297 AC, King's Landing.
The Great Sept of Baelor.
The last light of summer filtered through the stained glass, scattering broken colors across the marble floor.
Joffrey Baratheon rested a hand on the edge of the coffin and let out a quiet sigh.
"Foster Grandfather, it wasn't Little Joff's fault."
"It was this chaotic world."
Jon Arryn, former Hand of the King and foster father to King Robert, had finally succumbed despite the Grand Maester's efforts.
Most believed a sudden illness had taken him.
Joffrey knew better.
The old Hand had been murdered.
After all, Joffrey had given fate a gentle push.
Jon Arryn had been a respectable man. Even after Joffrey had worked hard to behave like a proper heir, the old Hand insisted on digging into his parentage.
A truth that could strip Joffrey of his claim.
A truth that could cost him his life.
The moment Joffrey realized Jon Arryn had begun investigating, he acted decisively.
His gaze shifted coldly toward a corner of the sept.
A golden-haired man and woman were embracing far too intimately for a funeral.
The woman noticed his stare and quickly stepped back from the man who looked almost identical to her. She adjusted her gown and offered a gentle smile.
Joffrey turned away.
Damn it.
But she was still his mother.
Queen Cersei Lannister.
And the man beside her was her twin brother, Jaime Lannister, known throughout the realm as the Kingslayer.
Joffrey preferred not to think too deeply about that relationship.
As he grew older, fragments from another life had begun surfacing in his mind.
In his previous world, he had died choking on a meat pie while laughing at a television show.
Unfortunately, most of those memories had only become clear recently. He had lost valuable time.
Still, it was not too late to fix things.
A faint glow appeared before his eyes.
In this world, whether one believed in the old gods of the North, the Seven of the South, the Lord of Light across the Narrow Sea, or the Many-Faced God, there was always something watching.
His cheat was called the Providence System.
[Providence System]
[Current Role: Eccentric Tyrant]
[Providence Points: 94/99]
Almost full.
The system had only one function. When Providence Points reached the maximum, he could draw a random skill from the pool.
Some skills were straightforward, like [Eavesdropping], [Stargazing], or [Scout].
Others were less clear, like [Invincible to Water and Fire], [Transparent Mind], or [Protect the Case].
Gaining points was strange. His actions had to align with the assigned role and still make sense within the world's logic.
After much trial and error, he discovered the key to playing an Eccentric Tyrant.
He had to lose his temper at people from time to time.
The sunlight inside the sept faded as candles were lit one by one.
Nearby, a large, broad-shouldered man was slumped over the coffin, snoring loudly.
King Robert Baratheon.
Since Jon Arryn's kin were not present, Robert had chosen to personally keep vigil.
Joffrey felt conflicted watching him.
His status could not be higher, yet the truth of his birth remained a stain he could never fully erase.
He rose and stepped outside.
The heavy doors shut behind him, and the cool night air washed over his face.
He breathed in deeply.
Ah, King's Landing.
His home.
It smelled like rot and filth, yet countless men would claw their way here for a chance at the Iron Throne.
Standing guard was Sandor Clegane, the Hound, clad in ash-gray armor. Half his face was scarred and burned.
"Finished?" Sandor asked.
Joffrey shook his head. "Father is still inside keeping Jon company. I came out for air."
The Hound muttered under his breath. "Been standing here so long my legs are numb. Burying a man shouldn't be this troublesome."
A thin man stepped out from the shadows beneath the colonnade.
He wore dark gray clothing, a sly smile tugging at his lips.
Joffrey's instincts sharpened immediately.
Petyr Baelish.
Littlefinger.
Jon Arryn's marriage had been cold. Joffrey had taken advantage of that, deliberately spreading rumors near Lysa Arryn.
Whispers that her precious son might be sent away as a ward.
From there, events unfolded naturally.
Littlefinger needed no encouragement to stir the waters.
Joffrey had allowed him to live after regaining his memories because he was still useful.
"Your Highness." Littlefinger bowed deeply.
Joffrey inclined his head. "Lord Baelish."
"Forgive the intrusion," Littlefinger said smoothly. "It is admirable how devotedly you remain by His Majesty's side."
He lowered his voice with a mournful tone. "Lord Jon worked tirelessly for the realm. His passing is a tragedy."
"And Lady Lysa departed in such haste. Perhaps she heard certain rumors circulating in court."
He studied Joffrey carefully. "You are always perceptive, Your Highness. Might you have heard such whispers?"
Joffrey narrowed his eyes.
You delivered the poison yourself.
And now you're probing me?
Littlefinger clearly did not know who had first spread the rumors.
"Haven't heard a thing," Joffrey replied evenly. "Perhaps that spider is spinning tales again."
"Shouldn't you, as Master of Coin, be focusing on filling my father's treasury instead of chasing gossip?"
Littlefinger's tone shifted slightly. "With the Hand's seat vacant and the king grieving, paperwork lacks signatures."
He smiled faintly. "Has His Majesty shown any inclination regarding the next Hand?"
Joffrey frowned. "I heard Father mention my grandfather will soon attend my nameday celebration. Perhaps he'll consider Lord Tywin."
Littlefinger's brow twitched.
"Lord Tywin?" he said softly. "A capable man, certainly. Yet he once served the Mad King and later sacked this very city. Some might find his return... controversial."
Joffrey went silent for three seconds.
Then he snorted.
He had been wondering how to gain the last few points.
Opportunity had just walked up to him.
"Lord Baelish."
He stepped forward slightly and gave the Hound a subtle look.
Littlefinger shivered and instinctively took a step back. "Your Highness?"
Sandor moved behind him, heavy hands settling on his shoulders.
Joffrey drew the Hound's sword in one smooth motion. Steel flashed in the torchlight.
"King's Landing rots," Joffrey said calmly. "Your brothels spread like weeds. Commoners and nobles alike pay you tribute."
The blade rose slowly, its tip pressing against Littlefinger's throat.
"You would not happen to believe that makes you powerful enough to question Lord Tywin."
"Or perhaps you imagine yourself fit to sit as Hand?"
The cold edge kissed skin.
Littlefinger's face drained of color.
He could see it in Joffrey's green eyes.
Real killing intent.
"I... I would never presume such a thing," he stammered.
Joffrey stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment.
A bead of sweat slid down Littlefinger's forehead and dripped onto the blade. Then Joffrey withdrew the sword.
He suddenly bent over, clutching his stomach.
"I'm joking!"
He burst into loud laughter.
[Providence Points +5]
[Providence Points Full — Converting to 1 Draw Attempt]