Chapter 26: The Siege, part 2.

"Estimates?" Joffrey asked as he took another set of stairs. He'd been in the Bastion District when the horns had thrummed, and he'd merely needed to take three flights of stairs up the great keep before his vision became unobstructed by the walls and towers.

"Unknown sir" Loh said as they reached one of the Bastion's terraces.

"After two damned weeks with barely a skirmish…" Joffrey muttered as he walked out, unfazed by the chilly wind and the falling snow as he extended his hand to his left.

Half a second later Loh handed him a far eye, which he used to gaze at the tree line at the far back of the Plains of Dawn. There was barely any sunlight left as he gazed the see dozens of large, yellow-grey behemoths charging through the clearing and quickly eating the distance to the Dawn Fort, the White Walkers atop them wielding long spears of jagged ice.

And behind them a grey sea followed, larger than any attack yet.

They're… They're mounted atop fucking sandrakes… Reanimated sandrakes…

"Sir?!" Loh asked as Joffrey slowly lowered the far eye, his expression as still as a marble statue.

"That… Shock Cavalry will punch through the Outer Wall like a trebuchet through a barn…" Joffrey said almost to himself before turning back in haste. "Come on Loh! Let's move!" he said as dashed down the stairs.

.-

Outside the East Inner Gatehouse was pure chaos as officers and soldiers scrambled out of barracks and halls, donning weapons or even armor as they ran. Colonel Sabu was in the middle of the madness, calling out names and getting his men in formation.

"Sabu!" roared Joffrey as his horse slammed to a halt right in front of him.

"Commander! Give me ten minutes and we'll be ready smash any breech" Sabu told him as more men kept pouring out of the barracks nearby.

"You have five! And I want you take the fallback position in the Outer District, we need to hold the area as long as we can so that soldiers at the Outer Wall can fall back here!" Joffrey commanded as Loh reached him atop his own horse.

"Commander" he said, giving him his helmet.

Joffrey put his helmet on and secured the leather strap forcefully as Sabu spoke. "But Joffrey… We're giving up the Outer Wall?" he asked.

"No choice, too many wights and they've got reanimated sandrakes, they will punch the holes and the wights will fill them… the Outer Wall is too fucking long to hold it against that… we don't have the men!" Joffrey said.

"Loh! Establish the new War Room at the Inner Stand, and send me Shah's Hunters as soon as you see them!" he ordered. His aide looked slightly rebellious at the prospect of leaving his Commander alone in the face of the coming storm, but duty and discipline quickly won out.

"I'll get to it sir!" he said.

"I'll try to buy some time, keep an eye out for flyers!" Joffrey bellowed as he rode out, followed by the few soldiers of his retinue that had managed to reach him.

All the firewalls are exhausted… we can't break up the stream of undead effectively…

There's too little time… he thought as he raced his horse desperately towards the Outer Wall. He could already see flaming stones flying above him, more of their brethren joining them as stone after stone left the Inner Wall's trebuchets.

His horse leapt up the big, wide set of stairs six at a time, whining in fear as he neared the dead. If he'd had any doubts about his plan, those were quickly dismissed as he gazed upon the unrelenting tide of undead jumping over the Iron Cemetery.

Ballistas and trebuchets all along the wall and the battlements loosed as fast as they could, but even then the swarm of wights seemed undeterred, a grand legion of undead bigger than he'd ever seen, some of the corpses reaching a state of decomposition that made Joffrey ill.

The real death sentence were the White Walkers… they had finally joined the fray. He could spot a handful of them in his wall section, spread along it and killing and maiming without stop, their long icy spears skewering through armor, undeterred. Their mounts twisted and smashed into groups of defenders even as more of the monsters scaled the Outer Wall as if it were nothing more than a ladder. Behind them, making use of the space cleared the wights swarmed past the defenders, flanking to the sides and fighting all over the wall's width.

His retinue reached him on foot, having chosen to leave the horses below rather than risk them up the stairs. Joffrey turned back to them as another flight of burning stones raced over the sky and the screams of the dead and dying seemed to intensify.

The whole Fort could fall tonight if we fail here… he thought as he gazed at his men, their faces illuminated by the now frequent flames all over.

"Shui, get to the horns and signal 'Fallback'!" he commanded as something shrieked. He turned back to the wall and saw one of the sandrakes opening its big maw and unleashing a concentrated torrent of grey sand almost too fast for his eye to see, flaying alive a small clump of soldiers that had been trying to hold it off with pikes. They screamed as they stumbled back, some falling down the wall as others put their hands over what used to be their faces, stumbling and spilling blood everywhere.

Joffrey snarled as he turned his horse in circles, his eye looking wildly over his scrambling retinue until he found something he could use.

"Give me that!" he snarled as he took his banner from a soldier. He hefted the long pole about as the banner depicting the Silver Lion fluttered wildly under the strong wind and the falling snow. "Get back to the Inner Wall and signal the Dragon Choirs to open fire! GO!" he bellowed before spurring his horse.

"HYA!" he snarled as he spurred the frighten animal into a gallop, dashing through the wall's back edge where there was still some clear space. "MAKE WAY!" he roared at a small group of soldiers in front of him, making them scramble to the sides as he reached the veritable clearing that had formed around the whirling sandrake.

The beast was three times bigger than a warhorse, its dark grey-yellow scales interrupted by frequent spikes. The Walker atop barely had a moment to turn when Joffrey was suddenly upon him.

"EEHHAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" Joffrey roared as he aimed at the Walker, the banner fluttering wildly before the long pole (and it's spiked head) slammed into the Demon. Joffrey had never jousted in all his lives, and between the awkward grip, the darkness and the swaying pole he reckoned it was a small miracle he hit the Walker straight in the chest.

He let the pole go as his arm screamed in pain and the Walker was propelled out of his mount. The sandrake roared as it opened its deceptively huge maw and took in a deep breath of air.

Shit.

Joffrey pulled back his reins and shoved his weight backwards, making his horse rear up on its two legs just as a gust of grey sand hit them with the strength of a catapult.

His horse whined in agony as it stumbled back and Joffrey screamed, feeling the sand trying to tear his leg open. The plate held, but the sand still managed to tear through cracks and joints, and small clusters of it raked the left side of his face.

He leapt to the side as his horse tumbled to the ground, shaking in deep agony before laying still. He landed in a haphazard water recovery, barely managing to roll back up with his armor weighting him down.

All around him he could see clusters of wights fighting against legionnaires, claws against a few sabers, naginatas and even more katanas, gaping mouths against mailed fists, gauntlets and improvised mallets.

The sandrake seemed to regard him with its dead blue eyes for a second before taking in another great breath. Joffrey ran at the beast, crouching for a half second to grab the pole before slamming it with all his strength against its opened maw. The dead mount shrieked as it stumbled trying to blast Joffrey with another breath of foul sand but unable to with the pole and the banner rammed down its throat. It desperately tried to remove the pole as Joffrey ran away from it, through the melee. He quickly reached the nearest ballista as wights and legionnaires lost all cohesion and the battle over the wall became a wild, closed in melee.

"KEEP AT THEM! GIVE THEM FIRE!" roared a wild eyed Sunbeam as he slammed his saber against a climbing wight next to his position. The Oneray by the ballista let loose, piercing a wight right in in the chest before the bolt flew past the crenellations and slammed against the tide of undead below the walls, bursting in fire.

"Sunbeam!" bellowed Joffrey he reached him, "Turn the piece around and put a bumblebee through that thing's gob!" he bellowed at the man's face as he pointed at the snarling sandrake, who was turning around in circles, slamming into both wights and legionnaires.

The Sunbeam shook his head as he looked at the monster, "A-Aye Commander!" he bellowed as both of them turned back to the ballista and the three soldiers manning it. "Crew! Hundred degrees left" he shouted, as he turned back to Joffrey. "Aim for—Watch out sir!" he suddenly shouted as he slammed Joffrey to the side. Joffrey fell on the hard black stone before looking up and seeing the Sunbeam gurgle, his hands trying to grab the blue sword that had ripped through his chest before suddenly falling down like a puppet with its strings cut off.

The Walker pivoted with a single step towards Joffrey and brought it bloodied sword down upon his head. Joffrey rolled to the side, the icy chill cooling the nape of his neck as he stood up again, jerking his head back and barely avoiding a backslash that would have slit his jaw.

He dodged again before slamming his mace against the Walker's arm. The Demon took a half step back, the flanges barely leaving a wound on its hard body as it brought its one handed sword sideways as if to cut him in half. Joffrey kneeled at the last moment, feeling it pass above him before standing up. He barely had time to bring his mace hand up parallel to his body, blocking the Walker's hand slash. The thing's superior strength made Joffrey slide to the side as he desperately eyed the Walker's sword. The thing angled the sword over his stomach for the killing blow, the Walker's hand stilling pushing and leaving him unable to disengage his mace hand.

Joffrey unsheathed his saber just in time to receive the walker's blade with a directional parry, not even trying to pit his strength against it. Instead, he directed it upwards where it joined his mace and the Walker's hand, joining them briefly before he pivoted away and slashed his saber against the thing's calf. It staggered as Joffrey took a step back, turning towards the ballista crew as they turned their levers furiously and the piece turned towards the sandrake who was now coming back for its rider.

"RAM A BUMBLEBEE DOWN ITS THROAT! NOW!" Joffrey roared desperately as the monster headbutted two nearby a Shock Irons, sending them tumbling down the wall as more and more wights reached the crenellations.

"LOAD NOWwwwwaaaaahhh-" shrieked the Tworay manning the crank as the White Walker cut him down. It took a step to do the same to the loader but Joffrey rammed him with his shoulder, biting his lip in pain and forcing it to take a step back before he pounded it with half a dozen slashes. A few of them got through the Walker's defense, leaving a few wounds before his saber broke after a particularly well timed parry. When the Walker used the opportunity to cut him in half Joffrey was already a step to his side. He slashed at the Demon's neck his obsidian dagger, the thing shrieking as it stumbled back, holding a hand to the side of its neck. Joffrey aborted the follow up killing blow as he heard a scream behind him and turned.

The loader lit the fuse atop the bumblebee before the sandrake behind him crushed him with its jaws, taking a few pounding steps back as it shook the shrieking man about like a terrier with a rat before tossing the broken carcass to the side.

It shrieked a harrowing scream as it turned to Joffrey and opened its maw, taking in a deep breath at point blank range.

Joffrey ran for two steps before jumping and slamming his mace against the lever, sending the sparkling bumblebee right into the sandrake's opened maw. The reanimated beast stumbled back, screeching eerily for two seconds before bursting in flames from within.

Joffrey used the ballista pull himself up, wiping blood from his broken lower lip with his gauntlet. To the other side was the White Walker… he was illuminated by his burning mount as it used its icy sword to stand up, still staring at Joffrey and seemingly unfazed by the battle around it.

The Demon kept walking towards him as Joffrey got his obsidian dagger from the floor and the Dragon Choirs roared in the distance. Tongues of fire leapt from all along the Inner Wall with startling speed, shrieking projectiles whose fiery tails propelled them up the night sky.

THHTSUUU-THHTSUU-THHTSUUU-THSTSUU-TSUUU-TSUU-TSU-TSU-TSU-TSU-TSU-TSU-TSU—

More and more of the Inner Wall's battlements joined their voices to the unearthly choir as the batteries of coiling dragons launched themselves from their racks, any semblance of a synchronized volley lost as the individual dragon's differing burning rates made the launches staggered and mixed with each other.

Joffrey walked towards the Walker as the grand melee atop the walls was illuminated in full by the hundreds of coiling dragons over the skies, their combined roar getting steadily higher as they reached their maximum height and started to come down.

Joffrey screamed in anger as he ran up a couple of crates to his side and jumped towards the walker with a mighty slash, angling his mace to the thing's head.

The Walker didn't have time to bring up its sword; instead it received the blow with its arm as shards of ice and blue flesh chipped and splintered.

The Walker screeched as it slashed diagonally. Joffrey stepped to the right, angling a cut at the Demon's hand with the dagger and making it shriek in pain as he advanced and slammed his mace against the things face.

Contact with the obsidian doesn't only wound them, it seems to make them weaker too.

Joffrey leapt back as the Demon tried to pummel his face in with his hand, missing by a hair's breath. A brave legionnaire slammed a half pike against the Demon's rib cage, making it stagger a bit to the side before bring his sword down and cutting the pike, using the backswing to slash the man across the chest brutally.

Joffrey used the opportunity to shank it once in the back, but before he could do it again a wight jumped from the side, tackling him to the ground as it tried to bite off his nose. He rolled with the force of the blow until he was over wight, jamming his mace against the skeleton's sternum as his hand grabbed it by the collarbone. He slammed the rotten skeleton against the hard black stones of the Outer Wall a dozen times in half as much seconds.

DIE! DIE! DIE!

The thing barely looked humanoid any longer as it finally lay still and Joffrey felt something vaguely cold behind him. He rolled to his right just in time to see the Walker try to skewer him through the chest with its sword. The Walker was like some sort of mechanism, not minding its miss. It just lifted the blade again and slammed it back down. Not having time for another roll, Joffrey's directional parry managed to deflect it at the last moment, the steel from his prosthesis protesting loudly as he shifted the icy blade towards his side, slamming into the black rock and rebounding off it. Joffrey flexed his legs as back as he could despite the armor before kicking the Walker with all his strength, barely making it stumble back.

He leapt up and smashed the thing's arm with his mace, breaking another piece of his arm. The Walker's reaction time was noticeably lower after the stab he'd given it…

The 'dragons were slamming all over the Iron Cemetery now and beyond, the continuous barrage of explosions leaving Joffrey deaf as the world itself seemed to tremble and malfunctioning 'dragons exploded amongst the wall, tossing bodies around and starting fires everywhere. Him and the White Walker traded blow after blow, the Walker's sheer stamina and strength driving Joffrey back relentlessly as the sky itself seemed to bear down on them in red fire.

DIEEEEEEE!

Dozens of yellow-red streaks erupted from the battlements every half second as the volume from the explosions seemed to only grow. Joffrey screamed as he dodged the Walker's swing, stepping in close and ignoring the painful, chilling cold that enveloped the Walker, ramming the obsidian blade through its lower jaw and up its head. He kept screaming as he stabbed it again and again in the same place, pieces of it falling down or blowing away like so much smoke. The Walker shrieked at him in promised retribution and eternal hatred as it thrashed… or so Joffrey thought. All he could hear was an overwhelming ringing like the world's largest bell stuck in mid swing.

The Walker crumbled like so much steam and snow, dissipating in a matter of seconds.

Joffrey stayed there, swaying lightly, staring at the puddle of water and steam before spitting a glob of saliva at it.

"For your troubles…" he told it, his face twisted into a hateful sneer as his heart pounded and his body tingled in fire. He absentmindedly took note of the sheen of sweat all over his body and the rapid breathing that didn't seem to slow down. Before he could completely process what was going on, something touched him in the back.

Joffrey twirled around lightning fast, twisting and grabbing the startled Threeray by the neck as he raised his mace with a snarl.

'WUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU' said the Threeray, though the strange, omnipresent twine didn't seem to correspond to his mouth…

Joffrey shook his head, blinking wearily as the soldier's voice got steadily louder and he released the man's neck.

"-iiiirrr!" he choked, massaging his throat with one hand as he stared at him in awe and terror. "The Choir's wrecked their offensive, but-" he broke off with a cough, "we only have a few minutes until, cough!- until more arrive! You've got to move sir!" he rasped.

Joffrey sheathed the obsidian dagger automatically and looked around, his mind still quiet, or rather still fully synchronized with his body. The soldiers that had been defending the outer wall were using the brief respite given by the choirs and the spreading fires to fall back, running to stairs or keeps as the horns kept sounding in the distance.

"Right, everyone!" he shouted as he turned around, gazing at the hundred or so men nearest to him which were apparently waiting for orders or confirming their kills. "You've got three minutes to grab what you can and set fire to the rest! We're going to the fallback position and then the East Inner Gatehouse, move it!" he bellowed.

.-

Joffrey and the men at hand used the side alleys and twisting streets of the Dawn Fort to loose and outpace the clusters of wights that had made it in before the barrage, and (more importantly) the half a dozen mounted Walkers roaming all over the area.

The fallback position itself was barely organized, filled with teams of small carts dashing back and forth shuttling the wounded. The fortified perimeter had already defeated multiple wight incursions before Joffrey arrived, defending the area vaguely in front of the East Inner Gatehouse and buying time for the surviving soldiers to regroup and fallback to the Inner District itself without bottlenecking the Gatehouse too tightly.

Joffrey wasted no time getting to work, receiving messengers and dispatching orders at the same time as he tried to organize a coherent defense with the enormous help of Colonel Sabu.

The legion of the undead returned all too soon though, and this time Joffrey had no hidden cards under his sleeve. They crashed against the perimeter with ungodly strength, driving them steadily back. There was still a chokepoint at the Gatehouse, and Joffrey knew they weren't all going to make it in time.

He'd been putting off the decision for several minutes before he finally nodded to himself, at ease with his prospects, serene.

"Colonel Sabu" He said, grabbing an extra saber from a nearby wounded officer. Behind him was the gatehouse, jammed tight with soldiers as they tried to get in before the steadily advancing horde of wights and the occasional mounted Walkers slayed them from behind. Despite the sheer quantity of artillery pieces all over the wall it was clear the undead would push through before everyone could enter.

Unless, that is…

Joffrey took in a deep breath as he regarded the companion who'd followed him into the abyss and back.

"Colonel Sabu, you are in command of the Dawn Fort. I'll be leading a counterattack as you finish the evacuation" he commanded.

Sabu regarded him with a sad smile as he spoke.

"No, Joffrey. You will not" he said as strong arms grabbed Joffrey from behind and started to pull him towards the gatehouse.

"What do you think you're doing?! Let me go damnit!" Joffrey bellowed desperately as Sabu hefted his bloodied battleaxe over his shoulder.

"We're Rangers Joffrey, remember?" he said with a slight smirk as he turned back towards his men. "FIRST ONES IN!" he roared as he lifted it over his head.

"LAST ONES OUT!" roared his Rangers as they formed into a wedge, shields at the front and heavy weapons behind them.

"LET ME GO! SABU! SABUUUUUUUU!" Joffrey screamed as he struggled against the half dozen men that held him tight and carried him past the raised triple portcullis.

The Rangers charged straight against the ranks of the undead, passing by the disintegrating perimeter held by Genshua's Garrison Irons and slamming against the undead like a furious storm. Joffrey lost sight of them in between the gusts of grey sand and the fires, the remaining men using the time bought to evacuate through the rapidly closing triple portcullis.

"SAAAAAABUUUUUUU!" Joffrey bellowed, his throat hoarse as the multitude of hands started to strangle him and he sunk to the ground, an impossible weight pushing him down, chilling him to the bone as a big White Walker emerged from his side, carrying a huge warhammer in one hand and Sabu's head in the other.

"SAAAABUUUUUUUUUU!" he shrieked as he scrambled up from his bed.

"Breath sir! Breath!" shouted Loh as he shook him, his hands holding Joffrey's shoulders firmly.

Joffrey jerked his head from side to side wildly, his breathing out of control as he felt the sea of cold sweat that enveloped him.

"BREATH JOFFREY! BREATH DEEP!" Loh shouted as he grabbed Joffrey's head with one hand, forcing his Commander's crazed eye to focus on him.

Joffrey took in a deep, harrowing breath, quickly followed by a dozen more as the shaking stopped gradually. "Dhid-" he tried to say, his mouth clammy.

"Here, sir" Loh said as he handed him his canteen. Joffrey took a swig before breathing yet again, coughing a couple of times before his throat was finally clear.

"Did someone hear me?!" he asked his aide desperately.

"They're going through the same, Commander. Don't hold yourself up to-" Loh stared before Joffrey grabbed him by the shoulder and used him to stand up.

"Loh. Did. Anyone. Hear me?" he asked again, dead serious.

Loh shook his head with a sight, "No Joffrey. It got worse near the end but not louder than this" he said, resigned.

Joffrey sat back down in relief, feeling almost frozen by the cold sweat. "Good" he said simply.

Loh stood a bit back, assuming a more professional posture for a while as Joffrey kept breathing loudly, each time more regularly.

"Sabu again, sir?" He asked tentatively.

Joffrey slowly massaged his face with his hand, taking out a bit of filth in his eye. "… Yes…" he said. Loh stayed quiet as Joffrey held his forehead, the light from the afternoon sun barely illuminating anything under the heavy cloud cover and the closed curtains. "Details always change…" he suddenly found himself saying. "The light delivered by the 'choirs, where exactly we find High Moon Kio's body… if we find him at all, if the ballista's loader was shredded by a sandblast or eaten by the sandrake…" he continued, his eye staring at the floor. "Sometimes even that big Walker with the warhammer shows up… But Sabu's smirk always stays the same. Every time. It's like he's sad he didn't have time to say his piece… sad but proud to charge into his death…" He muttered, his voice hitching near the end.

No.

He gripped his small ponytail and yanked down hard, the pain relieving his mind and the moisture that had started to flood his eye.

I have not cried in years, I will not do so now… they can't see me like this… he thought with an iron will.

Loh at least had the decency to make himself busy with the small tray he'd brought, inspecting it carefully before bringing it to the room's table.

Joffrey sat down on one of the chairs, not at all hungry but understanding the importance of good nutrition for a soldier.

He mechanically ate the rice in the bowl, quickly but not too fast. It was the rhythm of siege, one he'd mastered quite a while ago. He stopped when he was halfway through it, frowning before he tossed his sticks aside and glared at his aide.

"Loh…" he said dangerously.

His aide was readying his armor, wiping a bit of grime off it. Joffrey kept staring at him until the man sighted and stood up. "Joffrey, you look like you've lost half your weight and the wound in your leg is not healing properly. An extra ration now and then- "

"Take it back to the kitchens, Sunbeam" He commanded as he stood up and walked to the window.

"… Aye Commander" said Loh as he shook his head again.

.-

Tworay Genki had been staring at the Hospital's ceiling for a while, loosing himself in old childhood memories in a vague attempt at distracting himself from the cries of pain that occasionally cut through the late afternoon, but he wasn't having a lot of success at it.

The nights were worse though, as the frequent nightmares that cursed most of the room's residents left Genki unsettled and unwilling to sleep.

"How are you feeling, soldier?" suddenly asked a voice to his left.

He blinked as he stopped staring at the ceiling, shifting his head to the left and gazing at the man that had spoken. He wore a black plate that depicted the Dawn Fort's Jingshen, her spirit itself, in all its majestic, furious glory. His right forearm had been replaced with a mace, and a white eye patch covered what used to be his right eye. The crimson cloak behind him made him seem larger than he'd thought, and his remaining eye was gazing at him with concern. Even without his helmet, the man looked imposing.

Tworay Genki managed to close his mouth as he finally processed the sight, before promptly opening it again as he tried to stand despite the huge pain in his chest. "D-D-D-Dawn C-Commander sir!" he mumbled as the Silver Lion himself spoke to him.

"Stay still Tworay, you've done more than enough for now" said the Dawn Commander as he placed a placating hand on Genki's chest, gently pushing him down.

"Y-y-yes Dawn Commander sir!" he said as he lay back down on his small bed, trying not to move a single muscle after that.

Why is the Silver Lion talking to me?! He thought in the midst of heavy confusion. He'd only seen the living legend up close a few times over the last five months, twice when he'd been inspecting their position one morning, and once when he'd personally charged at the wall section Genki and his men had been trying (and failing) to hold. The whispers and legends had fallen far, far short of the real deal, Genki had found. The Silver Lion and his retinue had slammed against the wights like a furious storm, renting limbs and heads with their weapons, a whirlwind of death that left almost as soon as it had arrived in search of other critical areas.

"Keep at it, Tworay. Those wights are not going smash themselves…" he'd said as if he'd' been commenting on the shit weather they've been having.

And then he had stormed off.

In retrospect, it was the sheer dauntlessness of the Commander that had most shocked Genki. When he'd been fighting the wights his expression had not been one of fear or controlled panic… it had been disdain, as if the wights were some kind of personal affront to him. Disdain and furious anger, that's how Genki had described his expression to his peers.

The Silver Lion kneeled by his side as he gave him a proud smile. "They've been treating you well here, soldier?" he asked.

"Ah, yes Dawn Commander Joffrey, sir!" he stammered.

"Please, let's just leave it at Commander, if not we'll be here all day" he said with a small, private chuckle.

"Seriously now, how do you find the hospital area? Speak truthfully soldier" Said his Commander.

"ahh… Da-.. Commander, I reckon it gets the job done…" he commented halfheartedly, but the Commander was looking straight at his eyes with his own, his expression calm and almost tranquil. He'd heard some of the other soldiers talking about the strange, serene presence that almost permeated the room the Commander inhabited, a kind of mantle that seemed to sooth worries and made one somehow have an easier time breathing.

It seemed the Commander had found his answer wanting, not by any outward reaction but by the fact he was still looking at him, waiting. Genki suddenly found himself rapidly reexamining the rumors about the white eye patch and it's often spoke of powers of lie detection.

Later, Genki would not be afraid to admit he'd lasted under five seconds under that gaze. He thought lesser men would have lasted two. "Well Commander… Its just… the monotony is almost worse than the actual siege. At least out there, in the middle of the fight we can stop worrying. But here… there's nothing to do but stare at the ceiling and… remember…" he said with a shudder.

Commander Joffrey nodded thoughtfully as he seemed to genuinely think about that. "I see. Quite a few of the men seem lucid enough… hmmm.. yes…" he muttered almost to himself. "I think we could organize a few dice games if we moved the beds a bit, it should give you all something to do besides staring at the ceiling" he said with a wry smile.

"I… think the men would appreciate that, Commander" Genki said as he felt a small smile greeting his lips. It had been a while since he'd felt one of those.

Later he'd been told they've spoken for about ten minutes, but Genki thought it had been over an hour. He found himself more talkative than usual as the Commander asked about his life before the Legion and he told him about his childhood in Lodu, its great white mountains and sky blue waterfalls.

When the Commander had been about to stand, Genki had suddenly found himself pleading. "Please sir… I can keep fighting… tell the Body Scribes I-"

"No, soldier" His Commander said, shaking his head. "You've done your part for now… rest. You've earned it" he commanded.

Genki leaned back with a sight as he watched his Commander turn back and receive a messenger. They conferred briefly before he turned back again, nodding respectfully at Genki. "Tworay" he said.

"Dawn Commander!" Genki said snapped, unable to stop his (good) hand from slamming into his chest. He ignored the pain as the Commander shook his head with a wry smile and walked to another bed.

.-

The Fort Hospital held the men that had given it all for Dawn, men that had taken the hit Joffrey had asked them to. He couldn't bear to imagine them alone through day and night with nothing to do except stare at the ceiling and relieve their nightmares again and again as Tworay Genki had put it.

