Chapter 3: Whispers of Old Blood, Eyes in the Shadow
The Targaryen echoes, once a chaotic torrent, were now settling into a more discernible, if complex, undercurrent within his consciousness. He found himself, in moments of forced idleness within the swaying carriage or the stifling confines of his nightly tent, revisiting specific fragments of these absorbed lives. It was like having access to a spectral council of failed, flawed, and occasionally brilliant monarchs.
One particular resonance that surfaced with increasing frequency was that of Maegor the Cruel. Not the raw brutality, which NJ's own psychopathic detachment could appreciate on a purely pragmatic level but found unrefined, but rather Maegor's confrontation with the Faith Militant. He felt the King's iron will, the absolute refusal to bend to religious zealotry that threatened the crown's authority. He felt the cold fury as Maegor planned the destruction of the Sept of Remembrance atop Visenya's Hill, the strategic ruthlessness in his methods. This, NJ recognized, was a useful precedent. Power, true power, did not negotiate with lesser authorities that sought to curtail it; it dominated or eradicated them. The High Sparrow of his GoT knowledge would eventually learn this lesson, albeit from Cersei, not Joffrey. Perhaps he could deal with such threats more… efficiently.
More intriguingly, woven into the Targaryen essences was a faint, almost imperceptible thrum, a subtle vibration that resonated with something deep and primal. It wasn't magic as he understood it from fantasy novels of his past life – no incantations or sudden bolts of arcane energy. It was more like an attunement, a sensitivity to the world's hidden currents. He found himself noticing the way sunlight felt on ancient stones, the subtle difference in the air around places where many lives had been lived or violent deaths had occurred. It was as if the Targaryen blood, so steeped in Valyrian sorcery and dragon-lore, had left a residual stain on their very souls, a stain he had now partially absorbed. He couldn't cast anything, but he felt he was beginning to sense things others couldn't – the faint aura of power, or history, or even deeply ingrained belief clinging to objects and locations.
This new sensitivity required him to refine his absorption technique. No longer was it enough to simply touch and receive. He began to experiment with intent. Lying on his cot, he focused on a small, intricately carved ivory lion on the pommel of a letter opener Cersei had left on a traveling desk. Instead of opening himself fully to its history, he tried to query it. He focused his will, picturing the information he sought: the craftsman, the age, any significant owners.
The result was… partial. He received a clearer impression of the carver – a Myrish artisan, meticulous and suffering from failing eyesight. He felt the cool smoothness of the ivory before it was carved, a faint echo of the great elephant from which it had come, a whisper of the jungles of Sothoryos. But he couldn't discern specific owners beyond its recent acquisition by the Lannisters. It seemed direct experience linked to the object was easier to absorb than general historical data. Still, the ability to partially filter, to guide the intake, was a significant step. He was learning to sip from the firehose, not just stand in its deluge.
The royal progress crawled northward, a vibrant, ponderous serpent of men, horses, and wagons. Each day was a tedious repetition of jolting travel and nightly encampments. For the original Joffrey, it would have been a torment of boredom. For NJ, it was an extended period of observation, planning, and discreet power accrual.
His uncle Tyrion was a constant, subtle presence. The Imp rarely addressed him directly after that first dinner, but NJ often felt Tyrion's mismatched eyes on him during meals or when the royal family assembled. They were sharp, intelligent eyes, missing nothing, filled with a weary cynicism that NJ found almost… kindred, if one ignored Tyrion's inconvenient moral compass.
One afternoon, as the column halted to water the horses by a sluggish, brown river, NJ found himself near Tyrion, who was attempting to read a heavy tome while perched precariously on a camp stool.
"A fascinating read, Uncle?" NJ asked, injecting the precise amount of bored condescension into his tone that Joffrey would use. He was deliberately seeking the interaction, a test of his evolving persona.
Tyrion looked up, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Indeed, nephew. A history of the ancient Valyrian Freehold. Mostly conjecture and myth, I fear, but entertaining nonetheless. Such grand ambition, such catastrophic downfall. Teaches one about hubris, does it not?"
The reference to hubris was pointed, NJ knew. Joffrey was the personification of it. "Valyria was destroyed by savages and their own slaves, wasn't it?" NJ parroted the common, dismissive Westerosi belief, feigning disinterest in the actual history he knew to be far more complex, involving the Doom and its still-debated causes.
"Among other things," Tyrion said, his eyes glinting. "Some say their own magic consumed them. An overreach. A lesson there, too, perhaps, for those who dabble in things best left undisturbed."
Was that a veiled reference? Did Tyrion suspect something? Unlikely. The Imp was intelligent, but not clairvoyant. It was more likely a general observation, or perhaps a subtle jab at Cersei's known interest in prophecies and whispers of magic. Still, NJ felt a prickle of caution.
