Chapter 13: The Savage Dance: Steel, Schemes, and a Serpent's Smile
The dawn of the melee broke with a raw, nervous energy that was a stark contrast to the more mannered anticipation of the jousts. This was not a day for graceful displays of individual skill; it was a day for brute force, chaotic brawling, and the visceral thrill of sanctioned carnage. King's Landing buzzed with a bloodthirsty excitement, the smallfolk eager for the spectacle, the knights and lords steeling themselves for the brutal free-for-all.
NJ, from his vantage point in the royal pavilion, felt the thrum of this collective anticipation. His Joffrey persona was particularly well-suited for the melee; he allowed a cruel, eager light to enter his eyes, a predatory smirk to play on his lips as he surveyed the tourney grounds. He spoke with relish of broken bones and shattered shields, comments that made Sansa Stark wince and Cersei Lannister offer a faint, approving smile, seeing in him the echo of her own ruthless pragmatism.
Internally, however, NJ was a maelstrom of focused perception. The dragon essence within him resonated with the impending conflict, not with mindless bloodlust, but with a cold, predatory appreciation for the raw display of power. The weirwood's ancient wisdom provided a detached, analytical framework, allowing him to see beyond the chaos to the underlying currents of strategy and human desperation. His heightened senses were already cataloging the sounds – the nervous whinnying of warhorses not participating today, the clang of armorers making last-minute adjustments, the rising roar of the crowd – and the smells – sweat, fear, oiled steel, and the inevitable aroma of cheap wine from the stands.
"This will be true sport, Lady Sansa," he remarked to the pale girl beside him, his voice carrying a Joffrey-esque sneer. "Not like that prancing with sticks yesterday. Today, we shall see what these so-called knights are truly made of when their fancy titles and flowery shields are ground into the mud."
Sansa swallowed, her romantic illusions about chivalry clearly taking another battering. "It… it seems very dangerous, Your Grace."
"Danger is the spice of life, my dear," NJ said lightly, though his eyes were fixed on the assembling mass of armored men in the lists, his mind already dissecting their formations, their equipment, their likely allegiances.
The melee exploded into being with a deafening roar from the crowd and the crash of steel on steel. Dozens of knights, a chaotic tide of flashing metal and guttural shouts, surged together. It was a brutal, swirling storm of violence, individual duels quickly dissolving into desperate scrums, temporary alliances forming and shattering in moments. NJ's senses, already preternaturally sharp, were pushed to their limits, yet he found he could follow the maelstrom with an unnatural clarity. He saw a knight's shield buckle under a mace blow, another go down with a cry as his leg was crushed by a falling horse, a third desperately fending off two assailants. The direwolf instinct within him reveled in the raw, primal energy of the fight, while the absorbed martial knowledge from Jaime and countless others allowed him to recognize tactical blunders, moments of surprising skill, and the subtle shifts in the tide of battle.
He paid particular attention to the key players. Jaime Lannister, a golden lion amidst the fray, fought with a deadly grace, his longsword a blur, moving through the chaos with an almost contemptuous ease, always aware, always lethal. NJ felt a surge of something akin to professional admiration; Jaime was truly a master of his craft. Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, surprised many. His pretty armor was soon dented and grimed, but he fought with a fiery determination, his movements quick and agile, proving he was more than just a jouster. He seemed to be working in loose coordination with a few other Reach knights, a small pocket of elegant lethality in the larger brawl.
Then there were the Cleganes. Gregor, the Mountain, was a force of nature, his massive greatsword scything through lesser knights like a reaper through wheat. He fought with no finesse, only overwhelming, terrifying strength, his roars of fury audible even over the din. Sandor, the Hound, was a different kind of terror. He fought with a grim, methodical brutality, his movements economical, each blow delivered with savage intent. He seemed to seek out the toughest fights, a solitary, scarred predator amidst the chaos. NJ watched, fascinated, as the two brothers, though never directly engaging, seemed to carve paths of destruction that kept them on opposite sides of the field, an unspoken acknowledgment of their murderous antipathy.