So, whenever he had the time he'd stroll through the Hospital and listen to their tales, their stories. From old war tales to wild descriptions of faraway hometowns, Joffrey had found himself loving the little talks, learning a bit more about his men as they both took a break from the unrelenting grey cloud which lay siege for months not only to the Fort but to the men themselves. The admiring or awed looks he had to withstand to share those little moments where more than worth it.

Most of all, they helped at keeping the nightmares at bay. After months of siege with irregular but unrelenting assaults…

He spoke as he kneeled beside another bed, right beside a Oneray that looked barely older than Tommen when he'd last seen him, half of his face covered in bandages.

Tommen… gods… its been so long… he wondered, what had been of his little brother? Was he even alive now?

"How are you feeling, soldier?" he started as he usually did, but the man… no, boy, didn't respond. He was staring fixedly at the ceiling as he shook, his eyelids fluttering wildly.

Joffrey put his hand on the boy's neck, feeling the sluggish, haphazard heartbeat. He then put his hand on the boy's forehead, feeling the intense heat despite the soaked rag that had been over it just a second before.

He took a halting breath as the boy's shaking slowly eased, his eyes gradually stopping their constant movement. "Hang in there soldier… hang in there…" he whispered.

The boy suddenly focused on him, grabbing Joffrey's hand. The boy squeezed tightly in desperate strength as his brown eyes bored on him, unfocused. Joffrey squeezed back, blinking rapidly as he felt his throat constrict. "You did good soldier… you did good…" he whispered again as the shaking kept slowing down.

"Papa?" The boy suddenly asked, his voice filled with an almost childish hope, his eyes still staring at him, unfocused and lost.

"I'm here…" Joffrey whispered as he leaned closer, the strength behind the boy's hand suddenly doubling.

"Papa…" whispered the boy in unexpected joy, the corner of his mouth that was not covered in bandages twisting up in a surprised half smile.

The smile lasted a couple of seconds before slowly dissipating as the shaking stopped completely, the boy's hand lax in Joffrey's grip.

Joffrey took in a ragged breath as he tidied a bit of the boy's hair, looking at the still, brown eyes for a moment before closing them gently.

'bbbbboooooouuuuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU' thrummed the Dawn Fort.

They're back, he thought as he stood up, slowly fisting his hand. He couldn't stop staring at the boy however, the way the ragged remains of his uniform seemed to make him smaller still, the way that what little color remained in his face was slowly leeched by the heavy cold that was felt even here.

'booooooooooooooouuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU' thrummed the Dawn Fort again.

Joffrey turned back with a snarl, seeing vague edges of red in the corner of his eye as he quickly strode out of the room.

"The Oneray by the sixth bed" he told one of Bo's helpers before walking out.

They had to burn the body soon… and he had demons to fucking maim and kill.

.-

Joffrey's maddened scribbling finally reached a halt for the twelfth time, and he screamed in rage.

"Why would anything do this?! What is the fucking point!" he raged as he turned back and grabbed the chair he had been sitting on, smashing it against the ground.

The wight tied to the other chair just screeched, shaking as always as it tried to move. "YOU!" Joffrey roared, pure bloodthirst in his eyes, "YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE!" he roared as he started to smash the thing with his mace, leaving nothing but crumbled bones.

No matter how hard Joffrey pummeled though, the half tattered sigil still remained whole. Its twin blue towers mocking, insolent.

"I HOPE YOU GAVE A FIGHT AT LEAST YOU FREY SON OF A BITCH!" Joffrey screamed as his mace reduced the rotten corpse to so much pulp.

He was breathing raggedly as he turned back to the map he'd drawn, grabbing the parchment with his hand slowly crushing it. It depicted the landmasses of the world as Joffrey knew them, with one difference. The Beyond kept tilting to the North East until it touched an imaginary land bridge, connecting it with the Lands of Always Winter.

Strawberries on a white saltrine…

A tattered blueish falcon…

A merman over green…

Houses Turnberry, Manderly and Frey serve the White Walkers.

Those had been the ones he'd been able to piece together, but there were more, so many more… He turned back to stare again at the veritable armory he had collected here, plate armor painfully similar to that used in Westeros, greatswords and helmets and all the panoply of war that his old home had loved so much, all in display for his own perusal.

He didn't even know why he'd ordered the men to bring the Frey corpse animated… wights couldn't be interrogated. It had helped a bit with his rage though.

Defending the world… a self-depreciating snort left his mouth as he shook his head in disgust. Turns out we've already lost. Westeros must have been overrun quite some time ago for a freaking Frey to have made it here…

It was not that big of a leap to make. White Walkers, Lands of Always Winter, the huge fucking wall bigger than the five forts combined. In hindsight, it all made sense.

For all he knew the rest of the world had already been overrun and he was about to get hit from the West. Condors had not reached the Dawn Fort since even before he'd taken command… he'd assumed that had been because of the roving bands of flying wights intercepting them… but what if there was no one left to send messages?

He shook his head harshly, burning away the soul crushing thoughts as Loh opened the door carefully and eyed his commander.

"Back for another trashing, Loh?" he asked with a halfhearted smile.

"They are persistent bastards, sir" His aide responded.

Joffrey sighted as walked towards the door, "Let's get to it then…" he said, replacing his weary expression for something more… it would not be good for the soldiers to look at him like this.

.-

"Keep up arrow discipline. Sunbeam! Get your men in order!" Joffrey barked as he strode through the Bastion's Wall, grabbing the dazed Sunbeam as the man rubbed a bit of blood off his face. He nodded before turning back to his men.

"Keep those volleys tight!" the man shouted as he manhandled a few of the soldiers into their correct positions. Joffrey had already passed through though, marching right past the line of archers.

To his side, lines of infantry fought against the wights, same as the day before, same as it would be tomorrow.

The Siege had started months ago.

Joffrey kept walking, arrows raining down occasionally in a haphazard pattern, grazing or wounding men as they screamed and died. Still, they kept fighting. "Sunbeam Fehj! Get a half section-" Joffrey trailed off as the man he grabbed fell back like a plank, dead. Joffrey left him there as he made his way to the line of infantry who were keeping the wights at bay with pole weapons, preventing them from gaining a foothold atop the wall.

An arrow slammed against Joffrey's pauldron, staggering him slightly before he kept walking and grabbed a Threeray by the arm, "Threeray! Your Sunbeam is down, where's your Captain?" he asked him before smashing a wight's skull that got too close to the crenellations.

"Captain's dead sir!" half shouted back the soldier, single mindedly ramming his naginata against the undead that kept periodically poking their heads over the wall.

The Outer Wall had fallen quite a while ago...

"I'm promoting you to Sunbeam then, effective immediately. Keep them pinned here but get some of your men in between the spears, you need more soldiers up front for close in defense!" Joffrey told the soldier.

The soldier kept ramming and pushing the undead back down the wall with his naginata as he nodded, "Understood sir!" he shouted.

"Keep at it" Joffrey said as he patted him in the back before taking off again, a few arrows now pelting his position. Another one struck his breastplate as he bit his lip in pain, still walking as he tried to give some coherence to the grinding battle atop the wall.

The Inner Wall had been overrun a month ago…

Joffrey spotted two soldiers hurriedly carrying a load of ballista bolts before one of the arrows took the one behind in the neck.

"Keep moving!" Joffrey shouted as he grabbed the back of the small litter full of crudely made ballista bolts before they tumbled to the side. The soldier in front didn't even look back as he kept carrying the front end, rushing towards a ballista piece.

"Puen… gods… We've been waiting… ages… for those bolts…" rasped the Captain by the ballista. He was sitting on the wall, his back leaning on one of the crenellations as blood poured over from a dozen slashes all over his body. He had an unloaded crossbow in his hands, its small bolt on a wight's skull that lay sprawled to his side.

"There's barely any of these pieces of shit left Cap'n… oh shit…" Said the loader as he dropped the load before rushing to the Captain.

Sprawled around the ballista were the other crew members, all slain as a few dismounted Garrison Cavalrymen to the side took care of the wight's responsible for it.

Joffrey started winching back the ballista as Puen assisted his superior, struggling with his mace hand as he pulled the cranks. "Sir!... Captain! SIR!" screamed the soldier as he shook his Captain, the officer unresponding as his head tilted slightly to the side.

"Load a bolt soldier!" Joffrey rasped, his mouth dry as he finished cranking back the winches.

Puen looked startled as he turned back, "Wha-?... Aye commander!" the man said, wiping something from his face as he stood up and grabbed one of the fallen crudely made ballista bolts. He jammed one right through the piece, stepping back before inspecting the piece for a second, his movements precise, bored out of hundreds of hours of doing it again and again.

"CLEAR!" he shouted as he stepped back.

"Loose!" Joffrey shouted himself as he let loose. It was a bit unnecessary, but the familiar routine had become ingrained in his psyche anyway. The bolt flew down the Bastion's Wall briefly before impaling a grand total of two wights, pinning the shrieking bodies to the ground as a dozen more rushed past.

They've been on quarter rations for two weeks now…

"Captain! We're back! We…" two legionnaires stopped short when they spotted their Captain and the bodies of the rest of the crew.

"Drop that stretcher and take over the piece, make them pay" Joffrey commanded as he stepped back, the soldiers only taking a second to process the order before taking over the ballista.

"..Aye Commander!" snapped one of them as he grabbed another bolt and loaded the ballista.

Joffrey kept walking as the night sky gave to dawn, the telltale sign of the steadily brightening horizon slowly illuminating the Mountains of the Morn.

"Commander!" saluted a Tworay with a sling as he helped carry a wounded comrade with another soldier. Joffrey nodded as he kept walking, surveying the wall section as the ferocity of the wight attacks slowly diminished.

"Silver Lion!" said one of the archers taking another quiver from a wooden barrel. "Dawn Commander!" said a heavily armored Shock Iron, rushing to the wall's edge to help a small pocket that had broken through momentarily. "S-S-Sir!" said a startled Oneray as his skinny frame struggled to carry a bucket of water up a set of stairs to one of the battlements.

He nodded back each time, his throat constricting steadily with each look the various soldiers gave him.

"Commander" said a familiar voice from his right eye's dead zone.

"Loh, did you find Genshua?" he said as he turned. His aide looked crestfallen as he stared at Joffrey.

"… He's dead sir… there was a breach through the South West. He fell before Colonel Hu's reinforcements retook the section" he said, holding his bloodied forearm. The clean bandages from before the siege had long ago been expended, most being replaced by torn pieces of cloth.

"… He was a good man…" Joffrey said as he stared at the floor for a second, taking the unexpected hit in the gut. He took a breath and looked back up. "Did Valyon's men fix the water well? I've been waiting for news through the whole night" he asked him.

"… What?" he asked his aide as Loh kept staring at him strangely.

"Its… Its Colonel Hu, sir. He's in the Fort HHHHHospital right now" he said.

.-

"What did I tell you about getting cocky Hu?" Joffrey asked as he kneeled beside his old friend.

Hu lay on a makeshift bed in one of the storage rooms nearby the hospital, breathing shallowly as he looked back at him.

Over the long months, Bo's healers had truly mastered the art of triage, setting procedures and rooms to be set aside for the different states their patients arrived in…

Hu had been placed in the room reserved for those who weren't much longer bound to this world… not that it was much used nowadays. The pitiful rations they had been reduced to, plus the long strain of the siege meant that most of the wounded lasted a day or two.

Hu grunted as he stared at his friend, "L-leave that… to the… Horse Chiefs…" he said with a slight smile before exploding into a coughing fit, bits of blood sticking to his small beard.

"Easy there Grey Gull… just… take it easy…" Joffrey said with a halfhearted smile as Hu vaguely tried to stand up, only to be gently pushed back down by Joffrey. "It was a rhetorical question you idiot…" he said, blinking rapidly as he heard the rattle coming from Hu's lungs each time he took a breath.

"Co…commander…" Hu tried to say, trying not to break into a coughing fit again.

"Don't, don't talk Hu" he said as he looked around for a bit of Gehji extract to dull the pain. He stopped when he remembered they had run out of those over two months ago.

"Joooffrey…" he rattled.

"What is it? What is it Hu?" Joffrey asked, slightly distressed as he leaned forward, trying to hear him better.

"Jooffrey… Its… It's been my… my pleasure…" Hu struggled to say, his voice barely louder than a whisper in an effort to avoid another coughing fit.

He's saying goodbye.

"Hu, don't…" Joffrey whispered, but Hu was still staring at him, his eyes urgent as he tried to say what was in his mind.

"I don't know if I… would have… stayed here… without you… " he said, clamping down his mouth and his eyes as he fought the urge to cough.

He thinks he would have lived on… he's right… he would have lived on if I hadn't dragged him here… Joffrey thought in mounting anguish.

Hu was looking at him again, mouth clamped, on the verge of another fit as he slowly took in another breath.

"Thank you" he said suddenly, the pure gratitude in his voice hitting Joffrey like a sledgehammer. "Thank you Joffrey, thank y-" he repeated again and again before he broke off into a massive fit as he coughed blood all over his blanket, his pale body jerking again and again from the force of it.

Joffrey held him as he shook, the coughing stopping as abruptly as it had started.

"Hu… Why?" he asked as him as he let him lean on the makeshift bed.

Hu didn't answer him, his eyes still as a bit of blood dripped from his mouth.

"Hu!?" Joffrey asked as he shook him. "Why would you say that Hu?! WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT?!" he screamed as he shook him, feeling a stinging feeling in his eye.

Joffrey felt as if someone had driven a sword through his belly as he stumbled out of the room, the two soldiers from Hu's command nodding respectfully before entering the room.

He kept walking, struggling to contain the pit of despair deep within him.

"Silver Lion" said a Body Scribe as he bowed, carrying a set of vaguely clean bandages.

Joffrey nodded quickly as he walked, not wanting to look at him.

He made his way to the wall, passing through a room full of soldiers doing carpentry, mainly crude bolts for the ballistas. "Dawn Commander!" snapped one of them as he stood up. "Sir! Silver Lion sir! Commander! Commander Joffrey!" they said, all of them standing up and saluting with some sort of deep respect, admiration even.

Stop it.

Joffrey nodded sternly as he kept walking, his throat constricting steadily.

He reached the Bastion's walls themselves as the sun peeked from the east and the remaining wights left the Dawn Fort entirely. They left after every assault, as if daring Joffrey to man the Inner or Outer Walls again… but he didn't have the men to hold them, they would be spread too thin… A fact both him and the Demons knew. The Walkers themselves usually just stood in plain sight, right past the Outer Wall in the middle of the plains of dawn. They were a constant, crushing reminder of the hopelessness of their last stand, a constant sight that chipped at the morale of his men.

He looked to his side as he walked through the wall. The last of the wights had retreated past the distant tree line, but a line of White Walker remained. They just stood there without their mounts, unflinching, always staring at the Dawn Fort, no need to sleep or rest. They also made sure no foraging party could safely exit the Dawn Fort, which combined with the constant attacks instead of one colossal swarm made Joffrey consider the possibility that they were indeed trying to starve them out instead of trying to take them out with one colossal wave that would shred more corpses than the Legion was worth.

"Commander" said a soldier as he carried a fallen comrade to the fires below.

"Silver Lion" said another Oneray as he stopped cleaning his katana.

"Commander Joffrey" said a Captain as he nodded respectfully before getting back to his men.

Joffrey hurried his stride, the burning agony within him only barley kept at bay as every soldier that spotted him stopped to acknowledge him in some way.

"Silver Lion… sir" said a wounded legionary as he was carried by a comrade.

Why..? Why do they keep..? It has all been for naught! We will barely last another week, perhaps even less… why?

Joffrey almost ran up the last few steps to the Bastion's War Room. The room barely needed his supervision anymore with the reduced men and supplies, and the ample training they had been subjected to under the Walkers.

He finally arrived at the Observation tower, where Shah was surveying the retreating wights and the silent, unmoving walkers. "I heard about Hu…" he said when he heard him, but Joffrey said nothing as he leaned on one of the crenellations beside Shah.

His breathing was irregular as he felt his eye fill up with tears, the burning sensation spreading from his chest to the rest of his body.

"…Why?" he asked him.

Shah looked at him for a few seconds, disentangling the web of meanings that surrounded that simple question. He looked back to the steadily brightening horizon as he thought, tapping his fingers against the crenellations.

They spent a few minutes like that in a rare moment of silence for the Dawn Fort, before Shah finally spoke. "Why do they still bless your name even as they die under your orders? Why do they carry on even as they lay on the ground bleeding to death? Why do they thank you for the end you have led us all to?" Shah mused, still staring at the horizon. Joffrey said nothing, still as a statue as he heard his old friend. He nodded slightly, trying not to crumble.

"It's not a big mystery Joffrey. Anyone can simply die, that is after all the inevitable end no matter how long the journey to get there was…" he mused out loud as he turned back to gaze at his commander. "That end became inevitable the day the men were born… its cause became apparent the day the legions fell, or perhaps the day these things first appeared from the grey wastes… What you gave them was not death Joffrey… you gave their deaths meaning" Shah said with a slight smile.

"That is what's in their eyes. Gratitude, Commander" he said.

Joffrey swallowed, not trusting himself to look at him as he managed to find his voice. "…Gratitude for locking them up here..?" he asked.

Shah snorted as he shook his head, "You made them conquer their fear. You led them as they gave their own lives so that others could keep theirs. You made them all, all of them Joffrey… you made them all masters of their fate" Shah sentenced.

Joffrey felt the deep thrumming envelop him completely as his breathing stopped.

"You did not lock them up here when you took command Joffrey. You set them free. That's why they fight for you, that is why they die for you" Shah said simply.

Joffrey felt tears slide down his left cheek, their paths frequently interrupted by the pockmarks and scars that had been left there courtesy of a sandrake. He gave out a single, contained sob as he thought of his men, his friends. They had leaned on him, and he had leaned on them.

He looked down as he the tears kept falling and the thrumming drowned out all other sound.

I'm proud to call them my men. I'm proud to call them my brothers.

'RRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAR'

He lifted his head up and gazed back at the plains of dawn to find the Silver Lion rearing up in all its majesty as it gave a mighty roar, not too far away from the Walkers themselves.

The lion roared again with all his might, directing raw fury and pride at the Demons. Joffrey was somehow not surprised to know the meaning of the lion's roar. It was defiance, it was pride, pride in his men. All along the walls he could hear his soldiers shouting in awe and defiance as they rushed to see the silver lion itself, their cries of joy somehow shaking free of the miasma of grim defeat that had permeated the Dawn Fort for so long.

Joffrey didn't know how much time he stayed there, mesmerized as he gazed the roaring lion as the tears kept streaming down his cheek. Shah startled him when he shook him, gesturing him to follow.

They ran past the deserted War Room and down the many flights of stairs before arriving at the base of the Gatehouse, where Joffrey swore half of what was left of the Legion must have gathered. They seemed more than in good cheer, handing out weapons and armor in somewhat of a frenzied state even as more legionnaires emerged from the main keep.

They were angry, they were proud, they were defiant.

"Loh! Valyon! What in the hells is going on here?!" Joffrey asked when he found the both of them, trying to give a bit of order to the chaos that surrounded them.

"Commander!" shouted Loh as he turned back, his eyes lit with a fiery zeal that Joffrey had not seen in a long time, "They want to go outside sir! The men want to sally forth and smash into the Demons for once!" He said.

"Are they mad?! The Dawn Fort will fall soon after!" Joffrey exclaimed, looking in incomprehension as even the healers and their limping charges emerged from the keep, looking for weapons.

"…they know, sir" Loh said suddenly. "It's no secret that our supplies won't last another week… and after seeing the Silver Lion… they don't want to die like scared rats, sir" he said meaningfully.

"…They want to stand with their brothers…" muttered Joffrey.

"They don't want to listen to that melody of despair…" said Shah as he nodded to himself.

"To fulfill vows muttered from time immemorial…" Joffrey continued as he turned back from them all and he gazed at the gatehouse.

"To end the uncertainty once and for all… to bring the battle to the enemy and resolve our fate one way or the other…" Shah said, his voice becoming more animated by the second.

"They refuse to lay down their arms, they refuse to go down quietly into the long night" Valyon said.

The masters of their fate…

"And they shall not!" Joffrey said as he suddenly turned back, his crimson red cloak fluttering wildly under the gusts of chilly wind and snow. "The men of the Dawn Legion shall Stand Together one more time!" he said, the tears on his eye still sliding down his scarred face, the anguish and the doubts evaporating as he pivoted towards Valyon.

He hadn't realized he'd shouted that last part, but the wild growling and snarling of the men made him take notice. They seemed almost frenzied, spurred by the sight of a long lost hope in the form of a defiant silver lion and a renewed purpose beyond simply taking the punishment the Demons had meted out week after week.

To Attack.

"Greatbeam Valyon!" he said.

"Sir!" he snapped.

"See that everyone in the Fort is armed with whatever they can carry, we'll sally forth and smash into the Demons within half an hour!" he ordered.

"Aye commander!" he snapped as he turned and started to give out orders to the men nearest to him.

"Shah, go to the armory and take all the obsidian arrows we have left, distribute them to your Hunters and the officers, at least one each" he said. Shah gave him a meaningful nod as he got to it.

If we can take out their commander… perhaps…

"And Loh…" he said as he gazed at his aide meaningfully.

"Bring me my banner" he said.

.-

The entirety of the Dawn Legion stood in attention, one long column as wide as the great Gatehouse would allow. The armor the soldiers wore was dented and filthy, their banners tattered and torn. Many wore bandages or pieces of ragged clothing over old and new wounds, and others who could barely walk were supported by their comrades in arms.

The display would have gotten a sneer out of any Reacher Knight, but if Joffrey would have had to led an army into the hells, he would have taken these men rather than a million chivalric knights.

In a way, he already had.

They looked fearsome. Steely eyes and ferocious snarls, they had the look of men who had accepted their deaths, that look one has when there's nothing left to loose and everything to gain.

They had the look of men ready to march to their dooms, and grateful for it.

Joffrey strode quickly down the column towards the front, his eye meeting those of every legionnaire.

"I never thought it would end like this…" he said as he paced down the column, pitching his voice to carry. "But I am glade it did!" he shouted, "To share the last moments of my life with my brothers!" he said, his heart beating wildly.

"For that is what we are! Brothers! We who have shed blood together, we who have killed for each other, we who have died together!" he bellowed, his voice raising in intensity as he paced back, not ashamed of his tears. "We share a bond far beyond the sad slavery of the Demons, far beyond even their comprehension. They have forged us into something they will never understand…" he trailed of as his gaze became unfocused.

"For that I thank them. Because of their actions, I march to my death in peace. No…" he suddenly interrupted himself when he reached the head of the column.

"In PRIDE!" he snarled suddenly, eliciting a primal response from his men as they snarled with him. "In peace and pride! Because we have become something greater than any single one of us! We have become those who stand in vigil! The watchers of stars! THE MASTERS OF OUR FATE!" he roared with all his might as the army in front of him roared back, eyes wild, raising spears and swords and maces and banners and all the panoply of war to the air in a splendor of color, a sharp contrast to the snowfall all around them.

Joffrey put his helmet on, the red sun suspended by the golden horns for all to see.

"Dawn Commander, your banner" said Loh as he hefted the long pole with the Starwatching Silver Lion. There was something there that had not been before though… It was a small yellow red sun, barely peeking over the great mountain the Silver Lion sat upon.

It was Dawn.

"It was the best I could do in such a short time but…" Loh trailed off with a rare smile.

"Loh… It's perfect" he said as he gazed at the banner with a serene smile.

"Commander" said Valyon as he joined him, carrying what seemed to be a coiling dragon modified for Choir use but with a strap tied to both ends.

"I thought we had fired the last of those a few months ago…" Joffrey asked as he checked his obsidian dagger and made sure his mace arm was strapped properly to his arm.

"Kind of. This one has a malfunctioning fuse, too dangerous to fix… if the cord is pulled the charge should explode almost immediately…" Valyon said as he gave Joffrey the 'dragon.

"I see…" Joffrey mused as he put the 'dragon on his back, hanging from his torso by the strap. "Well, I still have another arm available…" he said with an erstwhile smirk.

He turned back to the column of men as a strong breeze let the banner in Loh's hands fly free. "When the bastards understand what's happening we'll have but a few minutes to take them down before we are drowned under a sea of wights. We shall hit them like a hammer!" he snarled as he raised his mace hand to the air and the men snarled back. "We will destroy them, hack them apart, with our bare hands if we have to!" he snarled, "We will show them what it means to be human! To be afraid!" he bellowed as he paced back, the banners of all the surviving units and those had that fallen too, fluttered in the wind and snow.

"We will show them the meaning of pain! The meaning of despair! They shall learn to fear the sound of the marching Dawn!" he screamed.

The Dawn Legion roared back as they started pounding their spears against the ground, their swords and maces against their shields. Slowly, very slowly, the rhythm started to emerge.

Pum... Pum... Pum... Pum...

"Through Light and Dark Joffrey" Shah said as he took an obsidian arrow from his quiver and let it rest over his bow, standing to Joffrey's side. He didn't need to say anything more.

"Through Dusk and Dawn" Joffrey told him as he grabbed his shoulder, "Through Dusk and Dawn Shah" he said before raising his arm high, "Open the gates for Dawn!" he bellowed.

The portcullis rose as the slamming of weapons against metal intensified in both volume and rhythm.

Pum..Pum..Pum..Pum..Pum

"LEGION! SALLY FORTH!" he roared as he slashed his saber forward.

Like one, the legion sallied out the Bastion's gatehouse, quickly clearing the burned ruin that was the Inner District.

"LEGION! QUICK MARCH!" roared Joffrey as they cleared the deserted Inner East Gatehouse.

PumPumPumPumPumPumPumPumPum rattled the Legion, the beating of metal synchronized to their footsteps.

They passed the opened East Outer Gatehouse, the noise of their all-consuming pounding drowning everything else. Joffrey could see the Walkers as the legion quick marched past the Iron Cemetery, nearly three dozen of them… with the big one at the middle.

The Walker Commander, as Joffrey had named him inside his mind, was a bit taller than the rest. He was armored in the typical grey-blue armor of his comrades and carried a big warhammer; a big blue stone tied to the end of a wooden staff. The thing didn't seem fazed by the charging legion, though then again Joffrey had never really seen an expression on the face of a Walker… besides maybe pain when he stabbed them with obsidian.

Their distress was apparent in the way the swarms of wights immediately started to charge from the treeline… but they were too far away. The Legion would have a bit of time to play with their guests…

"DAWN LEGION! CHAAAAAAARGE!" roared Joffrey as he broke into a run, his saber high in the air and quickly followed by Shah, Valyon, Loh and all the rest of his brothers.

PUMPUMPUMPUMPUMPUM thundered the Legion, the beating of metal synchronized to his heartbeat.

