Scraped from
here.
As a warning, this thread will undoubtably contain SPOILERS for the rest of the books.
I will not attempt to hide the Spoilers or shun people who make Spoilers - because I will be actively exploiting information from the books.
Slowly, I woke.
Smooth fabric brushes against my skin, cool to the touch as I roll over in bed, trying futilely to get more comfortable.
But as I twist in place, I can't help but notice that this is not my blanket.
I blink, sluggishly prizing my eyes open in the early morning sunlight.
Then I blink again, noting something remarkable.
Across the large, richly decorated room is a banner – and somehow, despite my degenerated eyesight and myopia, I can make out the elaborate embroidery on the banner, instead of seeing a fuzzy shape.
Instinctively, I shudder, adrenaline starting to course through my body as I jolt awake at that discovery.
I sit up hastily, grabbing at the beautiful red and gold blanket and inspecting it. Golden lions and stags interweave across the blanket, making it quite nice… but it is not
my quilt.
For a moment, I ponder if I am still dreaming, so I quickly bite the inside of my cheek.
Ow.
Okay…
not dreaming then. So… why is this not my heavy quilt? Why I am not in
my bed?
I toss the blanket back, slipping out of bed and stumbling when my feet take longer than expected to reach the ground. The bed must be higher than I am used to, I think to myself.
Suppressing a yawn, I spot a mirror on the other side of this bizarre, luxurious room, so I quickly make my way down, almost tripping as my feet keep missing the ground.
That's not normal – being clumsy, that is. I used to be, when I was a kid, but several years of martial arts had helped me gain both motor coordination and a thorough respect for pain.
I frown, glancing down as my foot misses the ground yet again, and I catch myself just before I trip.
Wait, why are my legs shaved?
Peering closer, I realize that my legs aren't
shaved – my dark brown hair had been dyed
blonde, of all things. I didn't even know you
could dye leg hair.
Whoever did this to me is an
asshole.
My best guess is that I somehow got drunk last night and embarrassed myself, so this is somebody's idea of a good retaliatory joke.
Of course, I don't usually drink, so
why I got drunk must be a story in itself. I guess I can only hope that whoever did this to me didn't dye my beard or my hair – wildman Nick does not appreciate being feminized.
The floor is cold beneath my feet as I step off the thick carpet, and I glance down again, quirking an eyebrow as I stare at the stone floor peaking out between the carpets.
Stone floors? Like…
proper stone floors, laid in piece by piece, block by block?
…Where
am I?
I look around, but the lavish medieval-style room offers me no information. Perhaps I'm in a castle?
Frowning, I turn back to the mirror, and took a quick look at the damage that had been done to me.
Blonde hair – no doubt dyed to match my leg hair – and a smooth chin were immediately discernable. So not only had they (whoever 'they' were) dyed my hair, they'd also shaved me. Assholes.
I appeared to be wearing some kind of long white overshirt that hung long, around mid-thigh, almost like a smock.
Finally, I look up, to see if the perpetrators of this elaborate prank had scribbled across my face.
But as soon as I actually
look at my face, I freeze in place, and adrenaline races through my body again.
I'd only quickly glanced over my hair and beard, so I didn't get a good look at my face the first time. Except…
…except it's not my face.
Gone are my familiar features; high cheekbones, smooth tanned skin, a not-so-firm chin, and a slim, angular face.
Instead, I gaze blankly at lighter skin, pudgy cheeks, and a broad jaw that's just starting to emerge from boyhood.
For a long moment I stare at this unfamiliar face, before I realize that I
have seen this face before.
This is the face of a madman.
"
Fuck," I whisper, and my alien, childish high-pitched voice resonates in the silent room.
This is the face of Joffrey.
Joffrey Baratheon. Joffrey
Lannister.
I groan, letting out a low horrified primal moan that drags nails over the quiet chalkboard of the room, as my mind starts to panic, freaking out at this – this
impossibility.
My body follows soon after, and I let out a scream of fear,
howling as I stare at this horrifying face.
Loud and clear, my voice rings out in the room, the sound penned in by the walls. Screaming and screaming, out of alarm, out of panic, out of fear.
The door slams open with a crashing
bang, and a man in bright plate armor charges in, a sword in his hand as he enters the room.
"Your Grace?" the man cries out, his helmet turning to face me as he moves closer.
I spin around, thrusting my hands out as if to ward the man back as I yell at him for intruding.
"Get out!" I scream at the armored man, stopping him dead in his tracks. "Fuck,
get out! Gimme some fucking privacy!
