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The good times always end.
The roar of the feast slowly died.
Shadows thinned among the wreckage of plates and cups.
The king had already been carried off. The queen had vanished with the two younger children.
Lord and Lady Stark had probably retreated to their chambers to get busy.
Only a handful of people remained in the hall.
Servants clearing the tables stole quick bites of the rare delicacies they'd never see again in their lives.
In the corner a singer wrapped in a plain cloak strummed a lute.
"In the towering hall…"
"The king has long since gone…"
"Jenny dances on with her ghost…"
The voice was hoarse and mournful, drifting through the empty hall.
The song was Jenny of Oldstones—a tragic tale of a common girl, a king, love, sacrifice, and crossing the lines of class.
The singer had slipped into the royal column weeks earlier in the Barrowlands by performing this very piece for Robert.
Joffrey leaned back in his chair and listened quietly.
His gaze swept the hall.
The servants looked genuinely happy just from scraping a few leftovers.
The simple contentment on their faces made the song's sorrow feel bitterly ironic.
After a full sweep his eyes settled on the bold singer.
Gray-streaked hair framed a weathered, sharp face. Brown eyes held a cleverness that didn't belong to a common minstrel.
Nearby, Benjen Stark—Lord Eddard's brother and First Ranger of the Night's Watch—listened, rapt.
Chuckling, he scooped up a handful of coppers and tossed them into the old hat at the singer's feet.
"Well sung, friend! Give us one about the Wall!"
The singer bowed low, gray hair falling across most of his face.
"As you wish, my lord," he answered, perfectly respectful.
Joffrey lifted his half-cold cup to hide the smile he couldn't quite kill.
He knew exactly who the singer was.
Mance Rayder.
King-Beyond-the-Wall.
Joffrey had zero intention of exposing him.
He had never been beyond the Wall; he had no proof this beloved singer was the man the rangers had hunted for years.
Besides, letting the only man who had united the free folk die here helped no one.
The winter coming from beyond the Wall would need every sword arm it could get.
Joffrey drained the last of his wine, flipped the cup upside down to show it was empty.
The big northern lord across from him raised both hands in surrender.
"Your Grace, I yield. You're a gods-damned wine god reborn!"
After the challenger stumbled away, Joffrey's mind shifted. He checked the system again.
[Heaven's Will Points Full. One Draw Unlocked.]
All that drinking had been worth it.
He opened the panel, remembering the lesson from last time. No more hunting "lucky spots"—that was just superstitious nonsense.
When it was full, you spun. No waiting.
The glowing wheel appeared and spun fast.
It slowed.
Text formed in front of his eyes.
[Stargaze (Beginner)]
[I Really Didn't Expect This: Focus on someone you have met to observe certain movements near them. (Cooldown: 7 days)]
[Current Role: The Concerned Military Advisor]
Joffrey tapped the table lightly.
Interesting.
He now had a crude form of map-hack.
…
The next morning thin sunlight lit Winterfell's training yard.
Joffrey drew a deep breath of the crisp air. The cold shock woke him instantly.
"Over here! Over here!"
Robb was already waiting. His red hair was messy, water droplets still clinging to the ends from a quick wash.
But the dark circles under his eyes and unsteady stance screamed hangover.
"Want to wait until you're feeling better?" Joffrey offered kindly. "I'd hate to feel like I'm taking advantage."
"No way," Robb said stubbornly. "A promise is a promise."
"We said we'd spar today, so we spar."
He reached for the steel sword Joffrey had given him the night before.
"None of that!" A figure shot forward.
Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms, snatched the blade away.
"Real swords are too dangerous!" the old knight said sternly. "You two will use practice blades only."
The Hound's eyes widened in exaggerated shock. "Wooden swords? Are they little girls?"
"Ha ha ha…"
The laugh was rough and ugly.
"When they've mastered the basics they may use real steel," Ser Rodrik snapped, glaring at the Hound. "Clegane, I train knights here."
"I said wooden swords, so wooden swords it is."
Joffrey shrugged.
The Hound spat, crossed his arms, and stepped back.
Once they were in sparring leathers the fight began.
Robb fought like a true northerner—direct, powerful, all heavy chops.
Joffrey used the footwork and timing he'd drilled with the Hound, blocking, redirecting, patiently waiting for an opening.
After a few clashes he realized Robb's blows were soft and weak.
Too much wine last night?
After testing him, Joffrey spotted the gap, slipped under a downward chop, slid sideways, and flicked his blade under Robb's armpit.
Robb yelped and clutched the spot with his free hand. Now swinging one-handed and wild, he left himself wide open.
Joffrey parried easily, stepped in, feinted a thrust, dropped into a fake chop, then reversed and rapped the flat of the blade twice against the side of Robb's head.
The move—called a reverse-blade strike—was flashy and clean.
Robb staggered, then dropped flat on his back.
"Good!"
The Hound pumped a mailed fist into the air and let out a roar.
He glared around the yard.
"Good!" "Good!" "Well struck!"…
The Baratheon and Lannister men quickly joined the cheering.
The Stark guards just traded awkward glances.
That was over way too fast.
Robb lay on the ground holding his head, still dazed.
Joffrey hauled him up, looking apologetic. "Sorry, I didn't pull it in time."
Robb blinked, still not fully awake.
Joffrey helped him to a bench on the side of the yard.
"Well fought," Ser Rodrik said, clearly reluctant and a little stunned. "Help them out of their armor."
Once the leathers were off, Joffrey stood in the sunlight, combed sweat-damp golden hair back with his fingers, and gave his head a casual shake.
"Wow!" came a few hushed squeals from the covered walkway.
Joffrey glanced over just in time to see colorful skirts disappearing around a corner.
"How'd I fall just now—did you see it?" Robb asked, rubbing his forehead, turning to a tall, lean, dark-skinned young man.
Whatever the youth answered, Joffrey didn't catch it.
Ser Rodrik's booming voice filled the yard again.
"Prince Tommen! Bran! You're up next!"