The Awakening

The taste of copper filled my mouth. Blood. Not mine. I blinked, and the world
sharpened into focus like someone had just cranked the contrast on a television screen,
except there was no television, no screen, just stone and steel and the sound of flesh
meeting leather and a girl screaming and— Holy fuck. Holy fucking fuck. My hands were
shaking. No, not shaking. Trembling. Like I'd just mainlined pure adrenaline straight into
my veins. The throne room of the Red Keep stretched out before me, massive and cold
and real in a way that made my stomach drop straight through the floor. Hundreds of
eyes stared at me. At me. Courtiers in their silks and velvets, gold cloaks with their
hands on sword hilts, serving girls pressed against the walls like they wanted to melt
into the stone itself. And in the center of it all, a girl was being beaten. Red hair. Torn
dress. Blood on her lips. Sansa Stark. "Again," someone said. My voice. The word had
come from my mouth, but I hadn't said it. Hadn't meant to say it. The soldier—Ser
Meryn fucking Trant, I realized with a jolt that felt like touching a live wire—drew back
his gauntleted hand and struck her across the face. The crack echoed through the
throne room. Sansa's head snapped to the side. She didn't scream this time. Just
whimpered. Christ. Jesus Christ. What the fuck was happening? I looked down at my
hands. Small hands. Soft hands. Rings on every finger, gold and ruby and emerald
catching the light from the high windows. My sleeves were crimson and gold, the fabric
so rich it probably cost more than a car. Than a house. My chest felt tight, constricted,
like someone had wrapped steel bands around my ribs and was slowly tightening them.
This wasn't real. This couldn't be real. But the smell was real—sweat and fear and the
coppery tang of blood and something else, something rotten, like meat left too long in
the sun. And the sounds were real—Sansa's ragged breathing, the shuffle of boots on
stone, the whisper of fabric as courtiers shifted and murmured and pretended not to
watch while watching everything. "Your Grace," Ser Meryn said, and his voice was
eager, like a dog waiting for its master to throw a stick. "Shall I continue?" I opened my
mouth. Closed it. My tongue felt thick and clumsy, like it didn't quite fit in my mouth
anymore. Because it wasn't my mouth. Not really. This body was smaller than mine had
been. Younger. I could feel it in the way my center of gravity had shifted, in the
unfamiliar weight of the crown on my head— Crown. There was a fucking crown on my
head. I reached up slowly, fingers trembling, and touched cold metal. Elaborate. Heavy.
Real. "Your Grace?" Ser Meryn again, and now there was confusion creeping into his
voice, uncertainty, like he couldn't quite figure out why his king had gone silent and still
as a statue. Think. Think, you stupid fuck. What's the last thing you remember?
Reading. I'd been reading. Late at night, couldn't sleep, scrolling through fanfiction on
my phone because I was a grown-ass man with a job and responsibilities and
apparently no sense of shame. Game of Thrones. Some transmigration fic where the
protagonist woke up as— No. No no no no no. "I said, shall I continue, Your Grace?"
