The memory hit first. Not a soft recollection, but a brutal, visceral replay. A thick rope, coarse against his windpipe, tightening, crushing. The desperate, burning need for air, the world blurring into a kaleidoscope of terror and black spots. A final, agonizing lurch, then nothing. Absolute, terrifying nothingness.Gasping, Alex bolted upright. His lungs burned, a phantom pressure searing his throat. He tore at his neck, fingers scrabbling, searching for the phantom noose. None existed. His skin was smooth, unmarred. Yet the sensation lingered, a ghost of suffocation.Darkness pressed in, then slowly receded, revealing rich, unfamiliar surroundings. Gold gleamed from intricate carvings on the bedposts. Deep crimson and gold silk draped the canopy above him, heavy and luxurious. The scent of lavender and something cloyingly sweet, like expensive wine, permeated the air. This wasn't his cramped apartment. This wasn't home.Panic clawed at his chest. He scrambled off the enormous bed, his legs unsteady beneath him. The floor, cold and polished, met his bare feet. He stumbled, catching himself on a heavy wooden dresser, its surface inlaid with mother-of-pearl.His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drum against bone. What was happening? The execution, the last thing he remembered, had been a dream. A vivid, terrifying nightmare. But the room… it was too real, too elaborate.Glancing down, he saw soft, embroidered nightclothes, far too ornate for anything he had ever owned. His hands, small and pale, were not his own. These were delicate, almost unblemished, without the calluses from years of keyboard use, or the scar above his knuckles from that foolish bike accident.A name whispered itself in his mind. Not his name. A name that brought a fresh wave of ice-cold dread. *Joffrey*.No. It couldn't be. This was a joke. A hallucination. He pinched his arm, hard. Pain bloomed, sharp and immediate. Not a dream.He stumbled towards the nearest reflective surface, a tall, ornate mirror set into the wall. His breath hitched.Staring back was a boy, no older than fifteen, with a shock of golden-blond hair that fell in soft waves around a pale, somewhat petulant face. Wide, startlingly green eyes, set a little too close together, regarded him with a mixture of confusion and burgeoning horror. A thin, sneering mouth.Joffrey Baratheon.His stomach lurched. Bile rose in his throat. This was the face of a tyrant, a monster he had only read about, a fictional character whose brutal end had been celebrated by millions. He remembered the books, the show, the smug, entitled cruelty radiating from every scene featuring this boy king. And the execution. The Purple Wedding. The poison.Alex pressed a hand to his lips, his fingers trembling. He swallowed, forcing down the nausea. The memories of his old life, mundane and unremarkable, flickered like dying embers. His desk job, his tiny apartment, his online games, his quiet, predictable existence. All gone. Replaced by this. This gilded cage.This body. This fate.He raised his hands to touch the face in the mirror. The boy’s reflection mimicked the movement, those green eyes widening with a terror that mirrored his own. The golden hair felt impossibly soft beneath his fingers. The jawline, weak and unformed, was undeniably Joffrey’s.A chill snaked down his spine, colder than the polished floor. He was inside Joffrey Baratheon. The most hated king in Westeros. A boy destined for a gruesome death by poison at his own wedding.His previous life had been one of utter powerlessness. He had hated it, felt the dull ache of insignificance. Now, he was in the body of a king, a person of immense power, yet utterly powerless to escape a fate already written. The irony was a bitter taste in his mouth.He stumbled back, away from the mocking reflection. His head spun. The room, once opulent, now felt suffocating. The rich fabrics, the heavy gold, the scent of expensive perfume – it all pressed in, a silent scream building in his chest. He needed air. He needed out.But where was "out"? This was King's Landing. This was the Red Keep. There was no escape.He paced, a frantic, caged animal. His small hands clenched into fists, fingernails digging into his palms. The sheer injustice of it, the terror of his predetermined demise, threatened to overwhelm him. He had watched Joffrey die. He had seen the agonizing spasms, the frothing mouth, the slow, horrible suffocation. And now, that would be *his* fate.Every nerve ending screamed. He ran a hand through the unfamiliar blond hair, tugging at it, as if trying to rip away this false identity. It felt too real. The silk nightshirt clung to his skin. The cold, hard floor underfoot. This was not a dream.He paused before a heavy oaken wardrobe, its panels carved with snarling lions. His reflection, distorted by the polished wood, showed a panicked, wide-eyed boy. The face was undeniably Joffrey's, but the fear in those green eyes was his own. Alex’s.Could he change it? Could he escape it? The thought, fleeting and desperate, pierced through the fog of terror. The world of Westeros was brutal, unforgiving. His knowledge of the future, a cruel burden, might also be his only weapon.But against what? Against fate itself? Against the meticulous plotting of the Queen of Thorns, or the cold calculation of Tywin Lannister? He was just Alex, an ordinary man, trapped in the body of a spoiled, sadistic brat who was universally despised.He gripped the edge of the dresser, knuckles white. His breathing came in ragged gasps. The memory of the rope, the choking, the final darkness… it played on a loop in his mind. He couldn't let it happen again. He wouldn't.A sudden, sharp headache pulsed behind his eyes. It felt as if a thousand new memories, foreign and violent, were trying to force their way into his brain. Flashes of cruelty, of petty sadism, of a spoiled child's unchecked rage. These were Joffrey's memories, his instincts. He recoiled internally. He would not become that. He *could not* become that.He pressed his temples, trying to ward off the invasive thoughts. He had to think. Systematically. Logically. What did he know?He knew the timeline. He knew the players. He knew Joffrey's fatal flaws. Most importantly, he knew *his own* fatal flaw: a profound fear of powerlessness. That fear, which had driven his quiet life of mediocrity, now surged, amplified by the immediate threat of death.He had to survive. He had to gain control. This wasn't just about avoiding poison; it was about seizing the reins of this new, terrifying existence. He would not be a puppet. He would not be a victim.A cold, hard resolve began to crystallize within him, pushing back against the overwhelming panic. He had been weak in his old life. Here, in this world of dragons and daggers, weakness meant death.He looked back at the mirror. The sneer on Joffrey’s face seemed less mocking now, more a canvas for his own growing determination. The blonde hair, the green eyes – they were his now. He had to own them.He would learn. He would adapt. He would manipulate. He would survive. This wasn’t a game anymore. This was his life, and he was fighting for it.His gaze swept over the luxurious room once more. The heavy bed, the ornate furniture, the rich fabrics depicting hunting scenes – everything spoke of immense wealth and power. Power that, for now, was his.He had to remember the timeline, the key events. Robert's death. Ned Stark's execution. The War of Five Kings. The Purple Wedding. Each event a stepping stone, or a potential pitfall. He needed to navigate them all.Survival was the only goal. Survival, and perhaps, just perhaps, a way to carve out a new destiny, one not dictated by a GRRM novel or a TV show. He wouldn't be Joffrey Baratheon, the boy king who died ignominiously. He would be something else. Someone else.A faint tremor ran through his hand. He looked down, surprised. His skin tingled. A sudden weight materialized in his palm. It was cool, smooth leather, unexpectedly heavy. His fingers closed around it instinctively.He lifted his hand, his eyes wide.It was a book. Not a book from this world, surely. Its cover was thick, bound in dark, rich leather, ancient and unblemished. There were no clasps, no visible seams. It simply rested in his hand, as if it had always belonged there.---As Alex contemplated the mocking face of Joffrey, a leather-bound journal materialized in his hand, its cover emblazoned with a single, burning scarlet eye.

Chapter 1: La jaula dorada