Chapter 8: The Raven's Shadow, The Serpent's Coil
The morning of their departure from Winterfell was draped in a chill mist that clung to the ancient grey stones like a shroud. There was a palpable sense of relief amongst the Southern contingent, an eagerness to leave the cold, grim North behind. For NJ, it was a more complex parting. Winterfell had been a crucible, a place where his power had deepened profoundly, where the very essence of millennia had poured into him. He was leaving far more than he had been upon arrival.
The farewells in the main courtyard were a stiff, formal affair. King Robert, eager to be off, clapped a still-somber Ned Stark on the shoulder, reiterating his command for Ned to follow south as soon as he was able. Lord Stark, his face etched with the fresh sorrow of Mycah's death and Arya's confinement – and though NJ did not yet know it, the yet-to-be-discovered tragedy of Bran – looked every inch a man burdened by unwanted duties and royal decrees. Catelyn Stark stood beside her husband, her Tully defiance a cold fire in her eyes, her gaze sweeping over Cersei and NJ with undisguised loathing. She would not be accompanying Ned south immediately; her place, for now, was with her children in Winterfell.
Sansa, pale and quiet, offered NJ a hesitant curtsy, her eyes downcast. The golden prince of her songs had been tarnished by blood and fear. NJ gave her a curt, princely nod, his Joffrey persona firmly in place. Arya was nowhere to be seen, confined to her chambers, a tiny, furious storm brewing in isolation. NJ almost felt a flicker of amusement; her untamed spirit was a predictable, if occasionally inconvenient, force.
As their massive procession finally rumbled out through Winterfell's main gate, NJ took one last look at the formidable keep. He felt the ancient power of the place, the echo of the heart tree's whisper still resonating deep within him. It was a power he now carried, a seed of the North's enduring magic transplanted into the unlikely vessel of Joffrey Baratheon. He wondered, with a detached curiosity, how it would react to the more decadent, intrigue-laden atmosphere of King's Landing.
The first few days on the Kingsroad heading south were a tedious mirror of their journey north, albeit with a quicker pace now that the King was eager for the comforts of his own court. The landscape slowly began to soften, the air losing some of its sharp, Northern bite. NJ spent much of this time in the relative solitude of his carriage, not in boredom, but in deep internal consolidation. The weirwood's essence was a universe unto itself – vast, ancient, filled with the slow, deep rhythms of the earth and the collective memory of millennia. He practiced reaching into that well of knowledge, not just for specific facts, but for the profound sense of perspective it offered, the chilling certainty of the Long Night, the cyclical nature of history.
His truth-sensing ability, a gift from the heart tree, was becoming more refined. He found he could now consciously activate it, focusing on a speaker and feeling for the subtle dissonances, the almost imperceptible emotional "scratches" that accompanied falsehood or strong, hidden intent. It wasn't infallible, especially with skilled liars who believed their own deceptions, but it was a potent tool. He also continued to integrate Jaime's martial essence, his young body subtly recalibrating, his movements becoming more fluid, his balance more assured, even in the jostling carriage. The direwolf's instincts still pricked at his senses, making him acutely aware of the sounds and smells beyond their immediate party – the rustle of unseen animals in the woods, the distant scent of rain.
It was on the fourth day of their journey south, as they made camp near a rushing river that was a tributary of the Green Fork, that the raven arrived. A black speck against the grey sky, winging its way towards the King's pavilion. NJ, who had been observing the meticulous setup of the royal camp with his usual feigned disdain, felt a prickle of anticipation. Ravens often meant news, and in this volatile world, news was rarely good.
He saw Maester Frenken, the elderly maester assigned to the royal progress (a far less impressive specimen than Luwin, NJ had already determined after a brief, unrewarding touch of his ink-stained robe), hurry towards the King's tent with a small scroll. A short while later, an air of disquiet began to spread through the camp. Servants whispered, guards looked more alert, and King Robert's usual boisterous laughter was conspicuously absent.
Cersei summoned him to her private section of the royal tent later that evening. Her face was a carefully composed mask, but NJ, activating his truth-sense, felt the frantic, almost panicked energy beneath it, a discordant thrum of fear and… was that a faint, ugly flicker of satisfaction?
"Joffrey," she said, her voice tight. "News from Winterfell. That boy, Bran Stark… he has had a fall. A terrible one. From a high tower. He is… unlikely to live."
NJ arranged his features into an expression of mild, princely shock. "Fallen? How dreadful. The poor boy. He was always climbing, wasn't he?" He remembered Bran from the feast, a curious, active child.
"Indeed," Cersei said, her eyes like chips of green ice. "A tragic accident. His mother, Lady Catelyn, is naturally distraught. Lord Stark will be… even more burdened."
NJ's mind raced. A fall. He knew the truth of it, the terrible secret that bound his mother and uncle. Bran had seen them. Jaime had pushed him. This wasn't an accident; it was attempted murder, an act of desperate self-preservation. The fear he sensed from Cersei was the fear of discovery, of the consequences if the truth ever came out. The faint satisfaction… that was darker. One less Stark, perhaps? Or relief that Bran hadn't spoken before he fell?