The men screamed their defiance as they charged behind their commander with wild abandon, and Joffrey smiled. A good day to die, he thought as Shah loosed an arrow that pierced one of the Walkers straight in the eye, dissolving him to mush as a few of his obsidian equipped Walker Hunters did the same with their bows.

And then, they clashed.

The Walkers had grouped a bit closer together, but the sheer force of numbers and ferocity behind the Legion was like an avalanche that couldn't be contained. Joffrey dashed past the dissolving body of a Walker that had received another of Shah's arrows before slamming himself against another Demon, his directional parry with the saber ensuring the icy blade did not gut him like an animal. The Walker stumbled back as Joffrey dropped the saber and in one swift motion took out his dagger, ramming it up the Walker's jaw, snarling as he stabbed again and again against the dissolving snow.

Behind him crashed the Legion as hundreds of swords, maces and spears reaped a blue harvest even as the Walkers killed more than half a dozen men for every one of theirs.

He found himself next to Shah, covering his back as he put down a Walker every two arrows, both Valyon and Loh by his flanks fending off attacks with deflections and directional parries like he'd taught them to.

The battle was a blur as Joffrey fought like never before, body and mind moving as one. He found himself calm even as his breathing struggled to keep up with the demands of his body and the bone chilling cold from near missed cracked his skin. He got lost in the wild melee, bellowing and rallying his men as they pinned Walkers down with spears as others closed in and hammered them down. He dashed past a Walker's blade as the beast tried to cut him in half, using his dagger to cut through the things arm twice. It screeched as it stumbled back and Joffrey used his mace hand like a claw, shoving it on the thing's neck and pushing it towards him with a roar of strength as he brought his dagger up. He slammed it brutally against the thing's stomach, the blade shattering against the armor even as it slipped through.

Joffrey cursed as he moved the blade sideways and he disemboweled the Walker like a pig, extracting the now shattered obsidian blade.

The thing evaporated even as Joffrey turned back, moving past groups of legionaries fighting and dying, lending a hand where he could.

He found Valyon in one of the groups, the Greatbeam's chest had been completely crushed, smashed like so much pulp.

Joffrey said nothing as he kneeled and closed the man's eyes. He took a deep breath, taking just a second from the battle that surrounded him to say goodbye to his old friend. "Swift winds, Chief" he whispered before standing back up. He'd be joining him soon enough.

He made quick time towards the big figure that moved through his men like a leviathan, smashing apart his brothers like so much driftwood with its great warhammer.

Joffrey snarled as he ran towards the walker commander's back, intent on shanking him. Before he could though the Walker turned suddenly, his warhammer sweeping low. Joffrey jumped, but the head still grazed his left leg, leaving an agony of pain as if he'd been burned. He stumbled as he landed, the Walker brutally slamming the butt of his hammer against his belly and sending him flying back and crashing against another Walker. He slammed what was left of the dagger's blade on the Walker's foot, making it bend down just in time for him to stand up and slam the hammer in his face. The Walker fell on the floor as he put his boot on its back and hammered it in the head like a madman, chips of his mace hand flying about as he reduced the Walker's head to brown snow.

Joffrey coughed blood as he limped from the demon's back, broken dagger and chipped mace at the ready as he stared at the Commander.

"That's all you got you sad puddle of snow?" he asked it before spitting another gob of blood. The Walker seemed to regard him for a few seconds… almost in… curiosity before straightening and dashing towards him with unforeseen haste.

Joffrey dodged a strike that would have left his arm as so much mush, the strength of the blow shaking the earth itself. He tried to use the opportunity to jump in close and shove what was left of his dagger down the thing's neck, but the Walker somehow moved just as fast, shifting the mace about and catching the blade in the wooden handle.

Is that… Is that weirwood?!

He didn't have time to process the thought as he stepped back and bent, the hammerhead sailing just over his face. He crouched and jumped to the side as the Walker tried again to catch him with the back blow, but Joffrey was had already learned that lesson. He stabbed what little remained of the obsidian on the thing's leg, barely eliciting a response as the monster punched him in the shoulder, unleashing a sea of pain as he tumbled in a wild spin before crashing on the mud and snow.

The Demon walked towards him and raised its hammer, angling it right over his chest before an arrow got it in the belly.

Joffrey rolled away from it as the Walker stumbled back in pain. "That was the last one!" bellowed Shah as Joffrey got to his feet. He'd managed to get a shot out even with three separate wights trying to cut him down.

It seemed the first of the undead slaves were already joining the battle.

One of the arriving wights dashed towards Joffrey, but a long pole smacked it into the ground before it could reach him.

"Commander! I'll distract the big one, you take him down!" Loh shouted as he hefted the long pole, using it as a heavy pike as he impaled the wight's skull using the pole's spiked top.

"Alright! Watch out for that hammer, he's faster than he looks!" Joffrey shouted back as he tossed the useless dagger aside.

"DAAAAAAAAWN!" bellowed the burly Sunbeam as he ran towards the Walker, the banner fluttering wildly.

"FOR THE LIVING!" echoed Joffrey as he ran behind him, mace low as he eyed the arrow sticking from the Walker's chest.

The Walker used the hammer's haft to slide the pole to his side, allowing the spiked top to pass harmlessly by right over its shoulder… and letting Loh's own speed bring him closer to it. The Walker slammed the haft on Loh's neck brutally, slamming the aide to the ground at the same time as it shifted the grip on its hammer and raised it over its head.

Joffrey was barely 3 meters behind Loh, but the thing was still somehow too fast.

"Fhor the lih-ving-" spluttered Loh before the icy head of the warhammer smashed into his chest, rending apart flesh and bone.

Joffrey screamed as he jumped right on the Walker's chest, using his mace as a climbing rake while his hand took the obsidian arrow from its chest and he stabbed it just above the collarbone. The Walker shrieked as it stomped back, dropping the warhammer and grabbing Joffrey with both hands as it tried to get him off it.

Joffrey snarled as his shoulder froze and his skin turned black, holding to the thing's body with all his strength as he stabbed it with the arrow again and again.

The Walker crumbled into snow with a soul shivering scream, melting as Joffrey tumbled to the ground, his body burning in agony as he stared at the unmoving form of Loh.

Loh…

Someone grabbed him from behind, helping him stand up as strength returned to his legs.

"Still We Stand Commander!" shouted Shah in his face, one of his legs limp and bloodied as the other grabbed the fallen banner, raising it to the skies and letting the Silver Lion flutter free.

"Still We Stand!" bellowed back Joffrey, tears of pain sliding down his cheek as he grabbed a katana from the mud. The wights where everywhere now, sneaking in between the pockets of legionnaires and killing and maiming without stop. Shah and Joffrey made their way through the chaos, limping and holding each other by the shoulders as Wights seemed to emerge from every direction. Each one they managed to bring down managed to leave a wound on either Shah or Joffrey, and soon both of them were soaked in their own blood.

Huh… I had been hoping that without their leader the rest of the monsters would have just…

He snorted, a small, bloodied grin adorning his face despite the pain and the mind numbing exhaustion.

Hope is ever eternal… he mused as he pummeled a wight to the ground with his mace.

Shah's weight suddenly gave out, both of them falling back on the mud, over the corpses of the slain which had mercifully not yet returned.

"Come on Shah… we can rest when we die… ehh kind of" Joffrey quipped, his head hazy as he looked at the blue, cloudy sky.

"Shah…" Joffrey muttered as he turned his head, trying to bring his friend out of his right eye's dead zone.

Shah was gurgling blood, a sword rammed past the cracked armor and through his chest. He turned his head when Joffrey spoke, blinking quickly as more and more blood seemed to come from his mouth, preventing him from speaking.

Joffrey dragged himself closer to him, using what was left of his right arm to bring the Long Scout closer.

"We are the ones who stand in vigil…" Joffrey whispered into Shah's ear, bumping his forehead against his helmet. "We are the watchers of stars…" he recited as blood stopped coming out of Shah's mouth. Instead, the corners of it lifted into a vague half smile.

"We are the masters of our Fate…" Joffrey whispered, his voice sounding strangled to his own ears.

Shah let out a deep breath, his eyes still open as his head hanged back, limp.

Joffrey grabbed his banner from the mud, using the long pole to support him as he tried to stand up. The ragged banner was still somewhat whole as Joffrey limped through the melee, using his mace hand to shatter wight ribcages and break skulls, even as his armor kept being dented and blood ran down his legs.

One wight impaled him with a pike, the force of the blow making Joffrey stagger back. He screamed in pain as another wight ram a half pike through his blind side, managing to pierce his mangled plate and stabbing him in the ribs.

His vision was a bit blurry as he snarled, trying to close in with the wight in front of him as another one drove a spear through his left leg, and another one rammed a pike through his back. The wights shrieked wildly as they kept pushing from all directions, driving Joffrey to his knees.

The pole swayed, the banner fluttering wildly as Joffrey coughed blood.

No. I'll die standing.

"hhhhhhmmmmmmMMMMMRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" he screamed in pain and exertion as he stood up, smashing his mace against the shaft of the spear, breaking it. The sudden lack of force from that side made the wights push him left, making him close with the undead spearman. Joffrey mauled him down with the mace before brutally twisting sideways, the pikes dislodging from him even as they tore his body apart.

He gave a wordless, bloody scream as pummeled the pikemen to the ground, shattering bones and flesh until there was nothing left of his mace hand but a small steel pole.

He stood there, swaying as he noticed something strange…

The battlefield was quiet.

Several Walkers approached him from all sides as Joffrey drunkenly pivoted in circles, leaving a trail of blood as he waved his destroyed mace arm threateningly. He suddenly charged at one of them, but cold, freezing hands grabbed him from behind, freezing and shattering both his shoulders as they raised him a bit, holding him still in midair.

The pain was so intense Joffrey could barely think, could barely scream when one of the Walkers positioned itself right in front of him and brought its blade up right over his heart. The icy blade lit into a brilliant white, almost blinding Joffrey as the Walker slowly started to pierce his heart.

Joffrey was assaulted by an agony a million times worse than the Purple, a rending of his very being as the blade slowly made its way to his heart, a rending of his very self as seconds stretched to hours to weeks and pure agony became his only knowledge, his existence.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAFFFFFUUUUUCKYOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!" he screamed as he pulled the hanging cord that reached to his hip.

The explosion engulfed him in fire even as he felt himself fly, cleansing the mind killing agony like a soothing balm and leaving only a buzzy, tingly sensation in his head.

He blinked dumbly at the patch of snowed dirt he had landed upon, gazing at where his torso ended and where his legs should have started. Joffrey was very confused at the sight before letting his head fall back on the mud, he couldn't feel anything below his neck anyway. Even his head felt strange.

He blinked slowly as he gazed at the white sky.

I'm sorry Ned, Shah, Tyrion… everyone… I tried…

He blinked again as a realization hit him.

He was not afraid of this. He was not afraid of the end.

He had not been a fraud, he was not the spoiled brat, he was not the monster.

He was dying as Joff. As Joffrey.

Just Joffrey.

Joffrey smiled as he felt the air leave his lungs, his thoughts loosing cohesion and dissolving into nothing as the world turned black.

And Purple.

.-

Purple Days (ASOIAF): From one day to the other, Joffrey Baratheon wakes up a changed man. Far from the spoiled boy-child known to the court of King's Landing, the Joffrey that comes out of his room three days after the death of John Arryn walks with the stride of a veteran commander and leader of men. A scholar, a sea-captain, a general, a lover. This is the story of how he became that man, and how he came to know his purpose through a cycle of endless death and rebirth that saw him explore his self and the known world from Braavos to Sothoryios and from Old Town to Yi-Ti... and beyond. (Character Development, Adventure, Worldbuilding, Mystery & Suspense, Romance, Action). (Turtledove 2017 winner!).

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Threadmarks Ark 3: Questions. Interlude: A Bored Hound. New

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Let's get this rolling again, shall we?

.-

Ark 3: Questions.

Interlude: A Bored Hound.

Joffrey scowled as he slumped back in his chair, tossing his cutlery over the plate. "I don't want to!" he spat, gazing defiantly at Robert.

"Eat, boy. Gods knows you need it… you have your mother's frame instead of a proper Baratheon's, and it will only get worse if you don't eat your damned food!" said Robert, his irritation ebbing as he eyed the servant lady that was pouring Cercei wine. Joffrey's mother, however, was not blind to the eye play.

"You are dismissed" she said, voice cold as her eyes registering every single detail about her face. The Hound knew, from experience, that that particular serving wench would not be employed in the Red Keep come morning.

The Hound sighted quietly, receiving an amused look from Ser Barristan, standing behind Robert with his back almost touching the wall. This is what I have to deal with every single day… his expression seemed to say. A half pitying smirk appeared half a second later.

And you will, too, it seemed to add.

Before he could contemplate the sanity breaking immensity of that thought, Sandor Clegane did what he always did in such situations. The Hound didn't have an active imagination, but he'd always have a knack for visualizing Gregor's head on a spike. He'd found himself doing that more and more often as the weight of guarding the little shit for a bit over a year got worse and worse. He sometimes thought the boredom and the pettiness would kill him… he shuddered to think about doing it his whole life.

Bloody Kingsguard, mad, the lot of them, he thought. Though at least the family seldom eats together anymore…

He shouldn't even be here, if any assassin could manage to get past all the guards in the Red Keep, Ser Barristan, an irate King Robert wielding his big fat chair like a warhammer and, most importantly of all, Queen Cercei and her claws… then he didn't know what a humble dog could do about it. He half suspected the only reason Robert had acquiesced to the whole 'Sworn Shield' shtick was because he hoped it would somehow make the little shit…

Somewhat more Kingly? The sheer thought of it threated to make him laugh out loud.

He was abruptly wrenched out of his reverie when Joffrey tossed his food aside, the silver plate clanking over the floor, "I said no!" he screamed at the serving maid as she bowed repeatedly while stumbling back, giving all manner of excuses while Robert slammed his fist on the table.

"Is this about the North again?!" he all but growled, bits of pork flying from his mouth. Tommen and Myrcella were trying to make themselves as tiny as possible, squirming slightly against their seats. Even Cercei looked restrained, one did not wantonly poke at the King two days after his father-in-all-but-name's death.

The little shit, of course, was all too riled up to pick up the implicit threat behind that statement. "I don't understand why we have to travel through half of Westeros just to visit some stupid wolf lord! If you want to see him then you should make him come!" he shouted, raising his hands and letting them fall to the table, looking scandalized and barely bewildered.

"If any man in these wretched Kingdoms deserves respect, it's Lord Eddard Stark, and you will address him as such" Robert growled threateningly, leaning slightly towards Joffrey.

Joffrey seemed oblivious, looking back at one of the servants standing with their backs to the walls of the slightly-too-big dining hall. "You, get me another serving" he mewled before turning back to Robert. "I just don't understand" he continued as if Robert had not spoken, "Why we have to bend to the whims of a bunch of northern savages! I don't even want to touch-"

Robert exploded, "YOU DARE?!" he snarled as he stood up while throwing is wine cup to the floor in rage, his face flushed with anger as his enormous chair fell back and he made as if to take a step towards Joffrey. Sandor swallowed as he saw, just for a second, the shadow of the man that had caved in Rhaegar's chest in the Trident.

"Robert" warned the Queen, glaring at him. Robert turned back to her, matching her stare for a few seconds before he seemed to deflate entirely, returning to the legend's husk he had become.

He scowled as he walked away from the table, "Take him to his room, Clegane. See to it that no one else enters. He's not hungry" he spat the last with disdain. It had no real viciousness to it, however, merely weariness… and well-worn disappointment.

"Aye Your Grace" Sandor said as he walked towards the little shit. The Prince was frozen in his seat, trying to look as if he hadn't been about to shit himself. "Let's go, Prince Joffrey" the Hound said. I'm going to enjoy this, he thought.

"W-w-what?! B-but I haven't eaten yet! I—Mother!" he pleaded, as if vaguely perplexed at the turn of events.

Cercei was still staring at Robert's back as he left the dining hall. When she turned her head to Joffrey however, her venomous expression turned gentle, "Tomorrow we'll have a splendid breakfast my son, one fit for a prince…" she appeased him, "Now do as your father says" she added, smiling slightly as she remembered something and stood up. The nannies were already taking Tommen and Myrcella back to their rooms, to their silent (if evident) relief.

Sandor escorted the blond prince out of the dining hall while the Cercei left through another door, a slight spring to her step. Joffrey walked sullenly, his face vaguely red as he muttered under his breath.

Soon though he started strutting like a peacock with something to prove, his expression growing more rebellious the closer they got to his room. The Hound eyed him warily as they approached one of the side passages that connected the kitchens. Joffrey seemed to slow as they approached it, looking around with a vaguely scared expression, as if Robert was about to swoop in from the ceiling and spank him. "W-wait for me here, Hound" he finally ordered when he found his courage, walking towards it.

If Robert finds out, he'll have my ass. Sandor thought as he shook his head. "The King was clear, Prince Joffrey" he said, trying to sound courteous as he walked in front of him, blocking his way.

"I said wait here, dog!" Joffrey snarled angrily, trying to move past him.

Courteous never worked before anyway, the Hound thought as the corner of his mouth tilted slightly. This is going to be fun.

"What are you doing you stupid dog!?" mewled the little shit as Sandor grabbed his arm and started dragging him to his quarters, "Can't disobey the King, I'm afraid" He said as he dragged him past a couple of scrambling servants.

"B-But I'm the prince!" He shouted, perplexed. His confusion quickly gave way to anger though. "Release me NOW!" he screamed in rage, though the only effect it had on the Hound was for him to scrounge his eyes at the uncomfortably high pitch of it. Joffrey's attempts to get out of his grip were as light as the wind, and Sandor soon filtered out the progressively incoherent rant, dragging him all the way to his room. Joffrey's gold and silver clothes had gotten dirty and somewhat mangled in his attempts to escape from his iron grip, something that gave him quite a bit of satisfaction. After all the months watching the little shit prance around in the fine embroidery even when doing the more mundane of chores… well, he wasn't getting any sympathy from him.

"C-Clegane, I- I will-" He pleaded as if on the verge of tears. The Hound was thoroughly unmoved as he practically shoved him to the bed, looking around for any hidden threats out of habit. He walked out after finding none, as always. "Just sleep it off, the Queen will pamper you tomorrow" he called out as he turned to close the door. If the little shit was like this now… he couldn't imagine how he would be while on the road to Winterfell. A thought best left well enough alone.

"Hound! Please-!" He shouted as moved towards the door, just as Clegane shut it in his face.

The little shit ranted and raved inside his room for a good ten minutes before the tantrum finally, finally ended.

He nodded to himself as he heard him snore, walking to his small room nearby. He had a feeling he was going to need all the rest he could get… tomorrow was going to be a long day.

.-

The Hound stifled a yawn as he moved towards the window beside Joffrey's door, quietly basking in the sunlight. He thought about the events of the other day as he rubbed his arms (as much as he could with the half plate anyway), trying to ward off the cold. He didn't think Joffrey would have another tantrum… heck, the Hound wasn't sure if he'd even remember him in his mad dash towards the kitchens. He flexed his shoulder a bit, trying to shake off the pervasive cold very much at odds with a summer at King's Landing. The little shit would hopefully grow out of it anyway… or at least that's what Robert probably hoped… The Hound knew better of course, from bitter experience with his own family.

"What the…" he muttered as he saw his breath condense right in front of his eyes, the chill making his hands shake slightly. His feet were starting to get slightly numb in spite of standing under the full brunt of the summer-morning sun shining through the window. He turned around when he heard the door to Joffrey's room rattle, again and again, each time harder.

The hair at the back of his neck stood on edge as he dashed to the door, some arcane instinct blaring inside his head as he swung it wide open. He stumbled back as he was blasted by an enormous backdraft of ice cold air, instantly chilling him to the bone and making him shiver wildly.

Ice seemed to coat every surface of Joffrey's room from what he could see, cracking clothes and wood… even the very water inside the tumbling cup in the floor was frozen. All of that was dismissed from the Hound's mind when he saw Joffrey, however.

He was a shivering wreck, his skin completely pale, his extremities quickly turning purple as he stumbled almost blindly, his eyes barely open. He gave another half-step before leaning on the door's frame heavily, one shaking hand holding his ridiculous golden hilted dagger tightly, as if ready to kill someone at a moment's notice. Despite being near death, the boy was standing erect, almost defiantly, proudly fearless as he swayed a bit.

"Yīgè měihǎo… de yītiān qù sǐ…" He mumbled incoherently, blinking heavily with a slight smile. Clegane doubted he even knew where he was.

He was shaken out of his stupor when the dagger clanked on the floor, shattering as Joffrey fell on his knees, mumbling incoherently again with the same serene, wistful smile. "Prince Joffrey!" shouted the Hound as he lifted him up, dragging him away from the door. He could already see some of the ice inside beginning to melt, but the cold would take too long to dissipate for Joffrey. He dragged him to a guest room close by, hollering at nearby servants. "You! Go get the Grand Maester! And you, get a fire started, now!" he roared, pointing at the room's hearth. The servants scrambled as the Hound dragged an unresisting Joffrey to the window, letting the sun warm him up as he ripped the Prince's frozen night clothes and the servant nearby started piling logs in the hearth. "Get me some blankets, move damn you!" he roared at them as Joffrey's breathing kept getting shallower and shallower.

He blinked heavily, his eyes searching. "S… Sa… Sandor..?" he muttered, confused as his blinking kept getting heavier. "Prince Joffrey! Look at me!" Clegane shouted at him, shaking him slightly as his eyelids kept drooping downwards.

The Prince had few words to say when his tired eyes finally found his. "Imhr… I'm… sorry…" he slurred, his eyes closing completely.

.-

AN: Something to whet the appetite. :D:D:D

Last edited: Jul 13, 2017

Purple Days (ASOIAF): From one day to the other, Joffrey Baratheon wakes up a changed man. Far from the spoiled boy-child known to the court of King's Landing, the Joffrey that comes out of his room three days after the death of John Arryn walks with the stride of a veteran commander and leader of men. A scholar, a sea-captain, a general, a lover. This is the story of how he became that man, and how he came to know his purpose through a cycle of endless death and rebirth that saw him explore his self and the known world from Braavos to Sothoryios and from Old Town to Yi-Ti... and beyond. (Character Development, Adventure, Worldbuilding, Mystery & Suspense, Romance, Action). (Turtledove 2017 winner!).

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Threadmarks Chapter 27: Warmth. New

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Jul 21, 2017

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Listened to this on Autoloop as I wrote :D

.-

Chapter 27: Warmth.

The Purple swirled around him in a vortex of fractals, the pain greeting him back like an old friend. It was quickly apparent that something had gone wrong though. A huge hole had been punched through the very fabric of the Purple, a gaping wound beyond which lay nothing but all-encompassing darkness.

A strong breeze seemed to burn away the purple as it chilled Joffrey's broken bones, his mind growing sluggish as the cold winds seemed to flay his very soul. Joffrey gave a wordless, harrowing scream as the flaying winds blew through him, his mind loosing focus as his very self started to dissipate. The pain was worse than any agony the Purple could ever deliver, for as cruel as it was, the Purple did not seek to evaporate him to the cold winds of the ether. He could see the ragged ends of it, his old nemesis, flapping around wildly around the hole as if they were but rags tacked besides an open window.

Joffrey had long ago come to terms with his mortality though. He had made his decision, he had accepted the consequences. He had refused to live like a scared rat. He had said no to the melody of despair.

He had chosen to stand together. To die together.

Tis only fitting. A General should die with his men. He thought with a small smile despite the harrowing pain. As his mind slowly turned to nothing, Joffrey let his gaze wander one last time, appreciating the sheer intricate vastness, the complexity of the interlocking dance that was the Purple. It was, he thought, the grandest work of art he had ever seen. He gazed at the incomprehensible patterns of vectors and fractals, tesseracts and three dimensional shadows not even the most fevered of Archmaesters could have conjured, or perhaps even understood, as the cold wind made his eyes droop and the pain ebbed.

Almost over now…

He saw something strange through the corner of his eye though… the ragged remains of the Purple around the hole, twisting and growing and shrinking at the same time. They stretched as if to infinity for a second only to return just a little bit further than their starting positions. As they advanced through the tearing slash of blackness, Joffrey came to a startling realization.

The Purple… it's mending itself.

The treacherous tendrils of Purple snaked towards him once more, some of them getting blown away by the Cold Wind as other reached him again and the all too familiar pain returned.

A General should die with his men… Joffrey thought as he struggled weakly against their grasp, a bone deep, no, a soul deep weariness inside of him wishing it all to just end.

A good day to die, had whispered one of the soldiers next to him right before the column crashed against the line of White Walkers.

The Purple and the Cold Wind kept battling for his soul for a second, or eternity, before the whole hole in the very fabric of the Purple seemed to mend itself instantly, overwhelming the Cold Wind once it had lost the initial impetus provided by the eldritch thing that had originally powered it. Joffrey could somehow feel the backblast of pain and soul freezing coldness from the mending, propelling him to impossible speeds as the agony turned unbearable and all else turned white.

He suddenly found himself in a snowy vault, a caricature of his old room in the Red Keep. Ice seemed to coat every available surface, and he could feel his limbs going senseless from instant frostbite.

It seems I have arrived at the Hell where the Walkers keep their souls. He thought to himself, vaguely undaunted by the prospect.

I thought the pain would have gone though, he thought, standing back from the frozen wreck of his bed and grabbing a laughably impractical ornate dagger on the night stand.

A Legionnaire should never be unarmed, he thought, somewhat amused as he shivered uncontrollably and his faltering steps burned in pain at the contact with the frozen floor. If the freezing pain was some kind of afterlife meted punishment then he was thoroughly unimpressed.

More important than all else, he didn't know where he was… but he was still himself.

Joffrey.

It was with that liberating thought that he trundled over the ice and snow, the dagger firm in his left hand. Half-forgotten memories rose to the forefront of his mind as he navigated the increasingly familiar layout of his old room, each step harder than the last as the cold seemed to sap the very life out of him. He fumbled with the door for a bit before it was suddenly opened as if by itself. He stumbled another half-step, feeling light as a feather, as if he would float away to nothing with but another step.

"A good day to die…" he whispered with a half-smile at the blinding sunlight beyond the opened door. He collapsed on the floor, his strength ebbing away like a pebble under a stream. The light said something as it carried him away, somehow banishing the cold.

"Watchers… stars… their… vigil…" he mumbled as he was deposited on the floor again. He blinked heavily as the light seemed to recede, gradually turning into a very familiar silhouette.

"S… Sa… Sandor..?" he muttered, confused.

Of course he's here too.

What did one say to someone who you'd failed so tremendously?

He struggled with the vaguely song like tongue of the Seven Kingdoms, tasting words he had not spoken for a long time. "Imhr… I'm… sorry…" he slurred, the encroaching darkness enveloping him completely.

.-

"A TIME OF RENEWAL!"

"… who stand in vigil…"

"There's too many of them!"