"Magic is for storybooks and fools, Uncle," NJ said, affecting a sneer. "Steel and gold rule the world." He turned away then, as if bored by the conversation, but Tyrion's words lingered. Dabbling in things best left undisturbed. His power was certainly that.
He spent time observing Jaime Lannister too. The Kingslayer was the epitome of the shining knight, all golden armor and easy confidence. NJ watched him practice in the mornings with other knights of the Kingsguard, his movements fluid and deadly. NJ knew of Jaime's skill, his reputation. He also knew of the man beneath the armor – the cynicism, the forbidden love for Cersei that was his driving force and his ultimate poison, the flicker of honor buried deep beneath layers of pragmatism and familial duty.
One evening, he saw Jaime speaking quietly with Cersei near the edge of the camp, their blond heads close together, their expressions intense. Even from a distance, the intimacy was palpable. NJ felt a cold detachment. Their incestuous bond was a cornerstone of the realm's instability. It was a weakness he could potentially exploit, but also a dangerous powder keg. For now, he simply filed away the observation. He had yet to find an opportunity to touch something Jaime had used extensively, something that might grant him a sliver of that martial prowess or insight into the Kingslayer's mind. Such an item would be closely guarded.
Sandor Clegane, the Hound, was an easier study, if a more repulsive one. He was often on guard near Joffrey's tent, a hulking, silent presence, his burned face a constant memento of fraternal cruelty. NJ knew the Hound's story, his fear of fire, his brutal efficiency, his surprising moments of twisted morality. The Hound was a weapon, currently leashed by the Lannisters. NJ wondered how tight that leash truly was.
He made a point, one day, of "accidentally" dropping a jeweled glove near where the Hound stood sentinel. As he bent to retrieve it, he let his fingers brush against the scarred leather of Clegane's boot – a boot that had kicked men to death, that had trod countless miles in service and misery.
The influx was jarring, brutal. Not the refined experiences of kings or craftsmen, but raw, visceral sensations: the crunch of bone underfoot, the stench of blood and fear, the dull ache of old wounds, the burning hatred for his brother Gregor, and an equally potent, if deeply buried, self-loathing. There was also a surprising flicker of protectiveness, almost exclusively directed towards the Stark girls in the future he knew, an unwilling shield against horrors. It was a dark, painful essence, and NJ quickly withdrew, his mind reeling slightly.
He learned two things: Sandor Clegane was a creature of profound pain and violence, and his own ability to filter was still imperfect when confronted with such potent, raw emotion. He felt a phantom ache in his own face for a moment, a ghost of the Hound's burns. He needed more practice, more control. This power could easily overwhelm him if he was careless. But the insight into the Hound was invaluable. The man was not simply a brute; he was a broken, complex weapon. And broken things could sometimes be reforged or, at the very least, aimed.
His subtle quest for essences continued. A discarded horseshoe from one of the draft animals yielded the weariness of the road, the strain of pulling heavy loads, the simple, uncomplicated existence of a beast of burden. It was… grounding, in a strange way. A piece of broken pottery from a camp midden gave him a glimpse into the life of a scullery maid, her chapped hands, her fear of the head cook, her simple hopes for a warm meal and a dry bed.
These minor absorptions were like collecting pebbles, each insignificant on its own, but together forming a mosaic of this world, its people, its everyday struggles. It gave him a texture, a depth of understanding that went beyond the grand political machinations he knew from the books. It taught him the language of the common folk, their concerns, their superstitions. Information that a highborn prince like Joffrey would never normally acquire, but which could be incredibly useful for a manipulator.
He also began to use his Joffrey persona more proactively. One evening, he threw a carefully orchestrated tantrum, complaining about the plainness of the royal standard fluttering above their encampment. "It's so dull! Just a crowned stag! Grandfather Tywin's lions are much more fearsome! Why can't we have more gold? More lions?"
Cersei, of course, was pleased by his Lannister leanings. Robert, had he been sober enough to pay attention, would have been infuriated. But NJ's goal was simpler. The outburst led to a search for "more suitable" small banners and adornments within the royal baggage train. This allowed him, under the guise of inspecting these items, to handle various older pieces of heraldry, some dating back to previous Baratheon lords, even a few minor items from Aegon's Conquest that had found their way into the Baratheon treasury after Orys Baratheon was granted Storm's End. Each touch was a tiny sip of history, a strengthening of his understanding of lineage, loyalty, and the symbols of power. He learned of the fierce pride of the Stormlords, their historical grievances with the Dornish and the Reach, the nuances of their feudal loyalties.
