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Joffrey gently pushed open the door to Cersei's chambers.
The queen lounged lazily on a Dornish-style daybed while a handmaid brushed out her flowing golden hair.
"Mother." Joffrey gave a quick bow. "There's something I'd like your permission for."
Cersei raised a hand. The handmaid curtsied and retreated to the wall.
"Speak."
"During the tourney, I want to handle the food and drink stalls inside the stands," Joffrey said directly.
Cersei's eyebrow twitched. "Little Joff, what scheme are you cooking up now?"
"If you need money, just tell me. The Lannisters have mountains of gold and silver—more than we could ever spend."
Joffrey met her gaze. "It's not about money."
He pulled a roll of parchment from his tunic and spread it on the low table in front of her. The sheet held neat diagrams and three different food packages, complete with estimated costs.
"Three tiers total," Joffrey said, tapping the page.
"Commoner tier: meat pies made with flour and cheap filling, plus a large cup of ale. Priced cheap—only a few coppers for a solid meal."
"Knight tier adds fresh vegetables and spices, aimed at merchants and freeriders with a bit of coin to spare."
"As for the royal tier…"
"We don't sell it. We give it away."
Cersei scratched her pale neck and waited for the rest, eyes half-lidded.
"After each day's events, Father will definitely throw a feast," Joffrey explained. "So I want to set up a space specifically for the knights who performed well."
Cersei's fingertip traced the parchment. "And your goal with all this…?"
Her tone wasn't really a question. She was waiting for him to say what she already suspected.
Joffrey smiled confidently.
"Father's running the tourney so people will remember his generosity. Littlefinger's jumping in so he can line his own pockets."
He leaned forward slightly. "Why shouldn't I take a cut for myself?"
"When the smallfolk of King's Landing talk about this tourney years from now, they'll remember more than just the king's open hand."
"They'll also remember a prince who thoughtfully fed them."
Cersei leaned back against the daybed and stayed silent for a long moment.
"Straight to the point," she said at last. "How many people do you need?"
"Not many. A dozen kitchen apprentices should do." Joffrey paused briefly. "And permission to borrow a small courtyard for prep work."
"I may also need you to speak with the head cook so I can pull some spices from the stores at cost."
Cersei waved her hand, dismissing him.
"Fine, go play your little game. If you run short on coin, ask the steward."
Her voice drifted after him, cool and detached. "But remember—the lion does not concern itself with the opinion of sheep."
Joffrey smiled as he stepped out.
"Don't worry, Mother. I'll be careful."
The next day Joffrey—already well ahead—had his operation running.
He'd claimed an unused small courtyard inside the Red Keep under the pretext of preparing supplies for the tourney and turned it into his workshop.
The old grain sacks and broken wine barrels had been cleared out. Two master cooks directed a dozen kitchen apprentices who bustled about the space.
At least on the surface, it looked exactly like a temporary kitchen set up for the event.
When Joffrey walked in with Sansa, a round-faced apprentice was frantically scraping a burnt meat pie out of the oven.
"Your Grace!" The boy nearly dropped his spatula in panic.
Joffrey patted his shoulder to calm him, then picked up a slice of lemon cake and handed it to Sansa.
"Try this. Tell me if anything needs fixing."
Sansa wore a simple linen dress today, her auburn hair braided over one shoulder.
She looked a little awkward amid the mess but accepted the cake carefully.
After two bites her bright blue eyes narrowed slightly.
"Too sweet," she said, dabbing her lips with a handkerchief. "The fruit's freshness is completely buried under the syrup. It tastes like honey mixed with flour."
Joffrey glanced at the freckled pastry chef. "Write that down. Cut back on the syrup."
"We can grate some lemon zest on top for brightness."
The assistant scribbled on a wooden board, muttering, "But we always make it this sweet… Her Grace the queen likes it that way…"
They moved into the next room where a large pot was frying golden fish pieces.
Joffrey took a cooled piece, sprinkled it with pepper, broke it in half, and gave Sansa the larger share.
"Fish from Blackwater Bay—few bones, thick flesh. Different texture from river trout."
"The crust isn't crispy enough, though."
They also sampled almond-and-walnut pressed cakes and fruit tarts stuffed with chopped nuts and cheese.
Most of the items were portable and still tasted fine even after cooling.
Talking was one thing—actually selling them would be another.
After making the rounds Joffrey felt pleasantly full and led Sansa out to the back courtyard for the next inspection.
The hissing and crackling sounds there had nothing to do with edible food.
Several carpenters were cutting small round wooden discs, shavings piled high around their feet.
On the other side a charcoal fire burned while apprentices used iron tongs to press red-hot branding irons onto the wooden pieces.
Their technique was still clumsy—too much pressure and the thin discs burned straight through, leaving ugly black holes.
Sansa leaned in curiously, studying the successful prints.
"Is this Lord Renly?" she asked, pointing at a simple drawing of a man holding a stag-antlered helm.
Joffrey nodded.
She kept looking.
There was the massive Mountain, the Red Priest with his flaming sword, and the Hound with his snarling dog helm.
All were rough brown sketches, but each knight had distinct, easily recognizable features.
Meeting Sansa's puzzled gaze, Joffrey explained.
"Buy one serving of food, get a thin pie with a wooden token inside."
"Collect five different ones and you can exchange them for five silver stags."
Sansa's eyes widened. "Won't everyone go crazy trying to buy more?"
Joffrey walked over to the pile of finished discs and grabbed a handful.
Out of ten, six were completely blank.
"Most are just 'Thank you for your patronage.' Only a few are actual knight cards."
The idea came from a half-remembered fragment about collecting cards in instant noodles. Joffrey had decided to test the gimmick here in Westeros out of pure mischief—to see whether the same marketing trick worked in a world without easy printing.
Since Westeros had no printing press yet—and he wasn't planning to introduce one right now—they were making do with existing methods.
With the low print run and plenty of blanks, a few thousand pieces would easily cover all the food sold during the tourney.
Besides, he wasn't counting on making real money from it. It was mostly just a way to give the smallfolk something fun to talk about.
All of this very public preparation was simply cover for his true purpose.
By evening Joffrey waited in a small reception room for the man he'd summoned.
A fat man in a gold cloak was shown in, his froglike face clearly nervous.
"Lord Janos Slynt," Joffrey turned to face him.
"Let's discuss how we're going to work together on this 'prize guessing' event."