Watching Littlefinger scramble away like his ass was on fire, Joffrey savored the pure hatred and terror in the man's eyes.
He smacked his lips, satisfied, and tossed the sword back to the Hound.
"You people and your endless fucking schemes," the Hound spat on the ground. "Me? I see a cunt I don't like, I just kill him and be done with it."
Joffrey looked up. "And after he's gone, you gonna magically fill his office and conjure up gold dragons?"
Sandor shut his mouth.
"Exactly. Everyone's got their use." Joffrey turned on his heel and waved them off.
Back inside the sept, the heavy scent of death and incense rolled over him again.
The Silent Sisters stood along the walls, eyes behind their veils watching him with open hope.
Robert wasn't leaving, so nobody could go home.
And only Joffrey had the balls to make the call.
Under every stare in the hall he walked back to the center.
"Father," he said quietly, "it's late. We should head back."
Robert grunted twice, blinked blearily, then knocked over the wine jug on the coffin lid when he stretched.
"Seven hells," the king groaned, struggling to his feet. "Little Joff, give your old man a hand. My legs are fucking dead."
Joffrey almost rolled his eyes but still stepped in, braced himself, and hauled up the two-hundred-and-eighty-pound mountain of a man.
Robert swayed upright, then clapped Joffrey hard on the back and laughed loud enough to wake the dead.
"Good lad—strength's finally coming in. You've got your father's blood after all."
Because of his early smarts and careful acting, Joffrey had passed every test as heir to the Iron Throne.
Robert ate it up. Their relationship wasn't completely frozen.
So the king loved bragging about him to anyone who'd listen.
"Look at the Baratheon seed right here."
Gods, that sounded terrifying.
If Robert ever learned the truth, he'd probably swing the hammer and mount Joffrey's head on a spike right there.
The thought made Joffrey shiver. All the good mood from earlier vanished.
By the time the party left the sept, golden King's Landing had drowned in black ink.
Joffrey rode with the column up Aegon's High Hill, torchlight shredding his silent shadow.
The suffocating weight of the funeral still clung to him.
Back at the Red Keep the stars were out, the pale red walls glowing like old bone.
Only when he stepped into his big, empty bedchamber in Maegor's Holdfast did his shoulders finally unclench.
The room felt hollow. Lion-and-stag tapestries hung on every wall, looking cold and dead in the low light.
Joffrey went straight to the corner by the window, pulled out the incense he'd lifted from the sept, and set it up.
This was his first draw. He wasn't doing it in a place that reeked of death.
He focused. The system answered.
"Spin it."
A bright, colorful wheel exploded in front of him and whirled.
It stopped. Glowing text appeared.
[Bottoms Up]
[I Won't Hold Back: Alcohol tolerance massively increased. Extreme resistance to any poison dissolved in wine.]
Joffrey stared at the description. His mouth twitched.
That's it?
After everything, he just felt… flat.
Probably the first pull was rigged. He had just helped murder the Hand in secret.
Still, he'd risked everything to fill the meter, hoping for something that would actually save his ass right now.
Instead he got a party trick.
The excitement popped like a balloon. Joffrey waved the screen away and dropped onto the bed.
He stared up at the lion-and-stag canopy and felt nothing.
Is the sky really out to fucking end me?
Memories of the future surged again—dragons across the Narrow Sea, winter beyond the Wall. Those coming floods wouldn't spare anyone weak.
So he had to endure.
Endure.
After a long silence the wild hunger inside him roared back to life like wildfire.
He'd been given a second life. Why the hell settle for just surviving?
Joffrey shot upright, shoved the window open. Salty sea wind whipped his golden hair.
He could keep playing it safe—hide the truth, suck up to Robert, please Tywin, squeeze between the two houses and pray.
Or…
He clenched his fists.
Besides the role-playing system, he had foreknowledge.
And this new skill might look lame, but it was actually damn useful.
In Westeros, plenty of great men won every battle only to die at a feast with a cup in their hand.
Fuck the game of thrones.
He was going to play magic and war.
[Current Role: The Hot-Headed, Iron-Willed General]
[Heaven's Will Points: (0/99)]
Staring down at the sleeping city under the moon, Joffrey made up his mind.
Everything started here.
Screw the cautious steps. Time to use the high-risk, high-reward pieces.
First stop tomorrow: the Grand Maester who'd just "treated" a man to death.
…
Next morning Joffrey knocked once on the door of the maester's tower and walked straight in.
Grand Maester Pycelle was sipping honeyed milk and reading. "Your Grace! So early—is something wrong with your health?" He looked startled.
"I came for some answers, Grand Maester." Joffrey scanned the room, saw no chair, and simply planted himself on the edge of Pycelle's desk. One leg swung lazily while he eyed the shelves of jars and bottles.
"Tell me about the Tears of Lys."
Pycelle's hand jerked.
"Your Grace… why the sudden interest?"
"A singer's lullaby," Joffrey lied easily. "They say it's colorless, odorless—made for murder, right?"
"Yes, Your Grace." Pycelle's thick lamb-wool beard trembled with every word. "The Citadel forbids us from discussing it outside these walls."
"Perhaps some refreshments? Or a cup of iced milk? You came so early—you haven't eaten, have you?"
Joffrey nodded. "Light on the sugar, light on the ice."
Pycelle rang a silver bell. "Be a good lad and bring some food."
A young serving girl entered moments later—she couldn't have been much older than Joffrey. She set the tray in front of him, glanced up, blushed hard, and looked down again, stammering.
Old bastard knows how to pick them, Joffrey thought.
He hopped off the desk to make room.
"You're not allowed to talk about it," Joffrey cracked a boiled egg on the table, "but somehow everyone else knows the details."
"Sweet as water, dissolves instantly in wine, leaves no trace…"
Pycelle took two noisy sips of his iced milk.
"Your Grace, you can't believe every song those minstrels sing—dragons and princesses, poison and princes, all that nonsense."
"They love those lurid tales."
Joffrey smiled, leaned in close to the old man's ear, and whispered.
"Then why do I also hear that anyone who drinks it just looks like they've got a fever? Burning up, mind gone, dead in a day or two."
"Exactly like Lord Arryn's symptoms, wasn't it?"