Morning light filtered through the narrow windows of Winterfell's library tower, casting long fingers of illumination across ancient tomes and yellowed parchments.
Joffrey stood beside a reading table, a time-worn scroll unfurled between his hands, his eyes moving methodically across the faded script.
Tyrion broke the contemplative silence between them, his voice carefully modulated to travel no further than his nephew's ears.
"Your Highness appears particularly pleased this morning," he observed. "Your 'game' has become the talk of the castle. One wonders what Lord Stark and the king will make of it when the whispers reach them."
The library tower stood in relative isolation from the bustle of Winterfell's daily activities. Besides Maester Luwin's assistant tending to duties on the lower level, they had only dusty tomes and ancient records for company.
Joffrey had initially sought information regarding the magical arts, but had found only subjective accounts and fanciful histories. Truth and falsehood lay tangled beneath the ink like lovers beneath a blanket, rendering it nearly impossible to extract genuine knowledge from the embellished tales.
The Source is far more reliable, he thought, carefully returning the brittle scroll to its resting place.
"Uncle," he replied with affected casualness, "it was merely a game. A simple diversion to pass the time. What lasting impact could such childish play possibly have?"
He shrugged with elegant nonchalance. "Pledges of allegiance, impromptu knighthoods, petitions for ennoblement—these are but rules in a game, carrying no more weight than pieces on a cyvasse board."
Tyrion studied his nephew's face, his mismatched eyes glinting with wry amusement.
"I see," he said, though his tone suggested precisely the opposite.
Regardless of how King Robert's original demise had transpired in that other world Joffrey sometimes referenced, it appeared increasingly likely that his "beloved son" would orchestrate it personally in this one.
The King's Game, he mused silently. If the "King" becomes the true King, will the game remain merely a game?
Tyrion could not help but mock himself for his recurring pattern. From past to present, he had always found himself surrounded by individuals of remarkable complexity. Never the simple, honest souls one might prefer as companions.
"If I might presume to ask," he ventured, "how does Your Highness envision ruling the realm in years to come?"
It was a dangerous question, but one to which Tyrion genuinely desired an answer.
The library tower offered them rare privacy. Joffrey's enhanced senses had detected no movement nearby, creating a momentary sanctuary where dangerous truths might be whispered without consequence.
"I doubt you can conceive of what Westeros shall become under my guidance," Joffrey replied after a thoughtful pause.
"Even I cannot be entirely certain of all particulars."
His fingers traced the edge of a nearby shelf, disturbing dust that danced in the shaft of morning light.
"What I can tell you with absolute certainty is that it shall become the strongest, most advanced empire this world has ever known."
"The Stag, the Golden Lion, the Grey Wolf, the Rose, the Trout, the Falcon, the Sunspear—all the great houses shall prostrate themselves before the Iron Throne. The Seven Kingdoms will be transformed into a unified empire."
Joffrey's tone remained as casual as if discussing the evening's menu rather than the complete restructuring of a realm.
"The internal borders dividing the kingdoms will cease to exist. All lands and peoples shall be administered by those appointed directly by the throne. Titles and offices will be separated, ending the hereditary monopoly on power."
His eyes took on a distant quality, as though seeing visions of a world yet to be born.
"The Sunset Kingdoms will become an empire upon which the sun never sets, and the world shall tremble before its might."
Grandiose dreams for one so young, Tyrion thought, interpreting such ambition as youthful arrogance rather than achievable vision.
Joffrey noted his uncle's skepticism with an indifferent smile.
"And the power that shall create all of this..."
Without warning, he extended his right hand and pressed his palm against Tyrion's forehead. Invisible runes activated at his command, flowing like liquid light from his flesh into Tyrion's mind.
Tyrion's consciousness froze in sudden shock.
He sensed a presence more profound and terrifying than anything he had encountered in all his years of study—more real and immediate than even the ancient dragonbone he had once touched in the Red Keep's vaults.
Joffrey withdrew his hand, severing the direct connection.
The mirror images of fire, information, and positioning runes—no more, no less—had been perfectly calibrated to grant Tyrion a taste of magic's wonders without overwhelming his unprepared mind.
The power of fire was most immediately apparent to the senses.
Through the positional bond established between them, the two could now employ the information runes to achieve direct mental communication, bypassing the cumbersome medium of spoken language.
Perhaps I should have included a growth rune as well, Joffrey mused. Would it transform a dwarf into a giant?
Such experiments could wait. After all, one did not carelessly alter one's future Minister of Finance.
Tyrion struggled to regain his composure, his gaze upon Joffrey growing more complex and bewildered with each passing moment.
Divine power? Witchcraft? Magic?
Yes, his mind answered, magic in its purest form.
His thoughts raced backward through recent events, suddenly viewing Joffrey's words and deeds in an entirely new light.
The mysterious activities in the Red Keep's treasury, their meeting in that secluded alley, a giant lion that breathed actual fire rather than merely carrying the emblem upon a banner...
He understood at last the source of Joffrey's unwavering confidence.