"We got to breakthrough! Sunbeam-"

"A TIME OF DESTRUCTION!"

"…masters of their fate…"

"He loved his Siwine, that he did…"

"They're hiding under the sand! Get back-"

"A the TIME watchers OF stars REBIRTH!"

.-

Joffrey stirred weakly, trying to focus on the thing to his left. It felt… warm. He could hear it cackling, occasionally cracking as the blessed heat it created fluctuated slightly, sometimes rising almost to lick his cheek, and others diminishing. Joffrey found it hard how to put into words how confortable he felt. Near the end the Fort's firewood supplies had been all but exhausted, and he hadn't even the manpower to send Scouts out for more…

This was all his spirit craved for, peace and a warm fire. He would have been quite comfortable with those two things for a lifetime... Curiosity however, as always, eventually got the better of him.

Why am I still thinking… I should be gone now, dust in the wind… he thought, very confused. The notion of an Afterlife of any sort had become somewhat strange to Joffrey over all his lifetimes, despite the very likely possibility he was in one of some kind right now. The notion of experiencing forever, of being conscious as if on a never ending sea of purple… even a peaceful one… seemed horrifying to a degree he doubted his old self would have been even capable of comprehending. The things he'd seen had, somewhat paradoxically, only made the notion even stranger. He'd seen beings beyond the reasoning of men. He'd studied the vastness and impossible scale of the night sky… He'd seen messages and works of art left by forces capable of thinking beyond the horizons of time. He'd seen things, almost pure concepts of incomprehensible complexity and power… He very much doubted the assumptions and reasoning's of man could be applied to such things as freely as priests and shamans had done through history. To expect such things to abide by the beliefs and expectations of something so small…

And yet, here he was. Wherever here was…

He stirred weakly, struggling against a thousand cobwebs that seemed to restrain his very bones. He managed to tilt his head to the side, struggling against the filth that had his eyes shut. Finally, he managed to open them, only to recoil and blink heavily under the light of the beautiful hearth fire to his side.

The abrupt sight of the merry flames made him tear up slightly as a torrent of indescribable emotion see sawed inside of him. He blinked slowly as he felt the silent tears sluggishly riding down his face, mesmerized by the red and orange flame.

"Prince Joffrey?" suddenly said someone from the other side.

Joffrey slowly tilted his head to the other side of what he now understood was a bed. A very soft, very cushy, very awkward bed. To his side was Sandor, standing with his sheathed sword's tip resting on the ground as if the man were standing at a death vigil. He seemed urgent as he spoke with someone to his side before quickly approaching him.

Joffrey tried to speak, but all he managed was a slightly whiny noise, like a broken flute.

"Here, drink this," said Sandor, carefully letting him sip from a cup of water he'd grabbed from the small table beside the bed.

Joffrey drank in tiny sips, taking his time before the next. He'd seen too many thirsting legionnaires choke and splutter water all over themselves in their haste. "Sandor"- he finally managed to croak- "you're here too…" he said, feeling slightly more comfortable with his mother tongue after each word.

Sandor just lifted an eyebrow like he always did when he was somewhat confused. "Don't worry Prince Joffrey"- he cringed as he spoke, looking at the tears on Joffrey's cheeks - "the Grandmaester said you'll be alright…" he said quickly as if to preemptively comfort him, his voice soothing as if trying to comfort a small child… and failing.

Joffrey barely heard him though, gazing at the face of his old companion. "They got you too I suppose…" he whispered before a small smile grazed his lips. "I don't know where we are old friend… but we'll be okay… as long as we are together… we'll be okay…" he whispered, blinking heavily as he heard distant footsteps and the room grew dark.

.-

The place Joffrey had landed on seemed very strange. Wild visions of wights, sandstorms and huge, dark oceans often mixed with the quiet comfort of a small, warm room he swore he'd never seen before, and its visitors. Sometimes he wondered if he still was upon that frozen clearing, reliving parts of his life one last time before he was firmly in the grasp of the White Walkers.

The shades of his past lives often visited him. Sandor was almost always present in the room, his familiar presence a soothing balm for Joffrey's nerves when the infinite fractals or the leering faces of Cultists and White Walkers got too intense. Grandmaester Pycell was another regular visitor to his quiet purgatory, though the old man looked a bit different than what Joffrey remembered about him. His eyes seemed shiftier, somehow cannier. He'd even seen Tyrion in between the shades and lights, but it had only been fleeting.

Strangely enough, the shade that had affected him the most had been that of his mother.

She'd entered the room just after Joffrey had arrived back into it, having been desperately fighting spectral wights and snarling Shrykes not a moment before.

"…Mother?" he'd asked dumbly as she sat down on the chair next to the bed.

"I'm here sweetling," she'd said as she stroked his hair with a gentle smile that hid infinite worry. Joffrey's throat had constricted almost instantly, his chest throbbing wildly as his eyes teared up from one moment to the next.

"…Mother," he'd whispered, somehow finding the energy to raise his chest from the bed and hugg her with all the strength he had, crying silently.

For all the spite and the old schemes and intrigues she'd concocted over what felt a thousand years ago, his mother had always loved him. Her warmth, her soothing whispers, her arms holding tightly into his shivering body, they somehow seemed to transport him to simpler, gentler times. She smelled of warm, carefree mornings. Of times when the sunlight seemed almost golden, brighter somehow.

Despite all her sins, his mother had always loved him…

And he basked in that love, that warmth he so desperately needed, almost forgotten about. Even if she was a mere shade or hallucination, Joffrey cherished her with all his being in those moments of timeless peace.

As the wild visions and incoherent memories faded and his strength came back though, he spent more and more time in the room, slowly coming to grips with an impossible conclusion.

"…I'm… I'm alive…" he muttered, incredibly confused.

Sandor, who stood guard in the room seemed even more confused.

He felt numb as Grandmaester Pycell checked him one last time before pronouncing him to be in good health, and both him and his mother asked for the one hundredth time if he knew anything about what had happened. The old maester had examined him as never before, frequently consulting books and scrolls and muttering to himself. It was almost like seeing a different man.

Joffrey couldn't shake off the awkward sensation that had dominated his body since the moment he'd been lucid enough to remember himself. He felt weak, brutally so. The small exercises he'd been carrying out inside the room out of sheer reflex left him drained and exhausted, and his body felt clumsy and small. Strangest of it all was getting used to seeing again with two eyes. He frequently bumped into things, and sometimes he had trouble understanding the depth of objects in plain sight.

But the physical aftershocks of his return were nothing compared to how he really felt. When he'd been first released from his room, Joffrey had walked out almost in a daze, blinking at every person and object.

He had known, he had felt, emotionally, instinctively, intellectually… Joffrey had known that his previous life would be his final one. He'd struggled with the thought of impending abyss, of the sheer scale of the meaning of nothingness, of nonexistence… and come to terms with it. He'd found meaning in it.

But that had all been taken away. He'd somehow escaped from the grasping, ice cold hands of the White Walkers to live once more when all his friends and brothers had died, left behind, turned to wights… or had their memories and their very being erased and replaced by the Purple.

Every time he drew breath, he mocked their sacrifice. With every heartbeat he sullied their faith, their courage, and their bravery.

And now, it would all begin once more. The deathly, dampened silence of the eternal snowstorms. The quiet raising of the dead. The melody of despair. The fall of Man.

The Long Night.

And not even death will spare him the terrorizing sight… only the eldritch embrace of the White Walkers, if anything, will.

It was a concept potent enough to drive far sturdier men than him to madness, or at least that's what he thought.

Still, for all that the notion of returning to that blissfully unaware catatonia of years long gone appealed to Joffrey, he knew it would serve no real purpose… And so he soldiered on, as he'd been doing for years now, out of sheer bullheaded stubbornness and inertial routine if nothing else.

The strangeness of his waking hours was accented by his surroundings. The Red Keep felt like a new and old place at the same time. He was flooded by a perpetual sense of Déjà vu as he crossed corridors and rooms, kitchens and guard towers. The layout of his childhood home remained unchanged, but inside Joffrey's mind the place had a vague, uncanny feeling of irreality.

As the routine of daily life returned to the Red Keep, as the teams of Maesters and guards gradually stopped inspecting his room, and as the servant's gossips gradually shifted from the strange occurrence to the latest spat between Robert and his mother, Joffrey suddenly found himself forcefully inserted back into his old life. It felt as some sort of twisted play with a script that was both bizarre and unintelligible… and half-forgotten to boot.

.-

Had our meals really been this… twisted and awkward? Joffrey thought as he mechanically ate through his dish, quickly and efficiently munching down every scrap of food in it.

"Glad to see you recovered your appetite boy," said Robert, shifting in his big chair as if trying to find a more comfortable position.

How exactly did I talk with him..? Joffrey asked himself in a small panic as he took a moment to check and found out that he had no idea. Your Grace? No… Father?

He left his fork beside the silver plate as he looked back at him in the eye. He was the liege lord of seven kingdoms after all, there had to have been some modicum of respect. "Yes, Father" he said as he nodded at him.

There, short but good enough. He thought as he searched for something to drink with. Robert though was looking at him very strangely.

Maybe it was Your Grace after all… Joffrey shrugged mentally as he stretched to grab a pitcher of orange flavored water with his right hand. Instead of grabbing it though he clumsily smacked it to its side, spilling water all over his and Myrcella's part of the table as droplets jumped through the air thanks to the impact.

"Ah fuck!" he cursed as he stood up, trying to dodge the spilled liquid before it could reach his clothes. His cursed arm was too short, and moving his right fingers was like moving a bunch of bricks.

He nodded at the nearby servant that dashed towards the table with a piece of cloth, moving a step to the side and taking it from her strangely clenched hands with a small 'thank you' as he turned back to the table. He cleaned some of the table's parts that were nearest to him before he noticed the petrified form of Myrcella by his side, almost completely still even though a good part of her dress was soaked with water.

"Oh shit… I'm sorry Myrcella" He apologized as he kneeled to her side and wiped away some of the droplets that had reached her face.

It was immediately apparent to Joffrey that Myrcella was terrified. Her hands almost seemed to be trembling as he absorbed some of the water with the piece of cloth, three other servants taking care of the mess in the table. She was very scared for some reason but she was trying to put on a brave front. It reminded him of the handful of orphaned girls that had been left behind in the Dawn Fort, all brave little things with nowhere to go, terrified almost out of their wits but determined to help defend their home even if it only meant sewing cloth or boiling water for the kitchens. They slaved away what remained of their lives with some sort of integral, heartbreaking dedication more pure than even the most veteran of soldiers, a toll that would not go without consequences. By the time of the last charge, after months of harsh winter and bone deep hunger all of them had perished. Legionaries tried to donate their whole rations to them only for the paltry meal to find its way to a wounded, incoherent soldier or a distracted, beleaguered night watchman. He remembered one that had usually served him his meals when he dined with the rest of his brothers, Jun, a tiny slip of a girl barely older than ten, with a crooked teeth and an awed smile that would grace her quiet features whenever she served him his meal, as if giving porridge to the Silver Lion was the greatest treat a good girl like her could aspire to in her lifetime—

"-ey. Joffrey? Joffrey?" someone called out again.

Joffrey shook his head slightly, blinking away the itch in his eyes as he realized he was still kneeling besides Myrcella, his hand still touching her quivering form. His mother was looking at him in confused disapproval as Myrcella tilted as hard as she could on the edge of her chair, on the verge of crying.

"..Right. She's scared of me, he realized as he sat back on his chair with a murmured 'sorry'.

"It's okay," she squeaked, slowly centering herself again as Joffrey shook his head, still reeling from the abrupt and very vivid memory. Robert was still watching him, slowly eating a slice of venison as Cercei again asked if he was okay.

"I'm fine, Mother" he said, more disgusted about his body's lack of control than anything else.

"Joffrey," suddenly spoke Robert, leaving the venison alone as he leaned slightly forward. "What happened back in your room?" he asked, almost pleaded, looking as lost as Joffrey felt.

Joffrey's throat constricted abruptly, as if he were physically incapable of actually saying it. He swallowed, looking at the shaken forms of Myrcella and Tommen, of worried Cercei and confused Robert.

I came back from the dead, he thought about saying. I witnessed the end of the world and all that lived within it. I saw a glimmer of an ancient mechanism of unfathomable scale, an eldritch closure destined to consume all… It beckons, it beckons and it's time has come… it comes and there's likely nothing we can do to stop it.

He looked at his brother and sister. What would it all gain them? To leave them terrified in foreboding until the White Walkers finally came for them? Would Robert even listen to him instead of leaving him permanently sedated under the tender mercies of Grandmaester Pycell? Would it even make a difference? Or would he just repeat what happened in the Dawn Fort?

He shook his head slightly as he looked back at Robert. "I don't know Father, I just went to sleep the night before and woke up freezing" he repeated the lame excuse.

Robert said nothing as he went back to his venison. He wasn't fooled, and neither was Joffrey. What could he do about it though? Torture his own 'son'? Guards and Maesters had combed his room like bandits looking for gold and found nothing but his bone tablet, which had been zealously seized by the Grandmaester as a tentative clue to the whole puzzle. Joffrey was not concerned, if Pycell figured out something from the bone tablet he would take back every single bad thing he'd thought about the old man.

A thorough search and interrogation had been conducted in and around the Red Keep… for all the good it had done. What or who had they even been searching for? Some nose wrinkling hedge magi? A splinter sect of Alchemists? An assassin carrying a block of ice on his shoulder? He doubted even the guards knew. Alchemists… quite a few of those had been brought to the keep to examine his room, to no avail. Even his mother's muffled rage (that he could hear from his bed) had gradually quieted as the days passed and things returned to normal.

He excused himself as he stood up from the silent table, fed up with being stared like some sort of freak.

.-

"What in the Hells is happening back there!" Joffrey roared as he reined in his horse.

"Wights sir! They appeared out of nowhere!" shouted a Threeray as he carried a wounded officer with his shoulder.

"They're trying to split the caravan in two, General…" muttered the wounded Sun.

Joffrey cursed as he whirled his horse with a single prompt of his knees. "Sabu! Get the cavalry to form a wedge!" He shouted as he peered at the great mass of wights trying to splinter his formation. They were still weeks away from the Dawn Fort and having his rear elements surrounded and annihilated would probably spell their doom long before they could even get there.

Sabu arrived with the eclectic mix of Garrison Cavalrymen, mounted Rangers and Heavy Camelry that served as the formation's strike cavalry, signaling to halt as Joffrey joined them. Most of the stragglers this side from the wight's attack had already cleared the way.

"We have to link up with the rearguard now, follow me and don't stop killing until you see the living! For Dawn!" he roared as he spurred his horse forward, his men roaring with him even as arrows planted themselves on armor and flesh and wights shrieked to the heavens.

Joffrey roared as he charged the undead, their shambling figures growing closer and closer as the smell of rot intensified and the endless mass of grey surrounded him and his horse, tearing and rending and biting as Joffrey shouted orders to his men, orders that couldn't be heard no matter how hard he screamed—

He jumped out of his bedroll with a strangled scream, rolling up to his feet with a water recovery as he dashed out of the tent, sword in hand. He was about to scream for a report when he noticed the shaken redcloak was not actually a legionary.

"Ah.. carry on soldier…" he said awkwardly as he stopped gripping the man's shoulder, taking a step back. It was still night time in the Kingsroad, the multitude of stars the only light for the agitated guardsmen apart from his torch.

"S'all right, my lord, all quiet round here," said the redcloak, vaguely trying to calm him down as he eyed the unsheathed arming sword in Joffrey's hand.

"Yes… yes of course," Joffrey said as he shook his head and walked on, disturbed. He found a bit of solace in the grass under his feet and the warm wind of a summer's night, two regular sensations that eased him along his customary measured steps in the task of calming his racing heart.

Only a dream…

Only a memory…

He stopped beside a tree in a corner of the big, slumbering encampment, gazing at the stars. He took a deep breath as he leaned on the tree, thinking.

The one's that stand in vigil…

He just stayed there, feeling an all-encompassing loneliness as the stars twinkled in the night sky and his heart hammered against his chest with an ever increasing thrum-

"You look like you might faint there nephew" Tyrion commented idly from the other side of the tree, tying his belt as he secured his breeches.

"Uncle!" gasped Joffrey as he jumped backwards, his sword reflexively coming up into a guard.

"I don't know what you've been told by my brother, but a sword won't make you somehow more resistant to the cold, nephew" said the imp, looking at Joffrey's lack of clothes except for his breeches.

"Uncle…" muttered Joffrey. He had seen him only a handful of times this life, and half of those he'd been too incoherent to have a meaningful conversation. He was torn between hugging the bastard or break down crying… until he remembered when… who he was at this point in time.

Alone.

He was suddenly a bit self-conscious as his uncle regarded the naked steel uneasily. "I… We don't actually talk… much…" he said lamely as he left the arming sword next to the tree and sat down. He didn't know what Uncle Tyrion thought of his… old self prowling like a caged cat inside the camp with naked steel, but it was probably nothing good.

The unease in his face warred with curiosity for a few seconds before curiosity won and he tentatively sat down nearby, watching the stars with him.

"Feeling contemplative, nephew?" He asked with a slight undertone of disbelief that old Joffrey would have probably missed.

Joffrey took a deep breath as he leaned back on the tree trunk, his eyes slightly unfocused before he barked a short, self-depreciating guffaw. "You've got no idea Uncle," he said.

The curiosity was now plainly evident as he leaned closer, "Pray tell, has this new mood anything to do with the events that had half the Red Keep's staff near fainting levels of gossip last week?" he asked.

Joffrey moved his jaw from side to side as if he were biting off a particularly large bite off one of Robert's venison servings, "Yeah…" he managed. He'd been living with this burden for so long he didn't think he was actually capable of speaking out loud about it.

Tyrion was quiet for a while, perhaps reassessing several established facts before nodding slightly to himself as he looked back at him. "If you ever need someone to just hear you out…" he said tentatively.

Joffrey smiled as he looked back at him, "Thank you, Tyrion" he said with a fond, sad smile that seemed to leave the Half-Man even more confused.

He fell asleep there, leaning on the trunk, the summer night's breeze but a lukewarm, gentle caress against his skin.

.-

Riding in half plate and armed with both mace and sword lifted quite a few eyebrows amongst the caravan. Joffrey didn't care, he felt almost conceptually naked every time he even thought about riding out without armor and something heavy to crack skulls with. He'd been silently practicing alone in the early hours before dawn with both one handed mace and arming sword, trying to get used to his right arm again. His whirling, contained snarling and occasional cursing had unfortunately drawn a small crowd to the daily (or should it be nightly?) occurrence. Even though he tried to change the location of it relative to his tent he always managed to attract a few off duty Red Cloaks and Stormlanders.

One thing had let to another…

"Keep that guard up! No! Up damnit!" He shouted as he ducked under the tourney sword and came up close to the Stormlander guard, the longsword's reach useless as he pinged him in the helmet with his hammer, "Out!" he shouted as the guard stumbled back, shaking his head against the blow. He quickly sat down with a dozen other men who shared his assorted bruises, rashes and small cuts.

It was their fault, really. Idle soldiers left him feeling decidedly strange, as if the sun suddenly rose from the west... It was just unnatural, and to have them there just watching in a perfectly serviceable little clearing…

"You just aren't being aggressive enough! You can't rely on your opponent to make a mistake by exhaustion! You got to hammer it in quickly and move to the next one" he said as he turned back and demonstrated with a wooden mockup made of brooms and buckets he'd been sparring with before he started to get an awkward audience.

He feinted and dodged two times against the mockup's imaginary attacks (attacks that in Joffrey's mind were always accompanied by the harrowing screaming of Wights) before closing in with a backsided parry and slammed his hammer against the mockup's head. The wooden bucket erupted in splinters as it fell back, dragging the whole thing with it as Joffrey jumped over it and redoubled the hammering, turning the whole upper area into splinters as he brutally pounded it half a dozen times with a snarl.

He stumbled back, breathing heavily as his body burned pleasurably, his lungs struggling with the unusual exertion.

He looked up at the sky as he willed his chest to expand, to bring in more blessedly warm air as legionnaires were drowned under their own blood and Flying Wights snatched stray soldiers unlucky enough to be left out of formation, the ominous buzzing of a coming sandstorm flooding his senses as he breathed again, the warm air the most pleasurable sensation he had ever experienced—

"—My prince?" said someone behind him. Joffrey whirled, placing the sword on its neck before raising his hammer, ready for a scissor'd club-and-decapitation, only barely stopping as he realized his target was actually a man.

"Never, sneak up to me like that from behind, never, understood?" he asked the wild eyed Red Cloak, not a hint of a threat in his voice. It was only a heartfelt warning, Joffrey couldn't trust he would not actually kill the next person to do that. Even now there was a voice screaming inside his head to bring the hammer down twice, and to make sure the head was separated from the body.

He lowered the warhammer and the sword, the voice, or perhaps instinct, quickly loosing strength as it disappeared.

"Y-y-yes my prince," he said as he walked back slowly.

"Was there something..?" asked Joffrey.

"N- I mean, you seemed… distracted, only for a small while my prince," he said as a few of the neutral faced audience members nodded slightly.

"Ah… I kind of got into it a bit didn't I?" he asked rhetorically as he turned back to lift the mock up.

The pile of scrap wood looked like it wouldn't be able to hold its own weight though…

"Oh, well, always confirm your kill, right men?" he said with the tone he used to joke around with his soldiers, but instead of laughing his audience all nodded seriously. If out of grudging respect or feared royal retribution… he was not sure. "Dawn is almost here… we better clean up" he said as he started collecting the future firewood. The rest of the soldiers seemed a bit stunned, but after Joffrey finished filling the first wheel cart they were soon stumbling all over themselves to help. Soon all the weapons, armor and targets were all stowed away, and he used the small chaos to slip away from the clearing.

The sun was already peeking over the sleepy encampment as Joffrey strode past the night watch, grunting acknowledgement as the Red Cloaks bowed slightly. He had managed to convince Sandor to, somehow, sleep while he practiced. He was inside the camp anyway… most of the time. It hadn't even been that hard, Sandor had just nodded slightly after scrutinizing him for a few seconds… it had been kind of weird.

In fact, the whole caravan seemed to keep him at arm's length most of the time, so much so that Joffrey spent quite a few moments wondering what he was doing wrong.

It may have been the armor, he thought ruefully as he loosened the straps from his breast plate, letting it clang on the ground beside the lazy waters of the Green Fork. He didn't think his old self lugged the whole thing from King's Landing all the way to Winterfell…

Did I?

Perhaps it was only light leathers… or perhaps horribly impractical finery. He really couldn't remember.

I was definitively armed though… a sword, it even had a name… something ridiculous like Mother's Wail or Golden Claw…

Or was that the valyrian steel sword they made out of Ice?

It was maddening, like being in the middle of an enormous Bravosi play where everybody knew his part but him.

He put those thoughts aside as he climbed atop the big rock, eyeing the Green Fork's slow moving waters before he jumped from the ledge, angling for a dive in one of the river's deeper parts. He crashed against it, the water cleaning the grime and sweat, making him feel somewhat renewed. He swimmed vigorously against the tide, paddling up and down the stream as he loosed himself in the water.

He came out breathing heavily, the eastern sun blinding him as he shook himself off, simply enjoying the morning sun as he let the water leech out of his smallclothes.

Warmth and peace… how little we appreciate the things we take every day… he thought with closed eyes, reveling in the sunlight.

"You're not him, are you?" almost whispered a voice to his side.

He almost jumped, but he managed to restrain himself to a quick turn of his head. There, in between a couple of bushes was Myrcella, somehow without her escorting Septa to boot.

"Myrcella..? What do you mean by that?" he asked as he started putting his plain if serviceable half plate again.

"You move differently, you talk differently… you think differently" she added hesitantly.

You torment us differently, she forgot to add… he thought morosely as he sat on the small clearing, thinking about how he was going to handle this.

"The wisdom of children huh.." he muttered as he shook his head.

"Are you a faceless man?" asked Myrcella as she crept closer, a bit of confidence adorning her features as Joffrey didn't deny her statement.

It says a lot of my old self that she's more comfortable with a Faceless impostor than myself…

"Why do you think that?" he asked, curious.

"That's what one of the servants was saying, before Mother sent him away" she said as she stopped a couple of steps from him, apparently completely convinced he was some kind of other.

Away as in the streets and not the Black Cells, I hope…

He chuckled as he leaned back, deciding to enjoy the sun for a while longer and screw everything else. What am I going to do, scare her even more?

"That's at least the third time I've been mistaken for one…" he said with an amused smile.

"…Who else?" she asked, her voice curious. She approached him another step, and seemed to think for a bit before sitting down closer to him.

"Uncle Tyrion, for one. He never told me but one could tell by the way he cleared the Royal Library of books about the House of Black and White… that's where the Faceless train" he added when he saw Myrcella's confused look.

"The other was Benerro, he was the head worthy of the R'hllorian church back in Volantis… he was so convinced I was not real he shoved his head into a lit brazier… now that was a sight…" he said with a chuckle.

"What?!" Myrcella exclaimed.

"It's true! Blind worship can do that to you," he said with another chuckle. Yes, lame puns, getting back into the Lannister spirit!

Myrcella laughed a bit before the implication hit her. "But… you've never…" she trailed off, confused.

"I'm not the Joffrey you knew Myrcella. I'm still Joffrey but… It's… It's been a long time now…" he said, the words suddenly coming out of his mouth as he blinked repeatedly.

What am I doing?! Get ahold of yourself, soldier!

But he couldn't, he suddenly found out he couldn't shut his mouth off.

"I've seen things Myrcella… I've seen great warlords commanding tens of thousands to their beck and call, sorcerers with powers beyond the ken of simpler men, I've seen natural wonders so beautiful to gaze at as to be reduced to tears, and workings so ancient as to leave one breathless… magic and art and invention and all the workings of our race, and beyond… I've seen the cruelty and the kindness of man in all its splendor, in all its infamy… I've seen things Myrcella… things that no mortal should ever see… abominations of ice and snow and eldritch magic bent on exterminating all that draws breath, workings of ancient lore of a time even beyond our understanding, workings of shapes and concepts that seem more real than you or I… " he said, rushing almost breathlessly as the words kept pouring out of his mouth.

"The things I've seen Myrcella…" he whispered almost to himself, his eyes clouded as he relived a thousand and one memories. "The Joffrey you knew died a long, long time ago Myrcella…" he continued, blinking slowly as the rush of memories gradually stopped.

He looked at her almost against his will. She seemed transfixed by what he'd said, despite being a girl barely over ten. She looked a bit lost, perhaps shocked by his sudden revelation, and she spent a minute puzzling over it.

What she said shocked Joffrey to his core.

"I… I'm glad he's dead," she finally said with a tiny voice.

"… Me too Myrcella… me too," he said as he bobbed his head stupidly.

