Chapter 4: The Wolf's Den and the Lion's Gaze
The morning broke cold and grey, the sun a pale disc struggling to burn through a high, thin skein of cloud. A nervous energy thrummed through the royal encampment. Today, they would meet the Warden of the North and enter Winterfell. For NJ, it was less nervousness and more a cold, focused anticipation, the kind a chess master feels before a critical match.
He'd spent the pre-dawn hours consolidating the Baratheon essences absorbed from the old campaign chest. The stubborn pride of the Stormlords, their fierce loyalty to charismatic leadership, their history of weathering sieges and defying impossible odds – it was a potent brew, surprisingly different from the refined, almost decadent arrogance of the Targaryen echoes or the pragmatic ruthlessness of his Lannister heritage via his mother. This Baratheon spirit was rawer, more primal, like the stag that was its sigil. It resonated with the ancient, untamed parts of the land itself. It was another weapon in his growing arsenal of understanding, another perspective he could tap into when formulating his strategies.
His Joffrey persona was meticulously prepared: bored, entitled, with a faint air of being perpetually put-upon. It was a mask that would, he hoped, make those around him lower their guard, dismiss him as a mere nuisance while his true mind worked, observed, and plotted.
The outriders returned with news: Lord Stark's party was approaching. The royal column halted, reforming itself into a more dignified procession. King Robert, already fortified with morning wine, was visibly eager, his booming laughter echoing across the frost-kissed fields. Cersei, by contrast, looked as if she'd swallowed a lemon, her beautiful face a mask of thinly veiled disdain for the rustic reception that awaited them.
NJ, positioned on a fine palfrey near his mother, affected an air of supreme indifference, though his senses were heightened, absorbing every detail. He could feel the faint thrum of history from the very ground beneath them, the countless hooves and feet that had trod this path over millennia.
Then they appeared, cresting a low rise: a party of riders, less flamboyant than the southern knights, but sturdy, their bearing serious. At their head rode a man NJ recognized instantly from countless rewatches: Eddard Stark. Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North. His face was long, somber, his grey eyes steady and observant. He looked every inch the honorable, stoic Northerner, a man ill-suited for the vipers' nest of King's Landing. Beside him, a woman with auburn hair and sharp, Tully-blue eyes – Catelyn Stark, née Tully, a woman whose fierce love for her children would drive many of the tragedies to come.
Robert roared a greeting, spurring his massive warhorse forward, heedless of protocol. "Ned! Gods, man, it's good to see you!"
The two friends embraced, a stark contrast of Robert's boisterous enthusiasm and Ned's reserved warmth. NJ watched, his gaze sweeping over the rest of the Stark party. Robb Stark, tall and broad-shouldered for his age, the Stark look strong in him, sat his horse with a solemn dignity. Theon Greyjoy, the Kraken ward, was beside him, a cocky smirk on his face that didn't quite hide the watchful anxiety in his eyes. And there, slightly behind Robb, was Jon Snow, darker of hair and eye, his expression more guarded, more melancholic. The bastard son, the secret prince. NJ's knowledge of Jon's true parentage – Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark – made him an extraordinarily valuable piece on the board, though one whose value was currently hidden from all but a select few (and now, NJ himself).
During the flurry of formal greetings and dismounts, as servants scurried and horses stamped impatiently, NJ saw his opportunity. A Stark banner, bearing the grey direwolf on an ice-white field, was being held aloft by a standard-bearer near where the horses were being taken. Feigning a need to adjust his saddle girth, he maneuvered his pony closer. His gloved fingers brushed, ever so lightly, against the coarse, wind-whipped fabric of the banner.
The essence that flowed into him was cold, sharp, and ancient. It was the bite of winter wind, the silence of snow-laden forests, the resilience of stone against millennia of storms. It was the howl of the wolf, the wisdom of the old gods, a deep, unshakeable connection to the land itself. It was starker (no pun intended, his analytical mind dryly noted) and less personal than the essences of individual kings or craftsmen he'd absorbed before. This felt like the spirit of the North itself – harsh, unforgiving, but possessed of a profound, enduring strength. It settled within him, a counterpoint to the fire of the Targaryens and the pride of the Stormlords.
The procession reformed, Stark and Baratheon, wolf and stag, riding together towards the ancient gates of Winterfell. The castle loomed larger as they approached, a sprawling complex of grey granite, weathered and formidable. It didn't possess the elegant grandeur of southern castles, NJ mused, but it had an aura of immense age and unyielding strength that was impressive in its own right. He could almost feel the layers of history clinging to its stones, the echoes of countless Stark generations who had lived, ruled, and died within its walls. This place was a repository, a treasure trove for his power.
