Chapter 9: The Red Keep's Secrets, The Game's New Board
The landscape transformed with each southward league, the rugged grandeur of the North relinquishing its hold to the gentler, more cultivated tapestry of the Crownlands. The Kingsroad, once a lonely ribbon through wilderness, now teemed with life: merchant caravans laden with goods, pilgrims journeying to the Great Sept of Baelor, hedge knights seeking service, and common folk whose faces bore the weary resilience of those living in the shadow of the capital. For NJ, this increasing human density was like the air growing thick with potential signals, each person a carrier of information, each settlement a repository of localized history, however mundane.
King's Landing appeared first as a smudge on the horizon, then as a sprawling, chaotic mass crowned by the three prominent hills: Aegon's High Hill, bearing the formidable Red Keep; Visenya's Hill, site of the gleaming Great Sept; and Rhaenys's Hill, its once-grand dragonpit now a broken ruin. As they drew closer, the city resolved itself into a bewildering labyrinth of timber-and-plaster buildings, narrow, winding streets, and the ever-present, inescapable stench.
The royal procession, which had maintained a semblance of disciplined order through the wilder territories, seemed to swell and slow as it was absorbed by the outskirts of the capital. Crowds lined the roadside, their faces a mixture of awe, excitement, and sullen indifference. Shouts of "Long live King Robert!" and "Prince Joffrey!" were interspersed with the cries of street vendors, the barking of dogs, and the underlying murmur of a million lives crammed together.
NJ, riding his palfrey beside Cersei's litter, maintained his carefully constructed Joffrey persona: a slight, disdainful curl to his lip, his gaze sweeping over the commoners as if they were an interesting, if somewhat distasteful, species of insect. Internally, however, his senses were fully engaged. The direwolf essence sharpened the cacophony into distinct sounds, the overwhelming miasma into a complex olfactory map – the fish-rot of the Mud Gate, the cloying sweetness of Flea Bottom's cheap perfumeries, the metallic tang of forges, the ever-present undertone of human waste. It was a city that reeked of life and death, of ambition and despair. The weirwood's truth-sense felt almost overwhelmed here, the air thick with the emotional residue of countless lies, deceptions, and unfulfilled desires. This place was a symphony of human deceit, a stark contrast to the ancient, elemental truths of Winterfell's Godswood.
As they finally passed through the King's Gate and began the ascent towards the Red Keep, the sheer scale of the fortress became apparent. Its red stone walls, baked by centuries of sun, loomed high, its towers and crenellations promising both security and imprisonment. NJ felt a cold thrill. This was it. The heart of power in Westeros, the stage upon which the game of thrones would be played out in its deadliest form. And he, the hidden player, had arrived.
The reception in the Red Keep's outer courtyard was a meticulously orchestrated display of loyalty and ceremony. Nobles and courtiers in their finest silks and velvets bowed and scraped. Grand Maester Pycelle, ancient and stooped, his chains of office heavy on his frail shoulders, offered a quavering welcome. Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood ramrod straight, his expression unreadable. NJ noted them all, his mind a whirl of future knowledge and present analysis. Pycelle, a Lannister creature through and through. Barristan the Bold, a man of honor and duty, but perhaps naive to the true depths of courtly intrigue.
Their royal apartments were spacious, opulent, filled with rich tapestries, Myrish carpets, and carved furniture. But beneath the veneer of luxury, NJ could already sense the layers of history, the ghosts of past occupants. As soon as he was able, under the guise of inspecting his new quarters, he began his subtle absorptions.
His fingers brushed against a heavy, dark wood wardrobe in his bedchamber. The essence that flowed into him was complex: the meticulous craftsmanship of some long-dead royal carpenter, yes, but also fainter, more intriguing traces. He felt the nervous excitement of a young Targaryen princess hiding a forbidden love letter within its depths, the cold dread of a Hand of the King as he dressed for his own execution, the weary sigh of Queen Rhaella as she endured another of Aerys's mad rages. The wood was saturated with the intimate secrets and sorrows of those who had lived and died within these walls.