And then there was Thoros of Myr, the red priest, his ancestral sword inexplicably coated in wildfire, burning with an eerie, green-tinged flame. The sight of it sent a strange resonance through NJ. The dragon essence within him, the very core of Balerion's fiery might, seemed to recognize this lesser, alchemical fire. He felt no kinship with it – Thoros's magic felt… artificial, chemical, compared to the primal, elemental fire that now resided within him – but he understood its nature, its volatile hunger, with a clarity that no one else in the royal box could possess. He saw the fear in the eyes of the knights who faced Thoros, their reluctance to engage a man wielding such an unnatural weapon. A useful psychological tool, NJ mused.
The political undercurrents in the royal box were as turbulent as the melee itself. King Robert, already several cups of wine to the good, roared his approval at every particularly brutal blow, his face flushed, his eyes alight with a vicarious battle-lust. Cersei watched Jaime with a fierce, anxious pride, her knuckles white where she gripped the arms of her chair. Lord Stark, his face grim, seemed to view the entire spectacle as a distasteful but necessary evil, another example of Southern decadence and violence.
The news of Tyrion's abduction by Catelyn Stark continued to cast a long, dark shadow over the festivities. NJ, using his truth-sense, could feel the simmering rage beneath Cersei's composed exterior every time the matter was broached, the genuine fear for her brother mixed with a furious desire for vengeance against the Starks. Robert, when not distracted by the melee, would curse Catelyn's folly and Ned's misfortune, but seemed more concerned with the diplomatic headache than with Tyrion's actual fate. NJ picked up on whispered conversations between Lannister courtiers, discussions of Lord Tywin's inevitable, wrathful response. War was no longer a distant possibility; it was a gathering storm, and this tourney felt like the last, lurid burst of sunlight before the deluge.
NJ used the chaos of the melee to further test his own internal controls. He allowed the dragon's fire to rise within him, not to unleash it, but to feel its power, to let it sharpen his focus, to lend a terrifying intensity to his Joffrey-gaze when he fixed it on a particularly inept knight or a preening courtier. He practiced projecting that subtle aura of command, that almost imperceptible wave of intimidation. He noticed a page, sent to him with a fresh goblet of wine, falter in his step and nearly drop the tray when NJ turned the full force of his (internally) blazing dragon-will upon him for a fleeting second. The boy paled, stammered an apology, and fled, leaving NJ with a cold sense of satisfaction. The power was there, and it was responsive.
He also continued to refine his truth-sensing. Amidst the roar of the crowd and the clang of steel, he would focus on a distant knot of nobles, trying to parse the intent behind their animated gestures, the truth of their shouted wagers. He listened to the squires tending to their fallen masters by the edge of the lists, sensing their genuine fear or their feigned concern. It was a demanding exercise, requiring intense concentration, but the weirwood's ancient, patient magic seemed to thrive on such focused observation, its roots deepening within his consciousness.
Several incidents in the melee stood out. He saw a knight, Ser Karyl Vance, a Riverlands lord sworn to House Tully, deliberately betrayed by two supposed allies from the Westerlands, who cornered him and brutally battered him into submission. NJ's truth-sense, scanning the expressions of the Westerland knights' backers in the stands, picked up on the cold satisfaction of a political point being made, a message being sent to the Tullys in light of Catelyn's actions against Tyrion. This was not sport; this was warfare by proxy.
Another moment captured his attention: Thoros of Myr, his flaming sword a terrifying spectacle, found himself cornered by three knights who seemed determined to extinguish his unnatural advantage. For a moment, it looked as if the red priest would be overwhelmed. Then, Sandor Clegane, who had been fighting nearby, inexplicably intervened. With a furious roar that was more animal than human, the Hound smashed into Thoros's assailants, his greatsword a blur of savage, defensive fury, driving them back. Thoros, surprised but quick to seize the moment, pressed his advantage, and together, the unlikely pair cleared a space around them. NJ pondered this. The Hound, protecting a man who wielded fire, the very element Sandor was said to fear and loathe? There were depths to the scarred knight that even NJ's absorbed essence hadn't fully illuminated. Or perhaps, it was simply the Hound's ingrained contrariness, his disdain for ganging up on an opponent, however unconventional.
The melee raged for what seemed like hours, a brutal ballet of attrition. Knights were unhorsed, battered, their fine armor dented and broken, their pride ground into the blood-soaked dirt. Squires rushed onto the field to drag their fallen masters to safety, often at considerable risk to themselves. Maesters hurried to tend to the grievously wounded. Gradually, the numbers thinned. Jaime Lannister, fighting with sublime, almost arrogant skill, was eventually brought down by a combined effort of three knights who clearly had an agreement to target him. Cersei gasped, her hand flying to her throat, but Jaime, though disarmed and forced to yield, rose with a laugh, seemingly uninjured, acknowledging his defeat with a wry grin that infuriated his opponents.