Ser Meryn's voice had an edge now. Impatience. He wanted to hit her again. Wanted
permission to keep hitting her. And I was Joffrey Baratheon. King of the Andals and the
First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Protector of the Realm. Sadistic little shit who'd
just ordered Ned Stark's execution. The memory hit me like a freight train—not my
memory, but his, Joffrey's, bleeding through whatever barrier separated us. Standing on

the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor. Ser Ilyn Payne with Ice in his hands. Ned Stark
kneeling. Sansa screaming. The sword coming down. The head rolling. The crowd's
roar. I was going to be sick. "Your Grace!" Ser Meryn barked, and several courtiers
gasped at his tone, at the disrespect of it, but he was frustrated now, confused by my
silence, and Sansa was on her knees in front of me with blood running down her chin
and tears streaming down her face and— "I'm bored," I heard myself say. The words
came out petulant. Whiny. Exactly how Joffrey would sound. How I would sound now,
because I was Joffrey, I was in his body, wearing his face, and everyone in this room
expected me to be him. Ser Meryn lowered his hand. "Your Grace?" "Bored," I repeated,
and I made myself yawn, made myself stretch like a cat in the sun, like this was all
terribly tedious and beneath my attention. "Throw her away. I'm done with her." Relief
flooded through the room like a wave. I could feel it, taste it. The courtiers relaxed
fractionally. Ser Meryn nodded, grabbed Sansa by her hair—she cried out, a sharp
sound of pain that made something twist in my gut—and hauled her to her feet. "Take
her back to her chambers," I said, and I kept my voice bored, disinterested, cruel. "Make
sure she understands what happens to traitors' daughters who forget their place." "Yes,
Your Grace." Ser Meryn dragged her toward the doors. Sansa stumbled, nearly fell,
caught herself. Her eyes met mine for just a second. Blue eyes. Terrified eyes. Hating
eyes. She thought I was a monster. I was a monster. Or I was wearing a monster's skin,
which amounted to the same fucking thing. The doors slammed shut behind them. The
throne room erupted into conversation, a hundred voices all talking at once, and I stood
there in the center of it all and tried not to hyperventilate. "Well done, my sweet." A
woman's voice, low and smooth as honey. A hand on my shoulder, warm through the
fabric of my doublet. "You showed appropriate mercy. Your grandfather will be pleased."
I turned. And came face to face with Cersei Lannister. My mother. Joffrey's mother. Holy
shit. She was beautiful. Not pretty—beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made men start
wars and burn cities and betray everything they'd ever believed in. Golden hair that
caught the light like spun silk. Green eyes that could freeze or seduce depending on her
mood. High cheekbones. Full lips. And her body—Christ, her body was insane, all
curves and softness wrapped in a gown that probably cost more than most people
earned in a lifetime, cut low enough to show the swell of her breasts, and I shouldn't be
thinking about my mother's tits but she wasn't really my mother, she was Cersei fucking
Lannister, and— "Are you well, Joffrey?" Her hand moved from my shoulder to my
forehead, checking for fever. Her touch was cool. Gentle. Concerned. "You seem...
distracted." "I'm fine," I managed. My voice cracked. Puberty. Right. Joffrey was what,
thirteen? Fourteen? Still a boy, not quite a man, and his voice hadn't finished changing
yet. "Just... thinking." "Thinking?" She smiled, but there was something sharp behind it.
Calculating. "About what, my love?" About how I'm not actually your son. About how I'm
some random asshole from another world who just woke up in the body of the most
hated character in fantasy literature. About how Jaime Lannister is one lucky bastard
because holy fuck, those tits are— "About the war," I said instead. "The Starks. Robb
Stark is marching south with an army." Cersei's smile widened. "Let him come. Your
grandfather will crush him like the boy he is." She leaned closer, and I could smell her
perfume, something floral and expensive. "You did well today, Joffrey. Showing that
traitor's daughter her place. Reminding the court that you are king, and kings do not
show weakness." Weakness. Right. Because in this world, in this fucked-up medieval
nightmare, mercy was weakness. Compassion was weakness. Anything that wasn't
cruelty and strength and dominance was weakness, and weak kings didn't last long. I

was so fucked. "Mother," I said, and the word felt strange on my tongue. "I want to
speak with the Small Council. Today. Now." Her eyebrows rose. "The Small Council?
Whatever for?" "Because I'm the king," I snapped, and I let Joffrey's arrogance bleed
into my voice, his petulance, his absolute certainty that he deserved everything and
everyone should jump when he spoke. "And I want to discuss our strategy for dealing
with the North." For a moment, just a moment, something flickered across her face.
Surprise? Suspicion? But then it was gone, replaced by that indulgent smile mothers
gave their children when they said something adorably stupid. "Of course, my sweet. I'll
have Lord Varys summon them." She kissed my forehead. Her lips were soft. Warm.
"You're growing into such a strong king. Your father would be proud." Robert Baratheon.
The drunk. The warrior. The man who'd never wanted to be king in the first place. The
man who wasn't actually my father. Because Joffrey was a bastard. Born of incest.
