All joy eventually comes to an end. The noise in the great hall gradually faded.
One by one, the guests staggered out, leaving behind overturned cups and half-finished plates.
The king had long since been carried away. The queen disappeared with her two younger children. Eddard and his lady had likely retired as well.
Only a handful of people remained.
The servants cleaning up took the chance to taste leftovers they might never see again in their lives, their faces glowing with simple satisfaction.
In a corner, a singer wrapped in a plain cloak began plucking at his lute.
"High in the halls where the kings used to reign,
The lords have all vanished, but the shadows remain..."
"In the dust and the silence, through the cold and the gray,
Jenny dances with ghosts of a time passed away..."
His voice was hoarse and lonely, drifting through the vast hall.
The song was called Jenny of Oldstones, a tale of love and tragedy between a common girl and a king.
Joffrey leaned back in his chair and listened quietly.
His eyes moved across the hall.
The servants looked almost blissful over scraps of roasted meat and wine dregs. The contrast with the tragic song felt strangely ironic.
His gaze finally settled on the singer.
Gray-white hair framed a weathered, narrow face. Brown eyes, sharp and calculating, did not belong to a simple wandering minstrel.
Benjen Stark, Eddard's brother and First Ranger of the Night's Watch, was listening intently.
When the song ended, he laughed and tossed a handful of copper coins into the singer's worn cap.
"Well sung, friend! Give us one about the Wall!"
The singer bowed deeply, hair falling over most of his face.
"As you wish, my lord," he said humbly.
Joffrey raised his half-cold wine cup to hide his smile. Of course he knew who this man was.
Mance Rayder.
The King Beyond the Wall.
But Joffrey had no intention of exposing him.
He had never been beyond the Wall. On what grounds could he accuse a well-liked singer of being the Night's Watch's long-hunted enemy?
Besides, letting the man who had united the wildlings die here would serve no one.
Winter was coming.
Beyond the Wall, every sword would matter.
Joffrey drained the last of his wine and turned the cup upside down to show it empty.
The northern lord across from him raised both hands in surrender.
"Your Highness, I admit defeat."
"Your Grace possesses a thirst that would shame the Seven."
After sending the man off, Joffrey opened his system again.
[Providence Points full. Converted into one draw.]
Worth every cup he had forced down.
He didn't bother with superstitions this time. No waiting for the right moment. No nonsense about lucky directions.
Full meant draw.
The faint outline of the wheel appeared once more, spinning rapidly before slowing to a stop.
Lines of text appeared before his eyes.
[Stargazing (Beginner)]
[This I truly did not expect: Focus on someone you have seen before to observe certain movements near them]
[Cooldown: seven days]
[Current Role: A Strategist Concerned for the Realm]
Joffrey tapped the table lightly.
Interesting.
He had just gained another way to see the board.
....
The next morning, thin sunlight fell over Winterfell's training yard.
Joffrey inhaled deeply. The cold air stung his lungs and cleared his mind instantly.
"Over here!"
Robb was already waiting. His dark red hair was messy, droplets of cold water clinging to the ends.
But the dark circles under his eyes and his sluggish steps betrayed the aftermath of last night's drinking.
"Perhaps we should wait until you've rested," Joffrey suggested kindly. "I would hate to feel like I'm taking advantage."
"That won't do," Robb replied firmly. "A promise is a promise. If we agreed to spar today, then we spar."
He reached immediately for the steel sword Joffrey had given him.
"Enough of that!"
A figure rushed forward in a blur.
Ser Rodrik, Winterfell's master-at-arms, snatched the blade away.
"No live steel. Too dangerous," he said sternly. "You'll use wooden swords."
The Hound widened his eyes dramatically from the side. "Wooden swords? What are they, little girls?"
His laughter was rough and unpleasant.
"When their skill is ready, they may use real weapons," Ser Rodrik shot back, glaring at Sandor.
"Clegane, I train knights. If I say wooden swords, it will be wooden swords."
Joffrey shrugged.
Sandor spat and folded his arms, stepping back.
After strapping on light practice armor, the match began.
Robb fought like a true northerner—direct, solid, focused on powerful strikes.
Joffrey relied on the footwork he had honed against the Hound. He blocked, redirected, and waited patiently for an opening.
After several exchanges, he realized something.
Robb's blows lacked strength.
Perhaps last night's wine had drained more than just pride.
After a few probing moves, Joffrey slipped past a downward chop and stepped in.
He slashed lightly toward Robb's exposed side.
Robb flinched and instinctively covered his ribs with his left arm, leaving himself awkward and off balance.
Joffrey knocked aside the clumsy counterstrike.
He stepped forward, feinted a thrust, then cut downward before reversing his grip and tapping Robb twice on the head with the tip of his blade.
A clean, flashy move.
Robb swayed and fell flat onto his back.
"Good!"
The Hound pumped a fist and howled loudly.
The Baratheon and Lannister men cheered immediately.
The Stark guards exchanged uneasy glances. That had ended... far too quickly.
Robb lay there blinking, dazed.
Joffrey offered him a hand and pulled him up. "Apologies. I didn't hold back enough."
Robb blinked again, still trying to process what had happened.
Joffrey helped him to a bench at the edge of the yard.
"Well… well done," Ser Rodrik muttered reluctantly. "Remove their armor."
Joffrey stepped into the sunlight, brushing back his sweat-dampened golden hair before shaking it loose.
A few soft gasps came from beneath the gallery.
He glanced over and caught only flashes of colorful skirts disappearing behind the corner.
"How did I fall?" Robb asked a tall, dark-skinned young man nearby.
Whatever the answer was, Joffrey didn't hear it.
Ser Rodrik's booming voice filled the yard once more. "Prince Tommen. Bran. You're next."
__________
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