Chapter 6: The Price of a Prince's Blood
The Great Hall of Winterfell, moments before, had been a stage for NJ's calculated performance. Now, it was a pressure cooker, the air thick with unspoken resentments and the raw emotion of the key players. Cersei's fury was a palpable force, a lioness defending her cub, her eyes blazing with a thirst for retribution that went far beyond a simple dog bite. Ned Stark's face was a granite mask, his honor warring with his paternal instinct and his duty to his king. Robert Baratheon, visibly uncomfortable and impatient, just wanted the entire miserable affair to be over so he could return to his wine and hunting.
NJ, nursing his authentically throbbing arm, watched them all, a physician observing the symptoms of a brewing fever. He had planted his seeds: the suggestion of Lady's innocence, the framing of Nymeria as the sole uncontrollable aggressor, his own portrayal as a prince grievously wronged but attempting a veneer of pained reason.
"The wolf that attacked my son is gone, vanished into the wilderness!" Cersei reiterated, her voice sharp as shattered glass. "A convenient escape! But there is another of its kind in this very castle! Sansa's beast. It must be destroyed! A direwolf for a direwolf! It's the only justice that makes sense!"
Sansa let out a renewed, heartbroken sob, clutching at her mother's skirts. Catelyn Stark held her daughter tight, her own eyes flashing with a fierce, protective anger directed at the Queen.
Robert slammed his fist on the heavy oak table, making the goblets jump. "Gods damn it, Cersei! Must you always demand blood? Joffrey himself said the girl's wolf wasn't there!" He looked to his son, a flicker of something – surprise? grudging respect? – in his eyes. "You stand by that, boy? That it's unjust to kill the other one?"
NJ met his supposed father's gaze. He allowed a carefully crafted expression of pained sincerity to settle on his features. "Your Grace," he began, his voice slightly hoarse, "my mother's grief and anger are… understandable. I am her son, and I was injured." He paused, letting that sink in, acknowledging Cersei's position before subtly undermining it. "But justice… justice should be true. Lady Sansa's wolf did me no harm. It was not present. To kill an innocent creature… it would be a shadow on your royal judgment, a grief to Lady Sansa who is to be my queen, and it would not heal my arm." He added the last part with a touch of Joffrey's self-pity, grounding his "noble" sentiment in a selfish concern that Robert would find more believable.
Ned Stark's expression softened almost imperceptibly. Here was an unexpected ally, of sorts, in the Queen's own son. Catelyn, too, looked momentarily taken aback.
Cersei, however, was aghast. "Joffrey! Have you taken leave of your senses? Since when do you champion stray animals over your own blood, your own honor?" Her eyes narrowed. "Or is this some new game you're playing, boy?"
NJ flinched, as if wounded by her words. "Mother, I only speak what I believe to be right. A prince must be just, above all things." He was laying it on thick, the "reformed Joffrey," but it was a persona so outlandish it was almost disarming. He could see Robert was swayed by the novelty, and Ned by the apparent appeal to principle.
"The boy speaks sense, Cersei, however unlike him it might be!" Robert declared, seizing the opening. "We'll not kill the girl's dog for what the other one did. That's an end to it on that score." He glared at his wife, daring her to contradict him.
Cersei's lips thinned into a white line of fury, but she knew Robert in this mood. When he finally made a decision, however reluctantly, he could be as stubborn as a boar. She subsided, for now, but her eyes promised future retribution.
"However," Robert continued, his gaze hardening as he looked at Ned, "a direwolf did attack my son, the Crown Prince. Royal blood was spilled. That cannot be ignored. You say the beast Nymeria is gone, Ned. What of the girl, Arya? She was there. She, by Joffrey's own account and Sansa's tearful one, was screaming defiance. She showed little respect for her Prince."
Ned Stark's jaw tightened. "Arya is a child, Your Grace. A spirited one, perhaps too spirited at times. She meant no lasting harm."
"She's a damn menace if she can't control her pets or her temper!" Robert grumbled. "She needs a lesson, Ned. A firm one. Confine her to her chambers for a moon's turn. No riding, no running wild. And you best teach her some manners before she comes south, or the court will eat her alive."
This was a mild punishment, all things considered. NJ had expected worse for Arya. His careful manipulation had deflected the worst of the blame onto the absent Nymeria.
"And what of the butcher's boy, Mycah?" Robert demanded. "The one Joffrey claims Arya was 'cavorting' with and then tried to protect? Where is he?"
A hush fell. Ser Boros Blount of the Kingsguard, who had been dispatched with a few Lannister men earlier "to find the boy and bring him for questioning," stepped forward, his expression carefully neutral. "Your Grace, the butcher's boy was found. He resisted efforts to bring him to the castle. He… attempted to flee."