He stood up as strapped the last of the armor, bowing slightly to his sister before quickly walking back to the camp, incapable of bearing the silence. Things were already moving, and he could see Myrcella's harried looking septa turning over crates and peering over wagons with a vaguely perplexed expression. He thought he understood the poor woman, Myrcella had always been the better behaved of them all.

Apparently the most perceptive too… or perhaps her young age lets her arrive at places adults just can't…

I wonder what she made of my abrupt confession… and I wonder why I suddenly unloaded on a freaking girl of ten…

He could feel just a tiny bit lighter after his chaotic, brief summary of his lives after the first time he saw the purple, just a tiny bit more at ease with himself, despite the occasional foreboding, slightly colder winds that came down the Kingsroad from the North…

And now its back on the Kingsroad again… to Winterfell, and then back to King's Landing…

And then what..?

Death, Ice, Despair.

Joffrey shook his head again, letting the sunlight dissolve those thoughts as he slowly walked back to his tent. There he could see Sandor, about two seconds from starting to search for him himself, and a couple of servants loading his belongings into a wagon. He nodded at Clegane as he arrived, taking one of the chests and loading it into the Wagon. When he turned for another one he was confronted by the disbelieving stares of both servants.

"Oh come on! I'm not a fucking invalid!" he almost shouted… though it only seemed to make the servants even more nervous.

Great! He grumbled.

.-

AN: Taking it a bit slow as I get my bearings again, kind of like Joffrey here. Funny thing is he was originally going to (somewhat) spill the beans to another person... but when Myrcella asked him, Joffrey just opened up, couldn't hold it in him. It makes some sort of sense if you think about it, (that it was her I mean), but who knows really.

Hope you enjoyed it, and remember to comment!

Last edited: Jul 21, 2017

Purple Days (ASOIAF): From one day to the other, Joffrey Baratheon wakes up a changed man. Far from the spoiled boy-child known to the court of King's Landing, the Joffrey that comes out of his room three days after the death of John Arryn walks with the stride of a veteran commander and leader of men. A scholar, a sea-captain, a general, a lover. This is the story of how he became that man, and how he came to know his purpose through a cycle of endless death and rebirth that saw him explore his self and the known world from Braavos to Sothoryios and from Old Town to Yi-Ti... and beyond. (Character Development, Adventure, Worldbuilding, Mystery & Suspense, Romance, Action). (Turtledove 2017 winner!).

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Jul 21, 2017

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Jul 24, 2017

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Chapter 28: Sister.

The feast was in full swing, squadrons of maids and servants carried trays full of ale mugs and all manner of roasted beasts, plying Robert and everyone else in the Stark's hall with a never ending supply of merriment.

Joffrey had been sat opposite to Ned's eldest, Robb, and besides his brother and sister. The Stark children were arranged in a row downwards facing Tommen and Myrcella, like duckling in a row. Robb looked like he was having fun, chatting with Theon who sat next to him, boasting about woman and archery, though one could tell he had not forgotten about Jon, occasionally peering at the doors, perhaps hoping his bastard brother had decided to defy Catelyn and attend the feast. The rest of the Stark children seemed to be having fun too, carrying out their typical interactions that Joffrey had found so fascinating years ago, and still did. The interactions of a happy family. Bran was laughing out loud as Arya threw a spoonful of food at Sansa, right at her lush red hair, splattering all over her carefully braided pony tail.

He chuckled a bit at the sight, finding Sansa's progressively reddening face both cute and hilarious. Unfortunately the sight of him laughing at 'her' or rather more accurately the situation itself, caused her to redden even more, tiny tears struggling to be unleashed as she stood up and turned on Arya, shouting 'I hate you!' before storming out of the Hall.

Sansa… he had momentarily struggled with the sudden impulse to spill everything to her when he'd first seen her, strange memories and confusing feelings swirling inside his head before he firmly clamped them down. What possible good would have unloading on her (even more than he'd done with Myrcella anyway) he didn't know, but he'd been but a hair's breadth of doing it.

He sighted as he got back to his food, methodically and efficiently cutting and eating the steak as was his want. He honestly found the fancy food strange to his tastes after the gruel and hardtack of his last life, though the YiTish had been overly fond of spices too, so it sometimes evened out in his mind. He'd been in some sort of conversation with Robb, though for the life of him he couldn't remember what he'd said but a moment before.

"…I'm sorry, I think I lost the last thing you said…" he said awkwardly as Robb and Theon stared at him for a moment too long.

"..Well, Theon here was asking if the King lets you do any archery back in the capital," said Robb, looking curious.

"…Archery? Yeah I know a bit…" Joffrey said distractedly as he scratched the back of his neck, looking back occasionally. He felt he was somehow missing something important.

Theon's eyebrows rose appreciatively as he leaned forward, leaving behind his previous disinterested expression. "Really? I wouldn't have thought you dabbled in that field… you don't quite have the build for it," he probed tentatively, the corner of his mouth threatening to smirk at the subtle barb.

There's something wrong, he thought as he kept turning his head, looking at the great hall's doors before he caught Myrcella looking at him.

Breath, she mouthed to him.

Breath? I'm breathing—

He was suddenly aware of the rate he was breathing at, shaking his head as he settled back in his seat.

"… so… would you like to?" asked Robb tentatively, looking at the doors a bit confused before he turned back to Joffrey, Theon looking on eagerly.

"Sure, sure" nodded Joffrey, bobbing his head as he concentrated on his food.

"Excellent! Tomorrow at the yard then, after breakfast… You'll go first of course, my prince…" Theon said with a triumphant smirk.

"Of course of course…" Joffrey muttered. He still felt he was missing something as he ate, something deep inside him pressing him insistently.

He eyed his own knife suspiciously after each cut, finally finding the source of his discomfort.

"This knife…" he muttered, peering at it closely.

"… What about it?" came the voice of Robb, accompanied by a snort from Theon. "It seems the Prince has an appreciation for Stark cutlery" said the Greyjoy heir.

"This knife… I've seen it before…" he muttered as he tilted the cutlery with his hand, gazing at it intently as if trying to extract some unknowable mystery from it.

A shout startled him out of his contemplation, and he quickly looked up to the big tent's entrance, where a panic'd looking Sunbeam had just opened the tent flap. "The outer guards are deaaaaarrgh-" his scream was cut short by the Shryke that appeared out of nowhere like a specter behind him, cutting his throat with a bronze dagger.

Shrill warscreams erupted at once all around him as Shryke claws tore open sections of the tent, snatching scouts away from their tables as quick as lightning and stabbing the surprised legionnaires dozens of times with their short swords before anyone could even move.

Joffrey didn't even have time to stand up before sharp claws grabbed him from behind and slammed him to the ground. He saw the glossy shine of the bronze short sword moments before he rolled to the side, its sharp blade cutting his left shoulder. He leapt back towards the Shryke before another one he'd spotted in the corner of his eye could gut him from behind, not even having time to draw his katana before he slammed into the scaled humanoid. He grappled with it for two seconds, rolling inside the tent as men screamed and died. He managed to stay on top for a second, pinning the short sword under his weight as his other hand rammed the knife against the Shryke's eye, unleashing strange fluids and screams of agony from it. The Shryke raider kept screaming and screaming as Joffrey rammed the small knife as far as it could go under into the skull, the loud noise mixed with another repeating sound.

"Joffrey, Joffrey! Brother!" insisted a voice again and again.

He blinked twice, still looking at the knife in his hand. He was holding it tight with all his strength, his hand almost white and covered by another, smaller one. He stared at the knife in his hand for half a dozen seconds longer before he made up his mind and he delicately left it on the table beside his plate. Myrcella slowly released his hand after that.

"Are you okay, brother?" she asked timidly, as Robb and Theon stared, slightly worried.

"Of course! Of course… I'm fine…" he said, trying to hold the sudden tears in his eyes.

She called me brother… she called me brother…

The thought threatened to make him bawl like a baby for some incomprehensible reason. He squeezed his leg painfully under the table with his other hand, the blessed pain helping his ongoing efforts to try and open his throat.

"…Thank you, sister," he finally managed.

She looked at him for a bit longer before she hesitantly nodded, turning back to her seat as Tommen stared at her in unabashed awe as if she'd just tamed a White Walker.

When the third course arrived, Joffrey tried to in vain to cut the pork in two with his fork, only for the still staring Robb to try and help him. "I can get you another knife Prince Joffrey… if you… wish?" he asked awkwardly.

He tries to sound lordly, he really tries, bless his heart.

"No, thank you," he said as he raised his palm slightly. He gave the dish a second look before leaving the fork too.

"I'm full" he lied as he leaned back on his chair again. He sneaked a glance at the high table, and to his relief found Robert merry and happy as always when he visited Winterfell, relishing each plate as if he were a starving sailor and laughing and teasing Ned without taking a breath. He had resented Robert in some of his lives, so long ago… for his carefree ways even as the Kingdom he left him readied itself to burn to ash. But now he was just glad the old man had something to be happy about in between all the brooding and the worry and the spite…

His mother was looking funny at him again, and Eddard seemed to have caught on that something weird had been going on just a moment before.

Damnit, why do they keep looking at me like that?!

He shook his head angrily as the dessert arrived. Lemon cakes.

Pity about Sansa… he thought as he eyed the dish. This was her favorite…

…I remember that but I couldn't remember how I talked to Robert?! He asked himself as he placed a palm over his face.

.-

The sound of the whetstone against the steel of his arming sword was a familiar and soothing sound, a regular chriiiick that repeated itself precisely and without a fault. He breathed in each time the whetstone glided down the good castle steel, synchronized with the little gusts of wind that surrounded the weirwood heart tree.

He paused for a moment as a particularly strong, warm gust shifted the leaves around him, letting his head angle slightly upwards as he breathed again with his eyes closed.

It's been a long time…

He let himself relax under the morning sun, reveling in the warm sunlight for a timeless moment before he opened up his eyes and looked in front of him.

"Been following me?" he asked with a half-smile.

"I asked Sandor" said Myrcella as she approached, sitting in a nearby tree branch.

Joffrey's sad looking smile turned a bit warmer at that, grunting as he leaned back again. He'd began an odd sort of friendship with his erstwhile sister in this bizarre, uncomfortable life. He'd found himself opening up about tiny tidbits, fragments too incoherent for her to piece any meaningful story, but enough so they could talk about it.

"You don't have to keep sharpening it, you know? The… ice monsters… they're not here anymore," she told him as he kept sharpening his sword.

"A sword forever sharp and a mind forever ready, in peace and in war," he quoted the mangled translation, moving the whetstone yet again.

"Everything sounds oh so very wise if you make your voice sound like a quote from a hundred year old man" she faux quoted him back.

Joffrey guffawed, shaking his head as he turned back to her. "You… Well played… well played sister" he said with a small chuckle. "What have you and Tommen been up to lately?" he asked, trying to change the theme of the conversation.

For all that she was wise beyond her years, Myrcella was still a girl of ten. "He chased me all the way through the courtyard with Bran, I promised that I'd tell him the spell to tame you if he caught me," she said impishly.

Joffrey grimaced at that, but grunted as after he thought about Bran a little. "I take it Bran had nothing better to do?" he asked.

"Nope, he still thinks it was Arya the one that told on him," she said with a raised, blonde eyebrow.

"Hmm. Yes… Lady Catelyn can be… quite overzealous where the health of her children is concerned," Joffrey said innocently. You won't be climbing again anytime soon Bran Stark, he thought with satisfaction.

He'll be killed and turned into a wight while on his two own feet at least, he thought, the intrusive thought throwing off his budding happy mood.

Chrrrriiick, went the whetstone.

"You know Robb and Theon are still waiting for you at the archery range?" she suddenly said, helping him change his coming brooding mood in a very annoying way. She had a knack for knowing when they came.

"…what?" he asked, confused.

"You said you'd meet them there… yesterday at the feast," she said with a cheeky smile.

"…I… you… I did didn't I?" he grumbled as he stood up, tightening the loose straps of his steel chest plate by reflex as he sheathed his sword.

"You did," she confirmed as he jogged back out of the Godswood, somehow knowing the layout by hard even after all the years gone by. He arrived at the training yard to the sight of a bored Ser Rodrick Cassel, idly cleaning one of the training swords as Robb and Theon chatted lazily by the archery target.

"Robb! Theon! I'm sorry for the delay…" he said as he arrived.

"Don't worry, the outcome will be the same," said Theon as he stood up from a roll of hay, smirking when he saw Joffrey's plate. "I assure you this will be perfectly safe my prince," he said as he mock bowed.

"Just get this over with quickly, will you?" murmured Robb as he got close to Theon and handed him a bow and quiver full of arrows.

"Royalty first, of course," said the Greyjoy as he handed the bow and quiver to Joffrey.

Joffrey just raised an incredulous eyebrow at Robb, chuckling at the Greyjoy heir's antics. "Very kind of you," he said, leaving the boy flatfooted as Robb eyed him keenly for the first time in the day.

They all walked back to the edge of the range as Joffrey tied the quiver to his belt and tested the unfamiliar bow, bending it slightly and testing the string. "Alright boys, my prince" nodded Ser Rodrick as he stood up, leaving the sword there as he walked to them. "One arrow each until the quiver is empty or the opponent calls it off, then we'll compare targets" he said, pointing at the two hay-and-wood targets down range, next to the training square. "And if any of you little menaces cross the range without my say so"- he grumbled as he looked up to the raised bridge corridor just behind the training square, -"I'll tan the hide out of you myself!" he finished, extracting hurried assent from the gallery of bobbing heads that was Bran, Arya, Tommen, Rickon, and Sansa.

"Seems we've got quite the audience," grimaced Joffrey.

"Indeed we do," relished the damned squid.

Ser Rodrick seemed to take pity on his expression as he hurried the proceedings. "Well, go ahead when you are ready Prince Joffrey," he said.

Joffrey just chuckled as he shook his head, "Alright" he said as he took an arrow from the quiver, placed it on the bow and loosed, the arrow quickly inserting itself in the throat of the Camel Tribe raider. He tumbled back down the dune as a small squirt of blood erupted from his mouth, his face locked in surprise. "ARCHERS! LOOSE AT WILL!" Joffrey screamed, his leg burning as if it were on fire after the near miss of a javelin.

Bloodied scouts kneeled to his sides under the baleful glare of the half-moon high in the sky, loosing arrows as fast as they could as dozens of the raiders dashed up the dune, their camels curiously absent. They shrieked their characteristic ululating scream as they dashed upwards, sabers raised high as arrows planted themselves with horribly loud thuds on chests and legs, unleashing horrifying screams of agony as they fell backwards, tangling up their comrades in their death throes. Their scream were ragged, almost exhausted as they soldiered on, jumping over their fallen comrades.

"DON'T LET THEM GET TO MELEE RANGE! CUT THEM DOWN!" screamed Joffrey as the Scouts unleashed a desperate storm of arrows. Joffrey loosed every three seconds, his movements precise like some sort of clockwork mechanism. He planted an arrow in the chest of a raider not older than fifteen, another on a screaming warrior's neck, and yet another one on a small child barely capable of wielding the sabre he held with both hands. The bodkin arrow slammed through his skull like a ballista bolt, making him collapse like a puppet with the strings cut off.

They're kids, they're just kids, thought Joffrey in horror, his hands still moving as the armed remnants of the Camel Tribe charged up the dune in terror and bloodlust, knowing their only salvation rested in butchering Joffrey and his men.

If we stop we'll die, If we stop we'll die, If we stop we'll die, Joffrey repeated inside his head again and again as he kept loosing arrows. He slayed a woman with a dirk, her steps faltering as she fell on her belly, the raging sandstorm already burying her lithe form. He planted a broadhead on the chest of a boy of his age, his frightened eyes blinking slowly as he plummeted back, not quite understanding the sudden turn of events. The mob kept getting closer and closer, and Joffrey despaired as his quiver kept getting emptier, his arrows dwindling to nothing, the screaming mob almost upon them.

He snapped an arrow from the quiver, fast as lightning as he let loose on a raging berserker taller than the Eastern Winds' figurehead. The man roared in pain as he kept running up the dune, not minding the arrow in his shoulder, wielding a saber with his right hand and carrying something with his left. Joffrey fetched another arrow desperately, pinning it in the huge man's gut. The Camel Tribe warrior shook his head like a bull, still running up the slope with what remained of his tribe, almost a dozen steps away from the ragged line of Scouts. Joffrey suddenly realized it was not bloodlust that dominated the man's eyes, but terror. Terror and despair as he tried to cover the small, crying bundle of blankets with his big hand.

Joffrey didn't hesitate, the sandstorm buffeting him as he loosed another arrow, the bodkin inserting itself in the man's sternum. He dropped his hand for another arrow, his heart clenching in terror as he grasped nothing but air. The man screamed desperately, one last ragged rallying cry emerging from his bloodied lips as he raised his saber to cut him down, just a few steps away from him.

"SWOOOOORDS! SWOOOOORDS!" Joffrey screamed as he tossed the bow aside and drew his katana, the bundle in the warrior's blood soaked hands wailing and wailing and wailing—

"—it's okay, it's okay, breath brother, breathe deeply, it's okay, it's okay," repeated Myrcella as she hugged him as tight as she could. Joffrey realized distantly he was hyperventilating, his breathing louder than a bull's as he swayed, staring fixedly at the archery target like a madman. It looked like a hedgehog, filled with arrows, most of them surrounding the circle's center or a bit up, roughly where the head should be in a person.

"Aahh… I… aahhh… aahhh… I'mhh… aaahhhh" he struggled to say, swaying as he stared at the sword that lay clasped in his sweaty palm, its tip unerringly aimed in the archery target's direction. "I'm… aaah… I'm okay… I'm okay Myrcella…" he managed, lowering the sword as he struggled for more air. His sister let him go hesitantly as his swaying lessened and his hands stopped shaking. He tried to breathe deeply as he sheathed the arming sword, clumsily trying to wipe his drenched forehead with his hand. "Thank you," he muttered as Myrcella gave him a piece of cloth which he used to wipe the sweat off his eyes.

He turned back and saw his assorted audience up in the corridor staring at him in varying degrees of awed confusion. They were quickly scrambled by the booming voice of Ser Rodrick though. "Alright you lot! That's enough for the day!" he thundered, shooing them only with his voice. "Here, drink it all," he ordered Joffrey with the tone of an experienced Sunbeam as he passed him a waterskin. Joffrey obeyed without question, downing the water gratefully. "Let it drip over your head, shake out of it completely," he insisted as he grabbed his shoulder. Joffrey did as he was told, the cold water running down his body and clearing the strange cobwebs that insisted he stare at the target range.

He turned back to Robb and Theon, picking up the bow from the ground. "I'm really sorry Theon, I kind of got carried away there… would you like to…" Joffrey trailed off as the Greyjoy heir raised his hands chest high and warded him off "No, no, I think we all know who the better marksman here is…" he said, not a hint of sarcasm in his voice for once. "…Where did you learn… that," he asked, pointing at the target, all twenty arrows either close to the center or higher.

"I…" Joffrey started but was promptly interrupted by Ser Rodrick, "You've had your fun for the day boys, now scram before Lord Stark starts inquiring about the improper use of the training yard," he commanded as he took the bow and quiver from Joffrey's hands.

"But Rodrick-" tried Robb, only to be glared down by the Master-at-Arms. "I guess we'll see you later Joffrey, nice shooting," he congratulated him with a slightly awed look himself, before walking away with a thoughtful Theon.

"Sit here," commanded Ser Rodrick with that universal tone Sunbeams use to have a talk with their officers. Joffrey sat in the wooden bench, taking another sip as the Master-At-Arms of Winterfell sat next to him. "Been getting worse?" he asked, straight to the point.

"…A little," lied Joffrey, staring at his unmoving hand.

"And the nightmares?" asked Ser Rodrick as he gazed at the target.

"They're fine," said Joffrey a tad too fast, still staring at his hand as flexed it over and over, feeling the painful exertion in his strained arms and shoulders.

"… I see," muttered the knight, turning to look at Joffrey once more.

"I'm fine, Ser Rodrick," Joffrey insisted as he stood up and walked away, somewhat thinking more clearly now.

"Of course, my prince," he said as Joffrey made for the keep. Before he could walk away completely though, the Master-At-Arms raised his voice again.

"A bit of nightshade essence will help, when the screams get too loud," he called out quietly.

Joffrey stopped by the keep's door. He stayed there for a second before turning and nodding respectfully at the Master-At-Arms.

"Thank you, Ser," he called out in the same low tone before entering the main keep.

.-

"Thanks, for what you did back there… you seem to be the only person here that can handle me when I… go back…" Joffrey said awkwardly, seating next to Myrcella in the Stark's dining hall.

"It's alright, I just do what I'd do with a kitten," she said with a willful smile.

"A kitten huh…" Joffrey chuckled slightly, his green eyes clouded, thoughtful.

"Well, it has worked so far has it not..?" she asked, tilting her head.

"It has! It has…" Joffrey surrendered immediately. "Has anyone started asking too many questions?" he asked her.

Since when was I reduced to using a ten year old girl as my chief informant… he thought for the umpteenth time as Myrcella looked up thoughtfully.

"Hmmm, well, I told Tommen not to tell anyone, and he hasn't so far… you should really talk to him by the way," she scolded him.

"I will… someday, alright?" he appeased her, before gesturing to go on with a fork (fortunately his… issues with the Stark cutlery had died down… for now).

"You really should, he still doesn't believe me the old Joffrey died…" she said flippantly, and Joffrey cringed as he tilted his head from side to side, seeing if anyone heard that.

"Would you please keep your voice down," he muttered.

"Everyone's thinking the littlest Stark boys made it up, and that Sansa found the tale so incredible she now thinks she saw it. Arya followed along to make fun of her, and Robb and Theon haven't said a word from what I've heard," she continued as if she hadn't heard him.

"But Ser Rodrick is bound to have told Ned…" Joffrey sighted.

"And he probably told Father," finished Myrcella.

"That explains the recent whispers coming from the high table," muttered Joffrey as he let his head fall a little, eyeing a very, very rare King Robert as he played with his food.

Wow… that is bad. Very bad.

"I just don't understand why you don't tell everyone…" Myrcella pouted as she ate halfheartedly.

"They'll lock me up in my room in shame and hope the other nobles don't notice one of King Robert's 'sons' is a few fruits short of a basket…" Joffrey said gloomily.

"But I believed you! I'll help you convince them!" she declared as her whole face lit up.

Joffrey was assaulted by the bizarre impulse to ruffle her blonde locks; instead he contented himself with leaning his head against her shoulder. "That would be very funny," he said, relishing the close contact with someone whom he thought would have never been able to forgive his old sins.

"You should really talk to Tommen," idly commented Myrcella.

"I told you I will eventually, why…" he trailed off as he saw Tommen, sitting in a table in front of them besides Bran Stark. He was staring at Myrcella, his jaw literally open and his eyes wide as if he were staring at a living Goddess.

Joffrey choked on his pudding for a second before he bellowed in bone deep laughter, a rich sound he couldn't remember the last time he'd heard it.

Tommen swiveled his head like a madman from side to side as if to say 'is anyone else seeing this?!' which of course made Joffrey laugh even harder.

.-

Joffrey had mixed feelings about the end of their stay at Winterfell. On one hand, turning back to King's Landing meant examining some hard truths he'd been suppressing since he'd found out he was still alive. On the other, it meant that he would not have to endure Robb and Theon's almost painful curiosity. There were many more things he would have liked to do there, like talking to Jon, interrogate Benjen Stark about the Night's Watch, or spend another day meditating under the incomparable Winterfell Godswood (that had really sent some heads spinning…). Alas, time, as always, moved on.

He went with the flow, more or less, doing what was expected of him (or what he thought was expected of him, the differences were sometimes unfathomable and unknowable, and Joffrey had given up on figuring them out after they'd ridden past the Neck). He'd been wary of interacting with Sansa at all, half fearful he would unload everything into her in a moment of weakness, which seemed plentiful enough. He maintained his distance from practically everyone except Tyrion and Myrcella, two people that had somehow managed to slip under his guard in this life.

The slightly distorted visions of his past kept getting worse and worse, confusing him and making him mad. The accompanying feelings they usually carried would sometimes strike all on their lonesome, making him blink heavily under the sunlight or force him to sit down for no reason, as if he'd lost control of his own body.

They were very annoying… but he moved on, like he always had. Myrcella had been an unexpected godsend in that regard. She had taken an almost motherly role with him, hearing him speak about a few slightly sanitized memories and holding him when he started to cry silently for, infuriatingly enough, no apparent reason, always in the middle of the night. He didn't know if the servants and guards (of both him and Myrcella) knew… if they did they had kept mum about it. Sandor certainly knew, he had become a strange sort of enabler, making sure his tent and Myrcella's were always close together when they camped.

Joffrey was not ashamed. He'd lost such uselessly idiotic feelings along with his arm and his eye, left forgotten atop some godsforsaken dune. What threatened to make him go into a blind rage was the fact this was happening at all, as if his own body and mind were rebelling against himself. The fact that Myrcella's soothing voice helped at all was something he thanked daily, though to what god or eldritch being he didn't know.

Tyrion, his other pillar of support that helped him weather the storm, had opted for a completely different approach. He did his best to keep him distracted, talking about, for example, his mind bogglingly funny adventures in Casterly Rock when he was a child. They had all the makings of an epic saga, complete with witty characters, unexpected twists and the looming figure of the evil enemy, Grandfather Tywin, gazing from the ether with his classical timeless glare and working his will through his minions.

Joffrey could empathize with that…

Tyrion's prescribed treatment, though, took a radical turn after he witnessed a particularly bad episode.

.-

"By the Seven when are they going to fix that carriage!?" Joffrey muttered from the patch of grass he was laying upon. He was doing his best impression of a sack of potatoes as he lay still in the sunlight, battling a mind crushing boredom that threatened to destroy his sanity. "How long have we been on this miserable stretch of road again?" he asked out loud.

The imp rose from the tall grass like some sort of eldritch sapling, shaking off pieces of green as he looked up, then to the horizon. "Well, the sun was on the opposite edge the last time I really looked," he said. "I think I'm starting to gain a newfound empathy for our dear King Robert" he muttered as he turned back and gazed at the never-sufficiently-cursed-wheelhouse.

"Me too… imagine that…" Joffrey snorted in disbelief. "Why didn't we ride with him and Ned again?" he asked him as he sat up, shaking off weeds and other assorted greens. "They must be munching down half the Royal Kitchens by now… well, Robert is anyway," he grumbled as he turned and looked at the imp.

"You didn't want to leave Myrcella behind… though there's something to be said about staring at the same piece of sky for hours… I think you may be unto something nephew…" said Tyrion.

"That joke got old like five hours ago uncle… Ugh, that's it," said Joffrey as he stood up, effortlessly standing up without his hands.

"You think you're going to succeed where an experienced carpenter and his five Cercei-scream-powered apprentices failed?!" Tyrion called out as Joffrey stomped meaningfully towards the disabled wheelhouse.