Cersei and Jaime's golden secret, and if anyone ever found out, if anyone ever proved
it, I'd be dead. Executed. Torn apart by an angry mob or quietly poisoned or thrown from
a tower window. I was standing on a knife's edge, and I hadn't even realized it yet.
"Thank you, Mother," I said, and I made myself smile. Made myself look like the spoiled
boy-king everyone expected. "You may go. I want to... sit on the throne for a while.
Think about what it means to be king." She looked pleased by that. Proud. Like I'd just
said something profound instead of desperately trying to get her away from me so I
could process what the fuck was happening. "As you wish, Your Grace." She curtsied—
actually curtsied, to me, to her son—and glided away, her gown whispering across the
stone floor. I watched her go. That ass. Jesus Christ, that ass was a work of art. Round
and firm and perfectly shaped, swaying with each step, and Jaime Lannister had been
tapping that for years, the lucky bastard, and I really, really needed to stop thinking
about my mother's ass because this was fucked up on so many levels I couldn't even
count them. The throne room was emptying. Courtiers bowing and scraping as they
backed toward the doors, servants scurrying to clean up the blood—Sansa's blood—
from the floor. Soon it would be just me and the gold cloaks standing guard at the doors
and the Iron Throne looming behind me like some kind of medieval nightmare made of
swords and death. I turned to look at it. A thousand blades, melted together by
dragonfire. Jagged. Ugly. Uncomfortable as hell, according to every account I'd ever
read. The seat of power in Westeros. The thing men killed for. Died for. Betrayed their
families and their honor and their gods for. And it was mine. I climbed the steps slowly.
Each one felt like walking to my own execution. The throne was massive up close,
towering over me, and when I sat down—carefully, because those blades were sharp
and Aegon the Conqueror had apparently been a sadistic fuck who thought kings should
literally bleed for their throne—the metal was cold even through my clothes. The view
from up here was different. Higher. I could see the entire throne room spread out below
me, every corner, every shadow. I could see the doors where Sansa had been dragged
away. The spot where her blood was still being scrubbed from the stone. I'd done that.
No. Joffrey had done that. But I was Joffrey now. My hands gripped the armrests. The
metal bit into my palms. I welcomed the pain. It was real. Solid. Proof that this wasn't
some fucked-up dream I'd wake up from. Think. I needed to think. Needed to figure out
where I was in the timeline, what had already happened, what was about to happen.
Ned Stark was dead. That much was obvious. Which meant... what? Robb had already
been crowned King in the North? Or was that still coming? And Stannis—fuck, Stannis
was probably already preparing to sail for King's Landing with his fleet. And Renly was
in the Reach, playing at king with the Tyrells backing him. The War of the Five Kings. I

was right in the middle of the War of the Five fucking Kings, and I was playing as the
character everyone wanted dead. "Your Grace?" I jerked, nearly fell off the throne. A
man stood at the base of the steps, bald as an egg, wearing robes that looked like they
cost more than a small kingdom. He smiled at me, but it didn't reach his eyes. Varys.
The Spider. The eunuch. The man who knew everything and told nothing and played the
game better than anyone except maybe Littlefinger. "Lord Varys," I said, and I was
proud that my voice didn't shake. "I didn't hear you approach." "Few do, Your Grace."
He climbed the steps, moving with surprising grace for a fat man. "Your lady mother
said you wished to convene the Small Council?" "Yes." I straightened in the throne, tried
to look regal instead of terrified. "I want to discuss our position. The war. The... the
North." "Ah." Varys folded his hands in his sleeves. "A wise concern, Your Grace. The
Young Wolf has indeed called his banners. Twenty thousand men, they say. Perhaps
more. Marching south to avenge his father." Twenty thousand. Fuck. "And what does
the council recommend?" I asked. "Lord Tywin is already moving to intercept him. Your
grandfather is quite confident he can crush this rebellion before it truly begins." Varys
tilted his head, studying me like I was some kind of interesting insect. "Though I
confess, Your Grace, I'm surprised by your sudden interest in military strategy. You've
never shown much concern for such matters before." Careful. Careful, you stupid fuck.
Don't give yourself away. "I'm the king," I said, and I let petulance creep into my voice.
