Watching Petyr Baelish flee in disarray, Joffrey savored the look in his eyes—venomous, yet filled with fear.
Satisfied, he smacked his lips lightly and tossed the sword back to the Hound.
"You lot spend all day scheming in circles," Sandor spat to the side. "If it were up to me, I'd just kill whoever I disliked and be done with it."
Joffrey tilted his head. "And after he's gone, can you take his office and conjure gold dragons for the crown?"
Sandor said nothing.
"Exactly. Every man has his use," Joffrey said, turning away with a dismissive wave.
Entering the hall once more, the heavy scent of funerary incense wrapped around him again.
The Silent Sisters stood nearby, their veiled faces turned toward him, their unseen eyes full of expectation.
As long as Robert did not leave, no one else could leave either.
And only Joffrey dared wake him.
Under their watchful gaze, Joffrey returned to the center of the hall.
"Father," he said softly. "It grows late. We should return."
The sleeping Robert grunted, lifting his head with bleary eyes. As he stretched, he knocked over the wine flask resting atop the coffin.
"Seven hells," Robert groaned, struggling to stand. "Joff, give me a hand. My legs have gone numb."
Joffrey sighed inwardly, but drew a breath and hauled up the massive body that weighed as much as a warhorse.
Robert swayed to his feet, then slapped Joffrey hard on the back and laughed heartily.
"Good lad. Growing stronger. You've got my blood in you."
Because of his early maturity and careful performance, Joffrey had always appeared a fitting heir to the Iron Throne.
Robert was greatly pleased by this, and their relationship was not entirely cold.
He loved boasting of it to others.
"Look at the seed of House Baratheon."
Gods, that sounded terrifying.
If Robert ever learned the truth of his birth, would he strike him down on the spot and mount his head on a spear?
The thought sent a chill through Joffrey, his earlier good mood vanishing.
After they left the Great Sept, golden King's Landing was swallowed by black night.
Joffrey walked with the procession up Aegon's High Hill, torchlight shattering his silent shadow into fragments.
The oppressive weight of the funeral still lingered in his chest.
By the time they returned to the Red Keep, the sky was full of stars, and the pale red stone walls gleamed like bone.
Only when Joffrey stepped into his spacious chamber in Maegor's Holdfast did he finally relax.
The room was vast and nearly empty, hung only with tapestries of roaring lions and crowned stags, cold and silent in the dim light.
Joffrey went to the window and took out incense he had taken from the sept.
After arranging it simply, he completed the final preparation for the draw.
The sept had been steeped in deathly gloom. This was his first draw in life, so he had endured until now.
With a thought, he summoned the system.
"Draw."
A bright, spinning wheel appeared before him, whirling rapidly.
When it stopped, glowing words surfaced.
[Come, Fill the Great Cup]
[I Shall Not Refuse: Greatly increases alcohol tolerance and grants extremely high resistance to poison dissolved in wine.]
Joffrey stared at the description, his lips twitching.
That was all?
Afterward, he felt only emptiness.
Perhaps the first draw was predetermined. After all, he had recently conspired to poison the Hand.
Yet he had risked much to gather those points, hoping for a skill with immediate, decisive effect.
Instead, he gained nothing more than a survival trick for the drinking table.
His anticipation deflated like a punctured balloon. Joffrey dismissed the glowing screen and fell onto his bed.
He stared blankly at the lions and stags embroidered above.
Was the world truly bent on destroying him?
Soon, fragments of memory surged forth.
Across the Narrow Sea, the shadow of dragons stirred. Beyond the Wall, winter crept closer. These tides that would one day swallow the world gave the weak no mercy.
If he wished to live, he must endure.
Endure.
After a long silence, ambition flared within him like wildfire.
Given a second life, why settle for mere survival?
He sprang from the bed and threw open the window. The salty sea wind scattered his golden hair.
He could continue to tread carefully, conceal the truth, flatter Robert, please Tywin, and survive between two great houses.
Or…
Joffrey clenched his fists.
Besides the system, he also possessed memories of the future. And this seemingly mediocre skill was unexpectedly useful.
In Westeros, countless heroes had won battle after battle, only to fall at feasts and wine.
To hell with the game of thrones.
He would play a game of magic and war.
[Current Role: The Proud General]
[Providence Points: 0/99]
Gazing upon the sleeping city beneath the moonlight, Joffrey made his decision.
Everything would begin here.
If so, the cautious steps of before could be abandoned. He would continue using those high-risk, high-reward players.
First, he would pay a visit to a certain Grand Maester—one whose medicine had recently killed a man, yet whose skill was said to be unmatched.
The next morning, Joffrey knocked upon the Maester's Tower and entered without waiting.
Grand Maester Pycelle looked up from his book, sipping honeyed milk. "Your Highness! So early? Are you unwell?" His surprise was clear.
"I came to ask a few questions, Grand Maester," Joffrey said, glancing around. Finding nowhere to sit, he simply perched upon the table before Pycelle.
One leg swung idly as he examined the bottles and jars on the shelves.
"Tell me about the Tears of Lys."
Pycelle's hand trembled.
"Your Highness… why the sudden interest?"
"A song I heard," Joffrey replied casually. "They say it is colorless and tasteless. Used for murder, is it not?"
"Yes, Your Highness," Pycelle's thick beard quivered as he spoke. "The Citadel forbids us from discussing such matters openly."
"Perhaps you would like some pastries? Or a cup of iced milk? You came so early, surely you have not eaten."
Joffrey nodded. "Less sugar. Less ice."
Pycelle rang a small silver bell. "Bring food for the prince."
Soon, a young maid entered, barely older than Joffrey. She set the tray before him, glanced up briefly, then lowered her head, blushing and flustered.
The old man has good taste, Joffrey thought.
He hopped down from the table to make space.
"You are forbidden to speak of it," Joffrey said, cracking a boiled egg against the table. "Then why do others describe it so clearly?"
"For instance, that it tastes sweet as water, dissolves easily in wine, and leaves no trace."
Pycelle sipped his iced milk.
"Your Highness, you must not believe the nonsense of singers—dragons and princesses, poisons and princes, and so on. They love such sensational tales."
Joffrey smiled faintly and leaned close to Pycelle's ear.
Softly, he said:
"Then why have I also heard that those poisoned fall ill, burning with fever, mind clouded, and die within a day or two?"
"And were not Lord Arryn's symptoms exactly the same?"