"Yes!" he shouted back, climbing the slight slope until he reached the road and the cursed carriage. Tommen and Myrcella were playing at the far end of the caravan, and he could see his mother taking supper with her ladies in waiting by a table on the other side of the road. The Wheelhouse itself was propped by a couple of sturdy crates as the master carpenter and his disheveled apprentices worked on it at full speed.

"Good evening gentlemen," Joffrey called out as he grabbed a hammer and some nails.

"M'prince!" squeaked the master carpenter as if he'd seen a ghost… or an executioner. "Everything is proceeding perfectly, we'll get this… beautiful wheelhouse up and moving in no time," he lied so obviously Joffrey's forehead hurt.

"Look, is there anything I can do to help, I'm going to go mad if I don't do something," said Joffrey, the words pouring out.

"The prince working like a common apprentice!" he choked with a horrified expression, "Why, I'd never-".

"Master Corlys, please," he begged him, "I can hammer something in, I'm good at that," he tried.

Something about what he'd said had startled the Master Carpenter. He nodded reluctantly as he pointed at one of the spare wheels. "That wheel steel needs the supporting nails hammered in, we are going to need it when… if the next wheel breaks" he said.

Joffrey bowed slightly before walking towards the wheel. "Much appreciated, Master Corlys," he said as he grabbed some more nails. The Master Carpenter said nothing as Joffrey sat down next to the wheel, sitting on his sheens and placing a nail over the charcoal marked X.

"Alright, this seems easy enough," he muttered as he lifted the hammer, all the hair at the back of his neck standing at once as he hammered down with all his strength. The White Walker shrieked in pain as its head slammed to the ground under the impact and Joffrey snarled as he lifted his wickedly sharp flanged mace again, the metal prosthesis glinting under the moonlight as he hammered down savagely, breaking off pieces of the prone White Walker's head. He was kneeling over it, ignoring the painful cold that was creeping up his legs as he pumped his arm up and down, shattering the thing's head with each blow.

He looked up and saw the burning wreckage of what used to be the Dragon Choir launch towers. The wall section seemed to be flooded by wights and Walkers, slaying the wounded and the unconscious as they advanced almost mechanically over the annihilated husk of the 117th Consolidated Iron Garrison and the slain operators of the 8th, 12th and 17th Dawn Fort Artillery.

"Sunbeam Jonki! Get the men in order, prepare for a counter charge!" he snarled at the man next to him. The Sunbeam regarded him with dead eyes, blood slowly oozing from his body as he leaned on a crenellation.

The Walker shrieked weakly from below him, stirring against his weight. It seemed almost incoherent as Joffrey snarled again with another savage blow, turning its head into blue mush as the ice shattered under the flanges.

He struggled to breath, using his mace hand as support against the floor.

If we get overwhelmed here the whole Inner Wall will fall… he thought desperately as he looked back to the trios of Walkers roaming all over the wall section, securing the beachhead and consolidating against a counter attack.

They knew exactly what they were doing… and Joffrey didn't have the men here to stop them.

"What the…" he whispered as he focused on a small moving thing inside the perimeter established by the Walkers atop the wall. "…Jun..?" he muttered, confused as he stood up, looking at small slip of a girl crawling under some debris. The raging fires close by illuminated her terrified features perfectly, but the Walkers had somehow missed her.

"What are you doing..?" Joffrey muttered, taking a moment to breathe again before he spat a glob of blood. The little orphan was crawling with the big wooden spoon she'd been using to serve broth to weary legionnaires in what seemed like centuries ago, wielding it as if the bloody thing would even scratch a Walker. She was making her way towards a piece of burning wood next to a wrecked ballista, to what—

The Walkers of the perimeter turned as one suddenly, shrieking as they marched towards her. Jun stood up quickly though, dashing like a terrier towards the piece of burning wood and wrenching it with terror fueled strength. She then dashed towards the pile of stacked Coiling Dragons next to the destroyed launcher.

"JUN! N-" he shouted as he gave a step towards her only for an impossibly large explosion to pick him up as if he were a mere leaf, punching him backwards with the fury of a thousand lightning bolts as the right side of his face, the right side of his whole body, burned in agony.

He screamed incoherently as he bounced on the ground before the earth stopped moving and he lay on his back. He couldn't hear anything, an omnipresent chime drowning everything else as he tilted his head drunkenly, watching the eerily silent figures of legionnaires and Master Corlys' apprentices crouching to his side and uselessly trying to help him. He tried to crawl backwards, his hands oddly unresponsive as he only managed to shuffle a bit. He ran his nails against his cheek, trying to extract but a shred of feeling from it, only to feel absolutely nothing even as they came away with blood. He kept clawing his cheek as he tried to crawl backwards with his other hand, the monotonous chime somehow turning louder and louder still!

Why can't I feel my face?! Why can't I feel my face?!

Myrcella shoved one of the Threeray's aside as she crouched by his side, her hand cupping his cheek firmly even though his wild clawing drew blood from her hand instead of his cheek. She still left her hand there, her slight grimace the only indication of pain.

Slowly, blessedly, the senses returned to the right side of his face, the indistinct buzz coalescing into the distinctive shape of Myrcella's hand. His hand stopped clawing hers and instead latched on like a drowning sailor grabs a length of rope. She stayed there as the overwhelming chime slowly lessened in intensity, and Joffrey realized he had been screaming all this time.

He clamped his mouth shut, breathing harshly through his nostrils as he focused on Myrcella's soothing voice, blinking rapidly as the ambient light returned to its normal levels, leaving the dark grey behind. 'Breathe,' she mouthed quietly, her green eyes locked with his as his wild heart settled and he stopped struggling, laying there on the ground for a few moments as his jumbled thoughts took their time knitting back together into a coherent whole.

He stood up shakily, slowly moving his head side to side before Myrcella ripped a piece of her dress and stilled him long enough to tie a crude bandage to his cheek.

Cercei appeared from behind the Wheelhouse, her hands holding the lower parts of her dress as she ran towards him. "Mother" muttered Joffrey as he hugged her, almost melting down as his legs threatened to let go. She hugged him back, whispering sweet nothings as she petted his hair over and over.

And then she screamed at the Red Cloaks.

"What have you done to my son!" she screamed in genuine angst, "Get them! Now!" she screeched as she pointed at Master Corlys and his apprentices.

The Red Cloaks that had only recently arrived unsheathed their swords and moved towards the now terrified carpenters, but before they could do more than move Joffrey shoved his mother to the side and unsheathing both arming sword and one handed mace as he stood in front of the carpenters in two smooth steps.

"Sheath your swords good sers!" he commanded, his arming sword held in a high guard as his mace hanged low, almost lazily against his right leg. The Red Cloaks were staring nervously at the mace, not the sword.

Smart boys, thought Joffrey approvingly as he tightened his grip on the mace very slightly. "Now, if you please," he asked gently, the confused swirl of before being replaced by a kind of crystal clear reality almost instantly as his body practically singed for a fight.

A large part of him was begging the Red Cloaks to attack, begging like never before as reality seemed to somehow get even more real, like a blind man opening his eyes for the first time.

The Red Cloaks lasted a second under his gaze before they all sheathed their swords, standing back awkwardly as Cercei, the Carpenters and basically everyone looked on in confusion. "Thank you," he said as he sheathed both of his weapons, inexplicably disappointed.

"Sorry mother," he said as he helped up a vaguely dazed Cercei. "The carpenters had nothing to do with it, okay?" he said as he brushed a bit of the dirt from her dress. She said nothing as he walked to his sister.

"I'm sorry Myrcella" he said as he grabbed her already bandaged hand tenderly, only for her to smirk and walk away, "Tommen fight's harder!" she called out as she returned to his slack jawed brother.

He shook his head as he walked back a bit drunkenly to the edge of the road where Tyrion lay downing a wineskin and looking thoroughly entertained. He'd known getting mixed into the whole thing would have accomplished nothing, apparently.

"Nephew, we need to get you laid," he said as if he'd just muttered an utterly profound, timeless wisdom.

Joffrey just stared at him before snatching the wineskin from his hands.

Arbor Gold had never tasted so fucking good.

.-

AN: I've had a lot of fun writing Myrcella. She's definitively an underutilized character in both fanon and canon.

I hope some of the flashbacks managed to convey/complement why Joffrey's psyche is so fucked up right now, the human mind was not *built* to take that kind of punishment.

Hope it was passable at least, I'm afraid I'll have to leave other character reactions and stuff to the omakes because if not we'll end up delving into another super arc complete with 80.000 words...

Purple Days (ASOIAF): From one day to the other, Joffrey Baratheon wakes up a changed man. Far from the spoiled boy-child known to the court of King's Landing, the Joffrey that comes out of his room three days after the death of John Arryn walks with the stride of a veteran commander and leader of men. A scholar, a sea-captain, a general, a lover. This is the story of how he became that man, and how he came to know his purpose through a cycle of endless death and rebirth that saw him explore his self and the known world from Braavos to Sothoryios and from Old Town to Yi-Ti... and beyond. (Character Development, Adventure, Worldbuilding, Mystery & Suspense, Romance, Action). (Turtledove 2017 winner!).

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baurus

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Threadmarks Art Omake: Breathe. New

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kclcmdr

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Kai The Kmpire!

Amicus

Aug 2, 2017

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#1,147

This slight depiction of Myrcella trying to calm down Joffrey as he had his flashback while in the archery yard from the CH link below

Baurus ..SB CFCH_28a - Chapter 28: Sister.

[spoiler

"—it's okay, it's okay, breath brother, breathe deeply, it's okay, it's okay," repeated Myrcella as she hugged him as tight as she could. Joffrey distantly realized he was hyperventilating, his breathing louder than a bull's as he swayed, staring fixedly at the archery target like a madman. It looked like a hedgehog, filled with arrows, most of them surrounding the circle's center or a bit up, roughly where the head should be in a person.

[/spoiler]

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Only the Strong, the bold and the most determined shall reach the Stars and stay there...

Plopping - The creation of a storythread that has similar arcs of a prior author's arc but will probably be leading to another unknown arc to arc the readership.

Storythread=101st Airborne drops into battle of Long Island 1776, missing from Normandy

Partially By Siber Hitler is rumored to have said "I have a Conservative Army, a Revolutionary AF and a Christian Navy"

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Threadmarks Chapter 29: Stars. New

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Special Circumstances Agent

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#1,170

.-

Chapter 29: Stars.

Spoiler: Nightmare-Flashback.

Joffrey was already halfway through his room with his sword in hand when he regained control of himself. The pale moonlight slipped through the half closed curtains of his room, giving Joffrey's room a feeling of timelessness.

At least I didn't burst through the door this time, almost gave poor Jek a heart attack last time… he thought as he struggled to control his breathing.

It was hard. It seemed as if the White Walkers had cursed him when they had almost killed him, to relieve his memories of war time and time again, with no rest nor respite even in slumber. The nightmares had gotten steadily worse until they had reached some sort of plateau, and now he dreamt every night about Walkers and wights, old memories and wild imaginings intermingling with each other with neither rhyme nor reason. Sometimes he was fighting atop the Dawn Fort with Jon, other times he was quietly speaking with Sansa instead of Jhos before indistinct monsters of shadow and darkness ambushed them, ripping through his old High Moon's tent as if it were butter. Visions of the Red Keep covered in ice hounded him, assaulted by tides of wights in the liveries of the Reach as he rotted inside the black cells, powerless to do anything about it.

He had, in his despair, turned to one of two old friends which had helped him in the past with the matters of the soul, the slightly less talkative of the two.

Joffrey quickly changed into his riding leathers, strapped his arming sword to his belt and took a small, vaguely hand sized pouch from beneath his bed. He quietly opened the door and gave Jek a slight nod, the red cloak nodding in return… no doubt pleased he had not jumped out screaming like the last time Joffrey had found himself sprinting out of his room in the middle of the night…

"Seen any cat's paw yet, Jek?" he asked him with a slight smile.

"Not yet, my prince," he said, by now used to his strange master's odd habits.

Joffrey left him and the rest of Maegor's Holdfast behind as he walked down the multiple stairs and hallways, guided by memories half forgotten but somehow still fresh as a summer's breeze, navigating effortlessly through the darkened hallways until he reached a window where he suddenly stopped.

The Tower of the Hand reared into the night sky defiantly, like it always had, a monument to Hands of ages past whose futile struggles against their various Kings lay now forgotten from history except for the most egregious of cases.

"Ned…" whispered Joffrey, almost longingly as he tilted a bit towards the tower.

He shook his head as he stood back and kept walking. Who he once called a father inside the privacy of his own mind now regarded him as nothing more than a complete an utter stranger.

Even though a subpar copy, the Red Keep's heart tree still did him plenty of good as he sat with his knees crossed, his back straight and his mind empty. He'd acquired a much more structured form of meditation from Jhos, first through simple, curious observation and then from dedicated tutoring. The set positions for his back and shoulders, the relaxed yet slightly raised arms, the gentle circle of his thumb and index finger, they all seemed to leave him ready made to just let his mind rest.

It was here, under the light of the pale moon and the gentle swaying of the Heart Tree's branches, deep inside the Red Keep's Godswood that he could finally rest free from the lashings of his past.

For a little while, at least.

The slow rising eastern sun found him a blissful second later. He was tempted to rage against life in general about how short those timeless moments of peace felt in retrospect, but he'd long ago learned to take some facts of life in stride. Instead, he found himself opening the small pouch and examining the bone tablet he'd stolen from Grandmaester Pycell's study. His old companion seemed as he had remembered it, with one colossal difference.

The almost infinitely complex strokes, rectangles and circles that composed the strange runes etched into its surface had grown. Now a full half of it was covered in the mind boggling pattern, each stroke a unique work of art subtly different from the next.

It seemed he had not been the only one to grow during the long years he spent in the east.

It had been a long, long time since Joffrey had felt any sort of delusion or illusion about the grandeur of his ego… and he still didn't. That fact that he then still arrived at the same conclusion, again and again after reexamining the facts left him little choice but to accept it as truth… One or more beings far beyond his comprehension were trying to communicate with him, somehow. The bone tablet, the strange carvings, they were trying to tell him something… but he was still missing the… code, or language to decipher it. He was in the middle of a grand scheme of ice and death and Purple with no clue about his exact place in it… and for better or worse, he was going to find the truth about it… a much dreaded and anticipated prospect.

He still remembered the harrowing runes beneath Bonetown, how could he forget? Half visions of soldiers, trees and maces haunted his dreams amongst the walkers and the ice. What did those three things have in common? And what had the other runes meant? Those three were the only ones that he'd been capable of reconstructing into something vaguely legible, but there'd been more… many more…

I can't afford to keep stumbling blindly, he thought with a hard nod to himself. He needed answers, and he needed to stay on point this time…

And what about Westeros? What about my family? What about my friends? Whispered a treacherous voice inside his head.

He had no answer to that question, only a deep, worried sight.

.-

In hindsight, it was obvious that the damnable Imp's uncontested challenge would come to hunt him eventually. Scarcely a month had passed since the caravan, complete with puzzled nobles and scared carpenters had arrived at the capital… and that had been enough time for Tyrion to ready his trap.

His uncle had found him atop one of the Holdfast's towers, a lonely place he had taken a liking to think and brood. He'd been trying to get his mind off things, for once, touching a delicate horse tail brush for the first time in what felt to be centuries. The painting depicted King's Landing in indistinct detail, all blurry browns, reds and greens. Beyond it were the rolling plains and forests of the Crownlands, all big splotches of green and blue.

It was so horrible he thought his old Tyroshi teacher would have had a stroke, though the fact that he couldn't remember her name made it somehow worse. Still, it gave him some much needed peace, and a subjectively longer one than meditating under the Heart Tree at that.

He heard Tyrion's distinctive waddling long before he opened the tower's hatch, and had to repress a smirk at the progressively louder grumbling before the hatch was suddenly opened.

"Finally!" he shouted as he tossed the hatch backwards and climbed the last big steps. "Couldn't you have found a more easily accessible hideout, nephew?!" he grumbled as he sat and regained his breath.

"Ah, but that would defeat the whole purpose of a hideout, would it not uncle?" he shot back, smiling to himself at the small moment as he kept painting. It was times like these that refueled his soul like a lantern takes whale oil.

"I can think of quite a few hideouts vastly more accessible, and with far better company than a couple of books and a stolen blanket," he said suggestively, looking at the small nest Joffrey had made for himself under one of the small crenellations.

"No doubt about it uncle. I would never doubt such a fine connoisseur of the capital's fine arts," Joffrey said with a snort.

"Funny you would mention that, actually. You see, I was walking, well, waddling through the Street of-" whatever he was going to say was cut abruptly as he looked at the canvas in between the crenellations.

"Yeah, I know. The city looks like a shit stain… though in my defense the real city is hardly a step above that!" he said with a snort. "Hm, needs more greys," he murmured as he ducked, looking for one of the expensive Tyroshi flasks he had left somewhere under the kitchen chair that held the canvass.

Tyrion seemed flabbergasted as he blinked, "No no, what, I, Its not that bad, just very abstract, I mean," he shook his head as he realized what he was talking about, "When did you learn how to paint?" he said, as if demanding an explanation from the cosmos instead of Joffrey.

"Long time ago, I was not very good then and now I'm a bit rusty…" he said with an accepting shrug. "Pass me the quarter inch?" he asked him.

Tyrion looked behind him, confused at the small table to his side. He was a bit speechless as he just went along, hovering his hand indecisively over half a dozen different colored, multiple sized paint brushes.

"The one on the far left," said Joffrey as he leaned slightly to the right, peering towards the city once more before he dabbed a bit of grey where he felt the Street of Steel should be.

Tyrion passed him the brush, receiving a distracted 'thank you' for his troubles as Joffrey peered intently at a seemingly unimportant corner of the painting. Tyrion scratched his head as he gazed at him before apparently deciding to 'fuck it!'.

"I was thinking about your 'condition' the other day-"

"I'm fine uncle," Joffrey said with a long suffering tone, though Tyrion continued as if it had been the wind.

"—and while I find that Myrcella has done quite a good job of keeping you sane, I think the companionship of older, more experienced women would do quite the wonder on your troubled mind," he said. "It certainly did for me," he added glibly.

The Street of Steel suddenly sported a wild U-turn that crashed straight into the King's Gate.

"Godsdamnit Tyrion!" he said as he leaned back, peering at the mess in the left corner. "And I was going to give you such a fine bottle of Dornish Red…" he said to no one in particular as he searched for his small handkerchief, ignoring him.

If the damnable Imp felt the loss of the fine wine to come he didn't show it, "I'm quite serious Joffrey, I've seen you try near everything to rid yourself of those nightmares, including sleeping under a tree… maybe it will help," he added earnestly, for once dropping the quips.

"There's absolutely no way I'm going there Tyrion" he said seriously, wiping the fantastical Street of Steel and starting anew.

"Oh well. Guess I'll have to go to Myrcella then…" The Imp said to no one in particular as he walked back towards the hatch.

"…what?" Joffrey asked dumbly.

"No need to give her the details. I'll just tell her that there is a place that specializes in soothing men's worries, and that if she but convinced her brother to go it might aid his… episodes."

"You wouldn't," Joffrey stated.

"I'd do anything for my nephew," said Tyrion.

Joffrey snorted in disbelief, "Lurid details or not, mother would have your head if she found out… by the Gods, she'd be apoplectic," he said, already knowing the answer.

"Ah, but that alone would be worth it!" said Tyrion.

There was a long pause before Joffrey let out a mighty sigh.

"Then let's get this over with," he groaned in defeat as he left the paintbrush and stood up.

.-

I'm still a virgin. The thought threatened to send Joffrey into an unseemly giggling fit. He'd faced monsters beyond the ken of mortals and confronted mysteries from the dawn of time and he was still a virgin.

He'd still flirted and caroused occasionally after his shameful attempt at Lys, though there had always been something urgent in his mind preventing him from taking it all the way…

Always something too urgent for a quick romp in the night?

That particular reason seemed a bit ludicrous in hindsight… more of an excuse really… same as waiting for the 'one'. After all his years Joffrey had become quite adept at introspection… and he knew when he lied to himself.

He dropped that uncomfortable chain of thought aside as he gazed at the streets of King's Landing. Peddlers and petty merchants of all stripes congested Fishmonger's Square, selling all manner of sea life, from small oysters to big salt water fish. Both him and Tyrion were riding drab brown horses, their clothes of a fine if hardy quality. Tyrion wanted to give the impression of two lord's sons from a backcountry keep, noble rubes come to the capital to spend their smallfolk's meager tax dragons on the famed whores of the Street of Silk.

Joffrey didn't know who Tyrion wanted to fool, there were only so many noble dwarfs in Westeros, and Tyrion was a frequent costumer anyhow. Still, he indulged him as they made their way through the city, passing vendors and artisans, crafters and laborers that seemed to flood every corner of the busy city.

A mob of children surrounded them on their way to the Street of Silk, their thin, gaunt faces hiding the ruthlessness of urban orphans. They had no guards, following the role of faraway nobles clueless to the dangers of the city.

The almost starved looking children hounded the pair, running to their sides and begging for coin, though always at a sufficient distance to escape should Joffrey draw his arming sword.

It seems they had experience begging with nobles.

"A' ha-penny for a meal m'lord," said one of them, daring to dart closer than the others.

Joffrey's eyes unfocused a bit as he reigned his horse gently, blinking as he remembered the cold, slow burning pain of starvation before taking one of his two pouches and giving the kid a silver stag. The orphan looked almost dazed as he snatched the coin, trying to bend it as if to make sure it was real. The rest of the kids eyed the silver coin in shocked envy as they closed in on their companion, filled by a dozen ill thoughts born from necessity and hard headed realism.

"Come on, there's more from where that came from," said Joffrey, beckoning them to come closer. After a second of agonizing indecision, the mismatched gaggle of children rushed towards him, jutting their hands out and pleading for coin. They were from all ages and complexions, from the typical flea bottom denizen to the bastards of foreign exotic whores him and Tyrion were all too likely going to meet soon. He gave each a silver stag before they suddenly scrambled, the sound of stomping gold cloaks scattering them to the winds.

"M'lord," said the gold cloak sergeant after inspecting him for a few seconds and deciding to treat him like a noble. "The filth givin ya' any trouble?" he asked with an accent scarcely different from the children that had just fled, four other goldcloaks lazily spreading through the street and shoving fishermen and laborers aside as they searched for the orphans with their cudgels.

"No trouble at all, guardsman," Joffrey said with a nod, spurring his horse forward. They were almost to the Street of Silk before Tyrion spoke.

"I didn't take you for the charitable type, nephew," he said.

"I wouldn't wish starvation on my worst enemy," he said. Not mortal enemies at least, he amended inside his head. "Much less children," he added in disgust, memories once again hounding him.

"Well, that should keep them fed for a while at least," Tyrion added awkwardly, frowning as if trying to puzzle out a mystery.

"Too little," Joffrey grumbled as they let a hay filled wagon cross the street. They were on the River Rue, the road parallel to the city wall and the Blackwater Rush. He sighed, deep in thought as he effortlessly guiding his horse with his knees and he gazed at the pouch in his hand.

"Oh?" asked Tyrion, deceptively attentive despite his lax features, his tone quiet in spite of the hollering fishwives and the hammering of petty wood workers.

"One silver stag amounts to 28 half groats, or 56 copper penny's. At three penny's for a loaf of bread that's barely 18 days of painful survival… with change left over for an apple I suppose," he said.

"Those are flea bottom prices?" asked Tyrion.

Joffrey nodded as he turned to look at the battlements of the nearby wall.

"You've been wandering through the city…" Tyrion deduced.

"A little," Joffrey said dismissively. "Do you know how much Robert is planning on spending in the Tourney of the Hand?"-he said as he suddenly looked at Tyron, not waiting for him to answer- "40,000 golden dragons. That's about"- he stopped for a moment as he looked up-"Eight million and 400,000 silver stags!" he ranted.

Tyrion tried to reason with him, "Nephew, flea bottom is dangerous, especially for a nobles-" but Joffrey kept going.

"You could feed a hearty meal to those kids back there for the rest of their lives and you'd hardly make a dent on that! And that's just for the winner of the joust!" he said, getting progressively angrier as he ranted.

"'Joff', I understand, calm down," Tyrion stressed as he looked around.

But he doubted Joffrey even heard it, he was staring fixedly ahead as the words poured out of him as if from nowhere, "Don't tell me to calm down uncle! You can't understand how precious life is if you haven't seen it frozen and perverted with your own eyes! Each a small flame barely clinging to the face of the earth while we spend our days scheming-" he suddenly snatched a small arm to his left, yanking it harshly and placing his dagger in the child's throat.

It was one of the older street urchins they had met a moment before, perhaps only a year younger than Joffrey, holding a dull iron knife with one hand while the other held Joffrey's pouch of golden dragons, still tied to his belt. Joffrey stared at the urchin's eyes unflinchingly as he took half a second to decide whether to slit his throat or not.

Not a threat, he decided in that crystal clear moment of hyper reality as he saw the knife fall from the urchin's hand and something wet spread throughout his pants. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry m'lord! Please! Please don't!" he pleaded, a single drop of blood sliding down his neck.

Joffrey breathed deeply, slowly sheathing the dagger as the kid blabbered. He took the pouch of golden dragons from his unresisting hands before he spoke. "This will get you killed out there… here," he said, handing him instead the pouch with the remaining silver stags. "Share this with the others," he said as he kept staring at his eyes. Even though the there was no dagger at his throat anymore, the kid nodded very slightly, again and again. "I p-p-promise m'lord," he said as he titled his head down, incapable of withstanding Joffrey's eyes, scared almost out of his wits.

"Good, now go," Joffrey told him as he released his arm, watching as the kid scrambled towards one of the alleyways. He turned his gaze back to the pouch filled with golden dragons, his lips curling.

Tyrion didn't say anything, watching Joffrey attentively. "And you feel there's not much you can do about it…" he said after a long while.

"Yes… all this would get them is a shallow trench… if they even bothered to bury the body," Joffrey said, hefting the pouch filled with golden dragons.

Tyrion kept his council to himself as their horses made their way through the Street of Silk, exotic whores from Essos and the Summer Islands leaning suggestively on the second story windows of the brothels. The longer they went though, the more plain looking the whores looked. Soon they were at the ends of the street, surrounded by plain looking buildings frequented by simple craftsmen or artisans.

"I managed to find a nice looking one away from the bustle of the main street," Tyrion said with a half-smile, trying to lift the mood as they navigated through two small alleyways before ending up in front of a surprisingly respectable looking three story brothel tucked out of sight, its entrance guarded by two unexpectedly well armed and armored footmen well beyond the means of a typical smallfolk brothel.

"I would have brought you to Chataya's but… well, imagine stumbling with King Robert in the middle of the action…" he said with a small chuckle, failing to elicit even a smile from Joffrey.

