Divine Intervention

Watching Petyr flee in disarray, Joffrey lingered in his mind the look of venom and fear in Petyr's eyes.

Then he smacked his lips in satisfaction and tossed the sword back to the hound.

"You bunch of people, always going through all this trouble." Hound spat to the side. "If you ask me, just kill whoever you don't like."

Joffrey looked up and said, "After he's fired, can you fill his position and conjure up a golden dragon?"

Sandor remained silent.

"So, everyone has their own use." Joffrey turned around and waved his hand.

As he entered the room, the incense scent, which was filled with an atmosphere of death, wafted around him again.

The Sisters of Silence stood by him, their eyes, hidden beneath their veils, filled with expectation as they looked at him.

After all, if Robert doesn't leave, no one can go home.

Of those present, only Joffrey dared to call out.

So, under everyone's watchful eyes, Joffrey returned to the center of the hall.

"Father," Joffrey said softly, "it's getting late, we should go back."

Robert, fast asleep, groaned twice, then groggily raised his head and, after stretching out his arm, knocked over the wine jug he had placed on the coffin lid.

"The seven levels of hell," Robert groaned, struggling to stand up. "Joe, give me a hand, my legs are numb from sitting."

Hearing this, Joffrey was speechless.

But he still took a breath, half-embracing the body that weighed a full twenty stones, and forcefully lifted it upwards.

Robert used the momentum to stand up unsteadily, then slapped Joffrey hard on the back and let out a hearty laugh.

"Good lad, your strength has increased, you're back to my old days."

Because of his precocious intelligence and his deliberate performance, Joffrey is quite qualified as the heir to the Iron Throne.

Robert was very pleased with this, and their relationship was not very strained.

So he loved to praise it to everyone he met.

"Look at the blood of the Baratheon family."

Good heavens, that sounds terrifying.

If Robert knew his true identity, would he have immediately broken down and beheaded him, hanging his head from the tip of a spear?

Thinking of this, Joffrey couldn't help but shudder, and his previous good mood vanished completely.

After everyone left the sanctuary, the golden King's Landing was shrouded in darkness.

Joffrey followed the procession up Aegon's Hill along the main road, his silent shadow blurred by the torches.

The somber atmosphere of the funeral still lingered in his mind.

Back at the Red Keep, the sky was already dotted with stars, and the pale red stone walls gleamed with a bone-white sheen.

It wasn't until he stepped into his spacious bedroom in the Mega House that Joffrey truly relaxed his tense back.

The room was very empty, with only a tapestry embroidered with a roaring lion and a crowned stag hanging around it, which looked particularly desolate in the dim light.

Joffrey walked straight to the corner by the window and took out the incense he had taken from the sanctuary from his bag.

After a simple setup, the final preparations for the lucky draw were finally complete.

After all, the Holy Temple was too unlucky, and this was his first draw ever, so he had been holding back until now.

Joffrey activated the system with a slight thought.

"Start drawing!"

A colorful roulette wheel immediately appeared in front of him and began to spin rapidly.

After stopping, several lines of text, shimmering with a faint light, appeared before my eyes.

Come, let's change to a larger cup.

[I won't hold back: my alcohol tolerance has been greatly increased, and I have extremely high resistance to poisons dissolved in alcohol.]

Joffrey stared at the description on the screen, his lips twitching.

That's it?

He felt a sense of emptiness afterward.

The first lottery draw was probably all predetermined, after all, he had recently conspired with others to poison the Prime Minister.

But Joffrey is taking huge risks to accumulate points, hoping to gain some skills that will have an immediate effect.

In the end, all he gained was a life-saving skill for drinking.

The anticipation deflated like a punctured balloon. Joffrey waved away the light barrier and lay down on the bed.

His eyes were fixed on the lion and deer on the top of the tent, lost in thought.

Is Heaven truly going to destroy me here?

Soon, fragments of memories about the future began to surface.

Whether it's the dragon's shadow across the narrow sea or the cold winter beyond the Great Wall, these torrents that are about to engulf the world never give the weak a moment's respite.

Therefore, in order to survive, one must endure.

To endure.

After a moment of silence, Joffrey's ambition burned like wildfire.

Having been given a second chance at life, why should I be content with merely surviving?

He suddenly sat up in bed, pushed open the window, and the salty sea breeze scattered his golden hair.

He could choose to continue being cautious, concealing the truth, and currying favor with Robert and Tywin, trying to find a way to survive between the two houses.

or.

Joffrey clenched his fists.

After all, in addition to this role-playing system, he also possesses precognitive memories.

This skill, though seemingly ordinary, is actually surprisingly practical.

In Westeros, countless heroes, after winning victory after victory, ultimately succumbed to feasts and alcohol.

To hell with the game of power.

He's going to play with magic and war.

[This episode's role: A proud and unyielding general]

[Current Heavenly Will Value: (0/99)]

Gazing at King's Landing, which lay prostrate and asleep under the moonlight, Joffrey made up his mind.

Everything will begin here.

Given this, the previous conservative steps could be abandoned, and he decided to continue using these high-risk, high-reward individuals.

Then, we should first visit a certain scholar who has just treated someone to death and whose medical skills are extremely superb.

……

The next morning, Joffrey knocked on the door of the Bachelor's Tower and went straight in.

Grand Secretary Paisell was reading a book while drinking honey milk: "Your Highness! So early, are you feeling unwell?" He was clearly somewhat surprised.

"I've come to ask you some questions, Grand Tutor." Joffrey looked around the room but found there was nowhere to sit, so he ended up taking the table in front of Paisell.

One leg kicked idly in mid-air, while the other turned its head to look through a pile of bottles and jars on the shelf.

Tell me about the Tears of Rhys.

Paisell's hand trembled slightly.

"Your Highness, why have you suddenly become interested in this?"

"In a nursery rhyme sung by a singer," Joffrey casually made up, "I heard it's colorless and odorless, and specifically used for murder?"

"Yes, Your Highness." Paisell's thick, lamb-like beard trembled with each breath. "The Citadel has rules forbidding us from discussing this outside."

"How about we have some snacks, or maybe a glass of iced milk? You've come all this way, haven't you eaten yet?"

Joffrey nodded: "Less sugar, less ice."

Grand Scholar Paisell rang his silver bell: "Good boy, bring some food."

A short while later, a young waitress came in; she looked no older than Joffrey.

She carried the plate to him, glanced up at him, then quickly looked down again, blushing and stammering, somewhat at a loss for what to do.

"That old man really knows how to pick things," Joffrey thought to himself.

Then he jumped off the table, making room for his things.

"You're not allowed to mention it." Joffrey picked up a hard-boiled egg and casually tapped it on the table. "Then why do I hear others talking about it so convincingly?"

"For example, it has a sweet, watery taste and dissolves easily in alcohol without leaving any trace."

Paisell took two sips of iced milk.

"Your Highness, you can't just listen to those singers' nonsense, like dragons and princesses, poison and princes, and so on."

"They love singing these kinds of sensational things."

Joffrey smiled slightly and whispered in Paisell's ear.

He said in a low voice.

"Then why do I also hear that people who are poisoned by this kind of poison are like they are sick, with a high fever that won't go down, and they become delirious, and they die in just one or two days?"

"And aren't Lord Erin's symptoms exactly the same?"