As they passed through the main gatehouse, under the grim portcullis, the courtyard within bustled with activity. Servants, guards, townsfolk – all had turned out to see the royal arrival. Their faces were curious, respectful, but lacking the fawning deference he was accustomed to in King's Landing. These were a hardier people, less easily impressed.
The royal family was shown to their guest quarters in the main keep. The rooms were spacious, functional, warmed by roaring fires, but undeniably less luxurious than their southern counterparts. Heavy tapestries depicting hunting scenes and Stark ancestors adorned the stone walls. NJ's eyes lingered on those tapestries. Later.
Cersei was already complaining under her breath about the drafts and the primitive accommodations. Myrcella and Tommen, however, seemed wide-eyed with a mixture of awe and intimidation. Tommen clutched a small wooden knight, his knuckles white.
"It's… big, Joff," Tommen whispered, looking around their shared antechamber.
"It's cold and grey, like everything else in this dreary land," NJ replied, his tone perfectly mimicking Joffrey's disdain. He ran a hand along the cold stone of a window embrasure, feigning impatience.
The stone was ancient, worn smooth by time and touch. The moment his skin connected, a flood of impressions washed over him, deeper and more varied than the banner. He felt the chill of countless winters seeping from the rock, the echoes of Stark voices from centuries past, stern lords and strong ladies, their joys, their sorrows, their unwavering commitment to duty. He sensed the immense weight of their history, the burden of their motto: Winter is Coming. It wasn't just a warning; it was a promise, a preparation, a state of being. There were even fainter, older whispers, something pre-Andal, the raw magic of the First Men who had first laid these stones, a deep, primal connection to the earth and the old gods of the weirwood trees.
This was potent. He quickly withdrew, needing time to process this new, powerful influx. The very foundations of Winterfell were saturated with history, with a kind of elemental magic he hadn't encountered before. It made the Targaryen "attunement" feel almost superficial by comparison. This Northern magic was rooted, ancient, of the earth itself.
He instructed a servant to unpack his things with a dismissive wave, then wandered through their allotted chambers, subtly touching. A heavy oak wardrobe yielded the scent of cedar and the quiet pride of the Winterfell carpenter who had crafted it generations ago, his satisfaction in working with hardy Northern wood. A discarded whetstone in a corner, likely left by a previous guest, sang of countless blades sharpened, of soldiers preparing for patrol or battle, the metallic tang of anticipation and fear.
His siblings were a minor distraction. Myrcella, ever dutiful, was trying to make the best of things, while Tommen seemed close to tears from the unfamiliar surroundings and the long journey. NJ offered them no comfort, his mind already cataloging the layout of their wing, noting potential points of access, and planning his nocturnal explorations. Winterfell was a library, and he intended to read every volume.
Later, cleaned and dressed in fresh finery (Lannister crimson and gold, a deliberate affront to the muted tones of the North), he was escorted with his family to the Great Hall for the welcome feast.
The hall was vast, smoky from the numerous torches and the great fire pits, echoing with the boisterous sounds of hundreds of men. Rough-hewn tables were laden with enormous platters of roasted meat, loaves of dark bread, and root vegetables. Minstrels played lively, somewhat rustic tunes in a gallery above. It was a scene of organized chaos, a far cry from the more structured and elegant banquets of the Red Keep.
Robert was in his element, already deep in his cups, his arm slung around Ned Stark, reminiscing loudly about their youthful exploits. Cersei sat at the high table like an ice queen, her smile fixed, her eyes cold. Jaime was beside her, exuding his usual effortless charm, though NJ noted his gaze often flickered towards his sister with an intensity that was far from brotherly. Tyrion, seated further down among the lesser nobles, was engaged in what appeared to be a drinking contest with a burly Northern lord, his wit clearly already winning him admirers and detractors in equal measure.
NJ was seated between his mother and Sansa Stark. Sansa, her auburn hair carefully braided, her blue eyes shining with an almost painful naivety, looked at him with open adoration. The Prince. The golden-haired hero from the songs. NJ felt a familiar wave of revulsion towards such blatant, unearned worship, but he masked it with a practiced, condescending smile.
"Your castle is… quaint, Lady Sansa," he said, his voice carrying just enough Joffrey-esque hauteur.
Sansa blushed prettily. "Thank you, Your Grace. We are most honored by your visit. Is it to your liking?"
"The journey was rather tedious," NJ replied, picking at a piece of tough-looking boar on his plate. "And the air here is… bracing." He made 'bracing' sound like an insult.
Sansa's smile faltered for a moment before she recovered. "The North has its own beauty, Your Grace. Perhaps tomorrow, if it pleases you, I could show you the grounds? The godswood is very ancient and peaceful."
The godswood. NJ's interest sharpened. The heart tree. He knew from his GoT lore that these were places of immense power, connected to the old gods and the greenseers. An opportunity for a significant absorption, perhaps.