"Let's just get this over with, 'Tommen'," Joffrey said curtly as he slipped down from his horse with one smooth move and handed it to one of the stable boys.

"Not all of us can flow like water up and down a horse as they please Joff!" called out Tyrion as the stableboy left a small step to his side and he hurried after Joffrey. He managed to catch up to him just as he entered the brothel with a no nonsense look, the footmen saying nothing as they passed under the sign depicting a moon-and-swan.

A lovely looking Lyseni woman received them, older than the rest of the prostitutes Joffrey could glimpse past the lobby. She handled herself with regal grace and supreme confidence, two characteristics that along with her age marked her as the matron of the establishment.

"Saelys, always a pleasure," said Tyrion as he kissed her hand. "Ser Tommen" she replied with a knowing smile. "And this must be your brother Joff?" she asked, stressing the name.

"My lady," Joffrey bowed respectfully as he kissed her hand.

"Quite the chivalrous knight you have brought here Ser Tommen" Saelys said as they walked to one of the more private rooms, where the only other company were a plate of olives and a bottle of Arbor Red, and the only other exit was a wooden door to the other side, "We'll see what to do about that," she said with a small smile as she closed the door.

"You honor me Ser"- she said as she turned back to them -"but I am no lady, merely a helpful… mother , to my little roses."

Tyrion served two cups of wine from the bottle as Joffrey shuffled his shoulders ankwardly.

"My apologies then, Mother Saelys, but I am no knight either," Joffrey replied curtly but politely.

"Humble too," she said with another small smile as Tyrion walked back from the table with two cups.

"Take it, it will help," said the imp in a low tone as he passed him the cup. Joffrey snorted as he eyed it, the Arbor Red still swirling from Tyrion's precise pouring.

This didn't end well last time, he thought with a snort.

He shrugged before he downed the cup in one gulp as if he were arriving from a long scouting run throughout the Grey Wastes. At least it's not Dornish Red, he consoled himself.

"Should I bring them for you to explore, Ser Tommen?" Saelys asked, but Tyrion demurred.

"I'm sure you will surprise me like last time," he said with a smirk.

"Perhaps I will," she said as she tilted her head, clearly enjoying the exchange. "And for you young lord? Do you fancy the exotic, the unknown? Or perhaps something closer to home?" she asked as she turned to Joffrey.

"I'll refer to my brother's expertise on this," Joffrey said, a drab grey filter seemingly coloring everything he looked. He should have been as anxious and excited as the last time he tried this, but he simply couldn't bring himself to care.

"And I will refer to your expertise, Mother Saelys," Tyrion said, confident.

"Very well then," she said as she walked closer to Joffrey, her eyes uncannily focused on Joffrey.

He instinctively stood a bit straighter, almost at attention as Saelys walked around him twice with small, measured steps. She stopped again in front of him, feeling her cold minty breath in his face. She regarded him for a quiet moment, her long eyelashes barely blinking as he looked intently at his face.

"Why did you went through it? Glory? Honor?" she suddenly asked him.

"What?" Joffrey blurted.

"Gold?" she asked.

"No!" he blurted again.

"Do you wish it had all ended there?" she asked, her minty breath almost freezing his cheeks.

Joffrey shook his head as he took a step back, before visibly regaining control of himself. "Are we done here?" he asked tersely, a step away from bolting from this circus.

"I believe we are," said Saelys as she walked back, towards the door. "Please wait here for a moment, the footmen will escort you to your rooms," she said as she left the small lobby, closing the door gracefully.

Joffrey was still confused as Tyrion stared at the door longingly.

"What the hells was that supposed to be?! And what's the matter with you?" he asked Tyrion.

His uncle shook his head as he turned back to him, "It's always breathtaking to see her work her magic… no other word for it. If she were but willing…" He said distantly, a strange longing in his voice Joffrey thought he'd never heard before. "Anyway," he said as he took Joffrey's empty cup and poured both of them more Arbor Red, "If you're nervous just remember we men were made for this," he said with a gentle smile, trying to extract some sort of coherent emotion out of Joffrey.

"I'm not nervous," he said as he collapsed in one of the padded chairs.

"I believe you…" said Tyrion with a frown, on the verge of saying something more before there was a knock on the other door. He waddled towards it and opened it to find a man in smartly polished half plate with a neutral expression, "Ser Tommen? Your room is ready," he said with a polite bow.

"Well then…" Tyrion said as he turned back and stared at Joffrey, worried. "Just relax, try to enjoy yourself… try to… get it out of your system," he said earnestly, looking at his eyes.

He gave him a halfhearted smile, moved by his concern. "I'll try, though remember I said one hour, no more," Joffrey told him.

Tyrion nodded, "I'll see you back here then, though don't worry about me if you want to spend a bit more time up there…" he said before walking out.

Joffrey quietly snorted as he absentmindedly ate one of the olives in the silver bowl. He spent what felt like an eternity there, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute as the olives were quietly devoured almost with mechanical repetition, their flavor empty.

The knock on the door almost made him take out his sword, so startled he was. He opened it slowly, revealing another man in the same polished half plate, smaller but with the same patient expression. "Master Joff? Your room is prepared and ready," he said with a small, polite bow.

"Lead the way good ser," Joffrey said as he stood up with the face of a man serenely walking towards his execution. He followed the footman up the stairs to the third floor, the hallways eerily quiet, adorned with warm-colored banners which depicted no heraldry.

The footman suddenly stopped next to a door in the third floor, turning smartly back to Joffrey before talking. "If there is anything you need you can ring the small bell by the bed," he said with another polite bow.

This place runs a tight ship, thought Joffrey as he nodded back, the measured strides of the footman fading away.

He regarded the door knob for a second before squaring his shoulders. He opened the door to find a room wrapped in delicate shade, illuminated by gentle burning candles and half drawn curtains. The sparsely if tastefully decorated room had a tranquil atmosphere, the rugs and blanket covered sofas giving it a sense of safety, almost as if it were a nest of some sort.

A shifting of shadows to his left almost made him take out his arming sword. Instead of an ethereal enemy though, he found a girl, perhaps half a dozen years older than Maergery Tyrell, carefully lighting a small candle by the large bed. Her hair was a long and lustrous brown, of a color with her eyes. She looked up from the now burning candle, her dark brown, almond shaped eyes surrounded by long eyelashes.

"My Lady," muttered Joffrey with a bow fit for a king. She smiled wistfully as she left the one of the candles beside the bed, straightening up her understated black dress as she walked towards him.

"Master Joff," she greeted him with a small curtsy, her sedately paced steps carrying her close to him. Joffrey felt as still as a statue as the girl, no, the woman, gently took his sword from his belt, leaving it beside the door before her delicate fingers started to untie his cloak.

"Mother Saelys forgot to mention your name," Joffrey said awkwardly, his back ramrod straight as strange butterflies seemed to war inside his belly.

"It's Nalia, Master Joff," she said, her voice quiet but very clear inside the small room.

"A pleasure to meet you," Joffrey said stiffly as his cloak fell to the ground.

Nalia's fingers then started on his doublet, silently working one button at a time, slowly.

Joffrey felt a torrent of mixed, confused emotions that intensified the lower her hands went, a mixture of pleasure and fear and dread that turned into a sudden vision. The body of a red headed whore pinned to a great bed in the royal apartments, the multiple crossbow bolts spread around her naked body almost artistically, her mouth open in a dead, silent scream-

He suddenly noticed he was grasping her hands, squeezing tightly and stopping them from going any further. "I'm sorry," he muttered in shame as he instantly released her quickly whitening hands, as if he'd been burned.

Instead of stumbling back in fear though, Nalia grabbed his hands gently. "It's okay," she told him, just holding them as she looked him in the eyes.

Joffrey swallowed, completely lost in a sea of old wounds and fears, of shame and duty. "Would you like to sit?" she asked him. Joffrey nodded quickly, almost in relief, letting her warm hand guide him to a small table next to a small window. They both sat in the comfortably padded wooden chairs, placed a bit closer than the usual dinner arrangement.

Joffrey let her hands go as he took a sip from the already served sweetwine, the bronze cup almost a relief in his hand. "You must come from far away," said Nalia as she took the other cup.

"What makes you say so?" Joffrey asked, glad for the conversation.

"Your eyes, they look weathered, knowing," she said, taking a sip of sweetwine.

"…Well, I've travelled quite a bit… visited far off places…" Joffrey said awkwardly, unsure about what to say in this bizarre situation. He felt he should be disrobing and engaging in passionate kissing atop the big bed, though the fact that he was not filled him with a strange relief.

If Nalia doubted his words, she didn't show it. Instead she seemed curious, tilting her head slightly as she leaned forward. "Tell me about them," she said earnestly.

"Tell you about them…? I mean—I don't know—I wouldn't know where to start," he said lamely, confused at the turn of events… This was not how he imagined this visit. Nalia didn't seem bothered at all, her smile merely teasing instead of mocking or impatient.

"You know the boasting is true when they don't immediately launch themselves into wild tales of themselves…" she muttered almost to herself, managing to tease a small smile out of Joffrey.

"I'm not boasting," he protested, taking another sip from the cup.

"I know," she confirmed, "That's why I really want to hear it," she said as she blinked teasingly at him with her long eyelashes. "Start with a wondrous sight, fastest way to swoon a maiden's heart," she said in amusement, relishing the irony.

Joffrey snorted, leaning back on the chair and smiling despite himself. "A wondrous sight to swoon a maiden's heart…" he wondered out loud, suddenly feeling the weight of his long life. For once, the weight was almost confortable, like the centered pressure of a well-worn backpack.

"The Port of Ibben," he suddenly said out loud.

"Cold northern shores instead of the long fields of the Reach? Not very conductive to a maiden's tale," said Nalia with an impish smile.

"You could say that," Joffrey agreed, his eyes vaguely clouded. "But there was a beauty there far deeper than one could find in the Reach, a solitude that forced one to seek within, not unlike a mountain or the unbroken sea…" he said.

Joffrey's eyes were lost in recollection as he leaned his head on the wall to his right. "The Ibbenese have a profound sense of art actually, something many would find unthinkable. Their hairy physique and their coarse demeanor makes them out to be brutish men, good for back breaking work but utterly unimaginative…" he almost whispered. "But if one cares to look deeper…" he continued teasingly, looking back at Nalia.

She looked thoroughly intrigued, her brown eyes now attentively locked with his.

"Their sense of aesthetics is profoundly different from our own. There are precious few types of tinctures in Ibb, which makes painting expensive. Whalebone carving is often seen, but bone used for carvings or small statues is bone that could have gone to useful implements, so unless it's done commercially the common man only indulges occasionally in that art," he said.

"What then?" asked Nalia.

"Movement," answered Joffrey, relishing the teasing. He didn't even notice the absence of the weary mantle that usually cloaked him.

"Movement..?" asked Nalia, confused.

"Movement," repeated Joffrey, "The Ibbenese have for centuries plied the waters of the Shivering Sea and reaped a plentiful bounty of whale oil from it, almost more than they can sell really… Their cities are festooned with oil lamps, hanging securely from every nook and cranny, each house a proud owner of at least one of the hardy tools, each placed slightly different than the other, the product of each owner's own individuality," he said, dredging sights from long ago, the haze of memory slowly lifting as he envisioned them in his mind's eye.

The only noise inside the room was Joffrey's relaxed breathing, "And when the sun hid and the long dark afternoon of Ibb beckoned… the lamps were lit," Joffrey said with a smile. "Hundreds of little specks of light, swaying with each gust of cold northern wind, each with a mind of its own, every street draped in moving light, every afternoon a spectacle of moving twilight," he said, his voice steadily warmer.

"That's… that's beautiful," said Nalia, enraptured by the tale.

"It was, and every night changed, every gust of wind not quite the same as the one before, each lamp swaying differently than the last, even if only minutely…" said Joffrey, his lips slowly lifting into a fond smile as the haze of memories revealed the grandest sight of all.

"And the greatest… greatest of them all was the Lampway," he whispered, looking at her brown eyes, the vision now clear, "A wide and great cobbled street winding its way up the hill from the city docks all the way to the ancient, ruined hall of the God-King. The shops and houses on its sides are filled with small household oil lamps that dazzle the eye, their gentle lights but pinpricks beneath the grand lanterns of the state; tall things made of wrought iron and carved bone that do not move even under the most thunderous of storms, each one placed by a member of the ruling Shadow Council…"

There was silence for a timeless moment, accompanied by the gentle sizzling of candles. Nalia broke it by placing her hand over Joffrey's, "A wondrous sight indeed… you are either a man straight from said maiden's tale or the greatest lying poet I have ever seen," she said with small chuckle.

Joffrey chuckled with her, "Hey, the life of a lying poet doesn't sound so bad," he said with a bittersweet smile.

"Have you seen many sights like that?" Nalia asked him.

Joffrey's smile banished as he looked down, "Yes… both great and terrible, with cruelty and madness to spare… too many to tell," he said as he shook his head, the dark pit suddenly settling back, its weight all the more bitter after its brief absence.

"I've got time," she said, holding both his hands, "Sleeping on a bed is not the only way to sooth a man's mind, you know?" she said with a self-depreciating smile. "Sometimes just talking can make a difference," she said, reading him as if he were a book.

"I… I can't," Joffrey said, confused and feeling rather helpless.

"How about you start with another wondrous sight?" she suggested, her thumbs slowly massaging Joffrey's hands and making him feel more at ease.

"Another wondrous sight…" he whispered, deep in thought and perhaps in hope.

.-

It was night by the time they arrived at the Red Keep, an all too smug looking Tyrion riding silently besides Joffrey. Tyrion opened his mouth but Joffrey interrupted him before he could get a single sound out. "Don't!" he said.

Tyrion just chuckled as he shook his head. "Besides, we just talked…" Joffrey added.

"I see… and I assume you have no plans of going there again now that the promised hour has been spent..? Eh nephew?" Tyrion said with a glib smirk.

"Perhaps, uncle… perhaps I will," he said wistfully.

.-

Tommen laughed out loud as he tried to pummel Bran to the ground with a stick, trying to get his revenge after his undignified defeat against the Stark boy in Winterfell. Alas, it was clear Bran had the superior training…

"Ouch!" he squealed when Bran landed a blow on his shoulder, making him drop the stick. Bran did a little victory dance as Tommen chuckled unwillingly. The pain was, strangely enough, very different from the one he felt when Joffrey kicked his shin or slapped the top of his head when he wanted to shut him up. It was a happy sort of pain, carefree and rapidly diminishing into the back of his mind as he picked the stick again from the ground, the red bricks of the secondary training yard the same as the rest of the Red Keep's.

"Come on Tommen!" Bran shouted as he swung his stick from side to side, no doubt thinking about his future prospects as a Knight. It was the fourth time they sparred since they've arrived from Winterfell, and Tommen was relishing every second of having a real brother… He only wished it had always been so.

"I'll get you this time! My uncle is the best swordsman in Westeros!" he proclaimed as he charged him, Bran parrying two of his blows before smacking him in the head, making him fall on his bum. He shook his head, looking up at the slightly worried face of Bran as he looked at something. Suddenly a hand pulled him up, and he was momentarily paralyzed with fear when he realized the man holding him was Joffrey. He sported a worried, slightly amused demeanor that hid his infinite cruelty perfectly, going even as to shake the dust from him.

"You okay Tommen? Any ringing bells?" he japed as he steadied his vaguely petrified form.

"…Y-yes, I-I'm fine," he said.

Joffrey looked at him strangely for a moment before he took a step back, looking a bit… sad? He twitched his fingers nervously as he spoke, "…Good, be careful with that…" he said, trailing off as he looked at something at his back. Tommen turned, only to find his brother's attack dog with a neutral expression, holding a pair of tourney swords.

"You like to train here as well? So the Queen can't find you?" Bran asked, somehow forgetting all the stern warnings he'd given him about his big brother.

Joffrey chuckled as he nodded, "Indeed little Bran, it seems we were not alone in that thought," he said as he looked back at Tommen. "I'm not sure Lord Stark would appreciate your unsupervised training however…" he said.

Oh no, blackmail? We should have run the moment I saw him, thought Tommen, dreading what was to come as Bran's face turned wary.

Joffrey snorted, "Don't worry, I won't tell on you…" he said before swiftly crushing his budding hope. "We'll supervise you just fine, right Sandor?" he said, looking back at the Hound.

"Fine, but if they poke each other's eyes out it'll be my hide the Queen will leave hanging 'down the gatehouse…" the Hound grumbled, leaving the tourney swords on the ground.

"Don't be so pessimistic, it'll be fine!" Joffrey said, grabbing the fallen stick. He looked at Tommen for a second before reaching some sort of decision. He walked right behind him and not bolting like a crazed rabbit was all Tommen could do as Joffrey adjusted his grip and stance, carrying him through the motions.

"Try anticipating his moves, like this," he demonstrated, guiding his hand, "Do not commit before he moves completely though, or you'll fall for the faint… come on Bran!" he said.

Bran obliged, having the time of his life as he tried to smack Tommen again. This time though, Joffrey guided his steadily unfreezing body, ceding ground and parrying blows slowly. Tommen was surprised to realize he was actually learning something. He didn't know his brother knew how to handle a sword…

The Hound started barking tips at Bran too, and before he knew it they were both sweaty and tired, drinking water like madmen from the waterskins the Hound gave them. Joffrey looked vaguely satisfied as he looked at them, before he seemed to remember something that made his lips curl into the sad, troubled expression he had often been wearing ever since his freak accident months ago.

The Hound grabbed Joffrey by the shoulder and shook him, startling him. "No, no. I was just thinking…" said his brother, looking towards the north before he walked back to Tommen. "Keep practicing," he said as he crouched and stared at his eyes.

"…I-I will," he said, shaken.

"Good," said Joffrey as he stood up.

The sense of urgency behind his voice haunted him that night.

.-

Joffrey carefully tilted the piece of wood backed canvas, letting the sun illuminate it completely. The soldier stood with two weapons, or perhaps a shield, warding against some invisible threat.

He sighed as he left in the floor, the soft ground of the Godswood barely scratching the sketch. It lay next to another painting, that of a tree in shades of grey and green surrounded by four dots.

Joffrey had not yet drawn the hammer like implement, but he doubted his idle sketching would bring him any closer to a true understanding of the strange runes. Those three runes were the only ones he'd managed to reconstruct from the ruins beneath Bonetown, likely carved in a time far before the age of man, back when the Dry Deep had been one great sea…

They taunted him, hiding some sort of incomplete message behind a code he did not understand. His research had gotten nowhere at all, not aided at all by the fact the runes were most likely connected with Yi-Tish culture, given their location. The Red Keep's library and even the Citadel were poor in Eastern lore, and his monomaniacal sketching was the last thing he'd been reduced to while trying to find a connection, any connection at all between the symbols, or between them and the history of the east.

A gentle rustling of leaves made him stare to his right, immediately spotting Lady as she approached him, curious.

That means…

He quickly craned his neck from side to side, catching a glimpse of Sansa's red hair as she quickly walked away from the clearing, startled.

It seems no unexpected insights will be coming from Sansa in this life, Joffrey mused, the sad prospect tempered by his desire to keep her away from the madness inducing hole he kept on digging for himself. The weight was his to bear…

Better this way, better for her… he thought as Lady ran away after her, looking down at the sketches and feeling as if he were missing something fundamental.

Alas, no brilliant insights graced his mind as he again turned to sketching, trying to find patterns in the symbols once again.

.-

The prince tossed the dice in the bowl, watching them tumble for a second before the lay still, showing a four and a three to the audience of red cloaks around him.

Moans and victory cries soon sounded out as copper coins changed hands and the prince sheepishly handed the bowl with a few copper pennys.

"Sorry, must have been the horse," he said with an apologetic look, the bowl being snatched by another red cloak as the game went on.

Orland didn't exactly know how him and his small gang of soldiers had ended up gambling over dice games and drinking stale ale with the prince of the Seven Kingdoms, and the prospect of finding out grew dimmer by the day. One night they've been laughing and cursing, the fickle luck of the dice adding a pinch of unpredictably after a long, grueling watch, when a man in obviously noble quality light leathers had entered the tower. His eyes had looked a bit sunken beneath the cloak and cowl he wore, and he'd walked towards their table like a moth following fire, almost without looking. He doubted the prince himself had known what he was doing, but he'd just sat there with a happy, bittersweet smile as he watched them play.

Now, the intrusion of an armed stranger into one of the Red Keep's towers would have been cause for alarm had Barret not vouched for him, claiming he was one of Lord Tyrion's retainers. As it was, they've decided to indulge the quirky stranger in their games, some of the men's eyes alight with the prospect of fleecing a noble unfamiliar with the games of chance.

They had, to a point, though Orland suspected the prince had been spoiling his throws… his hands handled to the dice with too much experience, too much casual skill to justify his continued losses. He won quite a few later, in any case, laughing and jesting with the men like he were one of them, clearly relishing every moment of it.

It was only later they found out the truth, almost two weeks (and many late nights in the tower) after they've met the stranger. Heward had entered the games with the will of a man half starved, finally able to walk downstairs from the barracks after one of the King's horses had left him seeing stars and barely conscious. He'd been so happy to be able to do something beyond staring at the ceiling as he recuperated, the old dumb redcloak had only realized the identity of the prince midway through the match.

He still remembered the dread… in hindsight it had been quite hilarious, though how they could've been so blind he didn't know.

Heward had been watching the cloaked man for a while in confusion, the bowl motionless in his hands. Suddenly his face had turned pale, swiftly standing up before kneeling.

"M-m-my prince!" he strangled, the bowl flying out of his hands and the dice clattering to Orland's feet.

There had been silence for a second before the small space inside the tower had exploded in laughter, Barret the loudest of them all as he grabbed his belly in mirth, "The prince?! I think that horse may have turned something loose in there Heward!" he'd roared. Heward had always been a bit slow, but that… that had been something else!

Everyone had been laughing, except for him and the prince. "… It's true," he'd said with the voice of a man conceding defeat. The chuckling had died as Heward stayed on his knees, the prince's eyes somehow sad at the turn of events. The final nail on the coffin though, had been Barret, the burly redcloak looking confused as he spoke. "But you're Lord Tyrion's gua-" he stumbled mid-sentence, and Orland could almost hear the click inside his head.

They had all kneeled then almost at the same time, swift "m'prince's" being muttered almost at unison by half a dozen suddenly dried throats, throwing panicked looks to each other as everyone thought the same thing.

We were fleecing the King's son?!

That had shaken the prince from his melancholy though, growing angry as he stood up and bodily lifted Orland back to his feet. "That's quite enough, Orland!" he'd shouted, "Barret, Heward, Edmund, all of you too, get up," he commanded, exasperated.

The rest of the red cloaks stood up uncertainly as the prince looked down at the bowl and back at the red cloaks. "Argh, just sit down," he commanded as he shook his head, following his own order as he sat on the same stool he'd been on but a moment before.

The red cloaks threw each other uncertain looks as they sat, and Joffrey gazed at Orland with purpose in his eyes, having apparently reached a decision regarding their punishment for the unacceptable behavior they've been giving their own prince.

"What's on the dice?" he'd asked.

Orland had looked down to his feet, then back up. "Snake eyes," he'd said dumbly.

"Lucky bastard," he'd said as he tossed Heward a bag of copper coins. Heward had been so shocked the bag had bounced clean off his head, landing on the ground… he hadn't even attempted to grab it.

The silence continued for a second before Joffrey had leaned close to Orland. "… How many times did that horse hit him?" he'd whispered in his ear, loud enough for everyone else to hear. It was probably intended as a harmless jape to lower the tension, but after days and days of everyone repeating the same joke after they passed by Heward's bed it had become somewhat of saying between the red cloaks of the north eastern tower. If someone botched a dice throw, then the looser always said something like "Too many horse kicks," or if you forgot to clean your breastplate it was "must have been the horse."

To hear the prince of the Seven Kingdoms say it though, that had been too much for his self control. His laughter seemed to be just what the prince needed, quickly picking up both the bowl and the dice and passing them across.

Things had kind of… carried on from there. The prince insisted they just called him Joffrey, and would not stand anyone to kneel. He had more success with the latter rather than the former... In time, they had all carried on almost as usual.

The prince was a curious man, almost enigmatic, very far away from what he'd imagined him to be according to the stories of Mad Raegar or King Robert, or even the rumors he'd heard as he worked here. He possessed some eternal melancholy that often left him thoughtful at the most unexpected of moments, as if great revelations were warring inside his mind. He'd often ask the men about their families, their lives and what they thought about the most strange of matters. He seemed to relish the simple conversation but they had a tendency to leave him stone faced and serious… most of the time anyway.

"Hey Orland, I've been thinking… what is that piece of wood doing hanging from your neck?" the prince suddenly asked him as Barret placed his bets.

"It's a good luck charm m'prince," he said, grabbing the small piece of slightly burnt wood and turning it in his hand.

"Call me Joffrey," said the prince reflexively before tilting his head, "A good luck charm? I must confess I've never seen one like it… its usually bone or some other mineral with cultural significance, hm… though the Dothraki would beg to differ…" he mused, the talk of foreign cultures and unexpected insights was by now expected from the young prince, though Orland supposed it was just standard for a man of royal blood.

"My father got it in the Sack, m'prince," Orland told him as he took of the pendant and offered it towards him. The prince seemed touched by the gesture of confidence, though he tried his best to hide it as he received he piece of wood as if it were a crown.

"The Sack huh?" he mused as he turned it over, gaze lost as he examined the chipped, worn piece of blackened wood.

"They say a whole block burnt down to cinders right in the middle of the Hook, the flames were so tall you could see them from the harbor…" Orland said, reciting the tale from memory as he leaned back on his chair.

"That's bullshit Orland!" called out Galt. The bearded red cloak was in a corner of the tower, polishing his plate and looking vaguely scandalized. "They would have to have been taller than the city walls for that!" he called out.

"Ma' papa was no liar, wasn't capable of it… except for when he went out wenching," admitted Orland as he scratched his chin, "Mama always knew though, he'd be rocking a mighty bruise all week, and he never had it when he told the tale," he said, the flawless logic enough to make Gart snort in disbelief as he turned back to polish his plate.

"Shit!" muttered Barret in disgust as he passed the bowl, the prince absentmindedly receiving back some of his coppers.

"So… how's this all got to do with a lucky charm?" the prince asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Ah, well, you see the whole block burned down in less than an hour… all except for one little house smack in the middle of it, barely singed after the fiery inferno had reduced everything around it to ash," Orland said with an ominous tone.

"The owner must have been quite lucky indeed," the prince murmured, still looking at the charm.

"Well, the house, not the owner. Poor fool got an axe in the head for making a fuss. He didn't like the sight of over two score soldiers chipping his house for lucky charms," Orland said with a chuckle.

"Oh…" the prince muttered, frowning as he gave the piece of wood another long look. "Did your father ever tell you anything else about the Sack?" he asked after a moment.

