Chapter 2: Echoes in the Blood, Shadows on the Road
The initial deluge from the Targaryen goblet had been like mainlining history – a chaotic, intoxicating flood that threatened to drown his own nascent consciousness in this new, small body. Lying on the surprisingly comfortable cot within the royal tent, feigning a relapse of his earlier "illness," he allowed his mind – his true, formidable self – to sift through the phantom echoes.
It wasn't merely data; it was experience, albeit fragmented and second-hand. He felt the crushing weight of kingship as Aegon V, the 'Unlikely,' had borne it, the well-intentioned reforms crumbling against the bedrock of entrenched noble privilege. He tasted the ashes of Summerhall, a sorrow so profound it felt like a physical ache in his new, young chest. With Aerys I, the Bookish King, he felt the dry rustle of scrolls, the endless, obsessive delving into prophecies that promised much but delivered little beyond further anxiety. He sensed the cold, brutal pragmatism of Maegor the Cruel, the scent of fear Maegor inspired in his court, the burn of dragonfire – or at least, the commanding presence of one who commanded dragonfire. And through it all, a thread of something else, something uniquely Targaryen: a faint, almost imperceptible hum of… fire and blood, a whisper of ancient Valyrian words he didn't understand but somehow felt the meaning of, a distant memory of skies filled with scaled beasts.
This was far more potent than the rudimentary skills gleaned from the practice sword. That had been akin to downloading a driver; this was like absorbing a dozen partial operating systems simultaneously. His own thoughts, usually so precise and clinically detached, felt… colored. A fleeting arrogance, not the bratty entitlement of Joffrey, but a deeper, older strain, the conviction of divine right, warred with a sudden, unfamiliar pang of melancholy for a lost golden age.
Control, he admonished himself. Filter. Integrate. Do not become a repository of ghosts.
His power, he was beginning to understand, was not just absorption; it was also, thankfully, assimilation. His core intellect, the bedrock of his being, remained the dominant force, the central processor into which these new data streams were fed. It was like adding specialized co-processors, enhancing his capabilities without overwriting his fundamental programming. The Targaryen kings' experiences, their perspectives, even their ingrained biases, were now data points he could access, analyze, and utilize. He understood, with a clarity no history book could provide, the burden and the allure of absolute monarchy, the intricate dance of power at court, the subtle currents of fear and ambition that drove men. He even felt a flicker of understanding for their obsession with blood purity, not as a rational belief, but as a deeply ingrained cultural and almost mystical conviction tied to their control of dragons. Folly, of course, but an understandable folly from their perspective.
He focused, picturing that internal "valve" he'd hypothesized. He visualized it closing, stemming the passive intake of ambient historical essence that seemed to emanate faintly from everything around him. The tent itself, made of canvas and rope, probably held the echoes of the soldiers who'd pitched it, the campaigns it had seen. He didn't need that right now. He needed to process.
Slowly, the chaotic symphony of dead kings began to quiet, not disappearing, but receding, taking their place in the vast archives of his mind, indexed and cross-referenced. He felt… expanded. The Joffrey-body still felt small, but the mind within it was growing, layering itself with the experiences of ages. It was a heady sensation, power of a kind he hadn't anticipated. Not just knowledge, but the feel of that knowledge, the emotional weight of it.
Cersei's voice, laced with maternal anxiety, intruded. "Joffrey? Are you awake, sweetling? You were so pale." She entered the tent, her silk gown rustling, the scent of her heavy perfume momentarily overpowering the mustiness of the canvas. Myrcella and Tommen trailed in her wake, their small faces etched with a mixture of concern and childish curiosity.
Myrcella, he recalled, was a gentle soul, destined for a tragic fate in Dorne. Tommen, pliable and kind, would briefly be king before his own despairing end. Pawns. Useful, perhaps, for their innocence and the affection they inspired in others. Cersei genuinely loved them, in her possessive, lioness way. That love was both her strength and her greatest vulnerability.
