The atmosphere inside the council chamber was as freezing as a winter night beyond the Wall.
Pycelle was slumped on the floor, hot tears streaming down his ancient face.
His trembling hand reached out to pick up a snapped silver link—the ultimate proof of his mastery over the healing arts.
Now, that silver link was just as broken as his dignity.
Joffrey stood towering over him, his chest heaving violently, his face flushed with the sick, intoxicating rush of revenge.
He finally felt like he was the undisputed master of the room.
Just then, a frantic, furious voice shattered the twisted scene.
"Joffrey! Stop this!"
Cersei Lannister stormed into the chamber.
She had heard the commotion from the halls and couldn't sit still a second longer.
Her ridiculously expensive gown dragged across the scattered metal links on the floor, letting out a harsh, scraping sound.
"What the hell are you doing? Do you have any idea what you're doing?!"
Cersei rushed up to Joffrey and grabbed his arm, her emerald eyes wide with sheer disbelief.
"He is a Grand Maester! You just ripped his chain off—you're basically declaring war on the entire Citadel!"
"Declaring war?"
Joffrey violently yanked his arm out of her grip and let out a vicious scoff.
"I am the King! I'll declare war on whoever the hell I want!"
"He's nothing but an old dog I keep on a leash, and now he's got the nerve to bite his master!"
"Joffrey!"
Cersei's voice spiked.
She shot a quick glance at Pycelle, who was currently lying there like a beaten mutt, then dropped her voice down to a harsh whisper only the two of them could hear.
"Don't forget who owns him!"
"Do you have any idea how many Gold Dragons your grandfather dumps on him every year just to keep him loyal?!"
"He is House Lannister's most important set of eyes inside King's Landing!"
"If you cripple him, who the hell is going to keep an eye on that spider Varys for us?!"
Cersei's tone was bleeding with desperate panic.
Pycelle was the deepest nail Tywin had driven into the Red Keep.
He knew way too many dirty secrets and funneled a massive amount of intel back to Casterly Rock.
And now, Joffrey was going to rip that nail out with his own two hands just to impress Lynn?
It was absolute, monumental stupidity!
The smug high completely evaporated from Joffrey's face.
Tywin again!
The Lannisters again!
He felt like he had just managed to claw his way out from under the old bastard's shadow.
And now his own mother was trying to shove him right back into it?
"So, as the King, I don't even have the authority to put down a disloyal subject?"
Joffrey's voice dropped into a dark, lethal register.
"Just because he took Lannister gold, that gives him the right to mouth off to me in public? To question my direct orders?"
"Cersei, whose mother are you, exactly?"
"I am your mother, damn it!"
Cersei stared at her son's twisted, psychotic face, a deep chill creeping into her chest.
"I'm just trying to tell you that some pieces on the board are still useful!"
"That's enough."
A dead-calm voice cut in from the side, cleanly slicing through the mother-son whispering match.
Lynn stood up from the Hand's chair and slowly closed the distance between them.
He shot a quick look at the frantic Cersei, then dropped his gaze down to the shivering Pycelle on the floor.
"The Queen Mother makes a fair point. Perhaps we shouldn't be so hard on the elderly."
Cersei blinked, totally caught off guard that Lynn was actually backing her up.
Joffrey, on the other hand, immediately frowned in irritation.
"Grand Maester Pycelle has served the Crown for decades. Even if he hasn't moved mountains, he's put in the hours."
Lynn's voice carried a smooth, highly convincing sincerity.
"Besides, nobody's perfect. We all make mistakes."
"The Maesters' vows are famously strict. They swear off women completely."
"But at the end of the day, a man has urges."
"I heard some of the working girls down at Lord Petyr's brothel have nothing but glowing reviews about the Grand Maester's... generosity."
The second the words left Lynn's mouth, a bizarre, knowing smirk crept across Varys's face.
Pycelle's entire body violently stiffened, every drop of blood draining from his face.
"You... you're making that up!"
"Oh?"
Lynn casually raised an eyebrow.
"Guess my intel was bad, then."
"Let's just pretend the Grand Maester never set foot in there."
"And surely, the Grand Maester's loyalty to the Crown is completely bulletproof, right?"
Lynn smoothly pivoted, locking eyes with Joffrey, a nostalgic look washing over his face.
"I still remember how much of a tank King Robert was."
"Your father could down an entire barrel of Dornish liquor and still knock a knight off his horse in the lists."
"It honestly blows my mind. How does a legendary warrior King like that end up getting fatally gored by a random boar just because he had a few drinks?"
Joffrey's breathing hitched.
His father.
Robert Baratheon.
It was the one emotional soft spot the kid actually had.
He worshipped him. He feared him. He spent his whole life trying to copy him.
"I heard that right before the hunt started, the wine King Robert was drinking was personally prepared by none other than Grand Maester Pycelle."
