That night, Joffrey slowly swirled the crystal cup in his hand.
Under the candlelight, the liquid inside glowed like honey, shimmering with a warm amber sheen.
It's nothing but a laxative. It won't kill me.
He repeated the thought to himself and drained the cup in one gulp.
The first sensation was smoothness beyond expectation. A burst of rich fruit aroma flooded his mouth instantly.
After swallowing, a floral aftertaste lingered on his tongue, sweet and clean, tempting him to take another sip.
He set the cup down and instinctively tightened his abdomen, waiting for the cramps he expected.
Thirty heartbeats.
Sixty.
He stood up and jumped in place a few times.
Nothing.
The tension in his chest melted away, replaced by a rising wave of excitement.
"Bring a bigger cup!"
He poured several more glasses in celebration.
It seemed this ability did not only apply to conventional poisons. Anything harmful to his body was neutralized.
According to the Hound, that morning he had sprinkled the small packet of powder into Ser Boros Blount's stew.
The Kingsguard had run to the privy over ten times in a single day. His face had turned so pale it nearly matched his white cloak.
In comparison, Joffrey had taken triple the dosage.
And it felt like drinking juice.
From now on, he no longer needed to fear poison in wine.
Unlike certain red priestesses who required rituals and flames to resist toxins, his ability worked passively. Constantly.
If there was one drawback, it was that he would likely never feel tipsy or drunk again.
But that was a small price.
While still energized, Joffrey opened a thick, heavy book and began copying its script onto parchment.
It was the large volume detailing the lineages and histories of noble houses across the Seven Kingdoms.
Jon Arryn had used this very book to confirm that Robert's three Baratheon children all possessed golden hair and green eyes.
But the first to grow suspicious had been Stannis.
After all, Robert's bastards were numerous, and every single one had black hair. The book had merely served as official confirmation.
And where there was authority, there was opportunity.
"Black hair… golden hair…"
Joffrey focused, carefully imitating the handwriting.
In steward's offices and grand libraries alike, wherever civilization stood, maesters from the Citadel could be found.
They were scholars, healers, teachers, and advisers. They revered knowledge and claimed political neutrality.
Pycelle had broken that last vow.
As Tywin's loyal hound, fifteen years ago his counsel had helped open King's Landing's gates to the Lannisters.
As Grand Maester, he also possessed exceptional skill in record-keeping and preservation.
Which meant he knew how to alter records.
Pycelle had a special solution capable of erasing ink, allowing fresh words to be written with specially prepared ink.
But the old man's mouth was loose. If tortured, he might talk. So Joffrey would handle it himself.
He only needed to change a few words.
As for why he had asked Pycelle about such chemicals?
He had widened his eyes innocently.
"I thought it sounded fun."
After several practice sheets, he flexed his aching wrist and burned the pages in the fireplace.
They would not depart for Winterfell for at least a month. He had time.
Altering the book would not permanently secure his legitimacy. That was why he chose revision rather than destruction.
Baratheon black hair was dominant. It overrode nearly everything.
But Westeros was still a medieval realm. There was no formal understanding of genetics. People relied on observation and rumor.
And rumor was far more dangerous than truth.
The next afternoon, Joffrey rode again toward Visenya's Hill, accompanied by the Hound and four attendants.
Beyond the Great Sept and the Alchemists' Guildhall, most of the city's smiths worked here.
"Your Highness!"
"Good day, Your Highness!"
"Care to see my newest blade, my prince?"
Smiths and hedge knights greeted him enthusiastically.
He was generally considered approachable, even likable among the common folk.
But today, Joffrey held his chin high and ignored them all. His demeanor had grown as proud as his mother's.
"That's strange. The prince didn't smile at me."
"You're imagining things. He looked at me last time. Must be in a foul mood."
"Maybe it's because…"
"Quiet. I know what you're thinking."
"They say the boy was named after the king. But if he's truly a bastard…"
The murmurs spread quickly.
The Hound leaned close. "Want me to shut them up?"
Joffrey flicked his hand dismissively.
"Just idle chatter. Let them talk."
Idle chatter was perfect.
He had arranged the rumors himself, sending whispers through Flea Bottom the night before. He had layered the sources carefully to hide his involvement.
And already by morning, it had reached this district.
Poor Lord Arryn had been upright and strong, yet his son was frail and sickly, still nursing at six years old.
His widow had fled by night without attending the funeral, forcing the king and prince to stand vigil themselves.
Disgraceful.
It demanded investigation.
That was the polite version. As rumors spread, the details grew filthier.
As for the alleged father, Joffrey had already selected one.
Littlefinger.
It was too early to release that particular detail. Lysa had only just departed and likely had not yet reached Gulltown.
After time had passed, after Eddard met Petyr, then the final spark would be added.
Riding through Steel Street, they climbed toward the top of the hill.
A grand building stood before them.
Tobho Mott's forge. The finest weaponsmith in King's Landing. And mentor to one of Robert's bastards.
Joffrey dismounted and entered through massive doors of ebony and weirwood.
Moments later, the master himself appeared, smiling broadly.
"Wine for His Highness!"
Seated on a bench, Joffrey accepted a silver cup and took a small sip.
Not as good as last night's.
"Your Highness looks every bit the warrior. Preparing for the coming tourney?" Tobho asked smoothly, already transitioning into salesmanship.
"A proper suit of armor is essential. Lord Renly recently commissioned one. I could craft one for you as well. Golden, perhaps. It would suit your bearing."
He went on about artistry, color, and even Valyrian steel.
Joffrey waited patiently until the man's enthusiasm began to taper.
Then he spoke with deliberate dissatisfaction.
"Master, with a tongue like yours, you might as well become a traveling bard."