the Iron Throne ruled the Seven Kingdoms in name.
Yet the Crownlands under his direct rule held less than a tenth of the Seven Kingdoms' land and population.
Across most of the realm, direct power lay with the vassal powers, led by the liege lords and dukes of the Seven Kingdoms.
Beneath one Iron Throne stood many independent powers, playing a never-ending game of thrones.
There was no middle ground in that game. If you did not win, you died.
Rival powers were hunting the stag.
He was the stag—and a player.
And his hand was terrible: no loyal followers, no money, no power, no reputation, no army. His title as crown prince was all he had, and even that could blow up at any moment.
Worse, the rules of the game had grown more brutal.
The old order had broken down. Strength was all that mattered.
Within a few short years, the liege lords and dukes of the Seven Kingdoms, the great lords, powers from overseas, Wildlings beyond The Wall, and even monsters like the Others would stake everything they had in a struggle against one another.
Joffrey was unquestionably one of the most conspicuous targets.
If he could not win, then even if a cup of poisoned wine did not kill him as it had in the original story, some other unforeseen death would find him sooner or later.
Of course, danger was not his only spur. The potential rewards were just as compelling.
Three dragon eggs that could hatch would drive countless people mad with desire. Yet he could obtain them with a single day's effort.
There were plenty of other opportunities like that.
The prize was too tempting. How could he sit still?
As the light faded, the ceiling's intricate patterns disappeared, leaving only a blur of shadow above Joffrey.
He rose and went to the window to admire the Red Keep at dusk.
Layers of clouds glowed red as fire.
The red stone of the Red Keep caught the glow, seeming at once brighter and darker.
In the corridors and on the grounds, soldiers on duty were setting torches in place and lighting braziers in preparation for the night patrols.
The castle looked like something from a medieval film, a constant reminder that he had crossed into another world.
An epic world of magic, and now his reality.
How can I take firm control of the capital, King's Landing, and eliminate the threats within it in six months?
He stood lost in thought for a long time.
By the time he came to himself, the moon had risen.
Looking up at the bright moon, he made his decision.
His new life would be dangerous and extraordinary. The days ahead would be busy.
He would allow himself one last night to miss his old world. After tonight, he would throw himself wholeheartedly into the present and live as he pleased.
The night grew darker and cooler.
He changed into silk nightclothes, poured himself a glass of Dornish Red Wine, and leaned by the window to gaze out.
To the moon.
It looked much like the one above the Moon Palace back there: just as cold, just as round.
To the stars.
Countless stars filled the sky. Were they worlds of their own, too...?
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