Chapter 5: The Wolf's Bite and the Serpent's Tongue
The morning after the feast dawned with a deceptive calm, the sky a vast, pale blue, the air crisp and carrying the scent of pine from the distant Wolfswood. NJ had slept little, not from unease, but from a mind energized by the previous night's absorptions and the anticipation of the day's critical performance. The ancient strength of Winterfell, the raw, elemental magic it pulsed with, had layered itself within him, a bedrock of stoic resilience beneath the fiery Targaryen echoes and the proud Baratheon spirit.
Sansa Stark, radiant in a new blue gown that matched her Tully eyes, presented herself to him shortly after they had broken their fast. Her excitement was a tangible thing, aflutter with girlish dreams of charming the handsome prince. NJ met her enthusiasm with a carefully calibrated display of princely condescension, softened just enough by a hint of bored amusement to keep her hopes alive.
"Lady Sansa," he greeted, affecting a slight yawn. "You are prepared for our… constitutional?"
"Oh yes, Your Grace!" she chirped, her cheeks pink. "The air is fresh today, and the view by the river is quite lovely."
As they set off, escorted by a pair of bored-looking Lannister guards who kept a respectful distance, NJ allowed Sansa to chatter. She spoke of songs and stories, of knights and fair maidens, her words painting a world of idyllic romance that stood in stark contrast to the grim realities he knew. He listened with one part of his mind, offering noncommittal grunts or brief, vaguely encouraging remarks, while the dominant part of his intellect was on high alert, observing their surroundings, running through his meticulously crafted script for the inevitable encounter.
The path they took led them away from the bustling courtyards of Winterfell, through a sparsely wooded area where ancient, gnarled oaks stood like silent sentinels. He trailed his fingers along the rough bark of one as they passed, a fleeting touch. The tree's essence was incredibly old, filled with the slow, patient rhythm of seasons turning, the whisper of winds through centuries, the faint, almost imperceptible hum of the old gods. It was a calming, grounding influence, a counterpoint to the nervous energy that Sansa exuded. He felt the deep, undisturbed peace of the ancient wood, and for a moment, almost understood the Northern reverence for such places. Almost. Peace was a state, not a goal.
"Is something amiss, Your Grace?" Sansa asked, noticing his momentary abstraction.
"Merely contemplating the… rusticity of it all, Lady Sansa," he replied, smoothly re-donning his Joffrey mask. "One finds so little of this… untamed nature in the south." He made "untamed" sound like "uncivilized."
Sansa, predictably, missed the barb. "It is rather wild, isn't it? Father says it builds character."
NJ merely grunted. His character required no building; it required concealment.
They soon heard the sounds: the excited yelps of a girl and the dull thwack of wood against wood. Rounding a bend, they came upon the scene he had anticipated. By the rushing, pebble-strewn river, Arya Stark, her hair a wild tangle, was sparring with a red-faced, sweating boy – Mycah, the butcher's son. They were using sticks, Arya wielding hers with a surprising ferocity, Mycah clumsily defending.
Sansa gasped, her face flushing with embarrassment. "Arya! What are you doing? And with… with him!" Her disdain for the commoner boy was evident.
Arya, startled, lowered her stick, her eyes flashing defiance. Mycah froze, terror blooming on his face as he recognized the prince and his entourage.
This was the moment. NJ's plan had several branches, depending on their reactions. He chose a path of initial, dismissive contempt, designed to provoke Arya.
"Well, well," NJ drawled, his voice dripping with aristocratic scorn. He gestured vaguely with a gloved hand. "What have we here? A lady of noble birth, cavorting with the help and engaging in… peasant brawling. How very… Northern." He made sure to look directly at Arya, a slight sneer playing on his lips.
Sansa looked horrified. "Your Grace, I am so sorry! Arya, apologize to the Prince at once!"
Arya's chin jutted out. "We were just playing, Sansa! It's none of his concern."
"Playing?" NJ chuckled, a cold, humorless sound. "It looked rather like a street urchin attacking a side of beef. Tell me, butcher's boy," he addressed Mycah, who flinched as if struck, "does she hit as hard as your father hits a pig?"
Mycah stammered, "N-no, Your Grace… we… we were just…"
"Silence when a Prince speaks to you, commoner," NJ snapped, not loudly, but with a sudden icy authority that made the boy shrink further. He then turned his attention back to Arya, whose face was now flushed with anger. "Your sister has some manners, Lady Arya. A pity they weren't shared."