He forced a weak cough, turning his head on the pillow. "Better, Mother. Just… tired." He allowed a hint of Joffrey's petulance to creep in. "This endless riding is boring."
Cersei's expression softened. "I know, my love. But Winterfell will be an… experience." A slight, almost imperceptible curl of her lip accompanied the word "experience," a hint of her disdain for the "barbaric" North. "Lord Stark is an old friend of your father's. You must be on your best behavior."
Best behavior. The irony. He, who had defined his previous existence by flouting every societal norm he could, was now being admonished to behave. But her words sparked a thought. The Starks. Eddard Stark's honor was his undoing. Catelyn Stark's fierce maternal protectiveness, her grief, would drive her to rash decisions. Robb, the Young Wolf, brave but politically naive. Sansa, dreaming of songs and knights, an easy target. Arya, the little viper, surprisingly resilient. And Jon Snow, the bastard, whose true parentage was the key to so much.
He would have to be a paragon of false virtue at Winterfell, at least initially. Any overtly cruel act, especially one as public as the Nymeria incident, would be disastrous for his long-term plans. He needed the Starks to underestimate him, to see him as the spoiled princeling, not the calculating intellect he was.
"Of course, Mother," he mumbled, feigning drowsiness. "Can I have some water?"
Myrcella, ever the sweet one, piped up, "I can get it, Joffrey!" She hurried to a pitcher on a small table.
He watched her. She was a genuinely kind child. In his previous life, kindness was a vulnerability he exploited. Here… he felt a strange neutrality towards her and Tommen. They weren't threats. They weren't particularly useful beyond being Cersei's emotional anchors. Perhaps, if he could secure his own power, he could even offer them a measure of protection their canonical fates denied them. An act of… what? Not kindness. Calculated self-interest. A stable realm, eventually under his complete control, would benefit from minimizing unnecessary tragedies that could breed resentment. Or perhaps it was a flicker of the absorbed Aegon V's desire for a less brutal world. The lines were blurring in interesting ways.
Tommen, chubby and hesitant, approached the cot. "Are you very sick, Joff?"
He looked at the boy who would be king, if only for a tragically short time. "Just a summer chill, Tommen," he said, managing a tone that was dismissive yet not overtly cruel – the kind of dismissal an older brother might give a younger. He needed to recalibrate the "Joffrey" persona. Less sadism, more bored arrogance. Less overt cruelty, more subtle disdain. It would make his eventual "maturation" into a more capable ruler seem more plausible.
Cersei shooed the younger children away after he'd taken a sip of water. "Rest now, Joffrey. Your father will want to see you at dinner. He's actually in a surprisingly good mood today. Bagged a large hart."
Robert. His supposed father. A man living on past glories, drowning his regrets in wine and women, a king in name only, ruled by his appetites and easily manipulated by his council. Robert's death was the spark that ignited the War of the Five Kings. Could he prevent it? Should he? Robert's presence, however flawed, maintained a semblance of peace. His death, however, would create the chaos NJ could exploit to seize true power. A delicate calculation. For now, Robert alive was probably more useful.
After Cersei left, promising to send for him before the evening meal, he lay there, contemplating. The tent itself. He reached out, his fingers brushing the rough canvas. Nothing. He pressed harder, concentrating. Still nothing. He frowned. Why had the practice sword and the goblet yielded their secrets so readily, but not the tent canvas?
Was it the age? The sword was old, the goblet ancient. This tent was likely relatively new, made for this progress. Or perhaps the intensity of the history mattered. A sword used in training, a royal goblet passed through generations – these had focused, concentrated histories. Canvas was just… canvas.
He touched the woolen blanket covering him. It felt… like wool. No flashes of Lannisport looms, no weary weavers' sighs. Perhaps fabrics were poor conductors of this essence? Or perhaps it was his control – he was still learning. He tried to consciously open that internal valve again, focusing on the blanket.