"Of course I'm interested. It's my kingdom. My throne. I want to know what's
happening." "Of course, Your Grace. Most wise." But his eyes were sharp. Calculating.
"Shall I summon the council for this afternoon?" "Yes. After midday meal." I waved my
hand dismissively, the way I'd seen Joffrey do in the show. "You're dismissed." He
bowed low. Too low. Mocking, almost, though his face showed nothing but respect. "As
you command, Your Grace." He backed down the steps, never turning his back on me,
and disappeared through a side door. I was alone. Finally, blessedly alone. I slumped in
the throne, not caring that the blades dug into my back. My hands were shaking again.
My whole body was shaking. This was real. This was actually, genuinely, impossibly
real. I was Joffrey Baratheon. King of the Seven Kingdoms. Thirteen years old. Sadistic.
Cruel. Hated by literally everyone except his mother and maybe Ser Meryn fucking
Trant. And I had just ordered the execution of Ned Stark. The honorable Ned Stark. The
man who'd been like a father to half the characters in this story. The man whose death
had started a war that would kill hundreds of thousands of people. I'd killed him. No.
Joffrey had killed him. But I was Joffrey. The distinction didn't matter. Not to Robb Stark.
Not to Catelyn. Not to Sansa, bleeding in her chambers right now, probably wishing I
was dead. I was going to die. That was the endgame here, wasn't it? Joffrey died.
Poisoned at his own wedding. Choking and clawing at his throat while everyone
watched. Joffrey died, and no one mourned him except Cersei, and even she probably
felt some relief that her monster of a son was finally gone. Unless I changed things.
Unless I played this smart. The thought crystallized in my mind, sharp and clear. I knew
this story. I knew what was coming. The Red Wedding. The Purple Wedding. Daenerys
and her dragons. The White Walkers. I knew all of it, every twist and turn, every betrayal
and alliance. I had knowledge. Information. The most valuable commodity in this world.
And I had Joffrey's position. His power. His resources. I could work with this. I could
survive this. But I'd have to be smart. Careful. I couldn't just suddenly become a
different person—everyone would notice, would suspect something was wrong. I had to
be Joffrey. Had to act like Joffrey. Cruel and impulsive and stupid on the surface. While
underneath, I planned. I schemed. I built. The North. That was the key. Robb Stark was

marching south with an army, and Tywin would meet him, and they'd fight, and
thousands would die, and it would all be for nothing because in the end, everyone lost.
Unless I could turn the North into an ally instead of an enemy. But how? How the fuck
could I make peace with people whose father I'd just murdered? An idea began to form.
Crazy. Impossible. The kind of thing that would never work except... Except it might. It
just might. I stood up from the throne. My legs were unsteady, but I forced them to hold
me. Forced myself to walk down the steps with my head high, my shoulders back, every
inch the king. I had work to do. Plans to make. A kingdom to save. And first, I needed to
figure out how to stop being a complete monster while still looking like one. The throne
room doors opened as I approached. Gold cloaks snapped to attention. I walked past
them without a glance, the way Joffrey would, like they were furniture instead of people.
Outside, the Red Keep sprawled in all directions. Towers and courtyards and gardens
and dungeons. My home now. My prison. Somewhere in this castle, Sansa Stark was
crying. Bleeding. Hating me. Somewhere beyond these walls, an army was marching
south to kill me. And somewhere, in the back of my mind, a small voice whispered:
You're in Game of Thrones. You're actually in Game of Thrones. And you're Joffrey
fucking Baratheon. I started laughing. Couldn't help it. The sound echoed off the stone
walls, high and slightly hysterical, and the guards shifted uncomfortably but didn't say
anything because I was the king and kings could laugh at nothing if they wanted to. This
was insane. This was impossible. This was going to be the most interesting—and
probably shortest—life I'd ever lived. But fuck it. I was here. I was alive. I was king. And I
was going to play this game better than anyone expected. Starting with a marriage
proposal that would make the entire Seven Kingdoms think I'd lost my mind. I smiled.
