Chapter 7: The Weirwood's Whisper, The Serpent's Gaze
The days that followed Robert Baratheon's judgment were steeped in an uneasy quiet within Winterfell's grey walls. The King, having decreed an end to the matter, promptly immersed himself in hunting and feasting, leaving a wake of simmering resentments and fractured courtesies. The Lannister contingent, emboldened by Cersei's vindicated fury over Mycah's swift "justice," moved with a renewed arrogance, while the Starks and their household bore the Southern presence with a stoicism that barely veiled their growing distaste.
NJ, his arm now healing with remarkable speed beneath Maester Luwin's diligent care – a recovery subtly enhanced by his own evolving vitality and the absorbed medical lore – used this period of enforced convalescence to observe and consolidate. He saw Arya, a tiny, furious shadow, occasionally glaring at him from the window of her confinement, her spirit clearly unbroken. Sansa, pale and subdued, avoided his gaze, her earlier romantic notions now visibly tarnished by the grim realities she had witnessed. She spent much time with Septa Mordane or seeking solace from her mother, who wore her animosity towards the Lannisters like a shield. Lord Eddard, NJ noted, seemed more burdened than ever, the prospect of the Handship clearly weighing heavily upon him as he began making preparations for the journey south.
The direwolf essence, absorbed from Nymeria's bite, continued to settle within him. It was a strange, exhilarating undercurrent. His senses were undeniably sharper; he could pick out individual conversations from across a noisy courtyard, distinguish the scent of different woods burning in the hearths, feel the subtle shifts in air pressure that heralded a change in weather. There was also a persistent, low thrum of connection to the natural world, an almost instinctual understanding of animal behavior. He found himself watching the ravens circle the rookery with a new, analytical interest, almost feeling the texture of the wind beneath their wings. He couldn't control them, couldn't warg into them as he knew some in this world could, but the potential for such connection, the raw framework of it, now resided within him. It was another tool, another weapon, in his rapidly expanding arsenal.
His Joffrey 2.0 persona – the spoiled, arrogant prince, now with an occasional, surprising flicker of "reason" or "maturity" that kept everyone off-balance – was solidifying. He knew Cersei watched him, her sharp eyes missing little. She seemed to have accepted his explanation that his "merciful" stance regarding Lady was a calculated ploy for political image, a form of Lannister cunning she could appreciate. It was a convenient lie that allowed him to pursue his own agenda without arousing her immediate suspicion.
As his arm healed sufficiently for him to be more mobile, NJ recalled Sansa's earlier, pre-incident invitation to visit the Godswood. He decided it was time. He needed to experience Winterfell's spiritual heart, not for any religious sentiment – such concepts were alien to his psychopathic framework – but because he sensed it was a place of immense power, a nexus of the ancient magic that permeated the North.
He approached Sansa one afternoon as she sat listlessly embroidering in a sunlit alcove. Her reaction to him was now a mixture of fear, residual awe, and a dawning, bitter disillusionment.
"Lady Sansa," he began, his tone carefully neutral, with just a hint of princely condescension. "I recall you once offered to show me your family's… sacred grove. As my arm is now much improved, perhaps the air would do me good."
Sansa started, her needle pricking her finger. "Your Grace," she stammered, her eyes wide and uncertain. "The Godswood… yes. If… if you still wish it."
"It would be a… diversion," he conceded, as if bestowing a great favor.
The walk to the Godswood was quiet, Sansa clearly too intimidated or too unhappy to chatter as she once had. NJ preferred it this way. It allowed him to fully absorb his surroundings. The ancient stones of Winterfell seemed to hum with a low energy, a resonance he was increasingly attuned to.
The Godswood itself was a pocket of primordial wilderness within the castle walls, three acres of tangled, ancient trees, gnarled and moss-covered. The air within was cool, damp, and heavy with the scent of earth and decaying leaves. A profound silence reigned, broken only by the rustle of unseen creatures and the whisper of wind through the dense canopy. It felt like stepping back into the dawn of time.
At its heart stood the weirwood, the heart tree. It was an ancient, colossal specimen, its smooth, bone-white bark a stark contrast to the dark trunks around it. Its blood-red leaves, shaped like five-fingered hands, seemed to drink the dim light. And carved into its trunk was a face – long, melancholic, with deep-set eyes from which red sap, like tears of blood, continually wept.
NJ felt a powerful thrum emanating from it, a palpable wave of ancient power and unfathomable age. This was what he had come for.
