Chapter 11: The Serpent's Own Sorcery
The Red Keep, once a mere symbol of power, was rapidly becoming NJ's personal laboratory and proving ground. The cacophony of King's Landing, the endless parade of ambitious lords, simpering ladies, and scurrying servants, provided a rich, if often distasteful, environment for honing the unique suite of abilities he now possessed. His Joffrey persona, increasingly difficult to maintain against the surging power within, was nevertheless a crucial shield, allowing him the freedom to observe, analyze, and experiment from behind a mask of petulant royalty.
His nights were no longer solely for rest or the absorption of ambient historical essences from his chambers. They became sessions of intense internal discipline, a focused effort to understand and control the volatile magics now woven into his being. The dragon fire, absorbed from Balerion's ancient skull and its lesser kin, was the most pressing. It was a wild, exhilarating inferno coiling within his chest, a raw, elemental power that thrummed with an insatiable hunger to dominate, to consume, to unleash itself upon the world.
In the solitude of his lavish bedchamber, lit only by a single, guttering candle (he found he preferred the dimness now, his dragon-enhanced sight piercing the gloom with ease), NJ would sit in a meditative posture, not unlike the ones he'd read about in obscure Eastern philosophies from his past life. He focused inward, confronting the fiery beast that was Balerion's echo. He didn't try to extinguish it – that, he sensed, was impossible and would rob him of its immense power. Instead, he sought to channel it, to become its master, not its vessel. He visualized the fire not as a raging conflagration, but as the controlled heart of a star, its energy immense but contained, subject to his will.
The first attempts were… challenging. The sheer arrogance of the dragon essence, its primal urge for supremacy, fought against his control. He would feel sudden surges of intense heat course through his Joffrey-body, leaving him drenched in sweat, his heart hammering. Sometimes, a wave of un-Joffrey-like rage, so potent it was almost intoxicating, would wash over him, and he'd have to exert every ounce of his formidable intellect to suppress the urge to smash something or scream a challenge to the silent, watching city. But his core psychopathy, his innate detachment and iron self-control, coupled with the sheer processing power of his intellect, proved a formidable counter. Slowly, painstakingly, he began to tame the inferno. He learned to draw upon its heat consciously, subtly warming his hands on a cool night, or feeling a surge of invigorating energy banish weariness after a long day of courtly charades. He even found, during one particularly frustrating session with a dull-witted weapons master (demanded by Joffrey for "princely training"), that by focusing his internal fire, his Joffrey-body's movements became faster, more forceful, his usually reedy voice carrying an undertone of command that made the man stumble in surprise. It was a subtle, almost imperceptible shift, but NJ noted it with clinical satisfaction.
The weirwood magic, the icy wisdom of the Old Gods, was a different challenge altogether. It was not volatile like the dragon fire, but vast, ancient, and deeply passive. Its truth-sensing ability was proving invaluable. He practiced it constantly, in every interaction. With servants bringing his meals, he could sense the fleeting anxieties about their families, their fear of displeasing him, the occasional, resentful lie about a task completed. With Myrcella and Tommen, he felt their childlike innocence, their uncomplicated emotions, a stark contrast to the layered deceptions of the court. Tommen, in particular, was an open book of gentle fears and simple desires. Myrcella, a little older, was beginning to develop a thin veneer of courtly caution, but her fundamental honesty still shone through to NJ's enhanced perception.
He honed this truth-sense into a fine scalpel. He learned to distinguish the panicked lie of a frightened servant from the calculated, confident deceit of a courtier. He began to sense not just falsehood, but the intent behind the words, the hidden agendas, the unspoken desires. It was like seeing the invisible currents that moved people, the hidden strings that made the puppets of the court dance.
He also attempted to consciously query the weirwood essence within him, that vast library of Northern memory. It was not as simple as looking up a fact in a book. It required a deep, meditative focus, a specific framing of the question, and a willingness to sift through a flood of symbolic imagery and emotional echoes. He tried to learn more about the Red Keep's hidden history, focusing on the Targaryen dynasty. He received fragmented visions: Aerys II pacing his throne room, his mind unraveling, the scent of wildfire clinging to his paranoid thoughts; a young Jaehaerys I, wise beyond his years, deliberating with his council; Maegor the Cruel, his presence a palpable wave of fear, overseeing the construction of hidden passages within the Holdfast. The information was often cryptic, impressionistic, but it added layers to his understanding, providing clues and insights that no historian could offer.
He even found a small, neglected patch of herbs and struggling flowers in a forgotten corner of one of the Red Keep's stone courtyards. Closing his eyes, he focused his weirwood essence, trying to feel the life within the plants, the faint pulse of the earth beneath the paving stones. He sensed the thirst of their roots, the weary sigh of their wilting leaves. He tried to push a sliver of his own will, a whisper of the weirwood's life-giving energy, towards them. He couldn't be sure if it had any effect – he wasn't about to perform overt miracles – but the act of trying seemed to deepen his connection to that ancient, earthy magic. It was a quiet counterpoint to the dragon's roar.
The true challenge lay in synthesizing these opposing forces: the dragon's fire and the weirwood's ice. They were antithetical, yet they now resided within the same vessel. At times, he felt like a walking paradox, a battleground of elemental forces. The dragon's fire urged him to act, to dominate, to conquer. The weirwood's wisdom counseled patience, observation, understanding the slow turning of ages. His psychopathic intellect, however, saw not conflict, but opportunity. Fire could be tempered by ice; ice could be given direction and force by fire.