Let them think that. Let them all think that. While I built an empire from the shadows of a
monster's reputation. I needed air. Space. Somewhere to think without a hundred eyes
watching my every move. My feet carried me through corridors I somehow knew,
muscle memory from a body that wasn't mine guiding me past tapestries and guards
and servants who pressed themselves against walls as I passed. They were afraid of
me. Terrified. I could see it in their eyes, the way they wouldn't look directly at me, like I
was some kind of rabid dog that might bite if provoked. Good. Fear was useful. Fear
kept people in line. Fear meant they wouldn't question when I did something
unexpected, wouldn't wonder if maybe their king had suddenly grown a brain. The
gardens. I found myself in the gardens, somehow, surrounded by roses and ivy and the
smell of earth and growing things. It was quieter here. Peaceful, almost, if you ignored
the fact that this was King's Landing and peace was just another word for the calm
before someone stuck a knife in your back. I sat on a stone bench near a fountain. The
water burbled and splashed, and for a moment—just a moment—I could almost pretend
I was somewhere else. Someone else. But I wasn't. I was Joffrey Baratheon, and I'd just
killed Ned Stark, and in a few months I'd be dead unless I figured out how to change the
story. The Purple Wedding. Poisoned wine. Choking to death while everyone watched
and Tyrion got blamed and— Tyrion. Fuck. My uncle. The Imp. The dwarf everyone
mocked and no one respected except he was smarter than all of them combined.
Where was he right now? Still in King's Landing? Or had he already been sent to the
Vale, to the Eyrie, to deal with Lysa Arryn and her crazy ass? I couldn't remember. The
timeline was fuzzy, events bleeding together in my head like watercolors in the rain.
"Your Grace." I jerked, hand going to my belt where a sword should be but wasn't
because Joffrey was a spoiled little shit who'd never actually learned to fight properly. A
man stood a few feet away. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Armor polished to a mirror shine,

white cloak hanging from his shoulders. Kingsguard. Not Ser Meryn. Someone else.
Older. Graying beard. Hard eyes that had seen too much and judged everything. Ser
Barristan Selmy. No. Wait. Hadn't Joffrey dismissed him? Thrown him out of the
Kingsguard for being too old, too useless, in front of the entire court? When had that
happened? Before Ned's execution or after? "Ser Barristan," I said carefully, watching
his face for any sign of anger, resentment, the kind of rage that might make a man
forget his vows and put a sword through a boy-king's throat. "Your Grace." He bowed,
stiff and formal. "Your lady mother sent me to find you. The Small Council will convene
within the hour." Right. The council meeting. I'd asked for that. Demanded it, actually, in
front of Varys and probably half the court by now. "Good," I said, and I made myself
stand, made myself look imperious instead of terrified. "I want to discuss our strategy.
The war. The... the traitors in the North." Something flickered across his face.
Disapproval? Disgust? Hard to tell with a man who'd spent decades learning to hide his
thoughts behind a mask of duty and honor. "Of course, Your Grace." He paused.
Hesitated. "If I may speak freely?" "You may." I waved my hand, trying to look bored.
Disinterested. Like whatever he had to say couldn't possibly matter. "Lord Eddard Stark
was an honorable man. A good man. His execution was..." He stopped. Swallowed.
"Unwise." Unwise. That was one word for it. Catastrophically stupid was another.
Suicidally moronic. The kind of decision that started wars and got everyone killed. But I
couldn't say that. Couldn't admit that Joffrey—that I—had fucked up in the worst
possible way. "He was a traitor," I said, and I let my voice go cold. Sharp. "He
confessed. In front of everyone. He admitted his treason, and traitors die. That's the
law." "He confessed to save his daughters." Ser Barristan's voice was quiet. Controlled.
But there was steel underneath, the kind of steel that had cut down better men than me.
"He confessed because he was promised mercy. Exile to the Wall. Not... not the sword."
