Dawn painted King's Landing in shades of gold, though the beauty did little to mask the city's ever-present stench. Joffrey stood at the makeshift workspace near the sewers, still feeling the pleasant ache in his muscles from the previous night with Sansa. The memory of her understanding, her willingness to be what he needed, helped calm the lingering rage at Littlefinger's manipulations.
"Seven hells, how do you stand this smell so early?" Tyrion waddled up, wine cup already in hand despite the hour. Dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn't slept much.
"You get used to it," Joffrey replied, spreading out the latest diagrams. "Though I suspect your wine helps."
"Wine helps everything, dear nephew. A lesson your grandfather never appreciated." Tyrion peered at the plans. "Pass that diagram - the one with the overflow channels. I think I see where we went wrong with the Muddy Way section."
Joffrey slid it over, then leaned back against a workbench with a heavy sigh. The weight of last night's revelations pressed on him. "Stark thinks I'm plotting something."
"Aren't we all?" Tyrion chuckled, but his eyes were sharp as he studied Joffrey. "Though what more could you possibly want? You're already heir to the whole bloody realm."
"Exactly. But apparently working on shit makes me suspicious." Joffrey gestured at their surroundings - the half-built channels, the workers hauling stone, the general organized chaos of their project. "Such nefarious schemes I have, uncle. Making sure the city doesn't drown in its own filth."
"Truly diabolical." Tyrion raised his cup in mock salute. "Next you'll suggest crazy things like having enough food stored for winter. Or perhaps" - his voice dropped to a theatrical whisper - "teaching smallfolk to read."
"Don't even joke about that last one," Joffrey smirked. "Pycelle would have an apoplexy."
They both laughed as a worker stumbled nearby, nearly falling into a drainage ditch. The man caught himself just in time, face reddening as he noticed their attention.
"Watch your step there!" Tyrion called out. "The sewers aren't meant to have fresh contributions just yet!"
"Speaking of contributions," Joffrey nodded toward another worker attempting to lift too heavy a stone. "Think that one's trying to contribute his back to our cause."
"Ah yes, the old 'lift with your spine, not your legs' technique. A classic." Tyrion took another sip. "Though I suppose we should-"
"Your Grace!" A page came running up, nearly tripping over his own feet. Sweat beaded his forehead despite the morning chill. "Small Council meeting's about to begin!"
"Again?" Joffrey started to wave him off, then paused. Something in the boy's manner suggested this wasn't the usual bureaucratic nonsense. "Wait - who's attending?"
"The King himself, Your Grace!"
Joffrey and Tyrion exchanged significant looks. Robert hadn't attended a single meeting since Stark's first day as Hand. Whatever this was about, it had to be important.
"Well," Tyrion mused, studying the dregs of his wine, "this should be interesting. Try not to let Littlefinger needle you too much."
Joffrey's jaw tightened at the name. "Don't worry, uncle. I have plans for our dear Master of Coin."
"Do I want to know?"
"Probably not." Joffrey straightened his clothes, brushing off some dirt. "Keep an eye on things here?"
"Of course. Though do try to hurry back - watching idiots nearly fall into sewage is the highlight of my day."
The Small Council chamber fell silent as Joffrey entered. He caught several surprised looks - clearly they'd expected him to skip again in favor of his projects. Pycelle actually dropped his quill, while Varys raised an eyebrow with what seemed genuine interest.
Taking his seat, Joffrey noticed his father already there, looking irritated at being indoors instead of hunting. Stark sat rigidly, barely acknowledging Joffrey's entrance. Their conversation in the Godswood still hung heavy between them.
Renly, dressed in some ridiculous green silk confection, didn't waste time: "Ah, nephew! Taking a break from playing in the gutters? How... dedicated of you to join us common politicians."
"Someone has to ensure the city functions, uncle. Though I understand if such matters are beneath your notice." Joffrey's tone was pleasant but carried an edge. "Not everyone can spend their days choosing new doublets."
Several council members poorly concealed their amusement. Renly's smile tightened.