He began to use the calm, analytical depth of the weirwood to channel the dragon's volatile power. When the fiery rage threatened to overwhelm his Joffrey persona, he would draw upon the weirwood's ancient stillness, its patient observation of millennia, to cool the flames, to regain his icy composure. Conversely, when he needed to project an aura of command or make a decisive, intimidating move (even if only internally, for now), he would draw upon the dragon's primal confidence, its inherent belief in its own supremacy, giving his actions a focused intensity that his Joffrey-body would normally lack.
This internal alchemy was not without its risks. There were moments when his control over the Joffrey facade wavered. Once, during a particularly tedious council report on grain shipments that Grand Maester Pycelle was droning through, NJ, bored and irritated, let his focus slip. A wave of the dragon's impatient disdain surged through him, and his eyes, for a fleeting second, seemed to flash with an unnatural golden light. Pycelle faltered, his voice quavering, his gaze darting nervously at the Prince. NJ, instantly realizing his slip, covered it with a typical Joffrey-esque sneer and a cutting remark about the maester's tediousness, but the incident was a warning. He was walking a razor's edge. The power he wielded was immense, and his vessel, the body of a spoiled boy, was struggling to contain it without betraying its presence.
The preparations for the Tourney of the Hand were now in full swing, transforming the city into a vibrant, chaotic hub of activity. Knights and lords, with their retinues and squires, poured into King's Landing, filling every inn and tavern. Banners billowed from newly erected pavilions outside the city walls. The air thrummed with excitement, ambition, and the jingle of coin as merchants and artisans capitalized on the influx. For NJ, it was a perfect intelligence-gathering opportunity. His heightened senses picked up a veritable symphony of gossip, boasts, and whispered plots amidst the revelry. He analyzed the knights practicing in the tourney grounds, his absorbed martial skills from Jaime and countless other warriors allowing him to assess their strengths, weaknesses, and styles with an expert eye. He noted Ser Loras Tyrell's flamboyant skill, Gregor Clegane's brutal strength, and the quiet, deadly efficiency of Sandor Clegane, who had accompanied the royal party south.
Ned Stark, as Hand of the King, looked increasingly overwhelmed. He was a man of the battlefield and the straightforward justice of the North, utterly unsuited to the labyrinthine deceits of King's Landing. NJ observed him from afar, or during the brief, formal interactions their positions necessitated. He saw Ned attempting to investigate Jon Arryn's death, asking dangerous questions, unknowingly treading on the toes of powerful, ruthless people. NJ felt a cold pity for the man; his honor was a noose he was slowly tightening around his own neck. With his truth-sense, NJ could feel the honesty radiating from Ned, a stark, almost painful contrast to the pervasive deceit of everyone else on the Small Council.
He had another encounter with Littlefinger, Lord Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, in a corridor of the Red Keep. Littlefinger, with his pointed beard, his mocking smile, and his eyes that seemed to see everything and reveal nothing, was a creature NJ found particularly… interesting.
"Prince Joffrey," Baelish greeted, his voice smooth as oiled silk. "Enjoying the… unique pleasures of our capital, I trust?"
NJ focused his truth-sense, trying to pierce the layers of Littlefinger's infamous inscrutability. It was like trying to grasp smoke. Baelish was a master of self-control, his emotions so deeply buried or so expertly feigned that even the weirwood's gift struggled to find purchase. Yet, NJ did sense something: a profound, almost predatory, amusement, a sense of a puppet master enjoying the dance of his marionettes, and a chilling, bottomless ambition.
"The city has its… diversions, Lord Baelish," NJ replied, his Joffrey mask firmly in place. "Though none so diverting as watching my father's council try to govern." He infused the words with a spoiled prince's contempt for tedious affairs of state.
Littlefinger's smile widened. "Governing is a complex art, Your Grace. Full of tedious accounts and tiresome petitioners. Far less thrilling than, say, the upcoming tourney." He paused, his eyes glinting. "Though sometimes, the most thrilling games are played not in the lists, but in the shadows."
A test. A probe. NJ recognized it instantly. "Shadows are for spiders and rats, Lord Baelish," he said with a dismissive sniff. "A lion prefers the sun."
"Indeed, Your Grace," Littlefinger murmured, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before his customary mocking smile returned. "But even lions can be surprised by what lurks in the dark." He bowed, and was gone.
NJ felt a surge of the dragon's fire, an urge to incinerate the man's smirking condescension. But he crushed it down, replacing it with icy calculation. Littlefinger was dangerous, his intellect sharp, his schemes intricate. But he did not know what NJ was, what powers he wielded. That was NJ's ultimate advantage.
His internal world was a crucible. The ancient, patient wisdom of the weirwood, with its connection to the earth and its truth-sensing clarity. The explosive, dominant fire of the dragon, with its primal power and Valyrian magic. The predatory instincts of the direwolf, sharpening his senses. The martial skills of countless warriors. The healing knowledge of maesters. The cunning and ambition of kings and queens. All these, and more, were being smelted and reforged by his core psychopathic intellect into something new, something terrifyingly potent.
He was no longer merely a boy playing a role. He was a nascent godling, a unique convergence of this world's most ancient and formidable powers. His Joffrey-body was a limitation, a cage he was rapidly outgrowing, but also a perfect disguise. He began to subtly test its limits, pushing its endurance during his clandestine martial practice (mirroring Jaime's movements in the dead of night), finding he recovered from exertion faster, his strength slowly increasing beyond what was natural for a boy of his age. The magics were changing him, body and mind.
The Tourney of the Hand would be more than just a spectacle. It would be a gathering of all the key players, a microcosm of the Seven Kingdoms. It would be a hunting ground for information, an arena for him to test his evolving abilities in a more public, if still concealed, fashion. He looked forward to it with a cold, predatory eagerness. The game in King's Landing was escalating, and he, the serpent armed with his own unique sorcery, was ready to shed his skin and strike when the moment was right.