He touched the cold stone of the window embrasure, looking out over the sprawling city and Blackwater Bay. The stone hummed with a deeper, older history: Maegor the Cruel's iron will as he oversaw the Keep's construction, the blood and sweat of the thousands who toiled and died building it, the whispers of hidden passages and forgotten dungeons. He felt the faint, lingering paranoia of Aerys II, the Mad King, his fear of betrayal, the scent of wildfire clinging to the very stones where he had plotted to burn the city. This castle was a mausoleum of ambition, a library of atrocities. It was perfect.
It was two days after their arrival, as the royal household was still settling in and King Robert was reacquainting himself with the capital's taverns, that the news reached them, delivered by a grim-faced messenger bearing Lord Stark's seal: an assassin had attempted to murder the still-comatose Bran Stark in his bed, wielding a Valyrian steel dagger.
The reaction in their private solar was telling. Cersei gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes wide with what NJ's truth-sense identified as genuine shock and a sudden, sharp fear – not guilt for this act, but fear of its implications, fear that the situation was spiraling out of her control. Jaime, who was present, went very still, his handsome face unreadable, but NJ felt a wave of cold, controlled fury emanate from him, a dangerous stillness. This was not their doing.
Tyrion, who had joined them, listened with a deepening frown, his mismatched eyes narrowed in thought. "A Valyrian steel dagger?" he mused aloud. "Such weapons are rare and costly. Who would arm a common cutthroat with such a blade to kill a crippled boy?" His gaze flickered towards Cersei, then Jaime.
NJ knew, of course. Littlefinger. The dagger was his, given to Tyrion in a bet, then used by an assassin hired by Baelish himself to escalate chaos, to drive a permanent wedge between Stark and Lannister, and to implicate Tyrion. It was a masterstroke of manipulative genius, and NJ felt a grudging respect for the sheer audacity of it.
"This is an outrage!" Cersei declared, recovering her composure, her fear quickly morphing into performative indignation. "To attack a helpless child in his bed! The Starks have enemies, it seems. Perhaps this is why the boy truly 'fell'." She was already trying to spin it, to deflect suspicion.
NJ, watching his mother, felt the dissonance of her lie. She was shocked by the assassination attempt, yes, but she was also quick to use it.
"The blade is the key, I think," Tyrion said softly, his eyes still thoughtful. "Find the owner of the dagger, and you find the viper in this nest."
NJ stored that away. Tyrion's intelligence was, as always, a factor. He would likely pursue this line of inquiry.
NJ himself feigned Joffrey's characteristic callousness. "More troubles from the North? That family seems cursed. Perhaps it's for the best if Lord Stark remains there to manage his own unfortunate affairs." This was designed to sound like Joffrey wishing to be rid of the Stark presence, while also subtly probing his mother's and father's intentions regarding Ned's Handship.
"Nonsense, Joffrey," Robert boomed, having been summoned to hear the news. He looked more annoyed than concerned. "Ned is coming. I need him. This… unpleasantness… just means he'll have more reason to clean out the rot in this city." The King, NJ noted with contempt, was utterly oblivious to the true nature of the rot, much of which emanated from his own family and council.
The news of the assassination attempt, NJ knew, would soon lead Catelyn Stark to apprehend Tyrion, believing him responsible. This would be the true point of no return. He watched his uncle Tyrion with a new, detached interest. Soon, the Imp would be a prisoner, a catalyst for war. NJ felt no desire to warn him. Events were proceeding along a path that, while dangerous, offered him immense opportunities for manipulation and power consolidation.
In the days that followed, NJ began his subtle exploration of the Red Keep. He was aware of the unseen eyes and ears – Varys's little birds, he presumed – and moved with a caution that belied his Joffrey persona. He would make imperious demands to visit certain sections of the castle – the armory, the library, even the kitchens – feigning a prince's idle curiosity. Each visit was an opportunity for absorption.
From an ancient, rust-flecked sword in the armory, he gleaned echoes of forgotten Targaryen knights, their tourney triumphs and battlefield deaths. From a dusty tome in the library, one supposedly detailing the lineage of the Great Houses (a book Jon Arryn and Ned Stark would later consult), he absorbed not just the heraldry and words, but the faint traces of those who had read it before, their scholarly focus, their political calculations. He felt the ghost of Jon Arryn's dawning suspicion as he'd studied those pages. This was valuable.