Sansa stood at a respectful distance, her head bowed. "This is the heart tree, Your Grace. My family has prayed here for thousands of years."
NJ barely heard her. He approached the weirwood, drawn by an irresistible force. He reached out a hand, his fingers brushing against the unnaturally smooth, cool bark of the carved face.
The moment of contact was explosive.
It was not like absorbing the essence of a man-made object or even the raw instinct of an animal. This was like plunging into the very bedrock of the world's oldest memories. A tidal wave of images, sensations, and incomprehensible knowledge surged into him, threatening to overwhelm his carefully constructed consciousness.
He saw the Children of the Forest, small, dark, and graceful, their luminous eyes watching him from the depths of time, their hands carving the faces into the trees. He heard their songs, a strange, melodic language that spoke of a world before men. He felt the raw, untamed magic they wielded, a magic of stone and leaf, of whispered secrets to the earth and sky.
He witnessed the arrival of the First Men, tall and bearded, wielding bronze weapons, their fear and aggression giving way to a grudging respect and eventual assimilation. He saw the pacts made, the old gods acknowledged, the centuries unfolding like the rings of a tree. Stark ancestors, grim-faced and resolute, kneeling before this very tree, their vows and prayers absorbed by its ancient consciousness. He felt the Long Night, an echo of a cold so profound, so terrifying, it chilled him to his core despite the lack of physical sensation, a darkness teeming with horrors that made the petty squabbles of Westerosi lords seem like children's games.
He sensed the network, the vast, interconnected consciousness of the weirwoods across the continent, a silent, watching web of ancient intelligence. He felt the faint, dying whispers of greenseers, men who could see through the eyes of the heart trees, their spirits lingering like faded echoes in the wood.
It was too much. The sheer volume, the immense timescale, the alien nature of the Children's consciousness, the raw, elemental magic – it was like trying to drink the ocean. His mind, for the first time since his reincarnation, buckled under the strain. He felt his own identity, his carefully guarded psychopathic core, begin to fray, to dissolve into this vast, ancient ocean of being.
No! With a monumental effort of will, the core of his intellect, the cold, diamond-hard kernel of his being, asserted itself. He slammed shut the valve of his power, severing the connection, but not before an immense, incomprehensible portion of the weirwood's essence had poured into him.
He stumbled back, gasping, his Joffrey-body trembling violently. Sansa rushed forward, her face pale with alarm. "Your Grace! Are you unwell? The air… is it too cold?"
NJ waved her away, struggling to regain his composure, to process the cataclysmic influx. His mind was a maelstrom. He felt… different. Older. As if centuries had passed in those few moments. The world around him looked sharper, yet somehow more dreamlike. He could almost see the faint auras of life around the trees, feel the pulse of the earth beneath his feet. The raw magic of the Old Gods, the deep, primal connection to the land, was now a part of him, intertwined with the fiery echoes of Valyria and the stoic strength of Storm's End. It was a terrifying, exhilarating synthesis.
"I… I am fine," he managed, his voice raspy. "The… solemnity of this place… it is rather overwhelming for a Southerner." He needed to leave, to find solitude, to understand what had just happened to him. "Take me back, Lady Sansa. I find I have had enough of ancient trees for one day."
The return to his chambers was a blur. He dismissed Sansa curtly, locked his door, and collapsed onto his bed, his mind racing. The weirwood's knowledge was not like human knowledge. It was vast, symbolic, instinctual, rooted in the very fabric of the planet. It gave him an understanding of this world's deep magic, its cycles, its ancient history, that no book, no human memory, could ever provide. He felt the truth of the Others, the reality of the Long Night, not as a story, but as a recurring, cyclical threat, an inevitable winter. This knowledge settled a cold dread even in his detached psyche – not fear for himself, but an understanding of the sheer scale of the existential threat that overshadowed all human ambition.
As he lay there, processing, he realized the weirwood had also given him something else: a subtle ability to sense truth from falsehood, at least when spoken with strong emotional intent. It wasn't mind-reading, but a heightened perception of the subtle dissonances that accompanied a lie, an echo of the weirwood's role as a silent, all-seeing witness to vows and oaths. This would be an invaluable tool in the snake pit of King's Landing.
His "recovery" from this profound absorption took several days, during which he feigned a relapse of his arm injury. He used the time to try and integrate this new, vast layer of awareness. The human essences he had absorbed – kings, craftsmen, maesters – felt almost superficial compared to the elemental power of the weirwood and the primal instinct of the direwolf. He was becoming a complex hybrid, a being of many layers, his intellect the loom upon which these diverse threads were being woven into a unique tapestry of power.