Get the fuck out!"
Another man in plate armor also barges in, his right hand gripping the hilt of his sheathed sword.
"Your Grace, are you well?" the first man asks, his warm voice ringing a bell of familiarity in the back of my head.
"Get out!" I roar at him, my voice painfully shrill and childish. "Leave me alone!"
"As you wish, Your Grace," the first man says, bowing at the waist and swiftly retreating, shutting the door behind him.
The door rattles shut, and I can hear a brief exchange of unintelligible words on the other side.
I stand there for a long moment, huffing for breath as I stare at the red banner on the other side of the room, where a golden lion was emblazoned in a fierce pose.
Slowly, clumsily, I move over to a high-backed wooden chair, plopping myself down as I try to come to grips with this situation.
Westeros – the land of the Starks, Lannisters, Baratheons… a
fictional world… and yet here I was, sitting on a wooden chair in Joffrey's body.
Unknowns surround me – is this
really Westeros, or is it altered in some way? What about my age – how old is this body, and for that matter, what year is it? Is Robert dead, or still the King? What about Ned, or Drogo, or Robb?
What do I do?
The question looms over me, as if the Wall itself had suddenly appeared.
What do I
do?
Do I run and hide? I could take a ship and sail to the Summer Isles or another untouchable island, where the Others can't reach me, and the War of Five Kings might pass me by.
But
no, that's not an option, sadly.
A king (if I even
am king) cannot simply
disappear without somebody searching for him and finding some trace. As much as I want to hide away and live out my days in peace, I know that there's no way I could pull something like that off.
I need information.
Let's organize questions by importance, shall we?
First,
what year is it?
After Landing, presumably, roughly around the late 290's, if the Kingsguard are any indication. Wait, was that Barristan Selmy who charged in?
I shove that question away, and replace it with a more important one:
who can I trust?
If this is anything like the canon events, then Kings Landing is a pit of liars, backstabbers, and manipulators, any one of which could lead me astray with a single carefully chosen word.
Third,
can I disguise myself as Joffrey?
I hesitate, but the ugly answer doesn't change.
No, I realize unhappily, there's no way I can mask myself as Joffrey.
My accent is a clean Northwest Coast, tinged with a few sprinkles of Southern drawl and Canadian pronunciation from my school days; nothing at all like the vaguely British/Irish/Scottish accents that populate Westeros. Sooner or later, any adopted or forced accent would slip up, and I would be exposed.
Damn it – well, I'll have to burn that bridge when I come to it.
A thought occurs to me, and I purse my lips as I consider it: the disguise doesn't have to be
perfect. I don't have to be
identical to Joffrey.
I can't reveal myself as an entirely different person – that would be a death sentence in more ways than one – but what about just… being Joffrey?
A different Joffrey, for sure, 'cause I'm not psychotic enough to replicate his actions even if I wanted to; my family gave me a strong moral compass, despite the fact that I'm a little more… unscrupulous than they were.
Maybe I could rig up an accident to use as an excuse? Fake a fall and pretend to have knocked something loose… maybe not, too much risk of
actually causing brain damage. Plus, who would ever let a brain-damaged king near the throne?
The trauma of losing 'my' father ought to be enough. Joffrey sat by his bedside while he
died; I'd say that's a pretty big shock, and I can slowly shift his accent more towards mine, though I'll still need an excuse.
I might even be able to do some
good in this fucked up world. Maybe I could prevent some of the canon deaths, like Robert or Ned.
Hell, if I play my cards right, I might even be able to prevent the War. The world of Westeros might be a little more boring without the War, but there would be a significantly lower chance of me
dying, so I'd be fine with some boredom.
With a pang, I realize just how isolated I am.
This is a pre-steam society. No Internet, no electricity, and for all I know, no toilets.
No matter what happens, I'm locked away in a jail cell, from this day forward; an invisible cage of time, restricted from accessing any of my old books, games, or shows.
Locked away from my friends and family, stuck here, in this medieval world.
Whining about it won't make it change, I think grimly, scowling as I stand up.
Better get this started, then, I think to myself. No point in waiting any longer.
"Uh, can – can you come in?" I call out, pausing uncertainly as I speak.
I hear a slight rattle of metal from beyond the door, and then an armored knight in silver plates and white scales entered the room, respectfully shutting the door behind him.
Doubt strikes me as I look at the intimidating helmet, and I pause for a second.
"Can you, uh, can you take off the helmet, please?" I ask, faltering over my words as his eyes look back at me.
