"Arthas, you bastard son of a bitch, you damned wretch!"
The pampered Joffrey hated being called ill-mannered more than anything, and filthy curses unbefitting his noble status as a prince immediately spilled from his mouth.
"Keep talking."
Arthas turned his head, his cold golden eyes utterly devoid of emotion, and quietly regarded the foul-mouthed Joffrey as though he were looking at a dead man.
The furious Joffrey suddenly felt as though he had plunged into an ice cellar. Every hair on his body stood on end, and the curses he had been about to continue hurling caught in his throat.
"Joffrey."
Arthas slowly approached, his heavy leather boots tapping against the ground, as though death itself were drawing closer.
He reached out and gently patted Joffrey's shoulder. Looking at the blond boy who was his nephew through both his brother and his sister, he lectured him like a stern uncle:
"You are a prince of the Seven Kingdoms. You should always take care to maintain your grace and dignity."
"If you won't conduct yourself with dignity, then I, as your uncle, will help you do so!"
"And..."
Joffrey trembled all over, standing rooted to the spot, not daring to move. All of King's Landing knew that this prince of the Seven Kingdoms was nothing like his brave, battle-hardened father. He was a useless coward.
Arthas had no intention of letting him off. He leaned toward his ear and whispered in the gentlest of tones:
"Speaking of bastards, do you really have no idea about yourself?"
"Or is that pigeon-sized brain of yours truly incapable of realizing that your very existence is a mistake?"
Those words, enough to shock the Seven Kingdoms, made Joffrey forget his fear. His pupils widened slightly, and he opened his mouth to curse again.
"Arthas, fuck-"
Joffrey blurted it out again, only to meet Arthas's indifferent gaze head-on.
At some point, icy frost had rimmed those golden eyes, and a terrifying, boundless chill surged toward Joffrey.
Joffrey shuddered. Even the blazing sun could not dispel the chill enveloping him. He felt as though he were in the seven hells!
No! Even the seven hells were not this terrifying!
"If I remember correctly, you're Gregor's younger brother."
Seeing that his disobedient nephew had finally quieted down, Arthas turned in satisfaction toward the tall man who had been silently guarding Joffrey's side.
"Yes, Lord Arthas."
Though he was deeply reluctant to admit it, it was the truth, and he answered honestly:
"My name is Sandor Clegane. You may also call me the Hound."
Even the battle-hardened Hound could barely withstand Arthas's imposing presence. He could only force a smile and earnestly try to reason with him:
"Lord Arthas, please stop frightening Prince Joffrey."
Although he was quite happy to see this stupid, cruel prince put in his place, protecting him remained his duty.
But with half his face covered in horrific burn scars where even hair could no longer grow, the Hound's smile only made him look more hideous.
"He is your nephew, after all."
Arthas was both a great noble to whom his family had sworn allegiance and a powerful warrior. The Hound did not dare raise a hand against him.
"Keep your master in check, Hound!"
Though he loathed this spoiled nephew, this was still King's Landing, and killing him would be troublesome.
Seeing that he had thoroughly terrified him, Arthas withdrew his killing intent and paid no further attention to Joffrey, who stood there dumbstruck.
"If I hear him running his mouth again, he won't get off so easily next time."
Leaving those lukewarm words behind, Arthas turned and left the sickening place.
"Arthas!"
Only after Arthas had disappeared completely did Joffrey gradually regain his ability to move.
He stared venomously in the direction Arthas had gone, but no longer dared to curse him.
He only dared turn on the Hound and shout:
"You useless hound! You should have taught him a lesson!"
"What use are you to me if you let someone bully your master!"
"Count yourself lucky, Your Highness."
Long accustomed to Joffrey's abuse, the Hound merely explained in a flat tone:
"With Lord Arthas's strength, if he truly wanted to lay hands on you, I doubt anyone in King's Landing could stop him."
"Myself included."
Though he had never seen Arthas fight in earnest, ever since his elder brother, the Mountain, had burned half his face, the Hound had possessed an instinctive sense for approaching danger.
Merely standing before Arthas left him feeling so helpless that he did not dare draw his sword, much like his fear of fire.
"Come along, most noble Prince Joffrey."
Looking at Joffrey's sodden crotch, an almost imperceptible trace of amusement flashed in the Hound's eyes:
"What you need most right now is a change of trousers."
"What!"
"Seven against one?"
"And the Kingsguard, at that?"
The Imp had been furious. After all, he had been enjoying himself on the Street of Silk with three shapely whores, one of whom was a beauty from Dorne.
Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew that Dorne had the most permissive customs, and its women were particularly unrestrained. Every man who enjoyed frequenting brothels dreamed of spending a night with a Dornish beauty.
But two Lannister knights had suddenly barged in and, without a word, grabbed him and dragged him outside before he could even dress.
With his pleasure interrupted, the Imp had been carried back to the Red Keep, cursing all the way. Just as he was about to lose his temper upon arrival, the news of Arthas's impending feat of fighting seven men alone nearly made his jaw drop.
"Arthas, has some evil sorcerer put a curse on you?"
The Imp approached on his short legs, reaching toward Arthas's forehead to see whether a fever had cooked his brains.
"Don't touch me with those filthy hands. Who knows where they've been."
Seeing the Imp draw closer, Arthas hastily dodged away in disgust.
"They're only seven Kingsguard. I have confidence in my abilities."
Seeing that Arthas had no sense of urgency about the coming battle and remained as calm as ever, the Imp was so anxious he nearly jumped:
"Arthas, my dear little brother!"
"That's seven whole Kingsguard! Kingsguard!"
"I know you have confidence in your abilities, but this is a little too mad!"
"Leaving aside the battle-hardened Barristan, let's talk about Jaime, our brother."
"Don't forget that he's a member of the Kingsguard too."
"Do you intend to have him kill you in battle, or to kill him yourself?"
"I don't want to see Lannisters killing their own brothers!"
He said all this in one breath, yet Arthas simply sat quietly in his seat, as immovable as a mountain.
"Aren't you thirsty, Tyrion?"
Arthas smiled, looking gently at the Imp as he stamped his feet in agitation, and warmth welled up in his heart.
Ever since he had come to this world, this short elder brother had been the person who cared about him most.
Unlike Cersei's care, which came with ulterior purposes, the Imp looked after him without asking for anything in return.
Even though his arrival had taken away the title of Duke of Casterly Rock that might otherwise have belonged to him.
"Have a drink."
He had already expended a great deal of energy with the whores, then spent so long cursing on the journey back.
Now, at Arthas's reminder, the Imp felt parched. He hastily lifted the wine cup on the table in both hands and took a great gulp.
"Tell me, what's your plan?"
After drinking, the Imp finally managed to calm down, settled into a chair, and asked gravely.
Though small in stature, he was exceptionally clever. The shocking news had merely overwhelmed him earlier:
"I know you're not an impulsive man. You must have your reasons for doing this."
"Give them laxatives, or aphrodisiacs, then send them a few dozen women so they won't even be able to hold their swords steady tomorrow."
"Whatever your plan is, I'll support you with everything I have!"
To the Imp, such petty schemes were nothing, so long as they achieved the goal.
The Imp's resolute words brought another warm smile to Arthas's face, but he offered no explanation. He merely stood, walked over to Frostmourne, and slowly lifted with his right hand the sword that held special significance for him.
Frostmourne's spectral blue blade looked even more ghostly in the candlelight. Arthas gazed at his handsome face reflected in the blade and asked, seemingly to himself:
"Tyrion, do you really think I can't win fair and square?"
"Of course!"
The Imp answered as though it were obvious:
"Do you know Barristan's record, Arthas?"
Recalling the legendary life of this fearless knight, even the Imp's hand holding his wine cup seemed to tremble:
"He defeated Prince Duncan the Short, then Ser Duncan the Tall, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."
"He killed the last Blackfyre, Maelys the Monstrous, in single combat."
"Even Rhaegar Targaryen fell to his sword."
"Some say even Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, was no match for him!"
The widely read Imp loudly recounted the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard's feats as though listing his own treasures, then tried once more to persuade him:
"Arthas, I know you're a fine swordsman."
"But even if you can beat the now-aged Barristan, how will you deal with the other six Kingsguard?"
"Why don't we hurry and find Cersei, and ask her not to tell Robert about this yet?"
"It's still early. There should still be time."
"I think all the lords at the meeting will keep this secret for you."
"Even you don't think I'll win..."
Arthas seemed somewhat dispirited, his subdued voice echoing through the room.
Just as the Imp was about to approach and comfort him, he saw Arthas's smile reflected in Frostmourne's blade.
"Then that's wonderful!"
The unexpected remark left the Imp utterly bewildered.
Arthas slowly turned around. Nearly half of his golden eyes had already turned silver.
"Tyrion, my brother."
His majestic voice rang out, like a monarch asking his subject's opinion, yet also like a devil's temptation:
"Would you like to become the kingdom's Master of Coin?"
(Another character from Warcraft might appear tomorrow. Everyone, guess who!)
Before you continue