A faint whisper. Not images, but a fleeting sensation of sheep, the smell of lanolin, the rhythmic clatter of a shuttle. It was weak, diffuse, like a distant echo. So, it was possible, but the material and its history clearly mattered. Metal, with its crystalline structure, might hold imprints better. Wood, having once been alive, also seemed receptive.
He needed more tests. His gaze fell upon his own dagger, a miniature version of a knightly weapon, more ornament than tool, resting on the side table. It was gold-hilted, with a small ruby in the pommel. Likely Lannister-made, given to him by his grandfather, Tywin, or perhaps commissioned by Cersei. He reached for it.
The moment his fingers closed around the cool metal of the hilt, the influx came. This time, it wasn't the broad sweep of royal lineages. It was sharper, more focused. The meticulous craftsmanship of the smith in Lannisport, his pride in the work. The jeweler setting the ruby, his concern about its security. But more than that, faint traces of Joffrey himself. His Joffrey. The original. A flash of childish rage as he'd once thrown it at a servant who'd displeased him. A moment of cruel delight as he'd used it to carve his initials into a wooden table. The brief, sharp satisfaction of pricking his own finger to feel the sting.
These were Joffrey's memories, his emotions, tied to this object. And as NJ absorbed them, he felt a deeper, more visceral understanding of the boy whose body he now inhabited. The original Joffrey wasn't just a caricature; he was a deeply insecure, spoiled child, given too much power too soon, his natural tendencies towards cruelty nurtured by Cersei's indulgence and Robert's neglect. He was a product of his toxic environment, a broken thing.
This understanding didn't evoke pity. Pity was a useless emotion. But it provided valuable data. Knowing the original Joffrey's emotional landscape would make imitating him, and subtly diverging from him, much easier. He could now more accurately fake the tantrums, the arrogance, the casual cruelty, while his true mind worked beneath.
He could also feel the nascent sadism, the pleasure in others' pain that had been a hallmark of the original. It was there, a faint, ugly stain in the essence he absorbed. He cataloged it, analyzed it, and then carefully walled it off. He would not become that. His cruelty, if and when he chose to employ it, would be cold, calculated, and purposeful, not the impulsive viciousness of a broken child.
The power was a double-edged sword. It offered immense growth, but also the risk of contamination from the less savory aspects of the histories he absorbed. He would need to be vigilant.
The afternoon wore on. He "rested," his mind a whirlwind. The Nymeria incident. It was pivotal. Joffrey, goaded by Sansa's presence and Arya's defiance, attacks Mycah the butcher's boy. Arya intervenes. Nymeria bites Joffrey. Joffrey lies, claiming he was attacked unprovoked. Cersei demands retribution. Robert, trying to keep peace with his queen and his friend Eddard, ultimately allows Lady, Sansa's innocent direwolf, to be killed in Nymeria's stead, as Nymeria has been driven off by Arya.
The fallout was immense. It cemented Arya's hatred for Joffrey and the Lannisters. It was a deep injustice that pained Eddard and horrified Sansa, beginning her disillusionment. It showcased Joffrey as a liar and a coward.
How to change it?
* Scenario 1: Avoid the confrontation altogether. Feign continued illness. Unlikely to work for long, and Joffrey was expected to interact with the Stark children.
* Scenario 2: Prevent Joffrey (himself) from being an idiot. Don't attack Mycah. This would be a drastic change in behavior. How to explain it? Perhaps a moment of uncharacteristic distraction? Or frame it as boredom? "This is beneath me."
* Scenario 3: Allow the confrontation but change the outcome. If Nymeria bites him (which, given Joffrey's original provocation, was likely unavoidable if the scene played out similarly), what then? Could he be… magnanimous? Claim it was an accident? Highly out of character for Joffrey. But what if he could spin it? "The beast was simply defending its mistress. A spirited animal. Perhaps it needs better training." This might confuse everyone, but could also paint him in a surprisingly mature light, while subtly undermining Arya's control over her wolf.
* Scenario 4: The most complex. Engineer events so that he comes out looking like a victim, but not a cowardly one, and shifts blame effectively. This required careful stage management. Could he provoke Arya in a way that her retaliation seemed excessive, and then play the wounded prince with a false stoicism?
