Winter's Coming And So Am I!, a game of thrones fanfic

Chapter One:

The Worst Day... but first...

"SMO-KIN'!" Jim burst through the Small Council doors with his signature catchphrase, causing Grand Maester Pycelle to nearly fall out of his chair. "Sorry, sorry – always wanted to do that. P-A-R-T-Y? Because I GOTTA!"

The assembled council members stared in frozen horror as their king moonwalked to his chair. Cersei's face had turned an interesting shade of purple that nearly matched the wine in her cup.

"My son," she said through gritted teeth, "are you feeling... well?"

"Never better, Mom! Hey, quick question – why so serious?" He delivered the last part in his best Heath Ledger Joker impression, then immediately regretted it when he remembered nobody here would get the reference. "Look, here's the deal, folks. We're going to make some ch-ch-ch-changes around here. First order of business!"

He slapped the table with both hands and leaned forward, face suddenly serious. "We need to send ravens to the Night's Watch. Like, all the ravens. ALL OF THEM." His face snapped back to animated. "Because winter isn't just coming – it's bringing friends! Zombie friends! And not the fun kind that dance to 'Thriller.'"

"Your Grace," Varys interjected smoothly, "perhaps you could... clarify your concerns about the Night's Watch?"

"Picture this:" Jim jumped up, acting out each part as he spoke. "An army of dead people, marching south. Led by these incredibly grumpy ice guys with, like, the WORST case of resting frost face you've ever seen. They're coming for all of us, unless we do something about it NOW."

He grabbed a quill and began scribbling rapidly. "We need dragonglass. Lots of dragonglass. Someone tell me why we aren't mining Dragonstone? It's literally in the name! DRAGON-STONE! Also, has anyone checked on Daenerys Targaryen lately? Because spoiler alert: those dragon eggs? Not as extinct as advertised. B-E-A-UTIFUL creatures, actually. Total divas, but who isn't in this business?"

Tywin, who had been watching silently, raised an eyebrow. "You claim to know about dragons that haven't hatched?"

"Oh, grandfather, I know EVERYTHING." Jim sprang onto his chair, striking a dramatic pose. "I know that right now, Petyr Baelish is playing everybody like we're all characters in a stage play. I know that the Boltons are planning something super nasty for the Starks. I know that Varys here," he pointed finger guns at the Spider, "is secretly team Targaryen. Plot twist!"

He hopped down and began circling the table, pointing at each council member in turn. "I know that you, dear mother, are going to have a really rough time with the High Sparrow – but don't worry, we're avoiding that whole situation. And YOU," he stopped behind Pycelle, "aren't nearly as old and frail as you pretend to be. Which, honestly? Great method acting. I respect the commitment to the craft."

"This is madness," Cersei declared, standing.

"No, THIS IS SPARTA!" Jim shouted, then caught himself. "Sorry, sorry – wrong franchise. Look, here's the truth: I'm not the Joffrey you knew. I'm someone else entirely, in his body. Someone who's seen how this whole story plays out, and let me tell you – we need to make some serious script revisions."

He pulled out a lengthy scroll and let it dramatically unroll across the table. "I call this 'Operation: Don't Let Everyone Die Horribly.'

Step one: ...

A few days ago, Jim Carrey's consciousness slammed into Joffrey Baratheon's body with the force of a truck. One second he'd been dozing off after his Game of Thrones marathon, and the next he was sitting at the head table of his own wedding feast, reaching for a goblet of wine that he knew would kill him in about thirty seconds.

His hand froze mid-air. Around him, the great and powerful of Westeros feasted and laughed, completely unaware that their king was no longer their king – at least not mentally. Margaery sat beside him, radiant in her wedding gown, while Olenna Tyrell watched from nearby with those shrewd eyes. Those murderous eyes.

Oh hell no, lady. Not today.

"My beloved grandfather!" Jim announced suddenly, his voice carrying Joffrey's royal timbre but with none of the usual cruelty. He shot up from his seat, deliberately knocking over the poisoned wine in the process. "Tywin Lannister! The greatest Hand the Seven Kingdoms has ever seen!"

The entire feast fell silent. Tywin, who had been deep in conversation with Oberyn Martell, looked up with carefully concealed surprise. This was not part of the schedule, and if there was one thing Tywin Lannister hated, it was deviation from carefully laid plans.

"I've been thinking," Jim continued, channeling every ounce of his comedic timing into Joffrey's body, playing the room like he'd done countless times on movie sets. "About what makes a truly great king. Is it cruelty?" He paused dramatically. "Because I've tried that, and honestly, it's exhausting."

