Pycelle slowly raised his head. His bald, liver-spotted scalp and bulging eyes made him look exactly like a hard-boiled egg.
Joffrey kept his face cold and hard anyway.
"How could you even think such a thing, my good prince?" Pycelle twisted the cup in his hands, nervous.
"No, absolutely not. I have served as Grand Maester for forty years. Whether it was illness or—"
Joffrey shoved the peeled egg into the old man's mouth, cutting him off.
Then he pressed a finger to his own lips.
Pycelle's cheeks puffed out. He forced the egg down with a gulp of milk, then waved the serving girl away.
"Go on, leave us."
Once the door clicked shut, Joffrey muttered to himself.
He'd been ready to show a little trust. Pycelle was Lannister through and through—prime material to pull onto his side.
Now they were alone. If anyone was listening…
"Relax, Grand Maester," Joffrey said, voice low. "I know you didn't mix the poison yourself. I also know exactly who told you to do it."
"Think about who I am. Lord Tywin is my grandfather."
The doddering-old-man act vanished from Pycelle's face in a blink.
He leaned forward. "Her Grace the Queen? She told you?"
Joffrey dragged the serving girl's chair over and sat right in front of him, shaking his head.
"No."
"Whatever part my mother played, whatever you two plotted—it doesn't matter anymore."
"I need you to remember one thing. If anyone else comes asking, stop trying to pin it on Varys."
Pycelle's eyes flickered.
"The Spider? Why?" Disgust dripped from the words.
Joffrey's mouth curved.
"Because I want you to blame Littlefinger instead."
While Pycelle sat there thinking, Joffrey rocked back on the chair's front legs and reached for a cup of milk.
He swirled it, then set it aside.
Not because he was scared of poison.
Drinking iced milk on an empty stomach this early? He wasn't in the mood for the shits.
After a moment Pycelle gave a slow, thoughtful nod—whether he fully understood or not, Joffrey couldn't tell.
"I see… but who else would even ask?"
"What I did left no trace."
He looked proud for half a second, then shrank back.
"Since Her Grace never spoke to you, Your Grace… how exactly did you learn of this?" Pycelle asked carefully.
Joffrey arched an eyebrow. "What, I'm not allowed to figure things out on my own?"
"As for the next person who'll come asking—there isn't one yet. But there will be."
"It'll be the new Hand we're about to get."
Joffrey stood.
"Oh, right. That huge, boring book Lord Arryn asked you for before he died—bring it here. And a couple of those herb jars while you're at it."
A few minutes later Joffrey kicked open the door of the maester's tower, arms full of books and pockets stuffed with little bottles.
The old weathervane had just been reminded which way the wind was blowing. Should help keep him leaning the right direction when the storm hit.
He was wondering who to order to carry the load back when the Hound, standing guard outside, tilted his head.
They locked eyes for a second.
Joffrey dumped everything into the big man's arms.
"Dog, get someone to haul these books to my room."
"You've got another pile? You even read any of this shit?" Sandor sighed. "I'm your bodyguard, not your damn porter."
"Mind your own business." Joffrey narrowed his eyes and kicked him in the shin. "I'll raise your pay later."
"Books make me angry. I tried teaching you letters out of the goodness of my heart and you acted like I was torturing you. Still can't read a single fucking note."
"Fuck off." Sandor tried to bend down to rub his leg but couldn't with his hands full.
"Making me look at this crap is worse than fighting White Walkers."
Joffrey reached into his pocket, ready to hand over the herb bottles too, then thought better of it and left them.
"Never mind calling anyone. You're coming with me."
Safer this way. No chance of anyone swapping the goods.
He'd taken all this from Pycelle for one reason: time to test his new skill.
They jogged back to Joffrey's bedchamber in Maegor's Holdfast.
"Anything else?" Sandor dropped the books on the oak table by the window and took his usual spot in the shadows against the wall.
Joffrey pulled out the little bottles, weighed them in his palm, then held one up to the light—the one with gray-white powder.
"Old bastard's private stash."
"Just a pinch and a man shits for a whole day. Any more and his guts might slide right out."
The scarred half of Sandor's face twitched. "What the hell are you planning now?"
He took two steps back.
"Studying," Joffrey said. He tore a strip of paper, carefully tipped out a bit, then locked the rest in his drawer.
"Dog, I need a favor in a minute."
No answer.
Joffrey looked over. Sandor was already halfway out the door.
"I'm telling you right now, I'm not your test subject. We're not that close." Arms crossed, the Hound looked ready to bolt.
"Dog! You've been with me six years and you think I'd do that to you?" Joffrey sounded wounded.
"You're a worse little demon than that dwarf uncle of yours." Sandor bared his teeth. "Why else would you want this shit?"
"To test it on someone."
The second the words left his mouth Sandor yanked the door wider and started to duck out.
Joffrey grabbed him and dragged him back.
"Not you, idiot. I need you to watch and tell me the symptoms."
"I can't exactly hang around in public doing it myself."
Once it was clear, Sandor came back in—still suspicious but now curious.
They put their heads together and started arguing over who deserved it.
"Borros? Guy's a spineless sack. Your father was blind when he gave him a white cloak."
"Watch your mouth. I say Janos is better—pure opportunist. The second I'm in charge he's gone."
They were still picking the unlucky bastard when a knock came at the door.
"Your Grace, His Majesty the King requests your presence in the council chamber."
Robert wanted him? Joffrey glanced out the window. What the hell could it be this early?
"Got it."
He shoved the poison packet into Sandor's hand. "Pick whoever pisses you off. Just come back and give me the report."
"And don't rat me out if you get caught."
The Hound gave an ugly grin. "Don't worry. I'm good at that part."
Joffrey changed into a more formal velvet doublet and followed the servant to the council chamber.
Even in the morning the big room was blazing with lamps.
Joffrey scanned the table fast. Almost every council member was already there.
Robert slouched at the head, chin on his fist, looking bored and pissed off at the same time.
"Father." Joffrey bowed, every inch the perfect twelve-year-old prince.
He stopped at the empty seat beside the table.
Robert clicked his tongue and crooked a finger. "Come here, come here."
The second Joffrey got close, Robert grabbed him and planted him in the chair right next to him.
The Hand's chair.
"You sit there," Robert growled. "Your nameday's coming up. I'm throwing you a huge tourney so the whole Seven Kingdoms can see what the Baratheon heir looks like."
He took a long pull of wine and wiped his mouth. "Too bad old Jon died too soon to enjoy it."
"But the Hand's seat can't stay empty. I need to fill it."
Robert turned and locked eyes with Joffrey.
"What do you think about your grandfather taking the job?"