He needed to consider the key players. Cersei would demand blood regardless. Robert would want the path of least resistance. Eddard would seek justice. Sansa would be horrified by violence. Arya was a wild card.
His goal was not to be liked by the Starks. His goal was to avoid looking like a fool and a coward, and to prevent the unnecessary escalation of tensions before he was ready. Sowing discord was fine, but it had to be on his terms, for his benefit. The death of Lady was a grievance that festered. Perhaps that could be avoided.
He considered the direwolves. They were not mere animals. They were intrinsically linked to the Starks, ancient symbols, and, as he knew, capable of warging. Killing one was a deep offense. If Lady survived, Sansa might be more pliable, less embittered later on.
His best bet, he decided, was a modification of Scenario 2, perhaps bleeding into a carefully managed version of Scenario 3. He would allow himself to be present, as Joffrey would be. He would allow his initial Joffrey-like arrogance to show. But when the moment of escalation with Mycah arrived, he would find a way to de-escalate, to dismiss Mycah as beneath his notice before drawing his sword. "Playing with peasants is tiresome. Sansa, come, let us walk. Leave your sister to her… common friends." It was dismissive, arrogant, still Joffrey-like, but avoided the direct violence. It would insult Arya and Mycah, yes, but might not trigger the direwolf attack.
If Arya still reacted, if Nymeria still bit him (perhaps a lesser bite, a nip if he wasn't actively threatening Mycah with a sword), then he could play the wounded but surprisingly restrained prince. "A mere scratch. The beast is wild, as is its mistress. Perhaps Lord Stark should teach his daughters that pets, like children, require discipline." It was a barb, but not a demand for death. It shifted the focus to Eddard's parenting and Arya's wildness.
This approach seemed the most promising. It required him to swallow Joffrey's typical impulsive rage, but he was no longer Joffrey in mind.
Footsteps approached the tent again. This time, it was a servant. "My Prince, the Queen bids you attend her. The King is asking for you at table."
Showtime. He rose, composing his features into the familiar petulant mask of Joffrey Baratheon. He allowed a slight grimace of pain as he moved, for effect. He was still "recovering," after all.
The main dining pavilion was a riot of noise, torchlight, and the smell of roasted meat. Robert Baratheon sat at the head of the main table, a massive, bearded figure, already flushed with wine, laughing uproariously at some jest. His booming voice filled the tent. He was every inch the warrior king in decline, a man clinging to the echoes of his glory days.
Cersei sat beside him, a study in regal discontent, picking at her food. Jaime was there too, his golden armor exchanged for rich silks, an amused, cynical smile playing on his lips as he watched his king and brother-by-law make a fool of himself. Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, sat further down, a flagon of wine in his hand, his mismatched eyes missing nothing.
This was the first time NJ would truly interact with Tyrion in this new life. He knew Tyrion's intellect, his wit, his surprising capacity for compassion, and his deep-seated resentment of the family that scorned him. Tyrion was dangerous precisely because he was intelligent and observant. He would be the hardest to fool.
"Ah, there he is! My golden-haired lad!" Robert bellowed, spotting him. "Heard you were under the weather, boy! Too much fussing from your mother, eh?" He laughed again, a booming sound that made the goblets rattle.
NJ felt a wave of the original Joffrey's ingrained fear and resentment towards Robert. He let a little of it show in his expression. "I am well enough, Your Grace," he said, his voice the reedy tenor of a boy prince.
"Good! Good! Come, sit! We have fresh venison!" Robert gestured vaguely to an empty seat.
He took his place, acutely aware of Tyrion's gaze. The Imp was watching him with an unreadable expression. NJ focused on his food, picking at it with Joffrey's characteristic disdain for anything not exquisitely prepared. He felt the weight of the Targaryen kings within him, their centuries of royal bearing subtly influencing his posture, even as he tried to project Joffrey's spoiled slouch. It was a delicate balancing act.
