The incident in the courtyard aside, the arrival and settling of the royal court at Winterfell was easy enough. The Mountain and his unruly beast of a mount was given separate quarters in one of the emptier parts of the castle and the servants were encouraged to stay out of his way as often as possible, which they were only too glad to do. The Great Hall was set up for a feast to celebrate the arrival of the King, banners being hung up and the finer foods and beverages being brought out of storage. The Queen stayed in her chambers most of the time, complaining bitterly about the North and it's people, how Winterfell paled in comparison to King's Landing and bitching about how her oafish husband had dragged her and her poor children from the comfort and civilisation of the capital to this desolate wasteland of barbarians. All of this was said to her own sycophants, of course, and Joffrey shared her contempt for the North so he listened. Tommen and Myrcella, however, did not share their mother and brother's feelings on the North and Winterfell. On the contrary, they found it absolutely fascinating, particularly the godswood with it's primeval aura and ancient white weirwood tree. Tommen attached himself to Bran, Jojen and Rickon, who at first were irritated but the little prince soon grew on them. Bran showed him how to ride, Jojen taught him how to tell the different kinds of bird and animal calls and Rickon was just the right sort of rough-and-tumble boy Tommen had wanted for a friend. Myrcella, on the other hand, had quickly endeared herself to both Sansa, by showing her some royal embroidering techniques, and Arya for not only not mocking her lack of skill with it, but sewing her a direwolf doll rather than a princess doll. Sansa was quite taken with Joffrey, her attraction blinding her to what the rest of her family had seen when he rode into Winterfell, the contempt in his eyes for the place.
"Tell me of your brother, Myrcella. Is he as handsome and brave and kind as he looks.", she asked.
Myrcella's smile faded and she looked grimly at her lap. Arya was not stupid; she knew the girl was struggling with herself.
"He is…. not what he looks like, Sansa.", Myrcella said finally.
"What do you mean?", Sansa asked tremulously.
Myrcella was a sweet girl who, as much of a cunt as her older brother was, could not bring herself to speak ill of him.
"Let's just say, you could do better, Sansa. A lot better.", she said, wringing her hands nervously.
Sansa looked disappointed, but before she could speak the door opened and Joffrey came in.
"Not interrupting anything, am I? Oh, nothing important but the wittering of women.", he said snidely.
Arya's grip on her sewing needle tightened; Myrcella was giving her lessons, and was a much better teacher than Septa Mordane (less caustic with criticism), but right now all she wanted to do was drive it into the little prick's hand. Sansa stared at him, trying to work out if he was making some joke, and Myrcella just stared at her hands, which were trembling in her lap; the poor girl clearly was frightened, if not terrified, of her older brother. Arya looked at him and her dislike deepened, threatening to spill over into hatred. His face was cruel and arrogant, like his mother's; indeed, there was so little of Robert Baratheon in him. There was no courage, no strength, no camaraderie or joviality. And the little shit would be king when Robert died or stepped down; Arya whispered a prayer to the Old Gods that they do something to make it not so, whilst the royal brat was here in the North and thus where the Old Gods had their strongest power. Little did she know just how true her wish was about to become. For the prick of a prince had visited the godswood hoping to hunt some game, and upon finding none had stalked angrily through it, sword drawn as he slashed at bushes, at branches, stabbed the ground and kicked the trees. When he reached the ancient white weirwood he had peered disdainfully at the weathered old face carved into it's trunk.
"Northern savages, worshipping a tree!", he sneered.
Raising his sword, Lion's Tooth, he pressed the point of it to the old face and began driving the point into one of the eyes, noticing with awe and satisfaction how the sap that appeared was like blood. He pushed it in further, the only regret being that it wasn't a real eyeball….. and suddenly the sword was spat right back out of the tree. Some tangible and very powerful presence pushed the sword away. Pushed him away, too; Joffrey felt something push him hard in the chest, enough to knock him flat on his back. When he scrambled back to his feet in terror, looking wildly about for his sword, he saw it lying on the ground with the blade blackened, mangled and bent, smoke issuing from it. He turned to the tree and saw something that made him nearly piss his hose; the face's expression had changed. Beforehand it had been a kind of melancholy look, but now it had changed to an angry frown.
"What? No. No, it's just a trick of the light, is all."
But even so, he hurried out of that godswood as fast as he could. As he did so, he could have sworn he heard something borne on the sudden wind that sprang up; laughter, in an ancient voice like wood creaking. Joffrey would never admit it, not in a million years, but for the first time in his life he did not feel like a prince, or higher than all the others in the world. In that moment, in that godswood and the castle that held and protected it, he felt like a speck of dust. The Old Gods were watching him, you see. And they did not like being poked in the eye.