The knight nods, then carefully removes his helm, holding it with his left arm, revealing the worn and craggy face of Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.
Almost absentmindedly, I note that Barristan is holding the helmet high, leaving his right arm free to grab his sword. It's a small, almost unnoticeable thing, but it shows; Barristan is a
warrior, and no warrior wants be caught off-guard.
"Uh, Barristan –
Ser Barristan," I say, stumbling as Ser Barristan's eyes coolly watch me. "Sorry, uh, sorry about the screaming. I, uh, I had a bad dream… a nightmare. I didn't mean to alarm you."
"It is understandable, Your Grace," Barristan replies calmly, his tone professional.
"I'm just… you know… upset over these…" I murmur, mixing in a tone of sorrow to my voice. "Well… the recent events."
"Your father's death took us all by surprise, Your Grace." Barristan says, and a flash of…
regret flickers across his expression, before vanishing. "I am sorry to say that I could not protect him."
"It happens, Ser Barristan." I respond automatically, before wincing internally as Barristan lifts an eyebrow. "Accidents, that is. I have absolute faith in your ability."
"Indeed."
I grimace, then continue onwards.
"I'm, uh, still a little addled from the dream. My head is a little shook up, confused-"
"Should I send for Grand Maester Pycelle?" Barristan inquires, just as I start to ramble.
"No!" I exclaim, wincing internally again as Barristan notices my expression. "No, no, I'm, uh, I'm sure I'll be fine in a few minutes; I just wasn't sure… you know, for a moment there, I thought I was sitting by his side again… I… I'm not sure how much time as passed. How… how long has it been since he died?"
"He passed last night, your grace," Barristan informs me seriously. "You told me that you intended to keep vigil for him in his last hours, but the queen insisted that you should be send to bed after you fell asleep by his side."
"Oh…" I murmur, nodding thankfully to Barristan. "Thanks, Ser Barristan, I… wasn't sure for a moment there."
"Your grace, the queen also left a message for when you woke. She said that you alone should read it," Barristan told me, pulling a wax-sealed letter from his belt. "She also wished to inform you that, despite the timing, it is important that you attend court today, to crown you and proclaim your ascent to the Throne."
"Right…" I mutter, as my mind starts working at high-speed. "Right… thanks again, Ser Barristan, I'll, uh, need some privacy to read this. And, uh, to change."
"Of course, your grace," Barristan said, bowing formally as he left the room.
As soon as he had he left, I dropped back down to my chair, sighing.
So… I'm King then. Well, not yet King, because I'm not old enough, right?
Wait… I get the feeling I'm missing something… something
big.
Oh
shit,
Ned!
Frantically, I try to recall every detail surrounding the day after Robert's death.
Varys informs Ned of Roberts death, Ned limps around on a cane 'cause the Lannisters
stabbed him and killed Jory, and –
– and… and Cersei throws Ned in jail.
Sansa is held captive, Arya runs away, Syrio Forel is killed, and the War of Five Kings has almost begun.
That's only one side of the coin, though – Cat Stark (or Tully, really) has Tyrion held at the Eyrie, where he'll be his usual sarcastic self until Bronn saves his ass from crazy Lysa Arryn.
The War has almost started.
Tywin's probably got his army together by now, and Robb won't be far behind, once he hears about Ned's imprisonment. Then, once word gets to Stannis, the Baratheons go to War, and you've got four of the five kings ready to fight.
But… Ned isn't imprisoned
yet…
Of course, if I
don't lock Ned up, he'll try to take over as Lord Protector, and reveal that Joffrey – that
I'm – the product of Lannister incest, and thus, unfit to be King.
Fuck. Damned if I do, damned if I don't.
Either the War breaks out as per canon, or I'm ousted as an incest-bastard and
then the War breaks out.
'Cause if Ned Stark tries to accuse me of incest, Tywin will lose his head and order Ned to be sent to the Wall or killed, and
then we've got a war.
I clench my fists as the sheer
frustration of the situation starts to get to me.
And then a thought hits me.
"No…" I whisper, chuckling at the absurdity of the thought. "It can't be that simple."
But it
was.
I chuckle, but quickly remember to stifle myself before Barristan hears – though it's probably a safe bet he's already heard me chuckle.
"Ser Barristan?" I call out, as I start to rummage through a nearby desk for something to write with.
"Your grace, do you require something?" Barristan asks, leaning through the doorway.
"Yeah, actually," I say, fighting to keep a smirk off my lips. "Can you send for a Maester? I need to send a raven to someone."
