Watching Petyr retreat in a fluster, Joffrey replayed the man's venomous yet terrified expression in his mind.
Satisfied, he smacked his lips lightly and tossed the sword back to the Hound.
"You nobles and your schemes," Sandor muttered, spitting to the side. "If you don't like someone, just kill them and be done with it."
Joffrey tilted his head. "And if I dismiss him, can you take his office? Can you produce gold dragons out of thin air?"
Sandor said nothing.
"Exactly. Everyone has their use," Joffrey said, turning away with a dismissive wave.
When he stepped back inside the Great Sept, the heavy scent of incense and death wrapped around him once more.
The Silent Sisters stood nearby, their veiled faces tilted toward him with quiet expectation.
As long as Robert remained, none of them could leave. And among those present, only Joffrey dared wake the king.
Under their watchful gazes, he walked back to the center of the hall.
"Father," Joffrey said softly. "It's late. We should return."
Robert snorted in his sleep and raised his head groggily. As he stretched, he knocked over the wineskin resting on Jon Arryn's coffin.
"Seven hells," Robert groaned, struggling to stand. "Joff, give me a hand. My legs are numb."
Joffrey sighed inwardly but stepped forward, bracing himself under the king's enormous weight.
Robert swayed to his feet with Joffrey's support, then clapped him hard on the back with a booming laugh.
"Good lad. Getting stronger. Just like I was."
Thanks to Joffrey's deliberate performance and early maturity, he had been a capable heir in Robert's eyes.
The king liked to boast about it.
"Look at the Baratheon blood."
The thought made Joffrey shiver.
If Robert ever learned the truth, would he cut him down on the spot?
The good mood faded.
When they left the sept, night had swallowed King's Landing whole. Torches flickered as they climbed Aegon's High Hill, breaking Joffrey's shadow into jagged fragments.
The weight of the funeral lingered in his chest.
Back in the Red Keep, the stars glittered faintly above pale red stone walls.
Only when he entered his spacious chamber in Maegor's Holdfast did he finally relax.
The room felt vast and cold. Tapestries bearing roaring lions and crowned stags hung along the walls.
Joffrey walked to the window and pulled out a bundle of incense he had taken from the sept.
After arranging it carefully, he prepared for his first draw.
He had deliberately waited. The sept felt unlucky.
With a thought, he summoned the Providence System.
"Draw."
A colorful wheel appeared before him, spinning rapidly.
It slowed to a stop.
Lines of glowing text materialized.
[Come, Bring a Bigger Cup]
[I Shall Not Refuse: Greatly increases alcohol tolerance and grants high resistance to poisons dissolved in wine.]
Joffrey stared at the description.
"That's it?"
The excitement drained from him.
Perhaps the first draw was predetermined. After all, he had just conspired to poison the Hand.
He had taken considerable risks accumulating Providence Points, hoping for something decisive.
Instead, he received a drinking skill.
The disappointment felt like a punctured balloon.
He waved the screen away and lay back on his bed, staring up at the lion and stag embroidered above.
Was fate truly against him?
Fragments of future memories surfaced again.
Dragons across the Narrow Sea. Winter beyond the Wall. Catastrophes that would swallow the world without mercy.
To survive, he would need patience.
Patience.
But as he lay there, ambition burned within him like wildfire. If he had been given a second life, why settle for mere survival?
He sat up abruptly and threw open the window. Salty sea wind swept through his golden hair.
He could continue playing carefully. Hide the truth. Please Robert. Satisfy Tywin. Balance between two great houses.
Or—
He clenched his fists.
He still had foresight.
And this skill, unimpressive as it seemed, had its uses.
How many heroes in Westeros had won battle after battle, only to fall at a feast with a cup in hand?
To hell with the game of thrones.
He would play a game of magic and war.
[Current Role: Proud General]
[Providence Points: 0/99]
Under the moonlight, King's Landing lay silent.
Everything would begin here.
If so, he could discard his previous cautious steps. He would continue employing high-risk, high-reward roles.
First, he needed to visit a certain Grand Maester whose medical skills had recently proven fatal.
The next morning, Joffrey knocked on the Maester's Tower door and entered without waiting.
Grand Maester Pycelle looked up from his book, honeyed milk in hand. "Your Highness? So early. Are you unwell?"
"I have questions, Grand Maester," Joffrey replied casually, hopping onto the desk when he found no chair available. One leg swung idly as he examined the jars lining the shelves.
"Tell me about the Tears of Lys."
Pycelle's hand trembled slightly.
"Why such interest, Your Highness?"
"I heard it in a song," Joffrey lied smoothly. "They say it's colorless and tasteless. Perfect for murder."
"Yes… yes, Your Highness," Pycelle replied, beard trembling. "The Citadel discourages us from discussing such matters."
"Perhaps some pastries? A cup of chilled milk? You must not have eaten yet."
"Less sugar. Less ice," Joffrey said.
Pycelle rang a small silver bell. "Bring refreshments."
A young serving girl entered soon after, only a few years older than Joffrey. She set down the tray, blushing as she avoided eye contact.
The old man certainly had an eye for youth, Joffrey thought.
He hopped off the desk to give her space.
"You're not allowed to speak of it," Joffrey said, tapping a boiled egg against the table. "Then why do singers describe it in detail?"
"Sweet as water. Dissolves easily in wine. Leaves no trace."
Pycelle sipped his milk. "Your Highness must not believe every tale. Singers thrive on scandal. Dragons and princesses. Poisons and princes."
Joffrey smiled faintly and leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"I also heard that victims develop fever and confusion. That they die within days, as if struck by illness."
He paused.
"And did Lord Arryn not show those exact symptoms?"