A nervous titter ran through the crowd. Nobody had ever heard King Joffrey make a joke at his own expense. Cersei's face had gone pale, while Tyrion – dear, clever Tyrion – was watching with newfound fascination.

"No, what makes a great king is wisdom. And where better to find wisdom than from the man who truly runs these kingdoms?" Jim strode over to Tywin, deliberately putting distance between himself and the spilled wine. "Grandfather, I humbly request that you join me in my solar after the feast. I believe it's time I learned how to be a proper ruler."

He could see the calculations running behind Tywin's eyes. This was so out of character for Joffrey that it had to be either a trap or a miracle – and Tywin Lannister didn't believe in miracles.

"Of course, Your Grace," Tywin replied carefully.

"Excellent!" Jim clapped his hands together. "And uncle Tyrion! You'll join us too. After all, who better to teach me about the common folk than the man who once managed all the drains in Casterly Rock?"

Now that got reactions. Tyrion's eyebrows shot up to his hairline, while somewhere in the crowd, Olenna Tyrell was looking decidedly put out that her carefully orchestrated poisoning had been derailed by an apparently personality-shifted king.

Sorry not sorry, Queen of Thorns. Time to rewrite this story.

"But first," Jim announced, reaching for a fresh, unpoisoned goblet, "a toast! To family, to wisdom, and to..." he locked eyes with Margaery, knowing he had to play this perfectly, "...to learning how to be worthy of my beautiful queen."

As the crowd raised their glasses, Jim caught Varys watching him with that inscrutable spider's smile. Good, he thought. Let them all wonder. Let them all watch. Because buddy, this is going to be the role of a lifetime.

Little did any of them know that their cruel boy king had just been replaced by a man who'd read the script all the way to the end – and had absolutely no intention of following it.

The walk to the solar felt like the longest red carpet of Jim's life. Every eye in the castle followed their strange procession: the king who'd just had a public personality transplant, the imposing Hand of the Kingdom, and the dwarf uncle who'd expected to be blamed for a murder that never happened.

Jim's mind raced as he led them up the tower steps. He had Joffrey's memories – all of them – swimming alongside his own, and good lord, this kid had been a piece of work. But he also had something Joffrey never did: forty-plus years of acting experience and a complete knowledge of how this story was supposed to end.

Dragons. White Walkers. The Red Wedding. Daenerys. All of it.

Once inside the solar, Jim dropped into Joffrey's chair but deliberately didn't sit like Joffrey. Instead of his usual rigid, arrogant posture, he slouched comfortably and gestured for the others to sit.

"Okay, let's cut to the chase," he said, making both men blink at his casual tone. "Grandfather, this kingdom is headed for disaster, and I'm like, eighty percent responsible for that. Was. Was responsible." He ran a hand through Joffrey's golden hair. "Look, I had this... let's call it a vision. A really, really detailed vision of everything that's coming. And trust me, none of us want that future."

Tywin's face remained impassive, but his eyes narrowed slightly. "And what future would that be, Your Grace?"

"One where the Lannisters lose everything," Jim said bluntly. "Where our family's legacy – which, let's be honest, is all you really care about – gets absolutely destroyed. And it starts with me being, well, me. The old me. The horrible me."

Tyrion leaned forward, wine cup forgotten in his hand. "That was quite a performance down there, nephew. Almost as if you were a different person entirely."

Jim shot him finger guns before remembering where he was. Right. Medieval fantasy world. No finger guns. "See, that's what I always liked about you, uncle. You notice things. You're smart. Which is why they're all idiots for not listening to you more."

The look that passed between Tywin and Tyrion could have frozen dragonfire.

"Here's the deal," Jim continued, leaning forward. "I want to learn. Actually learn, not just pretend to listen and then do whatever cruel thing pops into my head. Grandfather, you built this family's power from nothing. Uncle Tyrion, you understand people in a way I never bothered to try. I need both of you. And in return..." He grinned, and it was pure Jim Carrey, looking alien on Joffrey's face. "I promise to stop being the worst king since Aerys Targaryen."

"And your mother?" Tywin asked carefully. "What does she think of this sudden... transformation?"

"Mom's going to be a hard sell," Jim admitted, watching their reactions to his casual language. "She loves me, but she loves the old me, horrible as he was. She's going to fight this change every step of the way. Which is why I need you both to back me up when I start making changes."

"Changes?" Tyrion prompted.

"Well, for starters, I'm thinking we should probably do something about those ice zombies building up beyond the Wall."

The silence in the room was deafening.

"The... what?" Tyrion finally managed.

Jim sat back, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Oh right, I should probably tell you about my vision of the dragons too. And the girl raising them across the Narrow Sea. And a bunch of other things that are going to sound completely crazy until they all start coming true." He spread his hands. "So, who wants to help me save the world?"