Littlefinger's voice cut in smooth as silk: "Such dedication to the common folk. One might almost question such... unusual interests in a Crown Prince. Though I'm sure your motives are pure as the driven snow."
The mockingbird's eyes glittered with hidden meaning. Testing, always testing. Trying to provoke a reaction that would support whatever poison he'd been whispering to Stark.
Before Joffrey could respond, Robert slammed his hand down hard enough to make the table jump. "Enough! Why am I here instead of hunting? There's a magnificent stag been spotted in the Kingswood."
Varys cleared his throat delicately. "Your Grace, we've received word from across the Narrow Sea. The Targaryen girl has married Khal Drogo."
The meeting proceeded exactly as expected - his father raging about dragonspawn, Stark arguing for caution, others debating the threat. Joffrey remained silent, observing the players around him with new eyes.
Pycelle, trembling and stuttering, yet his eyes missed nothing. Varys, still as a statue except for his constantly moving fingers. Littlefinger, watching everyone while pretending to examine his ledger. Each playing their part in this mummer's farce.
"You're unusually quiet on this matter, my prince," Varys finally noted. "No thoughts on the Targaryen threat?"
Joffrey shrugged, the picture of youthful unconcern. "The Dothraki fear the sea. They won't cross it for a crown they've never seen, for a land they don't know. Why waste energy on empty threats?"
"The girl must die!" Robert's fist crashed down again. "Before she breeds more dragonspawn!"
"Your Grace," Stark started, "murdering children-"
"Is it murder to kill a viper before it strikes?" Littlefinger's voice was reasonable, measured. "Better to act now, while the threat is small."
As the others nodded agreement, Joffrey caught Littlefinger studying him. The mockingbird thought he was so clever, playing his games of influence and manipulation. Soon he'd learn - some games had higher stakes than others.
And some players didn't care about winning. Only about watching it all burn.
"Send assassins," Robert declared finally. "I want it done."
"Before we conclude," Joffrey's voice cut through the shuffling of chairs, "Lord Baelish, I'll need the Treasury ledgers."
The chamber went still. Even Robert, halfway to the door, paused and turned back.
Littlefinger's smile never wavered, though something flickered in his eyes. "Might I ask why, my prince?"
"Simple accounting," Joffrey replied casually, leaning back in his chair. "Need to ensure my sewer project stays within reasonable bounds. Wouldn't want to burden the crown's finances."
"I can provide an empty ledger for your project's expenses," Baelish offered smoothly. "We shouldn't mix crown business with... municipal improvements."
"Of course, of course." Joffrey's smile matched Littlefinger's in false warmth. "But I'll still need to see the crown's ledgers. To ensure my expenses don't rival the realm's. After all, with such..." he paused deliberately, "...substantial debts already accumulated under current management, I wouldn't want to add to the burden."
The barb hung in the air. Several council members shifted uncomfortably.
Baelish spread his hands in a gesture of practiced humility. "Your Grace, I merely facilitate. The crown spends, and I deliver. My role is simply to find the coin when it's needed."
"Exactly my point, Lord Baelish." Joffrey's voice carried just a hint of predatory satisfaction. "You needn't concern yourself with how money is spent - that's hardly fitting for the Master of Coin. Focus on bringing it in. Leave the tedious business of spending to others."
It was a masterful trap. If Baelish refused, he'd appear obstructionist. If he provided real ledgers, they'd reveal his manipulations. If he provided false ones...
"Of course, my prince." Baelish signaled a servant who hurried forward with a leather-bound book. "Though please take excellent care of it. These records are irreplaceable."
"I'll guard it as carefully as you guard the realm's gold." Joffrey took the ledger, knowing it was likely as false as Littlefinger's smile.
But that was exactly what he'd wanted - proof of deception, when the time came.
As the council members filed out, Joffrey caught Varys watching him with newfound interest. Let them all wonder. Let them think him just another player in their game.
They'd learn soon enough - some fires couldn't be controlled once they started burning.
And King's Landing was about to become very, very hot.