Possessing such power—and more crucially, the ability to share it with chosen allies—what limitations could possibly constrain him? Even if certain restrictions existed, provided they were not prohibitively severe, who could possibly predict what shape Westeros might take under such rule?
Tyrion realized with sudden clarity the true cause of Stannis Baratheon's unexpected death.
Joffrey's contact with that prostitute's bastard must have involved a similar exchange. The alluring power of magic would prove irresistible to one with nothing to lose.
That child had not possessed extraordinary luck, but rather had been given extraordinary purpose.
Tyrion extended his palm, sensing the unmistakable flow of fire coursing through flesh and blood that had never known such sensations.
Too hot, too wild, he thought, hastily suppressing his excitement and curiosity lest it manifest as actual flame, bringing destruction to the ancient library and its irreplaceable contents.
"Tyrion," Joffrey said, his voice casual yet weighted with significance, "would you consent to serve as the Empire's Minister of Finance?"
Tyrion raised his eyes to meet his nephew's gaze.
The invisible, mysterious presence within his mind allowed him to "see" Joffrey in a manner transcending ordinary vision. The prince appeared to exist simultaneously in two separate realms, straddling realities like a colossus.
What an extraordinary sensation, Tyrion marveled, reality and illusion intertwined beyond separation.
Joffrey's expression shifted to one of contemplative uncertainty. "Littlefinger lacks the loyalty necessary for such crucial office. What course would you recommend regarding him?"
"Remove his head and display it upon a spike adorning the Red Keep's walls?"
Tyrion realized with a start that he had not heard these words spoken aloud. The thought had been transmitted directly into his consciousness through the invisible bond between them.
His eyes widened with undisguised fascination.
This capability, though perhaps less immediately impressive than conjuring fire, might prove far more consequential to the governance of a realm!
He attempted, with unpracticed clumsiness, to access this newfound connection.
A cacophony of sensations assaulted him at once—heat and cold, emptiness and fullness, discordant noise and unintelligible screams.
The experience resembled attempting to tame a wild stallion that had never known a rider's touch.
Tyrion's initial attempts at communication through the information rune resulted only in chaotic, disordered thought patterns. Joffrey swiftly erected mental barriers against this unintentional assault.
After several frustrating attempts, Joffrey finally received Tyrion's first coherent mental transmission:
"Can you hear me? Can you hear me? Can you hear me..."
Joffrey's exasperation was palpable even through their ethereal connection.
"Yes, I can hear you perfectly well. Cease this repetition at once. Continue with your thoughts on Baelish."
Thus began a silent conversation between uncle and nephew, inaudible to any who might enter the library.
"As your future Minister of Finance," Tyrion projected carefully, "I would counsel caution regarding Littlefinger."
"The realm's finances cannot withstand significant disruption at present. The crown's debts are perilously high. While obligations to the Faith and House Lannister might be managed with relative ease, the Iron Bank of Braavos represents a more dangerous creditor. They cannot be permitted to consider their investment at risk."
Joffrey knew the Iron Bank's reputation all too well.
Should a ruler default on debts owed to that implacable institution, they would not hesitate to fund rival claimants to secure repayment. There were even whispers that they had engaged the Faceless Men—assassins of legendary skill—to eliminate particularly troublesome debtors.
Perhaps he need not fear such threats personally, but they remained an aggravation best avoided.
Tyrion gradually adapted to this novel method of exchange, his thoughts becoming more structured with practice.
"During my investigation into King's Landing's networks of influence," he continued, "I discovered the true extent of Littlefinger's entrenchment. The deeper I probed, the more I realized how thoroughly he has concealed his activities."
"After years as Master of Coin, his trusted agents occupy positions throughout the treasury, the royal mint, the harbor authority, customs offices, tax collection agencies, and various regulatory bodies. Most key personnel in these departments owe their appointments to him personally."
"In my considered opinion, we must proceed with exceptional care."
In this world of wealth and influence, if any man had truly armed himself with gold rather than steel, it was Petyr Baelish, not Jaime Lannister.
Joffrey's expression remained impassive, betraying nothing of the conversation occurring beyond ordinary senses.
"Perhaps," he acknowledged. "Yet his collusion with his paramour, Lysa Tully, in the murder of Lord Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, surely warrants the most severe punishment."
"Why not simply eliminate him directly?"
"A network of relationships, however extensive, cannot ultimately prevail against true power."
"Remember this, uncle—King's Landing belongs to the Iron Throne. To me. Not to gold or those who manipulate it."
"When I return to the capital, I shall be King of Westeros in truth as well as name. I will tolerate neither contempt nor betrayal. The shadows infesting King's Landing shall be burned away entirely."
"Tyrion, do you lack confidence in your ability to assume control?"
Joffrey's unspoken message carried overtones of iron and blood rather than compromise or negotiation.
Tyrion sensed the approach of war and death, inevitable as winter itself.
Yet he had already committed himself to a path from which retreat was impossible. And truly, what reason could he offer to refuse such power?
"As you wish, Your Grace," he replied silently, the formal address acknowledging a reality not yet manifest to the world, but no less certain for its delayed revelation.
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