The journey was slowly changing the landscape. The rolling hills and verdant fields of the Crownlands and Riverlands were gradually giving way to sparser, tougher terrain as they pushed north. The air grew crisper, especially in the mornings. Talk in the camp increasingly turned to Winterfell, the Starks, and the legendary cold of the North.
NJ listened, absorbed. He knew the Starks were a different breed from the southern lords. Their words – "Winter Is Coming" – were not just a motto; they were a worldview, a grim acceptance of hardship and a call to prepare. Their honor, so often derided in the south, was their strength and their weakness.
His internal monologue often drifted to the grander strategy. The Targaryen echoes within him gave the Baratheon usurpation a new dimension. He felt, vicariously, the sting of that stolen crown, the breaking of an ancient dynasty. It wasn't that he sympathized with the Targaryens – sympathy was not in his emotional repertoire. But he understood, on a visceral level, the power of their name, their legacy, their connection to a magic that had once ruled the world. Robert Baratheon was a usurper, yes, but he was also a placeholder. The realm was ripe for a true ruler, one who understood both the ancient power and the new realities.
He, NJ, could be that ruler. He had the intellect. He had the knowledge of the future. And now, he had a power that allowed him to consume and integrate the very essence of this world's history and strength. The thought of the Iron Throne was no longer just a means to an end; it was becoming an objective in itself, a fitting seat for a being of his capabilities. But he would not make the mistakes of the Targaryens – their madness, their reliance on diminishing magic, their inbreeding. Nor would he make Robert's mistakes – his apathy, his hedonism, his inability to truly rule.
He thought of Littlefinger and Varys, the master puppeteers in King's Landing. They thrived on information, on secrets, on manipulating the desires and fears of others. His own ability to absorb information directly from objects, from the very environment, could be a powerful counter to their spy networks. He could learn things they could never uncover. He looked forward to matching wits with them, a prospect that sent a thrill of genuine anticipation through him. They thought they were playing the game of thrones. They had no idea a new player, one operating by entirely different rules, was about to join the board.
As they drew within a few days' ride of Winterfell, a palpable change occurred in the mood of the royal party. The Lannister guards seemed more on edge, wary of the unfamiliar, starker lands. The northern lords and their retinues who had ridden south to meet the King were stoic, watchful, their rugged faces giving little away.
NJ felt his own focus sharpen. The Nymeria incident was imminent. He replayed his strategy in his mind. De-escalation through dismissive arrogance. If that failed, a controlled reaction, framing Arya as the aggressor and himself as the wounded but restrained prince. Avoid the death of Lady. Minimize overt offense to Eddard Stark, while still asserting his princely status.
He touched the hilt of his own smallsword, the one from which he'd absorbed the original Joffrey's petty cruelties. He no longer felt those impulses as his own, but they were there, a readily accessible mask he could don. He would need that mask at Winterfell. He needed to be Joffrey, the arrogant brat, so that no one would look too closely at the cold, calculating mind working beneath.
One evening, as the camp was being set up in a windswept field under a grey, overcast sky, a grizzled outrider presented himself to Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. NJ, loitering nearby under the guise of boredom, strained his ears.
"Lord Stark and his party are encamped less than half a day's ride from here, Ser Barristan," the outrider reported. "They'll ride to meet us on the morrow."
Tomorrow, then. The Starks. Winterfell. The first true test of his ability to manipulate events in this new world.
He felt a familiar coldness settle within him, the psychopathic calm that always preceded a complex operation in his past life. Fear was a stranger to him. Excitement was a distraction. All that remained was the intricate clockwork of his mind, calculating variables, predicting outcomes, preparing for contingencies.
He retreated to his tent, the wind whipping the canvas. He needed to be rested, focused. He ran a hand along one of an old wooden chest that transported some of his clothes, a chest that had likely been in the Baratheon family for generations, even before they were kings.
The influx was immediate: the scent of pine from the Kingswood where its wood was felled, the rough hands of the carpenter who'd built it, the pride of some forgotten Baratheon lord packing it for a journey to war or a tournament. He felt the grit of Storm's End, the salt spray of Shipbreaker Bay, the fierce, often brutal, loyalty of the Stormlords. It was different from the Targaryen essence – less magical, more grounded in martial prowess and a stubborn, unyielding pride. It was the spirit of the Stag, wild and untamed.
He absorbed it, integrated it. Another layer, another facet to his growing power. He was Baratheon. He was Lannister by his mother. He carried echoes of Targaryen kings. And he was something else entirely, something new and infinitely more dangerous.
Winter was coming. And he, the new Joffrey, was ready to greet it. Not as a victim, not as a pawn, but as a predator, cloaked in the skin of a prince. The game was about to become far more interesting.