Chapter 12: Lances of Deception, Embers of Control
The Tourney of the Hand erupted upon King's Landing like a vibrant, manic fever. The designated grounds, a vast, cleared expanse by the Blackwater Rush, had transformed into a veritable city of pavilions, their bright silks and painted banners snapping in the late spring breeze. Knights and lords from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms – save the reclusive North, which had little taste for such Southern fripperies beyond Lord Stark's begrudging presence – had converged upon the capital, each eager to display their prowess, curry favor, or simply revel in the spectacle. The air thrummed with a heady mix of excitement, the scent of roasted meats, horse sweat, wine, and the ever-present underlying dust of the city.
NJ, seated in the ostentatious splendor of the royal pavilion, surveyed the scene with the carefully practiced air of a bored princeling forced to endure a tedious obligation. His Joffrey persona was a well-worn cloak now, comfortable in its familiar arrogance. He lounged on plush cushions, occasionally issuing a petulant demand for chilled wine or sweeter cakes, his gaze sweeping disdainfully over the lesser nobles and the distant, roaring crowds. Internally, however, he was a crucible of heightened perception, his senses, augmented by direwolf instinct, weirwood attunement, and now a dragon's predatory focus, absorbing every minute detail. The cacophony of the crowd resolved into individual shouts and conversations; the kaleidoscope of colors sharpened into distinct heraldries and alliances; the very air seemed to vibrate with the collective emotional energy of thousands.
Sansa Stark, seated nearby, was the antithesis of his feigned indifference. Her eyes, wide and luminous, drank in every detail of the chivalric splendor. She was a storybook princess at a storybook tourney, her earlier disillusionment seemingly forgotten, or at least temporarily eclipsed by the dazzling romance of it all. NJ found her naive enthusiasm almost painfully predictable.
"Isn't it magnificent, Your Grace?" she breathed, her gaze fixed on a procession of knights riding onto the field, their armor gleaming, their destriers caparisoned in brilliant silks. "Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers! They say he is the most handsome knight in all the Seven Kingdoms!"
NJ glanced at the Tyrell princeling, whose armor was artfully adorned with enameled blue forget-me-nots and silver roses. "He looks like a woman's fancy doll, Lady Sansa," he drawled, loud enough for those nearby, including a smirking Cersei, to hear. "All glitter and no substance, I wager. A true warrior needs steel in his spine, not flowers on his shield."
Sansa flushed, her smile faltering, but she dared not contradict him. NJ noted with cold satisfaction that his words, while fitting the Joffrey persona, also served to subtly denigrate a potential rival house, a small, almost insignificant seed of discord planted.
The jousting began with a flourish of trumpets. The initial rounds were a blur of thundering hooves, splintering lances, and the roar of the crowd. NJ watched with an analytical eye far beyond his supposed years. His absorbed martial knowledge, primarily from Jaime Lannister but also from countless other warrior essences, allowed him to dissect each pass with chilling precision. He saw the subtle shifts in a knight's balance, the angle of a lance, the tell-tale hesitation of a nervous mount. He could predict, with unnerving accuracy, who would unhorse whom, often before the first splinter flew.
He used his truth-sense liberally, focusing on the heralds as they announced the challengers, sensing the pride or apprehension in their voices. He listened to the boasts of knights in nearby pavilions, discerning the genuine confidence from the fearful bluster. He even turned his attention to the royal box itself, analyzing the undercurrents of the King's loud, wine-fueled pronouncements (mostly bluster and a desperate attempt to relive his own martial youth), Cersei's barbed comments (laced with genuine disdain for Robert and a fierce, possessive pride when Jaime rode), and the quiet, insightful observations of Lord Stark, who watched the proceedings with a grim, dutiful air.
Jaime Lannister, the Lion of Lannister, was a vision of golden arrogance and effortless skill. He rode like a centaur, his lance an extension of his will, unhorsing opponent after opponent with a grace that seemed almost contemptuous. NJ felt a flicker of the dragon's pride witnessing such mastery, a vicarious thrill from the martial essence he shared with his uncle-father. He also noted the way Cersei's eyes followed Jaime, a possessive fire in their depths that was far from sisterly. Their secret was a living, breathing thing, even here, amidst the public spectacle.
Ser Loras Tyrell, despite NJ's earlier Joffrey-esque dismissal, proved to be more than just a pretty face. His skill was undeniable, his seat perfect, his aim unerring. He unhorsed several seasoned knights, his victories met with thunderous applause, particularly from the ladies. NJ, analyzing his technique, saw not just skill, but a certain theatricality, a performer's understanding of how to win the crowd. A useful trait, he conceded internally.
Then came the less savory aspects of the tourney. Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, was a figure of pure, unadulterated brutality. A behemoth of a man, his sheer size and strength were terrifying. His passes were less about skill and more about overwhelming force, his opponents often carried from the field with grievous injuries. NJ watched him with a cold, clinical interest. This was a weapon, a blunt instrument of terror, and he knew from his future knowledge the atrocities Gregor was capable of. The essence he had absorbed from Sandor Clegane's boot stirred within him, a phantom echo of hatred and fear towards this monstrous brother.
The most significant event of the first day, however, was the joust between Ser Gregor and a young knight from the Vale, Ser Hugh. NJ knew Ser Hugh had been Jon Arryn's squire. He knew the boy likely possessed information about Lord Arryn's last days, his investigations into Robert's bastards, and perhaps even the Lannister incest. As Ser Gregor thundered down the list, his lance aimed not at the shield but high, towards the throat, NJ felt a chilling premonition, a convergence of his absorbed knowledge and the unfolding reality. The splintered lance caught Ser Hugh under the gorget, a sliver of wood piercing his neck. He was dead before he hit the ground.
