Joffrey II

After the third day of going to sleep and waking up in the same bed, the boy, Joffrey, accepted that he was well and truly stuck here. There was lingering pain in his mouth, and he could feel a few empty places with his tongue where teeth used to be. Still, nobody would tell him just why the king smacked him. Joff resolved to be on his best behavior to avoid a repeat performance. He even maintained the presence of mind to refuse "milk of the poppy," some manner of primative painkiller. The word "poppy" struck warning bells in his addled brain, calling to memory the dreaded opioids which so troubled people back on Earth.

His mother tried to insist, but after two forceful refusals, she relented.

"My little lion is so brave!" she praised.

It was a gamble, a definite gamble, but it seemed his mother was inclined to give him his own way in most things, as long as he kept it reasonable. Joffrey didn't mind the pain. It was a constant reminder that what he was experiencing was real.

Sometimes, it didn't feel real, but the constant bombardment of his senses, the sights and smells, couldn't be denied. This was a real, grounded place, another world, and, most dangerously, a world he didn't understand at all. Thankfully, they were good enough to arrange lessons.

Maesters, that order of scholar monks, were responsible for the academic education of noble children. By some absurd coincidence, he was happy to discover the people of Westeros used the same letters and numbers he was familiar with. From there, lessons were a breeze. Joff was so excited he didn't bother concealing his ability, eagerly devouring everything the maester put before him.

All these unfamiliar terms: Seven Kingdoms, Iron Throne, and more, gradually unraveled as he started to develop a sense of his place in this world.

Dragons existed once, it seemed, and there were rumors of skulls in some cellar deeper in the keep, but he dared not ask to see them, not yet. Sadly, the majestic beasts had gone extinct, and the Targaryen dynasty, previous rulers of the continent, lost their grip on power in a few short generations. His father, King Robert, had been the one to overthrow them once and for all, seizing the realm for himself.

New dynasty, he thought warily. There had already been a rebellion, some minor lord trying to break away. The whole affair was crushed swiftly, but who knows if someone else might try their luck?

The part of him that remembered being an adult tried to think critically of the situation. Of course, he was receiving nothing but propaganda. Everyone made the Targaryens ought to be monsters, dragons in human form, and his father, the noble knight, to slay them at last. It made for a nice, clean, fairy tale, appropriate for a child like him. But was it the truth?

I have no way of knowing, so I might as well focus on something else.

As a general rule, people avoided gossiping about the prince in his hearing, but Joff still heard things from time to time, small snippets. Apparently, he was a real terror before, a spoiled kid who threw tantrums and delighted in humiliating the servants. That couldn't go on. These people brought him his food! One of the first things Joffrey set out to do was repair his reputation, offering a small "thank you" here and there. It wasn't much, but he thought it was already starting to pay off. Courtesy is free, after all. The people around didn't seem nearly so wary of him as when he first became aware of himself.

Mother didn't much care for this, but after another display of willfulness, she wilted, giving him his way again. Small wonder the boy had been so spoiled before the man woke up in his body. This enabling queen would give him pretty much whatever he wanted.

She was absurdly beautiful by the way, his mother. Cersei Baratheon was a tall, leggy blonde with a face that was almost modern. He wouldn't go so far as to call it an iPhone face, but had things been different, his mom might've been big on Instagram. Poor mother was clearly miserable, trapped in a loveless relationship with his dad, the king. It was a political arrangement, as most marriages among the highborn were. Someday he'd have to marry a girl, maybe one he'd never met, and who knows how they'd get along?

King Robert was physically impressive for sure, tall as hell, with broad shoulders and muscles that were visible even underneath his silk tunic. That beer belly, though. He ate and drank way too much, and was loud and uncouth at feasts. People seemed to like it, though. A king who didn't take himself too seriously could be good, but he embarrassed Mom without a care for her feelings, smacking the ass of serving girls and worse.

It explained a lot, really. Cersei, deprived of love in her relationship, focused all her energy on her kids. A lot of women in this world were probably the same. It was sad, but ultimately predictable. Thank goodness this wasn't one of those worlds where the king had multiple wives, and he had to worry about getting poisoned by his half-siblings. That would suck.

Once the pain in his jaw was really gone, and Joffrey started to run out of basic things to study with the maester, they moved on to memorizing houses and banners. That would be important, very important. In medieval warfare, this was how you knew friend from foe. Learning the family names and the little badges they would wear put a lot in context. Soon, he was spotting them everywhere. Lannister lions and Baratheon stags filled the castle, as you might expect. Not everyone was a blood relative; soldiers who served the families were more common.

Generally speaking, most of the ordinary inhabitants of the castle hailed from the Stormlands, Westerlands, and Crownlands. Estermonts and Bucklers, Crakehalls and Leffords, Rosbys and Rykkers, and so forth could all be spotted daily. People came to court seeking offices, to curry favor, or just to eat on King Robert's dime. His friends in the yard all had names, too. It was helpful to remember who not to piss off.

Swordplay! Now that was fun! Returning to the training yard was easy enough, just a quick conversation with his mother, and suddenly his mornings were packed with activity. That first practice was a bit awkward, but enlightening all the same.

"Ser Aron," he addressed the master-at-arms respectfully. "I, er, that is to say, have forgotten everything. Could we start over from the very beginning? The absolute basics?"

The look Ser Aron Santagar gave him seemed to say he'd never gone beyond the basics anyhow, but Joff was the prince, and he couldn't very well say that out loud.

