Chapter 14: Echoes of War, A Serpent's Subtle Weavings
The Tourney of the Hand, for all its thunderous spectacle and fleeting glories, faded from the forefront of King's Landing's fickle attention almost as quickly as the last banners were struck. The city, a creature of insatiable appetite for novelty and drama, now turned its gaze to the far more pressing and ominous tidings filtering down from the Riverlands and the Westerlands. The ephemeral cheers for fallen knights were replaced by the urgent whispers of mobilizing armies.
NJ, having meticulously cataloged the tourney's lessons – the strengths and weaknesses of key martial players, the subtle shifts in alliances, the pervasive rot of corruption beneath the chivalric facade – welcomed the relative quiet. It afforded him more time for his own clandestine pursuits, the cultivation of the extraordinary powers that now defined his true existence. His Joffrey persona, though, remained a vital, if increasingly constricting, shield. He continued to play the part of the bored, arrogant prince, his days punctuated by feigned tantrums, disdainful pronouncements, and a carefully cultivated air of royal ennui.
The news of Lord Tywin Lannister's retribution for Tyrion's abduction arrived with the swiftness of a striking viper. Ser Gregor Clegane, unleashed by Tywin, was reportedly reaving through the Riverlands with a band of savage sellswords and Lannister men, burning holdfasts, slaughtering smallfolk, and leaving a trail of terror in his wake – all under the guise of anonymous brigands, though few in the Red Keep were fooled. This was Tywin's brutal, unmistakable message to House Tully and, by extension, House Stark.
King Robert's reaction was a predictable storm of blustering rage and indecisive hand-wringing. In the Small Council chamber – from which NJ gleaned information through a combination of absorbed essences from previously "inspected" furniture and the loose tongues of servants who cleaned the room – the King roared about treason and rebellion, yet visibly flinched from any course of action that might lead to open war with his powerful father-in-law. NJ, listening to these second-hand accounts or sensing the emotional turmoil clinging to the very walls of the council room during his later "explorations," felt a profound contempt. Robert was a king of appetites and past glories, utterly unfit to navigate the storm his own reign had fostered.
Lord Eddard Stark, his face a mask of grim honor, demanded justice for the Riverlands, urging Robert to condemn Tywin and send forces to suppress Gregor. NJ, through his various information channels, knew Ned was playing directly into Cersei's and Littlefinger's hands. His unwavering, predictable righteousness was a weapon they could easily turn against him. Cersei, in these council meetings, defended her father with a lioness's ferocity, her voice dripping with indignation, though NJ's truth-sense, even filtered through objects handled by council members, detected the underlying currents of fear and a desperate ambition to protect her children and her own precarious position.
Amidst this escalating crisis, Ned Stark, true to his unyielding nature, pressed on with his investigation into Jon Arryn's death. He was a bloodhound on a scent, oblivious to the dragons and lions circling him. NJ learned, through a particularly fruitful absorption from a discarded roster touched by one of Ned's Northern guards, that the Hand had visited the armorer where Gendry, Robert's bastard son, worked. He had also been making inquiries at brothels, seeking out Robert's other unacknowledged offspring. NJ knew where this path led: to the truth of his own parentage, the incestuous secret that was the ticking heart of the Lannister power. He felt a cold, clinical detachment. This truth, when revealed, would be a match to the powder keg of Westerosi politics. His role was not to prevent the explosion, but to ensure he was positioned to control its aftermath.
With the court consumed by these greater concerns, NJ found more freedom for his own development. His chambers in Maegor's Holdfast, a section of the Red Keep already steeped in Targaryen paranoia and power, became his sanctuary and training ground. He began a discreet physical regimen, designed with the anatomical precision absorbed from Maester Luwin and the martial efficiency of Jaime Lannister. Late at night, when the castle slept, he would move through silent forms, katas learned from a dozen absorbed warriors, his Joffrey-body slowly, almost imperceptibly, gaining strength, speed, and a fluid grace that would have astonished anyone who knew the clumsy, petulant prince. He focused on core strength, on balance, on reflexes, ensuring any muscle development was lean and concealable beneath his princely silks. He was forging his vessel to better withstand the immense energies he now wielded.
His control over the weirwood and dragon magics deepened with each passing day. He practiced his truth-sensing with a relentless focus, using every interaction as a test. He could now discern not just blatant lies, but subtle evasions, half-truths, the unspoken reservations in a courtier's greeting, the fear behind a guard's bravado. He learned to filter the constant barrage of emotional "noise" in King's Landing, focusing his truth-sense like a sharpened blade only when he willed it. During one tedious afternoon audience where various petitioners presented their cases to a largely indifferent King Robert, NJ sat beside the throne, his Joffrey-face a mask of boredom, while he systematically "read" each petitioner, sensing the desperation of a cheated merchant, the greed of a minor lord seeking royal favor, the genuine grievance of a farmer whose lands had been encroached upon. It was a fascinating, if often pathetic, tapestry of human motivation.
The weirwood essence also granted him a deeper connection to the past. He would meditate, focusing his will, trying to query the ancient consciousness for specific information. He sought knowledge of the Red Keep's secrets – not just the grand histories, but the forgotten details. He received fragmented visions: a glimpse of a hidden alcove behind a loose stone in the royal library, once used by Queen Rhaena Targaryen to store forbidden texts on Valyrian sorcery; the faint echo of a secret passage leading from Maegor's Holdfast towards the Blackwater, its entrance long sealed but its psychic trace remaining; the lingering despair of a Targaryen prince imprisoned and forgotten in one of the deeper cells. These were not always clear or actionable, but they added to his sense of mastery over his environment.
