Pycelle slowly lifted his head. The spots on his bald scalp and his wide, startled eyes made him look exactly like a boiled egg.
Joffrey forced himself to keep a cold expression.
"Why would you think such a thing, my good prince?" Pycelle fidgeted with his cup.
"No, absolutely not. I have served as Grand Maester for forty years. I can tell illness from—"
Joffrey calmly shoved the peeled egg into his mouth, cutting him off mid-sentence.
Then he raised a finger to his lips.
Pycelle puffed his cheeks, swallowed with difficulty using a gulp of milk, and waved a hand at the serving girl.
"You may leave."
The door closed.
Joffrey hesitated inwardly. He had originally planned to be more open. Pycelle was firmly aligned with House Lannister. He was someone who could be pulled closer.
Now the room was empty except for the two of them.
What if someone was listening?
"Relax, Grand Maester," Joffrey said casually. "I know you didn't prepare it yourself. I also know who instructed you."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Remember who I am. Lord Tywin is my grandfather."
Pycelle's frail, aged demeanor vanished instantly.
He blinked twice and leaned in.
"The queen? She told you?"
Joffrey dragged a chair over and sat down across from him, shaking his head.
"No."
"Regardless of how involved my mother was, or what the two of you arranged, it no longer matters."
"What matters is this. If anyone questions you in the future, stop trying to blame Varys."
Pycelle's eyes flickered.
"The Spider? Why?" His tone carried open disdain.
Joffrey smiled faintly.
"Because I want you to blame Littlefinger."
He leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs, and reached for the milk.
He hesitated, then set it aside.
Not because he feared poison.
Drinking iced milk on an empty stomach first thing in the morning was simply unpleasant.
After a long pause, Pycelle nodded slowly.
"I understand. But who would question me?"
"I was careful. No one would suspect."
He looked oddly proud of himself before quickly regaining caution.
"If Her Majesty did not tell you, how did you come to know?" he asked carefully.
Joffrey raised a brow.
"Can I not deduce things myself?"
"As for who will ask, perhaps no one yet. But someone will."
"Our next Hand of the King."
Joffrey stood.
"Oh, and that large book Lord Arryn asked you for before his death. The one with the long, tedious title. I'd like to see it."
A short while later, Joffrey exited the Maester's Tower carrying a stack of books and several small bottles of herbs tucked into his pockets.
Pycelle was a reed that bent with the wind. It was best to remind him which direction the wind was blowing.
He was considering how to get someone to carry the books when the Hound tilted his head at him.
Their eyes met.
Without hesitation, Joffrey shoved the books into Sandor's arms.
"Dog. Have someone deliver these to my chambers."
Sandor sighed. "You keep collecting books. Do you even read them? I'm your sworn shield, not your servant."
"Mind your business." Joffrey kicked his shin lightly. "I'll raise your pay."
"Every time you mention books I get irritated. Tried teaching you to read once and you refused. Can't even read a fucking letter."
"Damn you," Sandor muttered, unable to rub his leg with his hands full. "Rather fight a White Walker than read that nonsense."
Joffrey reached into his pocket, intending to pull out the bottles, then changed his mind.
"Forget it. Don't send anyone. You're coming with me."
Better safe than sorry. He didn't want anything swapped.
He had taken these from Pycelle for a reason.
To test his new skill.
They hurried back to his chamber in Maegor's Holdfast.
"Anything else?" Sandor asked after setting the books on the oak table and retreating into the shadow by the wall.
Joffrey took out the small bottles and weighed them in his hand. He selected one filled with grayish-white powder and held it up to the light.
"Private stock," he said casually. "A little of this and a man will spend the entire day running to the privy. Too much, and his insides might come out."
The scarred side of Sandor's face twitched.
"What are you planning now?"
He stepped back.
"Studying," Joffrey said, tearing a small scrap of paper and carefully pouring a tiny amount onto it before locking the bottle away in a drawer.
"Dog, I need your help."
No response.
Joffrey turned to see Sandor already pressed against the door.
"I'm not your test subject," Sandor said firmly, arms crossed. "We're not that close."
"Dog! You've been with me six years. What kind of monster do you think I am?" Joffrey said indignantly.
"A bigger demon than your dwarf uncle," Sandor replied, baring his teeth. "Otherwise why gather this?"
"To test it."
Sandor immediately pulled the door open halfway.
Joffrey grabbed him and dragged him back. "Not on you. I need you to observe the symptoms."
"I can't linger around the scene myself."
After some explanation, Sandor reluctantly returned. Soon the two of them were debating potential victims.
"What about Boros?" Sandor suggested. "Soft as butter. Your father was blind to put him in white."
"Watch your mouth," Joffrey said. "But Janos seems better. A pure opportunist. Once I rule, he's gone anyway."
They were still deciding when a knock sounded at the door.
"Your Highness, His Majesty requests your presence in the council chamber."
Robert?
This early?
"Understood."
Joffrey shoved the folded paper into Sandor's hand. "Use it on whoever annoys you most. Report back."
"And don't mention me if you're caught."
Sandor grinned. "I'm good at that."
After changing into a more formal velvet coat, Joffrey followed the attendant to the council chamber.
Even in the morning, the room was brightly lit.
The realm's principal lords were present.
Robert slouched at the head of the table, chin resting on his hand, looking bored.
"Father." Joffrey bowed properly, presenting the posture expected of a twelve-year-old prince.
He took a place at the side.
Robert grunted and beckoned.
"Come here."
Before Joffrey could react, Robert pulled him into the chair beside him.
The Hand's seat.
"Sit," Robert said gruffly. "Your nameday approaches. I'll host a grand tourney. Let the Seven Kingdoms see what kind of heir House Baratheon has."
He drank deeply and wiped his mouth.
"Shame Jon's not here to see it."
"The Hand's seat can't stay empty. I need someone."
Robert turned and stared directly into Joffrey's eyes. "How about your grandfather?"