Tywin Lannister, the great Lion of Casterly Rock, looked like he was developing a headache. But he hadn't called for the Kingsguard yet, which Jim counted as a win.

"Continue," Tywin said.

And so Jim did, launching into the story that would either save their lives or get him labeled as mad as Aerys. But hey, he'd had crazier roles.

Margaery Tyrell found her new husband in the royal gardens, doing something no one had ever seen Joffrey do before: he was making funny faces at a group of children. The young ones – sons and daughters of various servants – were giggling uncontrollably as their king contorted his features into increasingly ridiculous expressions.

"I call this one 'The Melting Candle,'" Jim announced, letting his face droop dramatically to one side. He spotted Margaery and straightened immediately, but not with Joffrey's usual snap to cold dignity. Instead, he gave her a warm smile that transformed the usually harsh features. "My queen! Perfect timing. I was just practicing my diplomatic skills with our youngest subjects."

The children scattered at Margaery's approach, but not in the usual terror that accompanied Joffrey's presence. One little girl even dared to wave goodbye.

"That was... quite a change at the feast, my love," Margaery said carefully, studying him with those clever eyes. She'd planned to manipulate a monster, only to find herself married to... whatever this was.

"Yeah, about that." Jim gestured to a nearby bench. "We should probably talk. You're way too smart to buy any simple explanation for what's happening, so I'm going to do something crazy – I'm going to tell you the truth."

Margaery's perfectly composed face revealed nothing, but she sat beside him with practiced grace. "The truth, my love?"

"First, you should know your grandmother's plan wouldn't have worked." He watched her face carefully. "Oh, it would have killed me, sure. But the chaos afterward? The accusations against Tyrion? Sansa's escape? It would have started a chain of events that ultimately destroys both our families."

The mask cracked, just slightly. "I'm not sure what you're—"

"Margaery." He turned to face her fully. "You're playing the game of thrones at a master level. You and your grandmother both. But I've seen how this game ends, and trust me, nobody wins. Not really." He grinned suddenly. "Well, maybe Sansa, eventually, but that's a whole other story."

"You're speaking in riddles, my king."

"Here's the thing – I'm not actually Joffrey. I mean, I am now, physically, but mentally? I'm Jim Carrey. Actor, comedian, sometimes painter. I'm from a world where your entire life is a TV show, and I've watched it all." He waggled his eyebrows. "Including the parts that haven't happened yet."

Margaery stood abruptly, but Jim continued before she could retreat.

"Your brother Loras is secretly in love with Renly Baratheon – was in love, I should say. You once told Sansa that you'd rather be a queen than a lady. You have a cousin named Alla who's terrified of horses. Your grandmother's nickname is the Queen of Thorns, and she's the one who put the Strangler in my wine. Or would have, if I hadn't knocked it over."

Each revelation landed like a physical blow. Margaery sank back onto the bench.

"So," Jim said cheerfully, "want to help me prevent the apocalypse? Because there's this Night King situation we really need to deal with, and I could use someone with your political skills on my side. Plus," he added with a wink, "this way you still get to be queen, but without having to marry Tommen. Though I guess I should warn you – in my world, millions of people are romantically obsessed with your character. No pressure."

"You're mad," Margaery whispered, but there was a calculating look in her eyes.

"Oh, totally. But I'm the useful kind of mad. The kind that knows exactly how your grandmother smuggled that poison in her necklace, and exactly what's going to happen in King's Landing over the next few years, and exactly how many people die horribly if we don't change things." He stood and offered her his hand. "So what do you say, partner? Want to rewrite the script?"

Margaery stared at his offered hand for a long moment. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across her face – not the practiced one she showed the court, but one of real amusement and intrigue.

"I suppose," she said, taking his hand, "this makes our marriage more interesting than I anticipated."

"That's the spirit! Now, quick question – how are you with dragons? Because we're probably going to have to deal with those sooner rather than later."

As they walked through the garden together, already deep in consultation, neither noticed Varys watching from the shadows, his face a mask of fascination. The Spider had seen many strange things in his life, but a mad king becoming sane? This was new. And potentially very, very useful.

The assembled council members stared in frozen horror as their king moonwalked to his chair. Cersei's face had turned an interesting shade of purple that nearly matched the wine in her cup.

"My son," she said through gritted teeth, "are you feeling... well?"

"Your Grace," Varys interjected smoothly, "perhaps you could... clarify your concerns about the Night's Watch?"

Tywin, who had been watching silently, raised an eyebrow. "You claim to know about dragons that haven't hatched?"

"This is madness," Cersei declared, standing.

