King's Landing, the Red Keep.
A noble wine tasting party was being held that day.
This kind of gathering had originally been popularized by the forr Hand, the Imp Tyrion Lannister.
In the past it had been small and informal, but today it was a grand affair.
Because today was King Joffrey's "naday."
The throne room had been redecorated. Long tables were arranged in a U-shape, covered with white tablecloths and laden with silver candelabras and fine wines from the Reach.
Golden ribbons hung from the ceiling, each tied with the crowned stag of House Baratheon and the golden lion of House Lannister.
Joffrey sat at the center of the high table, the newly forged crown on his head gleaming in the candlelight. Margaery sat beside him in a blue-and-gold gown, her smile graceful and proper.
Cersei sat on the other side, her green eyes scanning every face in the room like a lioness guarding her cubs.
A troupe of perforrs was putting on a show in the center of the hall.
A group of dwarfs wore comical costus. One wore a golden wig, another had his face painted with large yellow and green circles, and one had a deford hump strapped to his back.
Clearly, the dwarf with the golden wig was playing Tyrion Lannister.
He stood at the center of the stage and began reciting his lines in an exaggerated voice. The tone was shrill and affected, every word deliberately drawn out: "Not for titles! Not for honor! Not for gold and jewels! Because all of that is horseshit!" He waved his arms dramatically, causing his wig to tilt and drawing scattered laughter.
"Stannis wants to sack your city! He wants to smash open your gates!" He pointed at the audience, his finger trembling theatrically. "If he succeeds, it will be your houses that burn! Your gold that is stolen! Your wives and daughters that are raped!"
Down below, not a single noble was laughing.
So drank with lowered heads, so pretended not to hear, so stared expressionlessly at the tabletop.
Only Joffrey laughed so hard he bent over, slapping the table until wine spilled from his cup.
On stage, the "Tyrion" was gesticulating passionately when a dwarf playing a "soldier" rushed forward and smashed a hamr into his head.
"Tyrion" collapsed instantly. Then the other dwarfs sward over him and trampled him to death.
Exaggerated, comical screams ca from the stage.
After King's Landing was relieved, the gold cloaks claid that Tyrion had been accidentally struck unconscious by a friendly soldier's hamr during the charge and then trampled to death.
"Hahahahaha…"
Joffrey's laughter echoed through the hall.
He laughed so hard he doubled over, tears streaming down his face.
He had personally reviewed and approved this script. He wanted to thoroughly humiliate that little Imp uncle who had never shown him proper respect — even though the man was already dead!
He hated Tyrion. That dwarf had often embarrassed him and had slapped him more than once.
At the end of the performance, the Knight of Flowers Loras Tyrell rode a wooden horse onto the stage and thrust his sword through the chest of "Stannis."
The dwarf playing Stannis fell over comically. His lines were also maximally insulting: "My ships! My throne! My bald head!"
The hall finally offered scattered applause. The nobles reluctantly cooperated with the childish king, producing ambiguous laughter.
Joffrey was greatly satisfied and had a servant refill his cup.
He stood up, raising his golden goblet. "To all of you, for my naday, for the glory of the Iron Throne — a toast!"
Hundreds of nobles rose with him, raising their cups.
He brought the goblet to his lips and took a large sip.
The mont the wine went down, his smile froze.
The color drained from his face… not gradually, but as if sothing had suddenly sucked it away.
His lips turned white. Fine beads of sweat appeared on his forehead.
He clutched at his throat. The goblet slipped from his fingers, smashing onto the stone floor. Red wine splashed out like blooming blood flowers.
"Your Grace?" Margaery's voice rang out. She had not yet reacted.
Joffrey began to cough.
It wasn't an ordinary choke. It was a deep, violent cough that seed to co from his lungs, as if he were trying to cough up his own organs.
His fingers tightened around his throat, nails digging into the flesh and leaving deep red marks.
"Water!" he shouted, his voice already hoarse. "I can't breathe…"
Cersei was the first to stand. Her chair fell backward with a loud crash.
She rushed to her son, cupped his face with both hands, and slapped his back hard.
"Call the maester! Call the maester!" she scread, her voice completely changed.
Joffrey's face had turned purple.
His eyes were wide open. His lips curled back, revealing teeth stained red with wine.
He began to retch. His body arched, then snapped backward. His hands clawed wildly in the air, nails scraping across the tabletop and leaving white marks.
"He's choking!" soone shouted.
"It's the wine! There's sothing in the wine!"
The laughter in the hall had vanished.
Hundreds of nobles stood up. So pushed forward, so shrank back.
Tables were overturned. Plates and cups smashed on the floor. Broken porcelain mixed with food.
A woman scread. Then a second, then a third.
Joffrey began to convulse.
