"There is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things."Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince
Joffrey stood before the polished bronze mirror in his bedchamber, wiping the sweat from his neck.
Three weeks of grueling calisthenics, core isolation, and deep mental focus had completely altered the boy in the glass. The soft, doughy curves of his face were giving way to sharp, clean lines. His posture was no longer slouched and petulant; he stood straight, his weight evenly distributed, his body coiled like a steel spring. The spatial spark inside his soul hummed quietly, a steady, cooling pulse that seemed to actively refine his blood with every beat of his heart.
He was stronger. He could teleport roughly six feet now without passing out, though it still felt like sprinting a mile at top speed... baby steps.
He threw the wash cloth that served as a rudimentary towel onto a chair and looked out the arched window at the sprawling expanse of King's Landing. The city stretched out below the Red Keep like a festering wound, a chaotic mass of cobble streets, mud, and wooden hovels, choked by the legendary stench of human waste and rotting fish.
It was an inside joke amongst the nobles of the seven kingdoms that you could tell you've arrived in King's Landing just by the smell. That.... was an understatement.
Living in the 21st century gave a man a very specific, unforgiving perspective on medieval fantasy.
Westeros, he had realized quickly, was not a grand kingdom. It was a glorified cluster of tribal warlords agreeing to ignore the guy in the iron chair until he demanded too many taxes. There was no real state apparatus. No unified legal code, no standing imperial army, no public infrastructure, and no civil service. Everything ran on personal oaths, divine right, and the fragile ego of whichever lord held the largest castle.
Compared to the administrative machinery of ancient Rome, let alone a modern nation-state, Westeros was a logistical joke.
Then there was the Citadel.
He had spent hours poring through Pycelle's requisitioned books, and the sheer stagnation of knowledge made him want to put his head through a stone wall. Idiots... all of them!
The Maesters didn't innovate, the grey rats cataloged decay. They held a complete monopoly on literacy, medicine, and historical record, yet they guarded information like a dragon hoarding copper coins. Basic scientific principles were treated like forbidden sorcery or useless trivia. There was no printing press, no systematic study of agriculture, and medical science consisted of leeching people until they died of blood loss instead of infection.
So backward....
The Faith of the Seven was no better. It was a sterile, bureaucratic religion designed to keep the smallfolk docile with promises of a peaceful afterlife while the nobility bled them dry. Neither the Septons nor the Maesters had any idea that the metaphysical foundation of their entire world was crumbling beneath their feet.
Too much power both soft and to a certain extent hard, in the hands of two external institutions. That has to change.
If he was going to turn this continent into something capable of surviving an eldritch ice army, he couldn't just win a throne. He had to rebuild the entire concept of society from the ground up.
A soft knock at his door pulled him from his thoughts.
"Joff?"
The voice was small, tentative, and filled with a familiar, nervous hesitation.
Joffrey turned as the heavy oak door swung open. Standing in the threshold was seven-year-old Tommen, clutching a small, scruffy black kitten to his chest, with eight-year-old Myrcella hovering right behind him.
In the memories of the old Joffrey, these two were targets. Sibling cruelty had been a daily ritual for the original prince. Tormenting Tommen until he cried, stealing Myrcella's things, and lashing out whenever he felt ignored.
Who beefs with children? What a schmuck!
Seeing them now, he felt a sharp pang of protective instinct. They were just children, caught in the jaws of a lion's den, completely unaware of the toxic web being woven around them by Cersei, Jaime, and the rest of the court.
"Come in"
Tommen flinched slightly at the invitation, his small boots freezing on the stone floor. Myrcella stepped forward instinctively, putting a subtle shoulder in front of her younger brother. Her bright emerald eyes, far too sharp for her age, searched Joffrey's face for any sign of a trap.
"We... we saw you from the window," Myrcella said, her tone carefully measured. "Uncle Tyrion said you were in your rooms. Tommen found a cat in the stables."
"A bad cat," Tommen piped up in a small voice, clinging tighter to the animal. "The stablemaster said he was going to drown it because it stole a fish. I... I wanted to ask if I could keep it in my room. But I didn't want you to be angry."
Joffrey walked over to the table and poured three cups of watered plum juice, keeping his movements slow and predictable. He walked back and offered a cup to each of them.
Tommen looked at the cup, then at Joffrey, his round face a picture of sheer disbelief.
"A cat is a fine tool," Joffrey said, crouching down so he was at eye level with his little brother. He reached out and gently scratched the kitten behind its ears. The small animal immediately began to purr. "The Red Keep is crawling with mice. And rats. Some of them have two legs, but the four-legged ones eat the grain in the pantries. If you keep him, you are responsible for him. You feed him, you train him, and you make sure he earns his keep. Deal?"
Tommen's eyes went wide as saucers. A brilliant, radiant smile broke across his face. "Deal! I'll call him Ser Pounce!"
"A noble name," Joffrey smiled, standing up and taking a sip of his juice.
Myrcella was still watching him, her brow furrowed in deep concentration. She took a tiny sip from her cup, setting it down with a quiet clink. "You are different, Joff."
"Different how?"
"You don't yell anymore," she said simply, stepping closer and looking up at him. "You don't break things. And you look... like the statues of the old kings in the books. The ones before the dragons died."
Joffrey looked at his sister. She was perceptive, far more than Cersei gave her credit for. In canon, Myrcella was shipped off to Dorne as a political pawn, a victim of Littlefinger and Tyrion's political maneuvering. He wasn't going to let that happen.
"I had a fever, Cella," Joffrey said quietly, sitting on the edge of a heavy wooden chest. "When you get very sick, you have a lot of time to think. I realized that screaming doesn't make people respect you. It just makes them wait for you to turn your back."
Myrcella absorbed that, her small hands folding neatly in front of her dress. "Is that why you read all day now?"
"Knowledge is the only real armor in this castle," Joffrey replied, gesturing for her to sit beside him. Tommen was already on the floor, letting the kitten pounce on his boot laces. "Our father is the King, but he leaves the ruling to other men. Our mother loves us, but she sees the world through fear. If we want to be safe, we have to be smarter than everyone else in this city."
He looked at both of them, his voice carrying a quiet, unyielding promise.
"I am the eldest. It is my job to protect this family. Not just with a sword, but with my mind. From now on, no one hurts you. No one uses you. But you have to promise me that you will learn. I'll give you books. I'll teach you how to see through the lies people tell in court."
Tommen looked up from his kitten, his childish face serious. "Even the Maesters?"
"Especially the Maesters," Joffrey said with a faint, dry smirk.
Myrcella looked at her brother for a long moment. The suspicion in her eyes slowly melted away, replaced by a deep, quiet awe. She reached out and placed her small hand over his.
"Okay, Joff," she whispered. "Teach us."
He was going to tear down the stagnancy of this realm, block by block. And he would start right here in the Red Keep.