Clearly, fear had deafened Joffrey to Jon's earlier words.
But as the Baron stopped his advance, the Crown Prince's brain finally began to process the information.
"What the hell is that? What exactly are you trying to say?"
As the pressure built to a breaking point, fear finally morphed into rage, spurring Joffrey to fight back.
Seeing this, the corner of the Baron of Tampa's mouth ticked upward, unable to hide his delight, like a fisherman watching a fish take the bait.
"What I'm trying to say is... you are simply too old. So, even if I am sleeping with your mother, you don't need to 'worry too much' about your own 'parentage'."
Jon delivered these words with a strange, ambiguous smile, as if he were looking at a clown.
Opposite him, Joffrey, who had been tensely watching Jon's expression, finally realized something was wrong. Certain rumors circulating in King's Landing flooded back into his memory.
"The King has bastards all over the Seven Kingdoms, but no trueborn heir..."
"The Stag's crown should be made of grass; it would match the color of the hat he wears..."
"By that logic, a forest would be more fitting. This is a scandal of monumental proportions!"
At first, Joffrey hadn't taken it seriously. He had even ordered several loose-lipped commoners hanged for spreading such filth.
After that, fear had silenced the gossip, which had put the Crown Prince at ease.
However, the naturally suspicious Joffrey had started secretly monitoring Cersei's movements, even dispatching the Hound to watch her door.
Who knew that within just a few days, he would stumble upon a scandal of this magnitude?
Previously, the Crown Prince had suspected that because his father neglected her, Cersei might have started seeking the company of young men.
But after witnessing Jon's intimacy with his mother with his own eyes, he began to doubt everything—including the father of the child in Cersei's belly, and even his own legitimacy.
However, Jon's reminder had calmed the Crown Prince down somewhat, forcing him to look squarely at this pretty boy in front of him.
Yes, a pretty boy.
As a Northerner, Jon's skin was as fair as snow, radiating an eye-catching glow.
Combined with his handsome features and tall, upright posture, he was indeed far more attractive than the boar-like, drunken Robert.
If not for this incident, the Crown Prince might not have minded having Jon as a lackey. But now, Joffrey's hatred for Jon was intense enough to ignite the air between them.
Just as the Crown Prince was gathering his thoughts, the Baron's psychological attack continued, leaving Joffrey reeling.
"Your Grace, if you don't want everyone's heads decorating the city walls, please try to be a little more mature."
"At least until King Robert returns, you need to keep your mouth shut and think hard about how to keep that crown on your head."
"After all, many of us are counting on you to enjoy wealth and glory... so in a way, we are grasshoppers tied to the same string. If one falls, we all fall."
Leaving those words hanging in the air, Jon ignored the silent Crown Prince and turned to leave.
As for the monstrous rage burning behind him? That was no longer Jon's concern.
---
Lately, Tyrion Lannister—the Imp—had been living quite comfortably.
Without Jaime around to keep him company, there was also no one to restrain him or scold him for indulging in brothels.
Fortunately, House Lannister was wealthy enough to rival nations. A few gold dragons tossed here and there were enough for Tyrion to muddle through his days in a drunken haze.
However, even he knew this lifestyle couldn't last forever. From any perspective, he shouldn't continue this "self-degradation."
Tyrion only needed to use his large head for a moment to know exactly what he needed to do to get what he wanted.
As for a role model? One was right in front of him.
First, like his "role model," he had a Duke for a father.
Second, their situations were similar—both were essentially outcasts (one a bastard, one a dwarf).
Finally, in terms of intelligence, Tyrion felt he was second to none.
Of course, the Imp rather carelessly ignored factors like appearance, height, combat ability, and luck, leaving only the comparable elements.
So, in Tyrion's view, as long as he didn't covet the lordship of Casterly Rock, he should be able to do a thousand times better than Jon.
But after listing these points, even the Imp laughed at himself, drowning his deductions in wine.
Although Tyrion didn't want to admit it, the fact remained: compared to his friend, he simply couldn't compete.
If there was one thing he could use as a counter-example, it was that Jon knew how to please his sister.
Thinking of this, the Imp angrily threw down his wine cup, wishing he could grab an axe and hack Jon to death right now.
After accidentally barging into his sister's chambers last time—though it was just a glimpse—Tyrion realized he had walked into something he shouldn't have.
Using his status as a Lannister, Tyrion had extracted information about the visitors from the red-cloaked guards and Cersei's entourage.
Combining this information, his large head didn't even need direct confirmation to guess who the culprit was.
In the days that followed, even a habitual slacker like him sensed the dark clouds gathering over the Red Keep.
But no matter how hard he thought, he couldn't see a way out. Unless Cersei and the child in her belly disappeared from King's Landing together, giving up all power.
But Tyrion knew perfectly well that even if they chose that path, House Lannister wouldn't find forgiveness—only the Usurper's army.
Tyrion was certain of one thing.
If he were willing to cast aside family bonds, leave immediately to find his brother-in-law, the King, and report everything to the Usurper in time...
Once the chaos ended and Westeros stabilized, perhaps he would have a sliver of a chance to get the thing he had always wanted: Casterly Rock.
But the price he would have to pay made Tyrion choose avoidance.
So, after putting down his last cup of wine, the Imp staggered toward the Red Keep, intending to drag Jon out for a confrontation.
But before his short legs could carry him far, several distinctive red-cloaked guards surrounded him, completely blocking his path.
"Piss off! It's not your place to control me!"
After domineeringly announcing his order, the Imp tried to continue on his way, but the next moment, he walked smack into a guard's leg.
Feeling the rebound on the bridge of his nose, the Imp teared up instantly. He was about to jump up and teach the family guard a lesson.
But before he could look up, a white silk handkerchief was offered to him, accompanied by a looming shadow.
Then, a familiar voice drifted into the Imp's ears.
"Hey, friend! Watch where you're going..."
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