"So, boy," Robert said, tearing into a leg of venison with greasy fingers. "Looking forward to Winterfell? Ned Stark's girls are pretty things, eh? One of 'em for you, one day!" He winked, then roared with laughter again. Sansa, his intended. The thought was met with clinical detachment. She was a tool, nothing more.
"They are Starks, Your Grace," he said, infusing his tone with a hint of Joffrey's snobbery. "Of the North." The implication of their lesser, harsher breeding was clear.
Tyrion chuckled softly from down the table. "My nephew has a discerning palate already, it seems. Or perhaps just a delicate constitution, given his earlier malady."
NJ's eyes flicked to Tyrion. The Imp's words were light, but his gaze was sharp. A test. NJ knew that Tyrion, despite his own vices, despised Joffrey's cruelty.
"The road is tiresome, Uncle," NJ said, affecting a bored drawl. "And the company, at times, uninspiring." He made sure to look away from Tyrion as he said it, as if the comment wasn't specifically directed, but general Joffrey-esque whining.
"Indeed," Tyrion said, his eyes glinting. "Travel does expose one to all sorts."
This was a dangerous game. Tyrion was too perceptive. NJ decided to feign fatigue and illness-induced weakness. He pushed his food around his plate, then let his fork clatter down. "Mother, I still feel unwell. May I be excused?"
Cersei, ever solicitous when it suited her, immediately fussed. "Of course, sweetling. You still look pale. Go and rest."
Robert grunted, already distracted by another flagon of wine. "Aye, go on, boy. Too much like your mother's side, delicate."
As NJ rose, he allowed himself a brief, direct look at Tyrion. He tried to project nothing but spoiled petulance and physical discomfort. Tyrion met his gaze, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. The Imp knew something was… different. Or perhaps he was merely amused by the familiar family drama. NJ couldn't be sure. But it was a warning. Tyrion Lannister would be a constant threat to his masquerade.
He retreated to his tent, his mind racing. The brief interaction had been draining. Maintaining the Joffrey persona while simultaneously analyzing every word, every glance, every subtle shift in the atmosphere, and managing the echoes of dead kings in his head, was exhausting.
But it was also exhilarating. His intellect, so long starved of genuine challenge in his previous life, was now fully engaged. This world, with its primitive brutality and its complex tapestry of power, was a far more stimulating playground than he could have imagined.
Back in the solitude of his tent, he allowed himself a moment of grim satisfaction. He had navigated his first royal dinner. He had tested his power further. He had a nascent plan for the Nymeria incident. And he had felt, for the first time, the keen intellect of Tyrion Lannister directed his way.
The road to Winterfell was long. He had time. Time to consolidate his power, to refine his plans, to further integrate the essences he absorbed. He glanced at his princely attire – silks and velvets. What history did they hold? The weaver's skill? The dyer's secrets? The tailor's frustrations? Every object was a potential lesson, a potential strengthening.
He carefully removed his expensive velvet doublet. He held it, concentrating, opening the valve. This time, the influx was clearer than with the blanket. He felt the meticulous stitches of the embroiderer in King's Landing, her tired eyes, her hopes for her own children funded by this work. He felt the pride of the master tailor who designed it, his snobbery towards lesser craftsmen. He even felt a faint echo of the merchant who'd sourced the velvet from the Free Cities, his anxieties about pirates and profits.
It was fascinating. The experiences were mundane, yet they added to his understanding of this world's socio-economic fabric. Knowledge was power, and every scrap, no matter how humble its origin, could be useful.
He was becoming a nexus of history, a living library of experience. And with every absorption, he felt himself changing, evolving. The boy prince was merely a shell. The being within was growing, hardening, preparing.
Winterfell awaited. The Starks awaited. The Game of Thrones was truly beginning, and he, the new, improved Joffrey Baratheon, was ready to play. He might even, he thought with a flicker of dark amusement, enjoy it. The original Joffrey was a monster of impulse. He would be a monster of intellect and purpose. And that, he knew, was far more terrifying.