Aegon's Calendar 297, King's Landing.
The Great Sept of Baelor.
Late-summer sunlight slanted through the colored glass, throwing jagged shadows across the hall.
Joffrey Baratheon rested a hand on the coffin and let out a slow breath.
"Grandfather, it wasn't me who killed you."
"This fucked-up world did."
The last Hand of the King, the king's foster father, Lord Jon Arryn, had slipped into endless sleep despite the Grand Maester's every effort.
Everyone believed a sudden illness had taken him.
Joffrey knew better. The old man had been murdered.
He'd done the pushing himself.
The respected old Hand had kept digging into Joffrey's real parentage even after the boy had bent over backward to become the perfect crown prince. That secret could strip him of the throne, cost him his life, and set the whole realm on fire.
The second Joffrey realized the investigation had started, he moved.
He turned his head, eyes cold.
In a corner of the sept, a golden-haired man and woman were still shamelessly tangled up in each other.
Feeling his stare, the woman quickly shoved the man—who looked just like her—away, smoothed her dress, and gave a soft, graceful smile.
Joffrey looked away.
Fucking hell.
That was his mother, after all.
Queen Cersei Lannister.
The man beside her was her twin brother—Joffrey's uncle, the "Kingslayer" Jaime Lannister.
He didn't want to think about any of it.
As he got older, scraps from that far-off other life kept drifting back at random moments.
Like dying on the couch, laughing at a show and choking on a meat pie.
Most of the memories had only sharpened recently, so he'd missed a lot of chances to get ahead.
But it still wasn't too late to fix things.
Joffrey's mind shifted. A glow only he could see flickered into existence.
Seven gods watched from above—Old Gods, the Seven, R'hllor, the Many-Faced God, whatever. Didn't matter.
His cheat was called [Heaven's Will].
[Heaven's Will Role-Playing System]
[Current Role: The Eccentric Ruthless Overlord]
[Heaven's Will Points: 94/99]
Almost there.
The system had one job: when the meter filled, he could pull one random skill from the prize pool.
Some were obvious—[Eavesdrop], [Stargaze], [Outrider].
Others were weird as hell—[Fire and Water Immune], [Transparent Mind], [Protect the Handsome Plan].
Earning points was strange. His actions had to fit the role and still make sense inside the story.
After studying it for ages, he'd finally cracked the mission for this round.
Act batshit crazy toward people every once in a while.
The light inside the sept faded. Monks moved through the aisles lighting candles.
Joffrey glanced sideways. A huge, fat man was slumped over the coffin, snoring loud enough to wake the dead.
His "father," King Robert Baratheon, standing vigil himself because the Hand's family was nowhere to be found.
Joffrey's chest tightened. He'd been born at the very top, but the stain of his blood would never wash off.
He stood and stepped outside. Cool night air washed over him the moment the heavy doors closed behind him.
He breathed it in deep. The knot in his chest loosened a little.
King's Landing.
Home.
It smelled like shit everywhere.
Yet half the realm would claw each other's eyes out just to stand in this city—for the Iron Throne.
At the entrance, a man in smoke-gray armor waited. Half his face was a melted ruin. He tilted his head.
"Finished?" The Hound, Sandor Clegane, asked.
Joffrey shook his head. "Father's still in there sleeping next to Lord Jon. I just needed some air."
The Hound muttered, "My fucking legs are numb. How long does it take to bury one dead man?"
A small, thin figure slipped out of the shadows and joined them—dark gray tunic, sly little smile at the corner of his mouth.
Joffrey's instincts screamed.
The Hand and his wife had never gotten along. Joffrey had used that crack, quietly feeding rumors around Lysa about her precious son being shipped off as a ward.
The rest had played out perfectly.
"Littlefinger" Lord Petyr Baelish, the realm's favorite cancer. No discussion needed—he'd slithered in to stir the pot.
Joffrey had let him live after regaining his memories only because he still had uses for the little shit.
"Your Grace," Littlefinger said with a deep, theatrical bow.
Joffrey gave the smallest nod. "Lord Baelish."
"Forgive the intrusion," Littlefinger stepped closer, smile widening. "Seeing you stay with His Grace this long… truly admirable."
Then his face turned mournful.
"Lord Jon worked himself to the bone, only to leave us like this. A terrible loss for the kingdom."
"And Lady Lysa left in such a hurry. I fear she heard some of the whispers running through the court."
"You've always had sharp ears, Your Grace. Any truth to those ridiculous rumors?"
Joffrey narrowed his eyes.
You slippery bastard. You're the one who delivered the poison.
Now you're out here fishing to see who else was involved.
Littlefinger clearly didn't know who had started the rumors, so he was testing everyone afterward.
"Never heard them," Joffrey said flatly. "Probably that eight-legged spider spinning lies again."
He tilted his head. "You're the Master of Coin. Shouldn't you be busy squeezing gold dragons out of the realm for my father instead of chasing gossip?"
Littlefinger switched gears, sounding almost wounded. "The Hand's seat is empty and His Grace has ignored the small council for two days. I can finish the work, but there's no one to stamp the papers."
"So I thought I'd ask… has His Grace given any hint about who he wants as the next Hand?"
Joffrey frowned. "He did mention something. My grandfather's coming for my nameday soon. Father might ask him to take it."
Littlefinger's eyebrow twitched.
"Lord Tywin?" he said softly. "Forgive my bluntness, Your Grace, but your grandfather is undeniably gifted."
"Still… he was Hand under the Mad King, then broke with the crown and sacked this city. That history isn't exactly shining. If he returns to the post, people will remember."
Joffrey stayed quiet for three full seconds.
Then he gave a cold snort.
He'd been wondering where the last few points would come from. Someone just walked straight into the trap.
"Lord Baelish." He took one small step forward and flicked a look at the Hound.
Petyr shivered and tried to back up. "Your Grace?"
The Hound moved behind him and locked two massive hands on his shoulders.
Joffrey drew the man's sword with a smooth shing. Steel flashed in the torchlight.
"King's Landing's gone soft lately. Whorehouses on every corner, all yours. Commoners and lords alike pay you protection money."
The sword tip rose until it kissed Petyr's throat.
"You think that gives you the right to badmouth Lord Tywin?"
"Or maybe you think you're fit to sit in the Hand's chair yourself?"
Steel brushed skin. Petyr's face went bone-white.
He felt the cold edge. He saw the real murder in Joffrey's green eyes.
"I—I'm not that kind of man!" His neck shrank back, voice shaking.
Joffrey stared at him.
Long enough for a bead of cold sweat to slide down Petyr's forehead and drip onto the blade.
Then Joffrey lowered the sword, clutched his stomach, and doubled over.
"Just fucking with you!"
He exploded into laughter.
[Heaven's Will Points +5]
[Heaven's Will Points Full. One Draw Unlocked.]