He had a brief, formal encounter with Grand Maester Pycelle in the old man's cluttered chambers. Pycelle, obsequious and long-winded, droned on about the history of the Citadel and the duties of a Grand Maester. NJ, feigning impatience, leaned against Pycelle's large oaken desk. The wood was old, saturated with the Grand Maester's essence: decades of carefully worded letters, of secrets kept and sold, of sycophantic loyalty to House Lannister, a surprising depth of alchemical knowledge (particularly concerning poisons and their antidotes, fascinating!), and a profound, bone-deep fear of Tywin Lannister. Pycelle was a tool, easily manipulated, but his knowledge of the Red Keep's underbelly, its medical secrets, and its political history was extensive.
Renly Baratheon, the King's younger brother, Master of Laws, flamboyant and charming, paid his respects. NJ, using his truth-sense, felt the man's vibrant ambition beneath the easygoing facade, his disdain for Robert's kingship, and the strong, unwavering emotional current directed towards the Knight of Flowers, Loras Tyrell. Renly was a peacock, but a dangerous one, with powerful allies in the Reach. He would need to be watched.
Varys and Littlefinger remained elusive, though NJ felt their presence like spiders in a web. He knew they would be observing him, assessing the "new" Joffrey. He looked forward to the game. His weirwood-enhanced truth-sensing, his ability to absorb information directly from objects, his knowledge of their future moves – these gave him advantages they couldn't possibly anticipate. He would let them underestimate the petulant boy prince. Their arrogance would be their undoing.
King Robert, true to form, quickly threw himself into the debauchery of the capital. Hunts were organized, feasts were held, and the royal treasury dwindled further. NJ observed his "father" with cold contempt. Robert was a drunken, whoring fool, a king in name only, easily swayed by flattery and momentary passions. His weakness was a vulnerability for the realm, but an opportunity for those who knew how to exploit it. NJ began to consider subtle ways to hasten Robert's decline, or at least to ensure his own influence over the King grew, perhaps through Cersei, or by making himself appear more "responsible" in contrast to Robert's excesses.
The power NJ had absorbed in the North felt different here, in the heart of human intrigue. The raw, elemental magic of the weirwood seemed to recede slightly, overshadowed by the sheer density of human ambition and deception. But it was still there, a deep, grounding force, allowing him to see through the surface glitter to the rotten core beneath. Jaime's martial skills gave him a quiet confidence; he knew that if it came to physical confrontation, he was no longer a helpless boy. Maester Luwin's healing knowledge made him less reliant on Pycelle's dubious care. Nymeria's predatory instincts kept his senses sharp, alert to danger.
He spent hours in his chambers, not just absorbing, but synthesizing. He was forging a new consciousness from these disparate parts. The psychopathic core remained his anchor, his operating system, but it was now running incredibly complex software, capable of emulating emotions, predicting human behavior with terrifying accuracy, and processing information at an astonishing rate. He was becoming less a collection of absorbed essences and more a new entity, unique and formidable.
His ultimate ambition was beginning to crystallize. The Iron Throne was a necessary first step. Control of the Seven Kingdoms was essential. But why? For power's sake alone? That had been his initial, psychopathic drive. But the weirwood's chilling revelation of the Long Night had planted a new, grander imperative in his mind. To face that ancient, cosmic threat, Westeros would need to be united, strong, prepared. Not under a foolish drunk like Robert, nor a noble incompetent like Ned Stark, nor a madwoman like Cersei might become. It needed a ruler of supreme intellect, ruthless efficiency, and absolute power. A ruler like him.
It was a breathtakingly arrogant ambition, one that would require him to navigate a minefield of treachery and violence. But for the first time since his rebirth, he felt a sense of purpose that transcended mere survival or the accumulation of power for its own sake. He would conquer this world, not out of malice, but out of a cold, logical conviction that only he was capable of saving it from itself, and from the darkness to come. And he would do it all while wearing the mask of Joffrey Baratheon, the spoiled prince everyone underestimated.
From his window in the Red Keep, he looked out over King's Landing, a city teeming with secrets, dangers, and opportunities. A faint, predatory smile touched his lips. The game had truly begun. And he, the serpent coiled beneath the lion's skin, was ready to strike.