The dragon fire within him was a more volatile companion. He learned to draw upon its heat not just for warmth, but as a source of immense internal energy, a forge for his will. He could now project his "dragon aura" with greater precision. He practiced it on the Kingswood hounds during a royal hunt Robert had dragged him on. While the other hunters struggled to control their own dogs, NJ, by focusing his will, his internal fire, could make the fiercest hound pause, its hackles rising, its eyes filled with an instinctual, primal fear before it whined and backed away from him. He was careful, always careful, ensuring no human witnessed these subtle displays. He also found that his tolerance for the summer heat of King's Landing was now absolute; while others sweated and complained, he felt only a comfortable warmth, as if the sun were a kindred spirit.
One evening, driven by a restlessness born of his coiling internal power, NJ decided to explore a particularly ancient and disused section of the Red Keep's foundations, a place he had sensed held a strong historical resonance. Using his Joffrey-persona to demand a "quiet place to think, away from the endless noise of the court," he managed to dismiss his guards and slip away into the labyrinthine undercroft.
Here, amidst crumbling stonework and the scent of centuries of dust, his heightened senses led him to a small, bricked-up archway, almost invisible in the gloom. The weirwood essence within him thrummed, sensing a deep historical echo, while the dragon fire felt a strange, almost proprietary resonance. He touched the ancient bricks.
The influx was immediate and powerful, though not overwhelming like Balerion's skull. He felt the presence of Maegor the Cruel, his iron will, his paranoia, overseeing the sealing of this passage. But beneath that, older essences: faint, almost obliterated traces of the Hill of Aegon before the Red Keep, a time when it was just a rocky prominence overlooking the Blackwater. And then, something else, something that made the dragon fire within him flare with recognition – a hidden vault, sealed long ago, containing… not gold, not jewels, but scrolls. Ancient, Targaryen scrolls, some perhaps even relics from Valyria itself, hidden by Maegor or an earlier Targaryen king, deemed too dangerous or too precious for open knowledge.
NJ felt a surge of exultation. This was a treasure beyond price. Accessing it would be difficult; the archway was solidly sealed. But now he knew it was there. Another secret, another source of power, waiting to be claimed.
His interactions with the court continued, each one a careful dance of manipulation and observation. He saw Cersei growing more desperate as news of Tywin's war in the Riverlands intensified, her fear for her family's name and her children's future warring with her ambition. NJ, in their private conversations, subtly fanned the flames of her resentment against Ned Stark, painting the Hand as an inflexible, self-righteous fool who threatened everything the Lannisters had built.
"Lord Stark means to tear us all down, Mother," he'd whisper, his voice filled with feigned Joffrey-esque fear. "He speaks of honor, but he plots with Stannis and undermines Father. He questions my right to the throne!" The last was a calculated lie, but one designed to trigger Cersei's deepest maternal anxieties and her paranoia about prophecies concerning her children. Her reactions, parsed by his truth-sense, told him his words were hitting their mark.
He had a brief, chilling encounter with Varys in the gardens. The Spider, ever smiling, ever serene, commented on the Prince's "growing gravitas."
"You carry yourself with a new… weight, Your Grace," Varys purred, his eyes like polished stones. "As if you contemplate matters far beyond your years."
NJ felt the familiar dissonance of the eunuch's multi-layered persona. "The burdens of state weigh heavily, Lord Varys," NJ replied, affecting a sigh of princely weariness. "Even on young shoulders. Especially when the realm is so… troubled."
"Indeed," Varys said, his smile never wavering. "Troubled times often create… opportunities… for those with the vision to see them."
Was that an invitation? A threat? A simple observation? With Varys, it was impossible to be certain. But NJ knew the Master of Whisperers was watching him, perhaps sensing, if not the true nature of his power, then at least the formidable intellect lurking beneath the Joffrey facade.
Sansa Stark, he treated with a carefully calibrated mixture of Joffrey's casual cruelty and rare, bewildering moments of feigned thoughtfulness. He would mock her Northern sensibilities one day, then surprise her with a small, seemingly considerate gesture the next – perhaps a comment on the beauty of a song she hummed, or an (insincere) inquiry after her confined sister Arya. His goal was to keep her confused, off-balance, and ultimately, more pliable. Her disillusionment with him was growing, he could sense it, but so was her fear and a lingering, desperate hope that the "good prince" she had dreamed of might still exist beneath the surface. He would nurture that hope, that fear. Both were useful.
The political situation in King's Landing was rapidly deteriorating. Robert, finally prodded into action by Ned Stark's relentless integrity and the escalating slaughter in the Riverlands, stripped Ser Gregor Clegane of all titles and lands (in absentia) and ordered Lord Tywin to court to answer for his bannerman's crimes. It was a bold move, but one NJ knew Tywin would never obey. It was, effectively, a declaration of war.
NJ felt the quickening pace of events with a cold, thrilling anticipation. The chaos he had foreseen was arriving. His own plans, once long-term and almost abstract, were now becoming immediate, tangible. Robert's reign was crumbling. Ned Stark was walking inexorably towards his doom. The great houses were arming for war.
He stood on the balcony of his chambers in Maegor's Holdfast, looking out over the city as dusk settled, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of fire and blood. He felt the immense, coiled power within him – the ancient wisdom of the earth, the fiery heart of dragons, the predatory instincts of the wolf, the synthesized knowledge and skills of countless lives. He was a creature of shadow and sorcery, cloaked in the sun-bright gold of a Lannister prince. The coming storm would destroy many. But he, NJ, would not merely survive it. He would ride it. He would master it. He would emerge from the ashes as the undisputed ruler of this broken, bleeding realm. And then, the true work, the preparation for the Long Night, could begin. A small, cruel smile, entirely his own and nothing of Joffrey's, touched his lips. The game was about to become so much more interesting.