Tyrion found him one afternoon, poring over a map of the North NJ had requested from Maester Luwin. The Imp raised an eyebrow. "Developing a fondness for our Northern territories, nephew? Or merely planning your escape route should the hospitality wear thin?"
NJ looked up, his eyes carefully blank. "One should always understand the terrain, Uncle. Whether as a guest or… a ruler." He felt a subtle flicker, a dissonance in Tyrion's jesting tone. The Imp was probing, yes, but there was also a genuine, if carefully hidden, curiosity about NJ's recent changes.
"A ruler of what, pray tell?" Tyrion asked, his eyes glinting. "Snowdrifts and sheep?"
"Empires are built on understanding, Uncle," NJ said coolly, tapping the map. "Even empires of snow." This newfound ability to sense underlying currents in speech was intriguing. Tyrion was amused, suspicious, but also… intrigued. He saw NJ as a puzzle, a potentially dangerous one. Good. Puzzles kept intelligent minds occupied.
Cersei, too, noticed his prolonged "convalescence" after the Godswood visit. "You seem… changed again, Joffrey," she remarked, her gaze sharp and analytical as she observed him. "Paler. More… thoughtful. It is unsettling."
"The North is a harsh land, Mother," NJ said, allowing a hint of Joffrey's whine. "It takes its toll. I long for the sun and sophistication of King's Landing." He needed to reassure her that he was still her son, still pliable in the ways that mattered to her. He also fed her small, carefully selected pieces of information about the Starks' mood, their perceived stubbornness, subtly reinforcing her prejudices to align with his future plans for destabilizing Ned Stark in the capital.
Jaime, he saw less of. The Kingslayer was often with Robert on his hunts, or engaged in martial training. NJ, however, engineered an opportunity. Knowing Jaime often discarded practice gear carelessly, he instructed a servant, under the guise of some princely errand, to retrieve a specific item from the training yard – a dented practice gauntlet he'd seen Jaime discard. The servant, eager to please, complied.
Alone in his chambers, NJ held the steel gauntlet. It was heavy, scarred, bearing the faint scent of sweat and leather. He touched it.
The influx was pure, dazzling skill. Years of relentless training, the feel of a sword in his hand not as a tool but as an extension of his own body. The precise balance, the footwork, the instinctive parries and devastating counter-attacks. He felt Jaime's casual arrogance in his own prowess, his boredom with lesser opponents, the sheer physical poetry of his movements. But beneath it, there were also flashes of Jaime's deeper conflicts: his oath as a Kingsguard warring with his love for Cersei, his contempt for Robert, his hidden shame over the "Kingslayer" epithet, and a surprising, buried desire for true honor that he himself had all but extinguished.
NJ absorbed it all, the martial brilliance slotting into his mind like a perfectly crafted weapon. He wouldn't become Jaime Lannister overnight, his young body still needed conditioning, but the knowledge, the instinctive reflexes, the muscle memory at a neurological level – it was all there.
The King, finally bored of Winterfell and impatient to return to the comforts of the South, announced their imminent departure. A flurry of activity swept through the castle. NJ, feeling a sense of grim satisfaction, prepared for the next stage. He had accomplished much in Winterfell. He had successfully navigated his first major crisis, subtly altered canonical events, and, most importantly, vastly augmented his power and understanding of this world.
On the eve of their departure, he found himself drawn once more to the battlements overlooking the dark expanse of the Wolfswood. The Northern air was cold and clean, carrying the scent of winter. He felt the ancient power of this land, a power he now carried a piece of within him. He looked south, towards the viper's nest of King's Landing. It was a place of intrigue, corruption, and sophisticated depravity – a stark contrast to the raw, primal North. But it was also the seat of power, the ultimate prize.
He was no longer just a psychopath with a high IQ in a borrowed body. The essences of kings, maesters, warriors, direwolves, and even the ancient weirwoods were merging within him, forging something new, something this world had never seen. His Joffrey persona was a useful shield, but the entity behind it was growing, evolving, its ambitions crystallizing. The Iron Throne was merely a stepping stone. The true game was far larger, its stakes cosmic, its horizon shadowed by the promise of the Long Night.
As the first rays of dawn touched the grey towers of Winterfell, NJ turned away from the brooding North. He was ready. Let the games in the South begin. He, the hidden serpent beneath the lion prince's skin, was eager to play.