Lynn's gaze drifted back down to the old man on the floor.
"Word is, it was a highly potent vintage. Specifically brewed to keep the King 'energized' for the hunt."
Pycelle's lips started violently quivering. Cold sweat began pouring down his forehead.
"That... His Grace explicitly asked for it..."
"Did he?"
Lynn smiled and didn't push the issue.
He knew exactly what had happened. Pycelle wasn't the only one who had spiked the drink that day—Jaqen had taken a shot at it too.
But Pycelle didn't know about Jaqen. He only knew about his own dirty hands.
"Of course, what really impressed me was your absolute medical brilliance after the King was brought back gutted."
"Ser Barristan told me you didn't even bother cleaning the wound. You just left the boar shit and filth caked right in there, and immediately took a red-hot iron to it."
Lynn kept his voice low, but it cut through the dead silence of the room with absolute clarity.
"That's certainly a... bold medical strategy."
"And then, to 'ease the King's suffering,' you pumped him completely full of milk of the poppy."
"King Robert slipped away real 'peacefully' after that. Barely even put up a fight."
Lynn looked back at Joffrey, his expression loaded with lethal implication.
"The Grand Maester made sure the King kept his dignity at the very end, and perfectly preserved his own reputation of 'doing everything he could.'"
"Honestly, looking at the entire treatment plan... it felt less like medicine and more like a flawless execution."
An execution!
The word hit Joffrey's brain like a pair of sledgehammers.
He just stood there, completely paralyzed, his mouth hanging slightly open.
Every single detail Lynn had just painted started rapidly snapping together in his head.
His father...
A man built like a literal war god...
Drank Pycelle's special wine before the hunt...
Got gutted by a boar...
Had his wound seared shut with filth still inside it...
Got pumped full of narcotics...
And then died "peacefully"...
And this same Pycelle was officially on Tywin Lannister's payroll!
A horrifying realization exploded in his mind, instantly mutating into a rabid beast that completely swallowed what little sanity he had left.
It was them!
They worked together to murder my father!
"AAAGH—!"
Joffrey let out an ungodly, inhuman shriek. His pale blue eyes instantly ruptured with bloodshot rage.
He spun around and lunged at the shivering old man on the floor like a rabid lion.
"It was you! You killed my father!"
He drove his boot violently into Pycelle's stomach.
"Urk—"
Pycelle let out a muffled, agonizing groan, his body curling tightly into a fetal position.
"Joffrey! You're out of your mind!"
Cersei screamed, lunging forward to pull him off, but Joffrey violently shoved her back, sending her crashing to the floor.
"Get the fuck off me!"
He didn't even spare her a glance. His tunnel vision was locked entirely on Pycelle.
He threw himself onto the old man, mounting his chest, and started raining down brutal, alternating backhands across the Grand Maester's wrinkled face.
Smack! Smack! SMACK!
The sickening sound of flesh hitting flesh echoed off the stone walls of the council chamber.
"Admit it! Was it you?!"
"Did that old dog Tywin put you up to it?!"
"Why did you kill him?!"
"Speak, damn you!"
Within seconds, Pycelle's face was beaten into a swollen, bloody pulp. Bloody teeth flew from his mouth.
He desperately tried to beg, to defend himself, but all that came out was a pathetic, garbled whimpering.
"Your Grace... stop! You're going to beat him to death!"
Ser Barristan Selmy surged forward, trying to physically pull the King off.
"Anyone takes one more step toward me, and I'll have their fucking head!"
Joffrey whipped his head around, glaring at the legendary knight with the rabid, bloodshot eyes of a total psycho.
Barristan froze in his tracks.
The King in front of him had completely lost his grip on reality.
Varys kept his hands tucked neatly in his sleeves, though a slight, excited tremor ran through his fingers.
The rest of the lords were dead pale, looking like they wanted to sink right through the floorboards to escape the room.
"You think I'm stupid?!"
"The whole damn kingdom knew my father's tolerance! A couple of drinks wouldn't have even given him a buzz!"
Joffrey grabbed Pycelle by his blood-soaked collar and hauled him up, spitting right in his ruined face.
"And the wound! You just wanted to guarantee he died in agony!"
"You miserable old bastard!"
"He trusted you with his life! And you stabbed him in the back!"
The more Joffrey yelled, the further he spiraled.
He dropped the collar, shot to his feet, and started driving his heavy gold-plated boots directly down onto Pycelle's chest and face. Over and over again.
Pycelle was ancient. His bones were practically dust.
CRACK...
The sickening crunch of his ribs caving in echoed with horrifying clarity.
"Tell me!"
Joffrey grabbed fistfuls of his own blonde hair in agony, screaming hysterically, his voice cracking into a shrill, piercing shriek.
"Who was it?! Who ordered the hit on the King?!"