Eventually, only a handful remained. Loras Tyrell, his flowery armor now a mess of mud and blood, fought with a desperate, beautiful ferocity. Gregor Clegane, a walking fortress of gore-spattered steel, seemed inexhaustible, his roars shaking the very stands. And Sandor Clegane, a grim, solitary figure, picked his opponents with a chilling efficiency.
In the end, after a final, brutal confrontation that left several more knights groaning in the dirt, it was Sandor Clegane who stood as the last man on the field, his chest heaving, his greatsword dripping, the cheers of the crowd a strange counterpoint to his scarred, snarling visage. He had not sought glory, had not played to the crowd, but his sheer, indomitable fighting spirit had won the day. King Robert roared his approval, even Cersei offered a grudging nod of acknowledgment for the man who, however reluctantly, served her house.
The feast that evening was even more raucous and wine-soaked than the previous night's. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and spilled wine, the boasting of victors, and the commiserations of the defeated. NJ, seated at the high table, endured it with his usual Joffrey-esque disdain, though internally he was meticulously cataloging the day's events, the shifting alliances, the displays of power.
He took the opportunity, amidst the chaos, to make another subtle absorption. A heavy gold chain, a prize awarded to one of the melee's notable combatants (not Sandor, who had contemptuously refused any such frippery), lay discarded for a moment on a nearby table. NJ, feigning to retrieve a fallen napkin, brushed his fingers against it. The essence was a potent cocktail of adrenaline, exhaustion, brutal satisfaction, and the lingering fear of death. It was the raw, unvarnished experience of the melee itself, a valuable addition to his understanding of human combat psychology.
News, or rather rumors, regarding Tyrion's abduction continued to circulate. Whispers reached NJ's ears – amplified by his heightened senses – of Lord Tywin Lannister mobilizing his forces in the West, of riders being dispatched with stern messages for Riverrun and Eyrie. The realm was teetering on the brink of open war. Ned Stark, NJ observed, looked even more careworn, the weight of his office and the escalating crisis pressing down on him. He ate little, spoke less, his honorable face a mask of troubled integrity. NJ almost felt a moment of what a lesser intellect might call pity, before his own cold, analytical mind dismissed it. Stark was a pawn, a necessary sacrifice in the game NJ was now playing.
Reflecting on the day, NJ felt a sense of profound satisfaction. His control over his internal magics had held, even amidst the overwhelming stimuli of the melee. The dragon fire had been a potent, controlled burn within him, sharpening his focus, lending an edge to his Joffrey persona. The weirwood's truth-sense and ancient calm had allowed him to see through the chaos, to analyze and understand. He was learning to wield these incredible powers with increasing subtlety and precision.
The melee itself had been an education. It was a raw, brutal microcosm of the larger game of thrones: alliances were fleeting, betrayal was common, and ultimate victory often went to the most ruthless or the most resilient. It affirmed his belief that power, in its most fundamental form, was the ability to impose one's will upon others, whether through steel, cunning, or, as in his own unique case, a terrifying synthesis of ancient sorcery and transcendent intellect.
His Joffrey-body, he noted, felt… different. The constant internal pressure of the magics, the focused exertion of his will, seemed to be slowly changing it, forging it into a more resilient vessel. He felt stronger, his stamina greater, his reflexes honed by the absorbed martial essences and the direwolf's primal instincts. He made a mental note to begin a subtle, carefully disguised regimen of physical training, to ensure his body could keep pace with the powers it now housed.
As he finally retired, the sounds of revelry still echoing from the Great Hall, NJ felt a chilling sense of his own destiny. He was no longer just an anomaly, a reborn psychopath with a high IQ. He was an alchemical creation, a being forged from the fire of dragons, the ice of weirwoods, the steel of warriors, and the cunning of kings. He was a weapon, self-made and terrifyingly potent, aimed at the heart of this world's corrupt and fragile power structures. The tourney was but a prelude. The true battle, the one for the soul of the Seven Kingdoms, was about to begin. And he, the serpent smiling behind the prince's mask, was more than ready.