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Other boys might've gotten bored and fidgeted, but not Joffrey. No, he loved learning how to hold his sword, how to take a balanced stance, and how to step. Ser Aron emphasized footwork above all. He proved a quick study, rapidly catching up to and beyond the level of the boy from before.

The more histories he read, the more Joff realized this was a world where political power came from a strong sword arm. Pikes and longbows existed, but no gunpowder. Try as he might, the young prince couldn't seem to remember the formula, either. Maybe whatever power placed his consciousness here plucked the knowledge from his mind. In any case, the heavy knight, armored horsemen who charged with couched lances, remained the dominant battlefield force. There'd been no Agincourt or Crecy here. Aristocrats owned warfare, and the political system reflected that.

I must be a knight as well, he vowed.

Every night he trained in his room: pushups, bodysquats, ab circuits, every workout routine he could remember. According to others, Joff was tall and quick for his age, but not particularly strong. He'd have to remedy that. After an awkward conversation in which he explained to his Uncle Tyrion what pull-up and dip bars were, complete with rough drawings on parchment, the man arranged for a smith to construct the apparatus and install it in his room. Mother complained bitterly about his spending time with Tyrion, who had a reputation for immorality, yet again, she let Joffrey win. Cersei's indulgence was his true superpower.

Months passed. He trained in the yard and in his room. He sparred with other boys, bigger boys, older boys, and started developing something of a reputation. Ah, and Joffrey stuffed his face every day, not just with meat and milk and eggs, but vegetables too. Turnips and cabbages were easy enough to find, but some he remembered from Earth didn't exist at all, or at least not natively to the continent of Westeros.

Truly filling out would have to wait for puberty, but the boy was lean and strong now, not scrawny at all. He listened to Ser Aron's corrections with the patience of an adult, taking them to heart as he studied the blade. They also let him ride a pony and try to slip his play lance through rings hanging from a wooden arm. His first taste of the joust! There would be a tournament in a month or two, everyone said, and Joff could hardly wait. Entertainment was pretty rare here. He had books, and sometimes singers or jugglers at dinner, but that was about it.

Which was why he was determined to have as much fun as possible today. Ser Aron said he was ready to push himself, making Joffrey stand tall with pride.

"Right, my Prince, I want you to fight hard today. Remember what I told you about your tendency to lose your balance on the backswing. You overcommit, and it's become a habit."

He knew it. Joffrey sometimes tried to make up for his shortcomings with pure aggression, but he would often leave himself open. Today, he would be better. A servant worried over him, making sure all the padding was secure, a layer of cloth and leather to keep him safe.

His cousin Lancel, older by two years, stood on the opposite side of the yard. The other boys, and even the knights, had gathered around to see the show, making the Red Keep's training ground grow quiet.

"Remember, Lancel, you really need to push me. I won't get better if you don't," he said, trying to sound cheerful. Joff knew Lancel was uneasy about fighting the prince seriously. They were nearly the same height, but his cousin definitely had the weight advantage and years of experience.

Lancel raised his wooden sword in salute. "As my prince commands," he replied deferentially.

Joff had tried to be friendly, but being royalty and the maturity difference really didn't help matters. He returned the salute and raised his weapon when Ser Aron Santagar cried, "Begin!"

Ser Aron was a Dornishman, Joff remembered, and quite a bit darker than the rest. Didn't the Prince of Dorne have a daughter? Maybe Joff would end up marrying her. He shook his head, no time for thoughts like that!

Joffrey and Lancel circled one another, each clutching a wooden sword with their right hands, with a small shield strapped to their left. The game of inches began as they played at range. Joff circled away from Lancel's sword arm, trying to get a favorable angle of attack. Going at your opponent in a straight line was a great way to get swatted. After a few months of jumping rope, he stepped lightly, dancing around Lancel just out of range, trying to bait an attack he could punish.

Smack! Lancel lashed out, thinking Joff cornered when he backed up to the castle wall. Little did he know, Joffrey had planned this. The prince caught the blow on his shield and stepped inside Lancel's guard, returning a nice slash of his own. While Lancel worried about that, Joff stepped again and spun them around. Now, Lancel was the one with his back to the wall!

They exchanged a few blows, but neither managed to land cleanly on the other. The main difference was that Joff had more room to maneuver. He stepped in and out, teasing and baiting Lancel, who seemed truly discomfitted from the tactic. Eventually, frustration got the better of the boy, and Lancel bumrushed him in a straight line.

At first, he was driving Joffrey back, but the prince had his opening at last, giving Lancel a few stings on his extended arm and shoulder. Once, when Joff baited him into raising his shield too high, he gave his cousin a really nasty smack on the thigh. Not being an asshole, Joffrey avoided the knee itself, but Lancel was still walking funny. In fact, he couldn't pursue at all, and soon Joffrey was hitting him at will.

"Enough!" Ser commanded. "Good fight, both of you. Lancel, you must control your frustration. The prince set trap after trap, and you continually fell into them."

"Yes, Ser," Lancel agreed meekly. Joff hoped he hadn't embarrassed the boy too badly. There were a few jeers and quiet jokes, but nothing he could really hear.

"Prince Joffrey," the master-at-arms addressed him next, leaning down to meet him eye to eye. "That was fine work, but tricks are not enough. I want to see you fight Garth. No more dancing. Plant your feet and go blow for blow."

"Yes, Ser," Joff agreed as well. Garth Estermont was a squire already and nearly twice his age. He was about to get his ass beat, so he didn't get a big head for styling on Lancel. Ser Aron always did this. Garth was another cousin of his, the prince supposed, but that didn't mean he'd go easy. No, just the opposite.

Man, I'm going to be so sore tonight.