"A tragedy for House Stark," NJ said, his voice carefully neutral. "Will this delay Lord Stark's journey to King's Landing?"
"It seems not," Cersei replied, a little too quickly. "Robert is insistent. Lord Stark is needed. He will follow as soon
as the boy… as soon as matters are settled." She avoided saying "as soon as the boy dies."
The implications were enormous. This event would be the true catalyst, far more than the Nymeria incident, for the Stark-Lannister feud. He knew what came next: the assassination attempt on the comatose Bran with the Valyrian steel dagger, Catelyn's journey south, her accusation of Tyrion, the escalation into open conflict. And Littlefinger, pulling the strings.
His new truth-sensing ability had confirmed Cersei's agitation and hidden emotions, but it couldn't penetrate the layers of Jaime's practiced stoicism when NJ saw him later. The Kingslayer's handsome face was a mask of polite concern, but NJ, knowing the truth, could almost see the faint cracks in the facade, the tension around his eyes, the slight, almost imperceptible restlessness. Or perhaps that was his own knowledge overlaying his perception. He made a mental note: even the weirwood's gift had its limits against a lifetime of dissimulation or a mind not actively speaking.
The journey south continued under this new shadow. King Robert was more subdued, his boisterousness replaced by a grumpy irritability. He spoke often of Ned, sometimes with genuine concern, sometimes with impatient frustration that his friend was delayed. NJ used the long hours of travel to further analyze the weirwood's visions of the Long Night. It was more than just a historical event; it was a recurring existential threat, a fundamental cosmic cycle of this world. The petty ambitions of men, their wars and alliances, seemed like the squabbles of mayflies in the face of such an ancient, overwhelming darkness. Yet, it was these petty squabbles that would shape the realm's ability to face that darkness when it came again. His own ambition, NJ realized, was no longer just about seizing the Iron Throne for the sake of power; it was about acquiring the power necessary to control events on a scale that could prepare for, or perhaps even alter, that inevitable winter. This was a game far grander than he had initially conceived.
He also practiced with the myriad essences within him. He would focus on Jaime's martial grace, feeling the phantom balance and coordination flood his limbs, then shift to Maester Luwin's healing knowledge, recalling the precise anatomy of a bone or the properties of a specific herb. He'd then immerse himself in the ancient wisdom of the weirwood, feeling the slow pulse of the earth, before allowing the Targaryen arrogance or the Baratheon stubbornness to surface. It was like conducting an orchestra of identities within himself, learning to draw upon each instrument as needed, while ensuring his own core intellect remained the conductor. The danger, he knew, was in allowing any one essence to overwhelm him, to bleed into his Joffrey persona at an inappropriate moment. Control, as always, was paramount.
They stopped at a dilapidated old inn one rainy evening, the Kingsroad having turned into a muddy quagmire. The place reeked of stale beer, unwashed bodies, and despair. While Robert and the high lords took the best rooms, NJ found himself in a cramped, drafty chamber. Before settling, he ran his hand along the rough-hewn wooden doorframe.
The essence of the inn rushed into him: a cacophony of countless travelers, their weariness, their hopes, their fleeting joys and sorrows. He felt the desperation of a merchant ruined by bandits, the brief passion of a clandestine lovers' tryst, the fear of a refugee fleeing some forgotten war, the simple satisfaction of a hot meal after a long day's ride. He also tasted the innkeeper's struggles, his constant battle against poverty, his watered-down ale, his weary resignation. It was a tapestry of common life, mundane yet poignant. And woven through it were threads of information: whispers of increased banditry in the Riverlands, rumors of strange creatures sighted in the mountains to the east, anxieties about the King's spending and the Crown's debts. Useful, if minor, intelligence. He was learning that even the most humble objects could yield valuable insights.
Tyrion sought him out in the inn's common room, where NJ was picking disdainfully at a plate of greasy stew, maintaining his Joffrey act even amidst the squalor.
"A far cry from Winterfell's robust hospitality, wouldn't you agree, nephew?" Tyrion said, a tankard of ale in his hand. He looked surprisingly at ease in the rough surroundings.
"This hovel is an offense to the senses, Uncle," NJ replied, wrinkling his nose. "I shall be glad to see the last of it."
"Indeed," Tyrion said, his eyes twinkling. He leaned closer. "Tell me, Joffrey, this news of young Bran Stark… a terrible tragedy, of course. But does it not strike you as… odd? Boys climb. Boys fall. But from such a height, in a castle he knew like the back of his hand? And so soon after our departure?"
NJ focused his truth-sense. Tyrion's words were laced with genuine suspicion, a probing curiosity, and a deep-seated unease. His uncle suspected foul play, though he clearly had no proof.
"Accidents happen, Uncle," NJ said, affecting a callous indifference. "Especially to careless children. It is unfortunate, but hardly… odd." He needed to appear unconcerned, even slightly bored by the topic. Giving Tyrion any hint that he too found it suspicious would be a mistake.