This was the critical juncture. The original Joffrey, fueled by wine and arrogance, had drawn his sword, Lion's Tooth, and threatened Mycah, leading to Nymeria's intervention. NJ kept his own sword sheathed. His weapon, for now, was his tongue.
"You leave him alone!" Arya cried, stepping in front of Mycah, her stick held protectively. "He did nothing to you!"
"He offends my eyes merely by existing in my presence," NJ said coolly. "And you, Lady Arya, offend my sensibilities with your hoydenish behavior. Perhaps your father should spend less time worrying about the affairs of the kingdom and more time teaching his daughters how to behave like proper ladies."
He saw the flash in Arya's eyes. He had struck a nerve, insulting both her and her beloved father. He had to be careful not to push her into a direct physical attack with her stick too soon; he wanted Nymeria to be the primary aggressor, or at least for its actions to seem like an escalation.
"Don't you dare speak of my father that way!" Arya shouted, taking a step forward.
NJ raised an eyebrow. "Or what, little wolf-girl? You'll set your dog on me?" He glanced pointedly at Nymeria, who had risen to her feet, a low growl rumbling in her chest, her yellow eyes fixed on him. The direwolf was larger than he'd expected, a truly formidable animal.
This was perfect. He had provoked Arya, and her protective bond with Nymeria was now engaged. He needed one more nudge.
He took a slow, deliberate step towards Mycah, who cowered. "I think a lesson in respect is overdue for this… friend of yours." He didn't draw his sword. He didn't even raise his voice. He simply moved with a predatory stillness that was far more menacing than Joffrey's usual bluster.
That was all it took.
With a furious snarl, Nymeria launched herself. Not at Mycah, but directly at NJ, the perceived threat to her mistress and the focus of Arya's anger.
NJ had anticipated the attack, but the speed and ferocity of the direwolf were still startling. He brought his arm up instinctively, not to fight back, but to receive the bite in a controlled manner. Sharp teeth, incredibly powerful, clamped down on his forearm through the thick velvet of his doublet. Pain, white-hot and intense, lanced up his arm.
Yes! A surge of cold triumph, utterly alien to the terror Joffrey would have felt, coursed through him even as he cried out – a cry that was part genuine pain, part calculated performance. "Aargh! Get it off me! The beast is savage!"
As Nymeria's teeth sank into his flesh, he felt an unexpected jolt, a brief, chaotic influx of… something. It wasn't history, not like with objects. It was a maelstrom of pure, wild instinct: fierce loyalty to Arya, predatory aggression, the thrill of the hunt, the scent of blood. It was the untamed spirit of the direwolf, raw and potent. It was overwhelming, disorienting, and he instinctively slammed his mental shields against the majority of it, but a fraction, a taste of that wildness, seeped through. It was… exhilarating, in a terrifying way. Another facet of his power revealed – the ability to connect, however briefly and violently, with the living essence of creatures.
The Lannister guards, finally reacting, surged forward with drawn swords. Sansa was screaming. Arya, her face pale with shock and fear, was yelling Nymeria's name.
NJ staggered back as the guards managed to force Nymeria away, the wolf snarling and snapping, blood on her muzzle. His blood.
"My arm! It's mauled my arm!" NJ gasped, clutching his forearm. Blood was already soaking through the rich fabric. He made sure Sansa saw it, saw the blood, saw his "pain."
Mycah, forgotten in the chaos, seized his chance and bolted into the woods. Good. One less witness to contradict his version.
Arya, realizing the terrible trouble she was in, grabbed Nymeria's ruff. "Nymeria, run! Run!" she shrieked, shoving the direwolf towards the trees. Nymeria, after a moment's hesitation, obeyed, disappearing into the undergrowth.
NJ watched the wolf go with grim satisfaction. Objective achieved: Nymeria was gone, meaning that specific wolf couldn't be immediately targeted for retribution. This opened the path for his true gambit regarding Lady.
"Sansa," he said, his voice tight with feigned pain and outrage, turning to his future queen, who was wringing her hands, tears streaming down her face. "You saw it! Your sister is a barbarian! Her creature attacked your Prince! Unprovoked!"