"I changed my mind." I shrugged, like it was nothing. Like I hadn't just condemned
thousands of people to death with three words. "I'm the king. I can do that." "Yes, Your
Grace. You can." He looked at me, really looked at me, and I saw something in his eyes
that made my stomach clench. Pity. He pitied me. "But a wise king listens to his
advisors. Considers the consequences of his actions. Your grandfather—" "My
grandfather isn't king. I am." I stepped closer, had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes
because even in Joffrey's body I was still just a boy, still small and weak and pathetic
compared to a man like Barristan Selmy. "And I don't need lectures from old men who
should have retired years ago." There it was. The flash of anger. Just for a second, but I
saw it. Good. Let him be angry. Let him think I was exactly what everyone believed—a
spoiled, cruel, stupid boy playing at being king. "As you say, Your Grace." He bowed
again, deeper this time. Mocking, maybe, or maybe just exhausted. "Shall I escort you
to the council chambers?" "No. I'll find my own way." I turned away from him, dismissing
him the way Joffrey would. "You're dismissed, Ser." I heard him leave. Footsteps on
stone, the whisper of his cloak, the clink of armor. And then silence. I let out a breath I
hadn't realized I'd been holding. That had been close. Too close. I'd almost slipped,
almost said something that would have made him suspicious, made him wonder why
the boy-king who'd never shown interest in anything except cruelty and crossbows
suddenly cared about consequences and strategy. I had to be more careful. Had to
remember that everyone here knew Joffrey. Knew what he was. What he'd always
been. And if I suddenly became someone different, someone better, they'd notice.
They'd question. They'd investigate. And then I'd be fucked. No. I had to be Joffrey. Had
to wear his cruelty like armor, his stupidity like a mask. Had to make them all believe I

was exactly what they expected while I worked behind the scenes, pulling strings,
building alliances, preparing for the shitstorm that was coming. The North. That was the
key. If I could turn the North from enemy to ally, if I could somehow make peace with the
Starks... But how? How the fuck could I do that after killing their father? After torturing
Sansa? After everything Joffrey had done? The answer came to me like a lightning bolt.
Catelyn Stark. Not Sansa. Not Robb. Not any of the children who'd grown up loving their
father, who'd never forgive his murder. Catelyn. The mother. The widow. The woman
who'd married Ned Stark for duty, not love, who'd spent twenty years in the North
freezing her ass off and raising his bastard alongside her own children. She was
pragmatic. Political. She understood the game in a way her children didn't. And she was
valuable. More valuable than Sansa, more valuable than any of Ned's daughters. She
was the Lady of Winterfell, the mother of the King in the North, the woman who
commanded respect and loyalty from every lord in the realm. If I could marry her... The
thought was insane. Impossible. A thirteen-year-old boy marrying a woman three times
his age? A widow whose husband he'd just murdered? Everyone would think I'd lost my
mind. Which was exactly the point. They'd think it was another one of Joffrey's whims.
Another cruel joke. Another example of his stupidity and impulsiveness. They wouldn't
see the strategy behind it. Wouldn't understand that I was securing the North, binding
them to the crown through marriage, creating an alliance that would make me
untouchable. And Catelyn... fuck. Catelyn Stark. I'd seen her in the show, Michelle
Fairley with that stern face and those sad eyes and that body that was still incredible
despite her age. Mature. Experienced. The kind of woman who knew exactly what she
wanted and how to get it. The kind of woman who could teach a boy-king a thing or two.
My cock stirred at the thought, and I had to laugh at myself because here I was,
planning political strategy and thinking about fucking a woman old enough to be my
mother. But that was the beauty of it, wasn't it? Everyone would think it was about sex.
About Joffrey's twisted desires, his need to dominate and humiliate. They wouldn't see
the alliance. The power. The long game. I stood up from the bench. My legs felt steadier
now. My mind clearer. I had a plan. It was crazy. Dangerous. The kind of thing that could
get me killed if I played it wrong. But it was better than sitting around waiting for Stannis
to sail up the Blackwater and burn King's Landing to the ground. Better than waiting for
the Purple Wedding and the poison and the choking death that was supposed to be my
fate. I was going to survive this. I was going to win. And I was going to do it by being
exactly what everyone expected—a monster—while building something they'd never
see coming. An empire. Built on the bones of Joffrey Baratheon's reputation and the
strategic brilliance of a man who knew how this story ended. I smiled. Time to go to that
council meeting. Time to start playing the game.