"Perhaps," he said noncommittally. He then turned his attention to observing the other Stark children. Arya, seated further down with the younger ones, was fidgeting, her expression one of profound boredom mixed with a rebellious spark as she surreptitiously fed scraps to a dog beneath the table – not a direwolf, those were kenneled for now, he presumed. Bran, bright-eyed and curious, was listening intently to the stories being told by the men around him. Rickon, the youngest, was mostly concerned with trying to sneak an extra honeycake.
The feast wore on. Robert proposed toast after toast, his voice growing louder and more slurred. He spoke of appointing Ned as Hand of the King, a pronouncement met with cheers from the Southerners and a more reserved, thoughtful silence from many of the Northerners. NJ watched Ned Stark's face. The man looked burdened, not elated. Good. An unwilling Hand was an easier Hand to manipulate or undermine.
NJ played his part, occasionally making a snide remark loud enough for those nearby to hear, complaining about the music, the wine, the general lack of refinement. Each complaint was carefully calibrated to reinforce the Joffrey persona. He noted the tight line of Catelyn Stark's mouth, the flicker of annoyance in Robb's eyes. Excellent. They were seeing the spoiled brat, just as he intended.
He felt, rather than saw, Tyrion's gaze on him from time to time. His uncle was a connoisseur of human folly, and Joffrey was prime material. NJ wondered if Tyrion noticed the subtle differences, the calculation behind the petulance. Probably. But proving it would be another matter.
As the feast began to wind down, many of the adults deep in their cups, the children grew restless. Sansa, her earlier enthusiasm slightly dampened by his Joffrey-ish coolness but still hopeful, turned to him again.
"Your Grace," she began, her voice soft, "Tomorrow, when the king and my father go hunting, perhaps we could walk by the river? It's very pretty there."
This was it. The setup for the Nymeria incident. The river. Mycah, the butcher's boy. Arya and her swordplay.
NJ felt a cold, clear calmness descend. His plan was in place. He had considered multiple contingencies.
He gave Sansa a look of princely boredom. "A walk? How… diverting." Then, a slow, deliberate smile that he knew the original Joffrey would use, a smile that promised amusement at others' expense. "Very well, Lady Sansa. If it pleases you."
Internally, his mind was already several steps ahead. He would use Sansa's infatuation. He would encounter Arya and Mycah. He would ensure he controlled the narrative. He would aim for de-escalation if possible, using disdain rather than violence initially. If Arya or Nymeria attacked, he would play the wounded but surprisingly restrained prince, shifting blame, perhaps even garnering a sliver of grudging respect for not behaving like a complete savage. The survival of Lady, Sansa's direwolf, was a secondary but desirable objective, as it would lessen the Stark grievance.
Arya, overhearing Sansa's invitation, made a face. NJ caught the look and filed it away. Her rebellious spirit would be a key factor.
The feast finally broke up. NJ, feigning weariness, retired to his chambers. But sleep was the furthest thing from his mind. Winterfell was alive with ancient energies, with secrets embedded in its very stones.
Once his servants were dismissed and the wing housing the royal family grew quiet, he slipped out of bed. The corridors were dark, lit only by occasional torches. He moved silently, a shadow in his own right. He needed to explore, to absorb, to understand this ancient fortress before his confrontation on the morrow.
He found his way to a small, unused storage room near their chambers. It was filled with discarded items: old chests, broken furniture, moth-eaten banners. Perfect. He ran his hand over a dusty, shield-shaped piece of wood, perhaps once a practice shield for a young Stark.
The essence flooded him: the sting of wooden swords, the frustration of a missed block, the gruff encouragement of a master-at-arms, the fierce determination of generations of Stark boys learning to defend their home. It was similar to the essence from the practice sword on the Kingsroad, but imbued with the unique, grim determination of the North. His nascent understanding of combat deepened, a subtle shift in his balance, a phantom hardening of his young muscles.
He spent an hour in that forgotten room, touching, absorbing. An old iron helmet, dented and rusted: the fear and adrenaline of a long-forgotten skirmish, the shouts of men, the clash of steel. A fragment of a tattered cloak: the biting cold of a northern patrol, the camaraderie of men huddled together for warmth against a blizzard.
Each absorption was a thread, weaving itself into the tapestry of his being. He was becoming more than just an intellect in a borrowed body. He was becoming a vessel of history, of experience, of power. And Winterfell, he realized with a thrill that was almost predatory, was one of
the richest sources he had yet encountered.
He returned to his chambers as the first hint of grey dawn touched the sky, his mind alive with new knowledge, new sensations, and the cold, precise calculations for the day ahead. The wolf's den had welcomed the lion prince. It had no idea what kind of beast it had truly let inside its ancient walls. The game in the North was about to begin in earnest.