Sansa, horrified by the blood and utterly overwhelmed, could only nod dumbly. "Yes… yes, Your Grace… it was terrible…" Her loyalty, in this moment of crisis, was to him, the wounded Prince, not her unruly sister. Perfect.
The guards quickly improvised a rough bandage for his arm. The wound was deep, bleeding freely. It genuinely hurt, a throbbing, burning agony that would have sent the original Joffrey into hysterics. NJ embraced the pain, let it fuel the authenticity of his performance.
"We must return to the castle at once," one of the guards said urgently. "The King and Queen must be informed."
The walk back was a blur of pain and tightly controlled fury – or the appearance of it. NJ leaned heavily on one of the guards, making sure his distress was visible. Sansa trailed behind them, sobbing. Arya had vanished, presumably to face the music alone or to try and hide.
His mind, however, was clear and cold, already rehearsing his testimony. He would emphasize Arya's aggression, her "common" behavior, Nymeria's savagery. He would highlight his own "princely dignity" in the face of such an assault. He needed to be believable, to sway Robert, who had no love for him, and to counter Ned Stark's inevitable attempt at fairness. Cersei, he knew, would be his staunchest, most bloodthirsty ally.
As they burst into the castle courtyard, his bloodied arm prominently displayed, chaos erupted. Servants cried out. Guards rushed forward. And then Cersei was there, her face draining of color at the sight of his wound before contorting into a mask of incandescent rage.
"Joffrey! My son! What happened?!" she shrieked, rushing to his side.
"It was Stark's girl, Mother!" NJ gasped, playing his role to the hilt. "The wild one, Arya! Her monstrous wolf attacked me! For no reason!"
Cersei's eyes, the green fire in them blazing, swept the courtyard. "Stark! Where is Stark? He will answer for this!"
The scene quickly moved to the Great Hall, which had been hastily cleared. King Robert was summoned, looking thunderous at being disturbed. Ned Stark arrived, his face grim, Catelyn beside him, her expression fearful. Arya was brought in, tear-streaked but defiant, by two Stark household guards. Sansa stood near NJ, still sniffling, a perfect tableau of frightened innocence.
"What is the meaning of this madness?" Robert bellowed, his gaze falling on Joffrey's bandaged arm. "Boy, what happened to you?"
Before NJ could speak, Cersei exploded. "That savage brat of Stark's set her beast upon my son! Look at him, Robert! Mauled like a common cur! I want the girl punished, and I want that monster's head!"
Ned Stark stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "Your Grace, Queen Cersei, if we could ascertain the facts first. Arya, tell us what occurred."
Arya, glaring at Joffrey, began, "He… Joffrey was being cruel to Mycah, the butcher's boy! He called him names and threatened him! Nymeria was only protecting me!"
"Lies!" NJ interjected, his voice laced with pain and indignation. "She and that common boy were… were fighting like animals! When I, as her Prince, attempted to remonstrate with her for her unladylike behavior, she grew enraged! She screamed at me, and then her wolf, that enormous, savage beast, leapt at my throat! I was fortunate to only suffer this wound to my arm defending myself!" He presented his arm dramatically. "Sansa saw it all! Tell them, Sansa!"
Sansa, looking terrified and caught between loyalties, stammered, "Y-yes… Arya was… she was shouting… and then Nymeria… Oh, it was dreadful! The Prince was bleeding so much!" Her testimony, while not a direct lie, skewed heavily in his favor, emphasizing Arya's anger and Nymeria's attack, conveniently omitting Joffrey's provocations. NJ had coached her well with his earlier narrative shaping.
"I demand justice, Robert!" Cersei cried. "The beast must be slain! And the girl needs to be taught a lesson she will never forget!"
Robert looked from Joffrey's bleeding arm to Arya's defiant face, then to Ned's troubled one. He sighed, running a hand through his already disheveled beard. "Gods be good, a squabble between children and a dog bite… Ned, your girl has a wild streak, it seems. And that wolf… direwolves are not pets."
"Nymeria was provoked, Father!" Arya insisted. "He was hurting Mycah!"
"I did no such thing!" NJ retorted. "I merely questioned why a lady of noble birth was rolling in the dirt with a butcher's boy! Is that a crime now? Am I to be savaged for upholding decorum?" He made sure to sound wounded and righteous. He had subtly shifted the narrative from him attacking Mycah to him questioning Arya's behavior.
