That night Joffrey swirled the crystal goblet in his hand.
Candlelight turned the liquid inside into glowing amber honey.
"Just diarrhea. Won't kill a man," he told himself, then drained the cup.
First taste was pure silk. A blast of ripe fruit exploded across his tongue.
After he swallowed, a clean floral finish lingered—sweet, bright, begging for another sip.
He set the cup down and braced for the gut-twisting pain.
Thirty heartbeats. Sixty.
He stood, bounced on his toes. Nothing. Not even a twinge.
The last knot in his chest finally let go and flipped into pure burning excitement.
"Bottoms up!"
He poured three more cups straight down, celebrating.
So the skill didn't just cover straight poison—it shut down anything that could fuck with his body.
The Hound had reported that this morning he'd slipped one small packet of the laxative into Ser Boros Blount's stew. The white-cloaked knight spent the whole day running to the privy ten times, face pale as his own cloak.
Joffrey had tripled the dose on himself.
And felt nothing more than drinking juice.
From now on he never had to worry about poison in his wine.
Unlike that red priestess who had to cast spells to fight it, his power worked every second, passive and perfect.
Only downside? He'd never feel buzzed or drunk again.
Fine. He'd learn to drink wine like water.
Riding the high, Joffrey opened the thick book and started copying the handwriting onto fresh parchment.
It was the big one on noble bloodlines and histories, full of every wedding, funeral, and family tree in the Seven Kingdoms.
This was exactly where Jon Arryn had spotted that all three of Robert's "Baratheon" children had Lannister gold hair and green eyes.
Stannis had suspected first—he'd seen enough of Robert's bastards, every one black-haired. The book just gave him ironclad proof.
Since it was the official record, it was the perfect place to rewrite a few lines.
"Black hair… gold hair…"
Joffrey focused, matching every stroke.
Maesters trained in Oldtown ran every library and steward's office. They guarded knowledge like it was sacred and were supposed to stay neutral.
Pycelle had obviously ignored that last part. Fifteen years ago the old dog helped Tywin trick the gates of King's Landing open.
But he was also the best in his field at records and ink.
He kept a special solution that could erase ink and let new writing go right over it.
Joffrey wasn't trusting the old man's mouth, though. If someone tortured him, he'd spill. So Joffrey would do the forgery himself.
He only needed to change a couple of words anyway.
When Pycelle had asked why he wanted the potion, Joffrey had just stared with wide, innocent eyes.
"I thought it looked fun!"
After practicing a few pages he rubbed his sore wrist, stuffed the scraps in the hearth, and burned them to ash.
The ride to Winterfell was at least a month away. Plenty of time to finish.
Destroying the book would only make people suspicious. Changing a few entries was smarter.
Baratheon black hair was dominant anyway—it overpowered anything. But this was still the medieval age; no one had heard of genetics. They just went by what they'd always seen.
So what Joffrey was really building was gossip.
Rumors always cut deeper than truth.
…
The next afternoon Joffrey rode up Visenya's Hill with the Hound and four guards.
Besides the Great Sept and the Alchemists' Guild, most of the city's smiths lived here.
"Your Grace." "Good day, Your Grace!" "Care to see my new blades, Your Grace?" Along the way, busy blacksmiths and free riders all called out warmly.
Their prince had always been decent to the smallfolk—good reputation.
Today, though, Joffrey kept his chin high and ignored every greeting.
He looked exactly as haughty as his mother.
"Weird. The prince didn't smile at me today."
"You're full of it. He smiled at me last time. Bet someone pissed him off."
"Heh, I've got a theory. You think maybe…"
"Shh, I know what you're thinking."
"That boy was named after the king. If he really is a bastard… tsk tsk."
The crowd closed in, whispering fast.
The Hound leaned close. "Want me to shut them up?"
Joffrey gave a careless flick of his head. "Just men talking after a long day's work. Who cares?"
Talking was perfect.
Exactly what he wanted.
He'd spent last night quietly seeding those rumors through three cut-outs in Flea Bottom. Already spreading like wildfire by morning.
Our honest, strong old Hand had a sickly boy who still drank milk at six. And the mother skipped the funeral, sailed off in the middle of the night without a word to anyone.
Left the king and prince to stand vigil alone for a whole day and night.
Disgraceful.
Someone needs to investigate.
That was the polite version. The rest of the gossip had already slid straight into the gutter.
He'd picked the perfect man to play the father, too.
Littlefinger.
But it was still too soon. Lysa Tully had only left a few days ago—she was probably just reaching Gulltown.
He'd wait until Eddard and Littlefinger actually met. Then he'd let the real story drop.
They rode down Steel Street and took the winding path to the top of the hill.
A grand workshop appeared ahead.
Tobho Mott's forge—the best weaponsmith in King's Landing.
And the master who was training one of Robert's bastards.
Joffrey dismounted. He and the Hound stepped through the tall doors of ebony and weirwood.
The owner came out beaming in seconds.
"Quick, pour wine for His Grace!"
Once they were seated, Joffrey took the silver cup and sipped.
Not as good as last night.
"Young as you are, you already carry yourself like a warrior, Your Grace. Planning to fight in the tourney?" Tobho chatted a moment, then slid straight into sales mode. "You'll need a proper suit of armor. Lord Renly just ordered a new set. Shall I make one for you? Hammered gold—would suit your coloring perfectly."
The usual pitch followed: artistry, color, Valyrian steel, the whole routine.
Joffrey sat stone-faced and let the man talk himself out.
Then he spoke in a deliberately irritated drawl.
"Master, with that silver tongue of yours, you could quit smithing and become a wandering bard tomorrow."