He pulled out a lengthy scroll and let it dramatically unroll across the table. "I call this 'Operation: Don't Let Everyone Die Horribly.' Step one: Deal with the ice zombies. Step two: Make peace with the dragon queen before she gets all fired up. Step three: Stop literally everyone from betraying literally everyone else. Step four: Maybe, just maybe, get Ghost some actual screen time because that good boy deserved better."

Silence fell over the council chamber. Finally, Varys spoke: "Your Grace, while your... energy is certainly unprecedented, perhaps some of these concerns warrant further investigation?"

"EXACTLY!" Jim pointed at him with both hands. "See? Spider gets it! Now, who's ready to save the world? And more importantly," he pulled out another scroll, "who wants to help me plan the first ever Westeros Got Talent show? Because let me tell you, this kingdom could use some light entertainment that doesn't involve murdering people at weddings."

Tywin's face suggested he was seriously reconsidering his position as Hand of the King. Cersei looked ready to call the Kingsguard. But Margaery, who had remained quiet throughout, was hiding a genuine smile behind her hand.

"All in favor of not dying horribly?" Jim raised his hand enthusiastically. "Come on, don't leave me hanging. This is going to be legendary!"

Jim was doing his best Jack Nicholson impression for the kitchen staff when the Kingsguard surrounded him.

"You can't handle the truth!" he bellowed, mid-performance, then noticed the drawn swords. "Ah. Well. Looks like we're doing this scene earlier than I expected."

Ser Meryn Trant stepped forward. "By order of the Hand of the King, you are to be confined to your chambers until your... condition... can be assessed."

"Condition? Is it my complexion? I told them the crown ages you, but nobody listens." Jim raised his hands in mock surrender, but his mind was racing. He'd known this might happen – acting like himself instead of Joffrey was a risky play, but he'd hoped to have more time to prove his knowledge was valuable.

They escorted him through the corridors, passing servants who quickly looked away. News traveled fast in the Red Keep. Already he could hear the whispers: The king has gone mad. The curse of the Targaryens lives on. Someone even muttered something about possession by demons.

"Technically," Jim called out to one gossiping maid, "it's more like a consciousness transfer situation. Like 'Freaky Friday' but with more swords and political intrigue!"

The guards shoved him into his chambers none too gently. Outside, he could hear Tywin Lannister giving orders: No visitors. No messages. No contact with anyone until a decision was made about his fitness to rule.

"Come on, guys!" Jim pressed against the door. "At least let me finish my Christopher Walken impression! I've been practicing! 'The people of King's Landing... they need... more cowbell!'"

Silence was his only answer.

He paced the room, channeling his nervous energy into movement. "Okay, Jimmy boy, think. What would Morgan Freeman do in this situation? Besides narrate it beautifully."

A soft scratching sound caught his attention. At the window, a small scroll was being pushed through a gap by a familiar perfumed hand.

"My queen!" Jim whispered dramatically as he took the message. "My partner in crime prevention!"

Margaery's note was brief: Tywin has called the small council. They're naming Tommen king. Your mother supports this – she thinks dark magic has corrupted you. But I know what's coming. The dragons. The dead. We need you sane more than we need you normal.

"Well, that's just hurtful," Jim muttered. "I'm perfectly sane. I'm just... animated."

Another note followed: The Spider is intrigued. Tyrion is uncertain. Your grandfather wants you examined by the Maesters. Buy time. Prove your knowledge. And please, for the love of the Seven, stop doing impressions.

"Everyone's a critic." Jim grabbed a quill and began writing rapidly. He detailed everything he knew was about to happen: Tywin's fate, Tyrion's escape, the exact location of the Sons of the Harpy in Meereen, where to find Rickon Stark, the truth about Jon Snow's parentage.

"Guards!" he called out. "I know you're out there. I can hear you breathing. Very dramatically, by the way – great character choice. Could one of you be a dear and make sure this reaches my grandfather? It's either going to save the kingdom or get me locked in the darkest cell in the kingdom. Honestly, it could go either way."

He slipped the scroll under the door and waited.

Come on, Tywin, he thought. You're too practical to ignore good intel, even if it comes from your supposedly crazy grandson. And if that doesn't work...

He began preparing his next performance. If they wanted to call him mad, he'd show them mad – the kind of mad that just happens to predict every major event before it happens. Sometimes the best way to prove your sanity was to lean into the insanity just enough to make people question their own judgment.

Besides, he had one advantage none of them knew about: he'd seen how their story was supposed to end. And if being locked in his room for a while meant preventing the mess that was Season 8, well... he could work with that.

"The things I do for better writing," he sighed, and began planning his next move.