Tyrion studied him for a long moment. "Perhaps you are right. Some are simply born clumsy. Or unlucky." He took a long drink of ale. "Still, the timing gives one pause. The Starks seem to attract a rather unfortunate share of… accidents… when Lannisters are near."
The barb was unmistakable. NJ met Tyrion's gaze with a look of haughty offense. "Are you implying something, Uncle?"
Tyrion smiled innocently. "Merely observing the patterns of fate, nephew. Nothing more." He drained his tankard and sauntered off, leaving NJ to his stew. The Imp was definitely a threat. His intelligence, coupled with his outsider status within the family, gave him a uniquely dangerous perspective.
As the royal progress moved further south, crossing the Trident – a name that resonated with Targaryen downfall and Baratheon triumph in NJ's mind – he found himself observing Cersei and Jaime with a new intensity. He knew their terrible secret, the act of incestuous passion and desperate violence that had crippled Bran Stark. He watched for signs of their guilt, their fear. Cersei was a master of composure, but he occasionally caught a fleeting shadow in her eyes, a tightening of her lips when Winterfell was mentioned. Jaime was even more inscrutable, his Kingsguard discipline a near-impenetrable armor.
NJ knew he couldn't reveal his knowledge. It was too dangerous, a trump card to be held in reserve, perhaps for a moment of supreme leverage or to orchestrate their downfall when the time was right. For now, it simply informed his understanding of their characters, their motivations, their vulnerabilities. Their shared guilt was a bond, but also a potential wedge.
He recalled the Valyrian steel dagger, the one Littlefinger would use to frame Tyrion and further ignite the Stark-Lannister conflict. He focused his thoughts on Lord Baelish. A master manipulator, a creature of insidious ambition who thrived on chaos. NJ felt a thrill of anticipation at the thought of matching wits with him. Littlefinger played with whispers and lies. NJ played with absorbed history, truth-sense, and an intellect that dwarfed even Baelish's cunning. It would be a fascinating contest.
The weirwood's chilling glimpse of the Long Night remained a constant undercurrent in his thoughts. It put the petty squabbles of these Westerosi lords into stark perspective. While they plotted for power and position, a true, existential oblivion was gathering in the far North. If he were to achieve his grander ambitions, if he were to truly reshape this world, he would need to prepare for that ultimate winter. The Iron Throne, control over the Seven Kingdoms, was not just an end in itself; it was a necessary tool, a platform from which to command the resources and marshal the forces required to face a threat that could extinguish all life.
His sense of self was… evolving. The core psychopathy, the cold, analytical intellect, remained. But it was now surrounded, infused, by a multitude of other consciousnesses, other experiences. He was Joffrey Baratheon, the boy prince. He was the ancient wisdom of the weirwood. He was the fiery pride of fallen Targaryen kings. He was the martial prowess of Jaime Lannister and the healing knowledge of Maester Luwin. He was the primal instinct of the direwolf. He was not merely the sum of these parts; a new, unique entity was being forged in the crucible of this second life, an entity of terrifying potential.
One evening, as they camped near a small, impoverished village, a dispute erupted within the royal caravan. Two quartermasters were accusing each other of theft, a vital cask of Arbor Gold having gone missing. The argument grew heated, threatening to disrupt the camp. Robert was already drunk and uninterested. The camp commander was at a loss. NJ, observing from the periphery, saw an opportunity to test his skills on a minor scale.
He subtly touched a discarded inventory list one of the quartermasters had dropped. Instantly, he felt the man's anxiety, his genuine belief in his own innocence, and a flash of memory of seeing the other quartermaster accepting a clandestine wineskin from a group of freeriders who had passed them on the road earlier that day – the Arbor Gold clearly traded for some other illicit goods. The second quartermaster, when NJ focused his truth-sense on him during his blustering denials, reeked of deceit.
NJ didn't intervene directly. That would be out of character. Instead, he found Ser Meryn Trant of the Kingsguard, a man known for his thuggishness and eagerness to please the Prince.
"Ser Meryn," NJ said, his voice bored but carrying an undertone of command. "Those squabbling fools are disturbing my peace. The fatter one, I believe, has been dealing with unsavory elements on the road. Perhaps a… thorough search of his belongings, and those of his newfound friends, might prove illuminating. And quieten this unseemly ruckus."
Ser Meryn, eager for any excuse to exercise his authority and curry favor, did exactly that. The missing Arbor Gold wasn't found (having likely already been consumed or carried off by the freeriders), but the guilty quartermaster's other petty thefts and illicit dealings quickly came to light under Trant's brutal search and questioning. The man was flogged and dismissed, the innocent one vindicated, and quiet restored to the camp. NJ had resolved the issue without ever appearing to be involved, a small but satisfying exercise in manipulation and the application of his unique abilities.
They were drawing closer to King's Landing. The air was growing warmer, the landscape more fertile, the villages larger and more prosperous. The shadow of Winterfell was receding, replaced by the looming anticipation of the capital, the heart of power and intrigue in the Seven Kingdoms. NJ felt ready. He was armed with knowledge, both of the future and the past, and with powers no one in this world could comprehend. The game was about to enter a new, more dangerous phase. And he was eager to make his moves.
.