A wave of horror rippled through the crowd. Sansa gasped, her face paling. Robert swore drunkenly. Cersei looked momentarily shocked, then quickly composed her features. NJ, outwardly, feigned a prince's callous indifference, perhaps even a flicker of morbid Joffrey-esque curiosity. Internally, his mind was a whirlwind of calculations. Ser Hugh's death was… convenient. Too convenient. A key witness in Ned Stark's investigation, silenced permanently. He subtly focused his truth-sense on Littlefinger, who was seated among the lesser nobles, his face a mask of polite regret. Beneath it, NJ sensed a faint, almost imperceptible tremor of satisfaction, a cold, calculating opportunism. Varys, seated not far from Baelish, was, as always, unreadable, his expression one of bland sorrow.
This, NJ knew, was how the game was truly played in King's Landing. Not with lances and shields in the bright sun, but with whispers, poisons, and "accidents" in the shadows. Ser Gregor was a useful brute, but the true monsters were the ones who smiled and plotted.
During a lull in the jousting, as servants circulated with refreshments, NJ let his heightened senses roam. He picked up on a hushed conversation between two Tyrell bannermen, discussing a potential marriage alliance with a Riverlands house. He heard a Reach lord complaining about the King's taxes. He even caught a snippet of two serving girls gossiping about a secret tryst involving a prominent lady of the court. Each piece of information, however trivial, was filed away, cross-referenced, added to his growing mental map of the court's intricate social and political landscape.
The news of Tyrion's abduction by Catelyn Stark had, of course, reached King's Landing just before the tourney commenced, throwing a massive stone into the already troubled waters. It had been the subject of furious, panicked conversations within the Lannister faction and had further strained relations with King Robert, who was enraged by Catelyn's audacity but also deeply reluctant to openly condemn his friend Ned Stark's wife. Cersei had been incandescent with rage, demanding Tywin Lannister be informed, demanding war. Jaime had been quieter, but his fury was a palpable thing.
NJ had observed all this with cold calculation. Catelyn's rash act, fueled by Littlefinger's insidious lies about the Valyrian steel dagger, was accelerating the realm towards open conflict, just as Baelish intended. The tourney, with its forced gaiety, felt like a dance on the edge of a volcano. Robert, trying to maintain a facade of normalcy, insisted the tourney proceed, but the undercurrent of political crisis was undeniable. Ned Stark, now burdened not only by the Handship and Jon Arryn's mysterious death but also by his wife's kidnapping of the King's brother-in-law, looked like a man carrying the weight of the world.
Sandor Clegane, the Hound, also rode in the jousts. He lacked the flash of Loras Tyrell or the effortless grace of Jaime, but his skill was undeniable, a grim, efficient brutality that was almost a mirror of his brother's, yet somehow more contained, more… professional. He unhorsed several opponents, his victories met with a mixture of applause and unease from the crowd. NJ, watching him, felt the echo of the Hound's pain and resentment, the burning hatred for Gregor, the deeply buried flicker of a twisted honor. Sandor was a complex piece on the board, one NJ was still considering how best to utilize. When Gregor had killed Ser Hugh, Sandor's scarred face had been unreadable, but NJ's truth-sense had picked up a faint wave of contempt, not for the killing itself, but perhaps for its messiness, or for the victim's foolishness.
The first day of jousting concluded as the sun began to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in hues of blood orange and bruised purple. The feast that followed in the Great Hall was a raucous affair, the air thick with the smell of wine, roasted meat, and the sweat of exhilarated or disappointed knights. NJ endured it, playing his Joffrey role, making snide comments about the quality of the wine or the uncouth behavior of some of the lesser lords. He used the noise and confusion to his advantage, his heightened senses on full alert, his truth-sense sifting through the drunken boasts and whispered intrigues.
He managed, during a moment when a cupbearer stumbled near him, to "accidentally" brush his fingers against a silver goblet that Ser Loras Tyrell had just set down. The influx was surprisingly potent for such a brief contact: the thrill of victory, the adulation of the crowd, a fierce ambition carefully masked by charm and beauty, and an intense, almost worshipful devotion directed towards Renly Baratheon. There was also a surprising depth of martial dedication beneath the flamboyant exterior. The Knight of Flowers was not to be underestimated.
Later, as he retired to his chambers, the echoes of the day still ringing in his ears, NJ reflected on his own performance. He had maintained the Joffrey facade flawlessly, even as his mind operated on multiple levels, absorbing, analyzing, calculating. His control over the internal magics had held, though there had been moments, particularly during Gregor's brutal displays or Jaime's triumphs, when the dragon fire had surged, threatening to crack his composure. He had managed to leash it, to channel its energy into a heightened state of alertness rather than overt aggression. The weirwood's calm had been a crucial anchor, allowing him to process the overwhelming sensory input of the tourney without being overwhelmed.
He felt a growing confidence in his ability to navigate this treacherous world. He was not just a passive observer with future knowledge; he was an active agent, his powers giving him unseen advantages. The game of thrones was a deadly, intricate dance, and he was learning the steps with astonishing speed. The pieces were moving – Ned Stark investigating, Littlefinger scheming, Catelyn's abduction of Tyrion igniting a firestorm, Robert blundering towards his doom. And he, Joffrey Baratheon, the boy prince whom everyone dismissed, was positioning himself to exploit the coming chaos, to rise from the ashes of their ambitions.
The tourney was far from over. The melee awaited, a far more brutal and chaotic affair than the jousts. More opportunities for observation, for information, perhaps even for subtle intervention. NJ felt the dormant power within him, the coiled serpent of his intellect, the dragon's fire, the weirwood's ancient wisdom, all waiting. He was a predator in a gilded cage, and soon, he would begin to rattle the bars.