"And?" Robert prompted impatiently.
Ser Boros exchanged a quick, almost imperceptible glance with Cersei. "He was… slain, Your Grace. By Ser Ilyn Payne, who assisted in the search at the Queen's request. The boy was armed with a stick and lunged at Ser Ilyn."
A stick. NJ nearly scoffed aloud at the absurdity, but kept his expression carefully shocked and somber. So, the Hound hadn't been the one this time. Cersei had outsourced her vengeance to the King's Justice, Ilyn Payne, the silent executioner. Predictable. Mycah was a loose end, his testimony potentially inconvenient. His death served Cersei's narrative and, frankly, NJ's.
Arya let out a choked cry. Ned Stark looked as if he'd been struck, his face paling. "Slain? A boy? For what crime?"
"For assaulting the King's Justice, apparently," Cersei said, her voice like silk draped over steel. "A tragic consequence of his own defiance. Had he come quietly, he might have merely been whipped for associating with a noble lady in such a familiar manner and then fleeing the Prince's presence."
The hypocrisy was breathtaking. NJ felt a sliver of professional admiration for his mother's ruthlessness, even as he mentally filed away the dynamics of this power play. Ilyn Payne, acting on Cersei's implicit orders, had eliminated a witness and delivered a brutal message.
Robert looked uneasy. "Slain, you say? Gods, what a bloody mess over a damned dog! Well, what's done is done." He waved a dismissive hand. "The boy is dead, the wolf is gone, the girl is confined. Joffrey's been blooded. Let that be the end of it. Ned, see to your daughter." He rose, clearly eager to escape. "I need wine. Lots of it." And with that, the King departed, leaving a wake of simmering resentment and unresolved tension.
NJ allowed himself to be fussed over by Cersei, who was now all maternal concern, her earlier suspicions about his "just" pronouncements seemingly forgotten in the face of her small victory over Mycah. He was escorted back to his chambers, Maester Luwin summoned to tend his wound properly.
The old maester was gentle, his hands surprisingly deft as he cleaned and stitched the deep punctures in NJ's forearm. The direwolf's teeth had been sharp, and the wound was uglier than NJ had let on. Luwin's chambers were a fascinating trove of knowledge, filled with scrolls, books, and curious instruments. As Luwin worked, NJ subtly brushed his fingers against a leather-bound treatise on herbs lying open on the workbench.
The influx was immediate: the dry, scholarly mind of Luwin, his deep knowledge of healing, of anatomy, of the properties of plants. Snippets of anatomical drawings, lists of remedies, the feel of grinding herbs with a pestle and mortar. But more than that, he felt Luwin's quiet dedication, his genuine concern for the people of Winterfell, his worries about the coming winter, and a faint, scholarly interest in the old tales of magic, though tempered by the Citadel's skepticism. It was a wealth of practical knowledge, far more useful than the martial pride of knights or the arrogance of kings in his current, physically vulnerable state. He focused, drawing in as much of the maester's practical healing lore as he could before the contact broke.
"The stitches will hold, Your Grace," Luwin said, his grey eyes kind. "But you must keep the arm clean and avoid strenuous use for a time. Direwolves have a powerful bite. You were fortunate it was not your throat."
"I shall endeavor to be more careful in my choice of… walking companions, Maester," NJ replied, a hint of his Joffrey persona returning.
Confined to his chambers for the next few days, NJ used the time to its fullest. The primary task was processing the direwolf essence he'd absorbed from Nymeria. It was unlike anything else. It wasn't history or learned skill; it was raw, instinctual power. He felt a heightened sense of smell, a sharper edge to his hearing. More profoundly, he felt a strange, resonant connection to the wild, a faint understanding of the unspoken language of animal instinct. There was also a distinct echo of Arya's fierce, protective spirit, so closely bonded was she with her wolf. It was as if their essences were intertwined.
He wondered if this was a glimpse into the Stark's rumored warging abilities. Could he, by absorbing the essence of a creature so bonded, gain some measure of that power himself? He experimented, trying to extend his senses beyond the room, to feel for other animals in the castle, but nothing happened. Perhaps the absorption was too fleeting, too partial. Or perhaps his own human consciousness was too dominant, too… structured to easily meld with such primal energies. Still, the raw wildness of it, the predatory focus, was a potent addition to his internal landscape. It was a reminder that power came in many forms, not all of them human.
Cersei visited him often, her mood fluctuating. Sometimes she was the doting mother, spooning broth into him, full of concern. At other times, her eyes would narrow with that familiar suspicion.