His body shook violently in Cersei's arms like a fish thrown onto the shore.
His eyes moved away from Cersei's face and slid toward the ceiling. His pupils began to dilate.
The last breath that left his mouth sounded like a crushed sigh.
His hand dropped.
"No~"
Cersei's voice cracked. Her scream drowned out every sound in the hall — the panicked footsteps, the cry of Grand Maester Pycelle as he was knocked over.
A few days later, the Small Council announced that the murderer was Tyrion Lannister.
Because the wine Joffrey had drunk ca from the late Tyrion's private collection.
No one knew that the poison had been taken from Olenna Tyrell's necklace. No one knew that Littlefinger had arranged everything.
Since Tyrion was already dead, the bla was placed on the false king Luke Jaqenion.
The wine had co from the "magic rchant" Luke, and it was rumored that Tyrion and Luke had been friends!
The punitive army had not even reached the battlefield when their king died in such a muddled manner.
The "magic wine" was poisoned!
The false king, the evil god Luke, had poisoned the wine!
Draco's wine carries a curse!
…
These rumors spread rapidly throughout King's Landing.
The nobles no longer dared to drink Draco's wine and turned instead to the wines of the Reach!
The smugglers of King's Landing wailed in despair!
After Joffrey's death, Prince Tomn ascended the throne and also inherited Joffrey's "queen" — Margaery… his sister-in-law.
After Tomn took the throne, Cersei beca even more depressed, because that sweet, obedient little boy had also been completely bewitched by the Little Rose vixen.
The old rose bowed low to Cersei with a respectful attitude, but her words carried hidden barbs: "Your Grace, King Tomn is no longer a child. He needs more private space — or rather, ti alone with his wife — instead of following behind his mother's skirts all day."
Cersei looked at her coldly, narrowing her eyes. "Tomn is my son!"
"Of course, Your Grace."
Cersei added, "I will not allow you to send Myrcella to that remote and poor place called Dorne."
Not long ago, the Small Council had passed a resolution to marry Princess Myrcella Baratheon to Dorne, strengthening the alliance between the Iron Throne and Dorne.
Cersei was a thousand tis against it!
Because Dorne and the Westerlands had long been bitter enemies, and two years ago Prince Oberyn Martell had died at the hands of Westerlands n during a tourney. She believed this was the old rose deliberately targeting her and her fatherless, widowed Lannister family.
The old rose looked at Cersei with deadly seriousness. "Your Grace, the Iron Bank is pressing for paynt again. If the Iron Throne does not repay its debts, they will go support the false king of Draco."
ntion of the Iron Bank gave Cersei a headache. Last year she had refused to repay the debts Robert owed, so the Iron Bank had gone to support Dragonstone. Now those villains were coming to tornt her again.
The Iron Bank was the most powerful and feared financial institution in the world.
It was located in the Free City of Braavos on the continent of Essos. Although it was rely a city bank, its wealth and influence far surpassed the combined total of all other Free Cities' banks.
It was the "chief creditor" of all the kingdoms of Westeros.
The Iron Bank could act with impunity thanks to its terrifying creed… The Braavosi had a saying: "The Iron Bank will have its due."
It ant that anyone who failed to repay their debts would face the Iron Bank's harshest retaliation.
If a king refused to repay his debts, the Iron Bank would imdiately turn to funding his enemies, providing money, sellswords, and everything else needed to help a new king overthrow the old one.
In return, once the new king seized the throne, he would not only have to repay all the old king's debts but also cover the enormous expenses the Iron Bank had invested to support him.
Thus, every investnt by the Iron Bank was ultimately guaranteed by national credit, and its "collection" ability was even more effective than any army.
Cersei rembered the words her late father Tywin Lannister had once said: "We all live in its shadow without realizing it. You cannot escape them, nor can you make excuses to them. If you owe money and refuse to find a way to repay it, then you must pay the price."
The old rose's voice jolted her awake: "Your Grace, Highgarden can help the Iron Throne repay part of its debts, but it requires that you no longer interfere in the Small Council and that you agree to send Princess Myrcella to Dorne."
"Margaery is Tomn's queen. Shouldn't Highgarden help the Iron Throne as a matter of course?" Cersei's lungs nearly burst with rage.
That night.
Cersei woke from a dream. Moonlight filtered through a gap in the curtains, casting a pale beam across the bed.
Her pillow was soaked. Cold sweat covered her forehead.
She didn't know what had woken her… perhaps a dream, perhaps a sound. Then she saw the note beside her pillow.
She picked it up and unfolded it.
Moonlight shone on it. The handwriting was painfully clear. It contained only one sentence:
The one who killed King Joffrey was Olenna Redwyne. The poison was taken from her necklace.
Cersei's eyes widened.
Her hand trembled. The paper rustled between her fingers.
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