The Year 297 After Aegon's Conquest, King's Landing
The Great Sept of Baelor
The dying light of summer filtered through panes of colored glass, casting fractured shadows across the vast hall.
Joffrey Baratheon gently stroked the edge of the coffin beside him and slowly let out a sigh.
"Grandfather, it wasn't little Joff who harmed you."
"It was this chaotic world."
The former Hand of the King, foster father to the king, Lord Jon Arryn, had slipped into eternal sleep despite the Grand Maester's best efforts.
Everyone believed a sudden illness had claimed him.
But Joffrey knew better.
The old Hand had been murdered.
After all, Joffrey himself had given the final push.
The man had been worthy of respect.
Even after Joffrey had done everything in his power to grow into a capable crown prince, Jon Arryn had stubbornly continued to investigate the secret behind his birth.
A secret that could strip him of his inheritance.
A truth that could cost him his life and plunge the realm into chaos.
So the moment Joffrey realized the old Hand had begun digging, he acted decisively.
Thinking of this, Joffrey turned his head coldly.
In one corner of the sept, a golden-haired man and woman were locked in a shameless embrace.
As if sensing his gaze, the beautiful woman quickly pushed away the man who looked almost identical to her. She adjusted her gown and offered a gentle smile.
Joffrey looked away.
Damn it.
But she was still his mother.
The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Cersei Lannister.
And beside her stood her twin brother, his uncle, the Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister.
Joffrey did not wish to dwell on what lay beneath that relationship.
As he grew older, fragments from a distant, otherworldly past surfaced in his mind at odd moments.
For example, in his previous life, he had once laughed foolishly at a show while eating pie.
And choked to death.
Unfortunately, because so much time had passed, most of those memories had only recently become clear. He had missed many opportunities to prepare in advance.
Still, it was not too late to change his fate.
With a thought, a faint glow appeared before his eyes—visible only to him.
Since the gods were said to dwell seven feet above every head—whether the Old Gods of the North, the Seven of the South, the Lord of Light across the Narrow Sea, or the Many-Faced God—his golden finger was named Providence.
[Providence System]
[Current Role: A Capricious Tyrant]
[Providence Points: 94/99]
Almost full.
His system had only one function. When the Providence Points reached their maximum, he could draw a random skill from the pool.
Some were self-explanatory—Eavesdropping, Stargazing, Scout.
Others sounded mysterious—Invincible to Fire and Water, Transparent Mind, Royal Protection.
The method of gaining points was strange. His behavior had to align with a specific persona while remaining logically consistent.
After much experimentation, Joffrey had finally figured out how to complete this phase.
He simply needed to go mad at people from time to time.
The daylight inside the sept dimmed further as the septons lit candles one by one.
Joffrey turned. A fat yet powerfully built man lay sprawled over the coffin, snoring loudly.
His "father," King Robert Baratheon, was keeping vigil in person since Jon Arryn's kin had not yet arrived.
Joffrey's feelings were complicated.
His birth had placed him at the pinnacle of the realm.
Yet the truth of his lineage remained a stain that could never fully be erased.
He rose and stepped outside. As the heavy doors closed behind him, cool night air washed over his face.
He inhaled deeply, and the tightness in his chest eased.
Ah, King's Landing.
My home.
Reeking though it was.
Countless people clawed their way here, all for the Iron Throne—the symbol of supreme authority.
At the entrance stood a man clad in smoke-gray armor. Half his face was ruined by burns. He was no knight, though he carried himself like one.
The Hound, Sandor Clegane, tilted his head.
"Finished?"
Joffrey shook his head. "Father is still inside, keeping Lord Jon company. I came out for air."
The Hound muttered a curse. "My legs are numb from standing. Why does burying a dead man take so long?"
At that moment, a thin figure emerged from the corridor's shadows.
He wore dark grey and carried a faint, knowing smile.
Alarm bells rang in Joffrey's mind.
Jon Arryn and his wife had not enjoyed a harmonious marriage.
Joffrey had taken advantage of that, deliberately spreading certain whispers around Lady Lysa—rumors that her beloved son would be fostered away.
The rest had followed naturally.
Littlefinger, Lord Petyr Baelish, one of the realm's greatest poisons, had needed no prompting to stir the waters further.
Joffrey had allowed him to live after regaining his memories only because he still had use for him.
"Your Highness." Littlefinger bowed deeply and theatrically.
Joffrey gave a slight nod. "Lord Baelish."
"Forgive the intrusion," Littlefinger said, stepping forward half a pace. "Seeing Your Highness remain with His Grace until this hour fills me with admiration."
He adopted a sorrowful expression.
"To think Lord Jon labored so tirelessly for the realm, only to leave us so suddenly. A grievous loss.
Lady Lysa departed in great haste as well. No doubt she was frightened by certain rumors circulating within the Red Keep.
You have always had a keen ear for whispers, Your Highness. Might you know of these baseless tales?"
Joffrey narrowed his eyes.
Clever. You delivered the poison, and now you test me.
Clearly, Littlefinger did not know who had first spread the rumor. He was probing possible accomplices.
"I've heard nothing," Joffrey replied evenly. "Probably that spider spinning nonsense again."
He added casually, "As Master of Coin, shouldn't you focus on raising gold dragons for my father instead of chasing gossip?"
Littlefinger's tone turned plaintive. "The office of Hand stands vacant, and His Grace has neglected affairs of state these past days. Even if I settle matters, there is no one to affix the royal seal."
He leaned in slightly. "So I wished to ask whether His Grace has shown any preference for the next Hand."
Joffrey frowned. "Father did mention that my grandfather will soon attend my nameday celebration. Perhaps he will consider giving him the position."
Littlefinger's brow twitched almost imperceptibly.
"Lord Tywin?" he said softly. "Forgive me, Your Highness. Your grandsire is indeed a man of exceptional ability."
"But he once served as Hand to the Mad King. In the end he broke with the crown and sacked King's Landing. That history is… less than glorious. Should he return to the office, old wounds may reopen."
Joffrey fell silent for three seconds.
Then he let out a cold snort.
He had been wondering how to gain the last few points. And now someone had walked straight into the blade.
"Lord Baelish," he said, stepping forward and giving the Hound a subtle look.
Petyr shivered and instinctively stepped back. "Your Highness?"
The Hound moved behind him, heavy hands clamping down on his shoulders.
With a sharp ring, Joffrey drew the Hound's sword. Steel flashed in the night.
"In recent days, the morals of King's Landing have rotted. Your establishments are everywhere. Commoners and nobles alike pay you protection."
The tip of the blade lifted slowly, stopping at Petyr's throat.
"Have you grown so capable that you think you may speak lightly of Lord Tywin?"
"Or that you might be qualified to sit as Hand yourself?"
The faint touch of cold steel against flesh drained the color from Petyr's face.
He could feel the chill of the blade.
He could see the genuine killing intent burning in Joffrey's green eyes.
"I… I would never presume such a thing!" Petyr stammered, neck craning backward.
Joffrey stared at him for a long moment.
Long enough for sweat to bead on Petyr's brow and drip onto the sword.
Then Joffrey withdrew the blade.
He bent over, clutching his stomach.
"I was joking with you!"
He burst into laughter.
[Providence Points +5]
[Providence Points Full. One draw available.]