"That pronouncement of yours in the hall, Joffrey," she said one afternoon, as he was propped up in bed, feigning weakness. "About justice for an innocent animal. It was… unlike you."
NJ met her gaze with carefully wide, innocent eyes. "Was it, Mother? I merely thought… Father, the King, he values strength, but also fairness. I did not wish him to see me as… merely vengeful. A true prince, a future king, must sometimes show mercy, even when he has been wronged. Is that not what Grandfather Tywin would advise? To appear strong, yet magnanimous, to win the respect of one's lessers?" He was appealing to her reverence for Tywin Lannister, her desire for her son to be a strong, respected ruler in the Lannister mold.
It worked. Cersei's expression softened. "Tywin would indeed approve of such… calculation, sweetling. Yes. You are learning. Good." She seemed satisfied that his uncharacteristic mercy was merely another form of cunning, something she could understand and approve of.
News of Mycah's death spread through Winterfell like a chill wind, further souring the already strained relations between the Northern hosts and their Southern guests. NJ heard the whispers, the fear in the servants' voices as they tended his rooms. He subtly touched a discarded cleaning rag, a tray left behind, absorbing their anxieties, their hushed conversations about the "cruel Southern prince" and his "vengeful mother." This only served to reinforce his Joffrey persona in their eyes, which was useful. Let them fear the caricature; the true danger remained unseen.
Tyrion Lannister paid him a visit, a book tucked under his arm, a knowing smirk on his face.
"Nephew," he said, settling into a chair uninvited. "I hear you are recovering well from your unfortunate encounter with the local fauna. And that you displayed a most surprising, and some might say, judicious clemency in the matter of the other wolf. Most commendable."
NJ eyed him warily. "One tries to be fair, Uncle, even when one has been grievously injured."
Tyrion chuckled. "Oh, I have no doubt of your commitment to fairness, Joffrey. In all its many… interpretations." His mismatched eyes gleamed with amusement and something else – a shrewd, analytical intelligence that missed very little. "It was quite the performance in the Great Hall. You had them all eating out of your hand, in one way or another. Even your mother seemed momentarily… perplexed."
"I don't know what you mean, Uncle," NJ said, affecting Joffrey's characteristic defensiveness. "I merely spoke the truth as I saw it."
"Of course you did," Tyrion said, his smile widening. "And a most effective truth it was. Do try not to get bitten again, dear boy. Winterfell's beasts are clearly not accustomed to your southern charm." He rose, gave a mock bow, and departed, leaving NJ with the distinct impression that his uncle saw far more than he let on. Tyrion was a threat, not physically, but intellectually. He would require careful handling.
The Starks were, predictably, reeling. NJ learned through absorbed servant-whispers that Lord Eddard was grim and withdrawn, spending much time in the godswood. Lady Catelyn's dislike of the Lannisters had intensified into a cold fury. Sansa, he heard, wept often for her lost friend Mycah and the impending loss of Lady (as she still believed, despite Robert's initial ruling, that Cersei would find a way), her romantic illusions about the charming Southern prince taking a significant blow. Arya, confined to her room, was reportedly a storm of rebellious anger and grief.
NJ felt nothing for their sorrow. Their pain was merely data, input into his complex calculations. He had achieved his primary objectives: Nymeria was free, his own role in provoking the incident was largely obscured, and he had introduced a confusing element of "reasonableness" into his Joffrey persona that could be useful later. Mycah's death was an unfortunate but accepted casualty, clearing a potentially problematic witness. The only unresolved issue was Lady. While Robert had initially ruled against her death, Cersei's vindictiveness was a powerful force.
His thoughts increasingly turned south, towards King's Landing. Ned Stark would soon be Hand. The journey, the court, the machinations of Littlefinger and Varys – these were the next stages of the game. His performance during the "wolf incident" had been a rehearsal. King's Landing would be the grand theatre.
The amalgamation of essences within him was becoming a potent force. The royal pride of Targaryens and Baratheons, the cunning of Lannisters, the healing knowledge of Maester Luwin, the ancient strength of Winterfell's stones, the martial echoes from countless warriors, and now, the wild, predatory instinct of the direwolf. Each absorption added a layer, a new tool, a new perspective. He was evolving, becoming something far beyond a mere boy prince with a high IQ. He was becoming a unique synthesis of this world's power and history.
His arm healed quickly, thanks to Maester Luwin's skill and NJ's own unnatural vitality, a subtle side effect, perhaps, of his power. He would carry scars, a physical reminder of his first significant move in this game of thrones. Scars that, he thought with a cold, internal smile, would only enhance his story, his legend, when the time came to tell it. The price for a prince's blood had been paid, but it was he who had set the terms, and he who had collected the true profit.
.