Ned looked at Sansa. "Sansa, did Prince Joffrey strike either Arya or the butcher's boy?"
Sansa hesitated, her eyes darting towards NJ, then her mother, then her father. The pressure was immense. "N-no, Father," she whispered. "Not… not a strike. But he was… saying unkind things… and Mycah was scared…"
This was the crucial part. NJ knew Sansa was an unreliable witness for the truth, but a reliable one for the version he'd fed her.
"Unkind things?" Cersei scoffed. "My son, the Prince, is accused of speaking unkindly, and for that, he is to be mauled? What manner of justice is this, Lord Stark?"
Ned looked weary. "The direwolf attacked the Prince. That is a serious matter. Where is this butcher's boy? His testimony is needed."
A Stark guard stepped forward. "Lord Stark, the boy Mycah… he has not been found. He fled into the woods."
"Convenient," Cersei sneered.
NJ saw his opening. He needed to appear magnanimous, to a degree, to gain credibility with Robert and Ned, and to set the stage for sparing Lady. "Your Graces," he said, his voice softer now, feigning a weary maturity. "My arm pains me greatly. And while Lady Arya's behavior was… regrettable, and her wolf clearly dangerous…" He paused, letting the implication hang. "Perhaps… perhaps the fault lies mostly with the beast. A wild animal, ill-suited for company. If the wolf is dealt with…"
He was suggesting a way out that focused on the animal, not directly on Arya, which he knew Ned would resist less fiercely than an accusation solely against his daughter.
Cersei, however, was not so easily placated. "Dealt with? It must be killed! And the girl must be whipped!"
"Now, now, Cersei," Robert rumbled, clearly wanting the affair over. "Whipping Ned Stark's daughter? Bit much for a dog bite, even if it was the Prince. The wolf, though… Ned, that animal is a danger. It drew royal blood."
Ned's face was a mask of controlled anguish. "The direwolf, Nymeria, has fled, Your Grace. She is long gone."
"Then another wolf will pay the price!" Cersei shrieked. "There is another one, isn't there? The girl Sansa's! An eye for an eye, a beast for a beast!"
Sansa let out a horrified wail. "No! Not Lady! Lady didn't do anything!"
This was the moment NJ had been waiting to subtly influence. He couldn't directly oppose his mother, not yet. But he could plant a seed of doubt, make himself seem less bloodthirsty than her.
"Mother," NJ said, his voice quiet but clear. "Lady Sansa's wolf was not present. It committed no offense. Would it be… true justice to punish an innocent creature for the actions of another?" He framed it as a question of abstract justice, something that might appeal to Ned, and make Robert pause. He was also subtly positioning himself as more reasonable than his mother.
Cersei shot him a look of stunned fury. For her son, the very boy who routinely tortured cats, to speak of justice for an animal was unthinkable. It was so out of character for the Joffrey she knew that it gave her pause.
Robert looked surprised too. "The boy… has a point, Cersei. Dammit, this is a mess. One wolf bites the Prince, another pays? Seems a bit off, even to me."
Ned Stark seized on this. "Your Grace, Joffrey speaks with surprising… reason. Lady has done no wrong."
Cersei, however, was not to be denied her pound of flesh entirely. Her eyes narrowed, fixed on Ned. "If we cannot have the beast that did the deed, then Stark must bear some responsibility. He allowed these dangerous creatures near my son! This would not have happened if the girl had been properly disciplined and her wolf properly leashed or kenneled!"
The argument raged. NJ remained mostly silent now, occasionally wincing and clutching his arm to remind them of his "suffering." He had steered the conversation. By making a token, unexpected defense of Lady, he had made himself appear slightly less monstrous, had momentarily confused his mother, and had given Robert an out from simply acceding to Cersei's most extreme demands.
The final judgment still hung in the air, heavy and ominous. But NJ knew he had already won a significant victory. He had controlled the narrative, minimized his own culpability, ensured Nymeria's escape, and laid the groundwork for a resolution that might, if he was lucky and played his next cards right, spare Sansa's innocent direwolf. He had taken a canonical disaster for Joffrey and turned it into a complex, nuanced situation where he, the supposed victim, held more power than anyone realized. The pain in his arm was a small price to pay. The taste of the direwolf's wild essence, however, that was an unexpected, intriguing bonus.