Orland nodded as he received the bowl, grabbing the dice inside, "Only when he was drunk as a sailor. Sometimes he'd laugh about it, a dozen different tales splurging like water from a packed well… other times he'd be all quiet, muttering about fire and the stench of the folks who had shat their breeches. Wasn't pretty," said Orland as he shook his head. "There are still some parts of the city where Lannister men have to watch their backs," he said as he tossed the dice. "Bloody business that was, and people here have long memories when it suits them…" he said before looking back to Barret with a pleased smile.

Barret handed the coin as he grumbled, the prince nodding silently. "This city… the countryside… everyone, they've all been through quite a lot, haven't they?" he asked almost to himself.

"Such is life, ain't nothing one can do about it," said Orland, repeating the wisdom of his late father as he passed the bowl to the prince.

"Can we?" muttered the prince as he ignored the bowl, his gaze fixed as he slowly tilted the charm, his thumb slowly rubbing a bit of the blackened charcoal.

.-

"What do you think if, for whatever reason, Stannis was made King of the Seven Kingdoms?" his strange nephew asked him one day.

"… is that a trick question?" asked Tyrion, buying time.

"No. Do you think his reign would be peaceful? Would the people thrive? Would he handle the other lords?" Joffrey insisted.

They were nonchalantly playing the most intense game of Cyvasse Tyrion had ever experienced, not that Joffrey seemed to notice, his distracted hand moving the pieces as if with a mind of its own.

"Well…" Tyrion said, "He would be a strong King, the lords would respect that, he has a strong sense of justice…" he mused out loud.

"Indeed?" Joffrey murmured, sounding hopeful for some reason.

"Too strong perhaps… he maimed the man that relieved his supplies at the siege of Storm's End, even though he knighted him not a moment later," he added, using the time bought to desperately try and think a way out for his surrounded elephant.

Joffrey scratched his right arm as he leaned back on his chair, the cool afternoon breeze gently swaying the small study's curtains. "That doesn't sound so bad… considering…" he interrupted himself.

"Considering..?" Tyrion asked, the strange conversation drawing him out of the game.

"Nothing. You said he'd be respected by the lords right?" his nephew asked.

Tyrion stayed quiet for a moment as Joffrey fidgeted with a discarded knight. "…Probably, he is a veteran commander and the man who broke the Iron Fleet, though he's too hard headed to be King. Stannis is like iron, they often say. No bending, too inflexible… the intrigues would be too much for him I think…" Tyrion mused before snorting. "I've talked to him, and he barely stands the petty intrigues of the Narrow Sea houses, never mind the whole Seven Kingdoms. I reckon he'd have no patience for it…" he said as he finally found a way for his elephant to escape.

Joffrey looked slightly frantic as he leaned forward, "But with a good advisor aware of the various plots, he would do pretty well right?" he asked as if he were trying to convince himself.

"Sure, sure, especially after a peaceful succession," Tyrion placated him, "I think it would be a reign no worse than Robert's at least… why the sudden interest in Stannis though? You barely spoke with one another before he returned to Dragonstone," he asked him, curious.

"I just… I've been trying to get to know my Baratheon uncles a bit better…" he said, moving a siege tower and almost blocking Tyrion's escaping elephant.

"That's why you've been talking so much with Renly these past few days?" he asked him.

"Yeah…" Joffrey said as he sagged back on his chair, clearly not happy with whatever he'd found. "A reign no worse than Robert's… We need a better reign, a far, far better one… and even then…" Joffrey muttered as he stared out the window.

"You'll do okay Joffrey, don't worry about it," it sounded like an empty platitude, but Tyrion was surprised to find out he meant it. His nephew had come a long, strange way since the bizarre incident that had almost killed him.

That had clearly been the wrong thing to say though. Joffrey suddenly stood up, mumbling halfhearted apologies as he walked out of the room… For the thirtieth time that month, Tyrion asked himself what the hells was going on inside his nephew's head.

-.

"And to think your uncle had to force you to come at first…" Nalia teased him yet again as Joffrey snorted, serving himself another mug of cider and quietly relishing the close contact. They were both seating in a stately cushioned sofa, Nalia's head leaning on his shoulder. The room inside the Swan-and-Moon had become almost a second home at this point after weeks' worth of visits, and Joffrey couldn't help but feel as some sort of wild cat that had been steadily tamed with the passage of time. The distance at which he let Nalia seat from himself had been steadily eroding over the months, and he seemed powerless to stop it… to his distress and guilty excitement.

He twitched his head suddenly, his eyes alert. "Did you hear that?" he asked her.

Nalia looked confused as she looked around, before settling back on Joffrey shoulder. "…Are you sure the visions are… gone?" she asked him.

"Haven't had one in a while…" Joffrey said as he tried to relax, cursing his mind for playing its games.

"But you still dream about it," she said, a statement rather than a question.

"Every night…" whispered Joffrey, shuffling a tiny bit closer to her warmth, her understated gown doing little to muffle it.

"Tell me another dream then, one of the beautiful ones…" she asked him.

"Hmm, let's see…" Joffrey mused out loud. He had opened up with Nalia like never before in his lives, telling her tales improbable and fantastic… and also terrifying. She thought both his nightmares and his actual past lives were one and the same, a torrent of visions and omens that felt as real to Joffrey as life itself. He hadn't tried correcting her, though for all intents and purposes the difference was small indeed.

So he told her of the time he visited Oldtown with his friends, his Broken Knights. How the streets twisted and turned under the commands of architects far more ancient than those of King's Landing, and how the city lit up under the fiery gaze of the Hightower at night… and the times he'd lived with his friends.

"They were giving Jon all sorts of leery winks, they were even fondling his wolf for Seven's sake, of course he was as red as a cherry!" Joffrey laughed out loud.

"And did they finally manage to tame the other wolf?" Nalia asked him.

"Of course they did! Took a little prodding on both my and Tyrion's part, but we managed it," Joffrey ended triumphantly.

"And did they tame the lion too?" she asked teasingly.

A bit of the levity left Joffrey's voice as he grimaced, "No, there was no need for that," he told her.

"They must have tried though, nobody would let such a good catch slip away like that…" whispered Nalia as she gently kissing his neck.

"There was no time for that…" Joffrey said, leaning away from her.

"I think there was…" she said, following his movement and kissing her way up his neck.

Joffrey flushed as his heart beat wildly, his hands stopping her as he turned away. "She was not the one," he said, the excuse ringing dull to his ears.

"Joffrey… what 'one'? You told me you have barely looked at your betrothed these past few months, and you're hardly the type to emulate chivalric tales anyway…" her calm words cut through him like a scythe, something old turning within his belly.

Her hands cupped his face as she gently tilted it, her chocolate brown eyes finding his again. "I think the real reason you didn't go with those pirate ladies is the same one that makes you run away every time I kiss you…"

"Let it go Nalia," Joffrey whispered, unable to break her gaze.

"What are you scared of Joffrey? What is it that so terrifies you?" she delved deeply, her eyes entrancing.

"I…" Joffrey whispered, his voice dry, "There's something… broken within me, Nalia… Something wrong… deep inside me," he said the last few words with a knowing, bitter smile. "Something I don't think a thousand lifetimes will be able to fix," he said, his voice almost breaking as he grabbed her face with his own hands, "I can't control it, I'd hurt you… and I'd enjoy it…" he whispered fiercely in despair, willing her to understand.

"You're not that man any more, Joff," she said as she placed her forehead against his, "I understand little of what happened to you, but I know this much… you have to let that shadow go," she said, her mouth but a hair's breath away from his.

"You don't know…" whispered Joffrey before she closed the distance and kissed him.

It was both long and short, the swirl of tingles in his belly running up and down his chest and everywhere else as he relished the taste of olives and sweetwine, Nalia's blissful acceptance a nectar finer than he'd ever tasted.

She smiled after she broke the kiss, caressing his blonde hair with one hand. "This is the Joffrey I know, gentle and caring," she said simply.

Joffrey didn't know what happened. One moment he was staring at her in mild incomprehension, the next he was kissing her almost desperately as they whirled towards the big bed, pieces of clothing flying away wildly as an almost weightless sensation took over Joffrey, fears and worries washing away under the relentless, burning kisses of Nalia.

.-

He awoke slowly, the lazy sunlight of the late afternoon sun washing over the black silk sheets. Nalia lay asleep beside him but an inch away, her smooth face half covered by her brown hair.

Joffrey spent a while just watching her, his eyes tracing her curves absentmindedly, feeling strangely lightheaded. He was possessed by a strange clarity as he quietly got out of the bed and clothed himself in his light leathers. He kissed her gently in the forehead before walking outside the room, his legs almost with a mind of its own as he walked out of the building altogether, the guards outside giving him a tiny nod.

He walked through the slowly dimming streets of King's Landing, his absentminded strides carrying him through the Muddy Way, the various vendors and merchants gradually stowing their carts and wagons, tired but satisfied after a productive day. He spotted throngs of children dashing past him, chasing a dog with wild abandon.

He saw a dozen maids past a private manse's gates, stretching wide a heavy blanket and shaking it before folding it in a quick choreographed sequence, the oldest of them staring at the steadily overcast skies before leading them all inside. He saw a couple of beggars making their way back to Flea Bottom, their faces gaunt and malnourished.

He walked past seamstresses and cobblers, the latter's callused hands full with the weight of cheap ale mugs as they followed the former's heavy bossoms in longing. More than a few of them sported angry little pinpricks in their hands, evidence of one fondling too many. He saw a little boy younger than Rickon Stark still over the cobblestones, unmoving.

The red cloaks at the Red Keep's gate bowed respectfully as he walked past them.

"Best you turned in early m'prince, the Seven are brewing a mighty summer storm me'thinks," said Orland, the small looking red cloak giving him a small smile.

"Seems so, Orland, seems so…" Joffrey said as he looked at him for a moment. The redcloak's plate was smoothly polished except for the small part next to the lower left strap, where a string of sticks had been drawn with white chalk. He was still wearing that ridiculous piece of burned wood, tied around his neck with a small string.

"Something the matter m'prince?" he suddenly asked him.

Joffrey shook his head with a small smile as he walked past him, making his way to Maegor's Holdfast. The wind was heavy with the scent of a storm as he stopped beside a small pillar, looking at the small courtyard where Tommen and Bran took turns moving around with a shield, their feet struggling to follow the rhythm of the rather amusing jig Sandor was humming. The footwork exercise soon got the better of Tommen though, causing him to stumble and crash against Bran, leaving them both tangled up in the ground. He kept walking, Clegane's barking fading with the twists and turns of the hallways.

He walked up a flight of stairs before lingering a moment over a window, the sight of a harried Ned Stark hounded by both his daughters as they all walked to the Tower of the Hand making him smile. He was already walking away when Myrcella bumped into him, her face quickly lightening up as she looked up to him.

"Hey Joffrey!" she greeted him before thrusting a small flower into his hands.

"Is this for me?" Joffrey asked her, amused as he looked at the pale and wide, almost dark green petals surrounding the yellow pollen.

Her eyes lit up as she smiled, "Yes! You're always going to the Godswood in the morning, so I figured I'd take a flower from there and leave it in your room, it could help you sleep too!" she said happily.

"Thank you, Myrcella," Joffrey said seriously as he kneeled a bit, "For everything," he added as he gazed at her fondly. "It also plays well with your eyes," she said cheekily as she snatched the flower from his hands and placed it over his ear before dashing away.

Joffrey protested at her fleeing back but she was already gone, leaving him there in the hallway as he scratched his ear.

He decided to leave the flower there as he kept going up Maegor's Holdfast, finally reaching the wooden stars that carried him to one of the holdfast's towers. His small bundle of rags and books was still there, next to his painting of King's Landing. The city was now depicted under great wide strokes, a collage made up of different shades of white only an Ibbenese or a Northman would really understand.

Joffrey leaned over one of the crenellations, looking at the city as the sun almost disappeared under the horizon. The clouds above King's Landing looked dark and heavy, the breeze atop the tower vaguely warm and oddly still.

Below, carts and wagons were already clearing the streets. The people looked smaller from atop the tower, their tiny forms seeking shelter in the multitude of white and brown buildings. Some of the houses and taverns had light shining within, hearth fires drawing in both family and clientele as bards, storytellers and charlatans took up the space closest to it, some sort of ancient instinct making the listeners come close to the tales and the fire.

It was raining now, the distant crackling of thunder rumbling in the distance, almost a faint whisper. Joffrey closed his eyes as he let his head tilt up, the rain washing his face of sweat and salt. The stars were like tiny pinpricks in the great dark mantle of clouds, their light occasionally peering through the gaps in the dark grey sea.

He looked south, as if trying to peer beyond the horizon to see the sands of Dorne, the dark green forests of the Stormlands. He wondered how many little hamlets were now battening down wooden windows and heavy doors in the Reach, how many more across the Narrow Sea to the east, sea captains and hardy sailors franticly securing rope and sail.

The rain was constant, almost heavy atop his shoulders as the thunder crackled close, the flash big enough to light the city for a moment. He wasn't bothered by it though, his mind deep in abstract thought as he remembered how the Vale of Arryn looked from atop the Mountains of the Moon, great bowls of grey and green etched on the surface of the land as if by great spoons of stone, each bowl a riot of understated colors that nonetheless always seemed to share the same palette as the other.

Joffrey breathed in deeply as another thunder snaked through the sky almost atop the city itself, the wind still warm as it flew in from Blackwater Bay. He took the small flower over his ear, looking at its drenched, slightly bent form. Even as he looked the heavy rain took one of the green petals with it, leaving it broken. Joffrey twirled with it absentmindedly as the thunders roared and a great gust of wind took another petal, his heart beating heavily.

He wondered if Tommen and Myrcella were already in their rooms, or if they had scuttled towards Mother's bed like they had done when they were little. The great thunders continued unabated, their great roars mixed with the crashing of the waves as the sea responded in kind, almost to the tune of his heart as he grunted in discomfort, his gaze turning to his painting of King's Landing. The water was rubbing it down, dissolving the tinctures and leaving great splotches in the canvas, splotches of white in between the city.

He closed his eyes tightly, his hands almost clammy as he held on to the crenellation, his head hanging low as the pain in his chest reached unbearable proportions and he breathed deeply, each time slower than the last.

He thought of the lush fields of the Riverlands, the quiet dignity of Oldtown, the skittering deers of the Stormlands.

He thought of Jon in the far north, of Eddard's face as he was hounded by Sansa and Arya, of Sandor and his half scowl and Mother and her schemes.

King's Landing was completely silent, drowned under the relentless rain and the great thunders as his forehead came to rest on the stone crenellation, his hands locked into tight fists.

The pain in his chest was almost unbearable, his hands trembling as he thought of ice and copper.

Copper, he thought, his fists gently uncurling.

He arrived at a conclusion as he lifted his head back towards the city, an enormous thunder almost leaving him deaf as the pain in his chest exploded and he dared say it aloud.

"I'll have to be King," he said, the words lost in the wind as the thunder somehow, impossibly, kept on going right behind him with the fury of a thousand lesser storms.

He turned in a second, one hand grabbing his chest in pain as his ears ringed. Right in the center of the tower was the Silver Lion, its roar the greatest thunder of them all. It stopped as Joffrey stumbled back only to bump against the crenellations again, the warhorse sized beast gazing at him with pale green eyes as its blonde mane shuffled with the wind.

Joffrey stood there, limp, almost paralyzed, only his tight grip on the crenellation stopping him from falling to his death. "H-h-how?" he asked dumbly. The Silver Lion sat on its haunches, tilting its head sideways almost quizzically as it stared back at him.

The rain kept dousing them as they both stared at each other, its constant noise the only indication that time itself had not been frozen. Joffrey managed to regain his feet, awkwardly shuffling closer and waiting for the lion to do anything. The great beast just stared at him though, its oddly familiar eyes boring into his own. The rain was back to normal now, the thunders still rolling inland up the Kingsroad, the winds dying down.

Soon he was standing right in front of it, his hand rising to touch the lion's head. Joffrey somehow knew the Silver Lion would not hurt him, strange familiarity guiding his hand as he scratched its blonde mane… it was almost as if he'd known it his whole life.

The lion practically collapsed on its side, purring as Joffrey scratched the side of its head like one would a cat. "You like that, huh?" Joffrey mused out loud, knowing it did. The shock was quickly wearing out, almost implausibly fast, he knew the Silver Lion as much as he knew himself.

The rain started to peter out, the droplets gradually becoming scarce as he sat next to the lion, a deep tiredness taking ahold of him as he lay with his back propped up by its belly, the lion's head curling to his side as he kept scratching it absentmindedly.

"It's on us… it's on us to do it right…" Joffrey muttered as a deep lethargy claimed him, his eyes growing heavy until the only thing he could see was the partially clouded sky. His mind grew hazy as the Silver Lion's eyes drooped as well, the beast's uncanny pale green eyes looking at the stars above, same as Joffrey but a moment before. Shah's words reached him in that moment, like a needle of clarity as he gazed back at the starry vault.

"Starwatcher…" he named his strange companion, the corner of his mouth turning up as the lion growled slightly.

"Stars then," he relented with a half-smile, though his thoughts were jumbled and soon he didn't have the strength to speak, he could only gaze at the stars as his eyes slowly drooped.

His dreams were confusing, jumbled. Archmaester Vaellyn's words resounded through the dreamscape, his calm hands drawing orbits below the Citadel Vaults, the Hightower's light a beacon in the dark, the grey horizon of the Beyond and its cloudless nights an overwhelming expanse.

Stars, the thought hit him as he woke up slowly, the night sky still overhead as he tilted his head to the right. He saw the lines, the obvious lines between the stars to the north, his eyes drawing not a warrior or a soldier but a Knight. The Knight, shield and sword held hand in hand. He turned his head slowly as he found The Broom, very similar to a common mace if one saw it upside down, the bundle of stars named by the smallfolk of time immemorial, named after an eternal implement of the common household… It was still quite a distance from a very specific tree, christened by the First Men and still named thus even after the attempts of countless Andal astronomers to rename it.

Joffrey's eyes traced the imaginary lines between the stars, the name emerging into his consciousness with the smell of Oldtown chalk and the rustling of ancient books. The Weirwood.

They're not runes…

They're constellations, he thought in shock, unable to blink as the lines were almost seared into his eyes.

Constellations that would only make sense to a modern Westerosi, who knew its twists and origins, its mesh of cultures, the product of Andal and First Men stargazing since time immemorial mixed into a syncretic pantheon of celestial bodies thanks to our unique history…

The answers had been staring at him all this time, shining from above.

.-

AN: This chapter was a pain to get out, rewrote whole parts of it because there was too much tell and not enough show... finally decided on pure show for a lot of parts and especially the climax. I hope Joffrey's struggle with himself as well as the resolution shined through without spelling it out... definitively one of the most difficult chapters!

Remember to Comment!

Last edited: Aug 27, 2017

Purple Days (ASOIAF): From one day to the other, Joffrey Baratheon wakes up a changed man. Far from the spoiled boy-child known to the court of King's Landing, the Joffrey that comes out of his room three days after the death of John Arryn walks with the stride of a veteran commander and leader of men. A scholar, a sea-captain, a general, a lover. This is the story of how he became that man, and how he came to know his purpose through a cycle of endless death and rebirth that saw him explore his self and the known world from Braavos to Sothoryios and from Old Town to Yi-Ti... and beyond. (Character Development, Adventure, Worldbuilding, Mystery & Suspense, Romance, Action). (Turtledove 2017 winner!).

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baurus

Aug 26, 2017

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Threadmarks Art Omake: Purple Samsara. New

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Victoro

Victoro

Sep 19, 2017

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Well i did it. I create a account here in Space Battles forums just for reply to this thread. Let me introduce myself. My name is Victoro and i bumped into this fic because of Tv tropes (don't ask) and got hooked by that powerful deeply scarred Joffrey from the first chapter. The canon Joffrey was already one of my favorite characters and Mr. Baurus turned him into something really remarkable indeed. I've been finding myself thinking a lot about this little fiction of yours. And even to the point that i found myself sketching a drawing of your main character. I named it "Samsara" after the theological terminology of a soul's journey in the infinity of the existence. A concept shared for some religions.

Spoiler: My fanart

Curiously this is the first time i have uploaded a fanfiction fanart that is not from a work of mine. Well there was some i did for "Release That Witch" , a "Greyjoy Alla Breve" realistic chinese novel. But i was unable to send it for it's chinese author since i not know how to at the time. Originally i was thinking of a short graphic novel out of the end of the first chapter were Joffrey dies in Ned's arms. But in the end i go with a simple drawing of the various Joffreys that arise in his endles torment. Look at the Maester Joffrey! Hoho

Seriously this fic got me in the nerve. im elated with its content. Congratulations to Mr. Baurus and a really hope that your muse bring us more chapters of this impressive work!

Last edited: Apr 21, 2018

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Threadmarks Chapter 30: Constellations. New

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baurus

baurus

Special Circumstances Agent

Oct 13, 2017

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AN: As it has become depressingly regular, I was not too sure about this chapter before deciding to, again, get it done with. Also, my attempts at writing shorter updates failed miserably and water is wet, more news at eleven.

The track I posted is a bit different from the usual, but its what I listened to again and again as I wrote parts of this chapter, so I guess it should fit.

...

...

Chapter 30: Constellations.

Breathe.

Joffrey inhaled deeply, concentrating solely in the air slowly filling his lungs. The peace of the Red Keep's Godswood was undisturbed as he let the air out, the outside world shrinking to nothing as he let his senses feel everything and nothing at once. Pain and pleasure, cold and heat alternating with each hammering of his beating heart as time slowly ceased to have meaning.

His breathing was steady, calm. His eyes closed, with only a twitch of a smile as the strange pain in his chest bloomed and then quickly quieted.

Joffrey's eyes opened slowly, his smile widening under the Godswood as he lifted his left hand and felt Star's fur, the Silver Lion purring as it sat by his side, content yet vigilant.

The Godswood was deserted at this hour of the morning, the sun barely starting to peek over the horizon. It had taken days of almost continuous meditation, chasing after the elusive sensation he'd felt under the storm that had crashed against King's Landing weeks ago, but his effort had paid off. His search had taken him deep within, to a place neither mental nor physical, a bizarre frontier between the here and the not here. It was there that Joffrey had come to understand the sensation he felt every time he saw the Silver Lion… and used it as one might a rope, following it deeper within. Though he had not yet reached the place it came from, already Joffrey had to take several minutes to come back to reality, his consciousness slowly returning to lucidity as a lazy bubble climbing out of the depths of a still pond.

He leaned back from his rigid posture, letting the oak have his weight as he absentmindedly scratched Star's neck, quickly entangling the wild tufts of fur that made his black mane. The big lion was content to lie in the grass beside him, their wills strangely entwined.

He was quickly becoming exhausted though, so he let Stars go, his presence at his side slowly dissipating until he was alone again in the clearing.

Almost four minutes… and no fainting too… he thought with a satisfied smile. He was improving.

He stood up and walked back to the Red Keep itself, ignoring the strange looks the Stark guardsmen gave him. They seemed wary, tense… same as the Stormlanders that Renly kept close whenever he was in the Red Keep.

Though he had seen no overt signs of escalating tensions, the mood around the Red Keep had again been getting steadily more foreboding with the passing weeks. Joffrey didn't know what was the cause behind it, but it was probably nothing good. Had Ned Stark found indisputable evidence of his bastardry? Was there something going on somewhere else in the realm that he was not privy to? Bran was safe and sound here in the Red Keep, and Tyrion too. There was no sign of raids in the Riverlands, and Stannis was keeping quiet back in Dragonstone.

So what was going on?

Joffrey shook his head in frustration… it was only now that the monumental task he had set upon himself was starting weight him down, and he wasn't even King yet!

So many players, so many variables…

He shook his head again as he walked, the prospect of another visit to Nalia's cheering him up. At least there was one person in King's Landing that understood him.

.-

The midday visit was, like always, a balm to Joffrey's soul. Nalia's gentle ministrations and curious questions centering his mind in the present in a way no manner of meditation could compete.

"I just don't know if it's too late to stop the coming war," Joffrey said as he put on his doublet.

"Maybe, maybe not. You never know until you try, Joff," said Nalia, her delicate fingers buttoning his shirt. They were in their usual room, a calm oasis safe from the steadily rising tensions that were flooding King's Landing.

"Perhaps…" Joffrey said with a small smile, her optimism cheering him up. "But I feel my many month's long introspection may have left me disadvantaged…" he said.

"That's never stopped you before… have thought about what you'll do?" Nalia asked him as she tucked a wisp of blonde hair behind Joffrey's ear.

"A bit… I've been thinking about sending a raven for Archmaester Ryam at the Citadel. I've got a few ideas I want to run through-" he suddenly stopped as he tilted his head sideways, his whole body tensing.

"Joffrey?" asked Nalia, her smooth hand cupping his cheek, "Remember to breathe," she said with a vaguely reproachful look.

Joffrey shook his head slightly, his fond smile returning. "Sorry… it's been hard to… relax my reflexes, I suppose…" he said as he grabbed his arming sword and strapped it to his side.

"Good luck kiss before I go?" he asked her with a raised eyebrow.

Nalia shook her head fondly before kissing him, her tongue teasing him slightly before she stepped back, "The rest is for tomorrow," she told him with a cheeky smile.

Joffrey chuckled as he walked towards the door, only to stop abruptly and tense once more.

"Joffrey? Again?" asked Nalia.

A twinge of nervousness in her voice.

Joffrey stood still for ten seconds, silent. Suddenly, he grabbed the nearby chair and slammed it against the door, making it impossible to be opened from the outside.

"Joffrey?! What-" Nalia asked but Joffrey was already dashing past her, running like a madman towards the wooden wall only to jump at the last second, both feet angled towards it.

The fake wall collapsed as he smashed into it, extracting a strangled yelp from the other side. Joffrey stood up like lightning, his hand jutting in amongst the dust and the smashed planks and swiftly extracting a thin, coughing man from under the planks.

"Fucking spies! How long have you been listen-" Joffrey stopped suddenly, his brows furrowing as he stepped back, still grabbing the thin, black haired man in simple but fine noble clothing by the neck.

"…Littlefinger..?" Joffrey asked, absolutely confused.

The man kept coughing as Joffrey held him, struggling for air as Joffrey stopped squeezing.

"Pr-…Prince Joffrey," he wheezed, his voice dry.

Joffrey was shaking his head slowly, not quite understanding the situation. "Baelish… how long...?" he asked, blinking slowly.

"My Prince"- he started with a tentatively gentle smile -"let us discuss this calmly li-" his retort died under Joffrey's relentless, steel like grip, his body feeling strange as he kept squeezing the Master of Coin's throat.

"How. Long," he repeated his voice oddly neutral.

"Mhok…..mhooaah…. months…" croaked Littlefinger.

Nalia's voice became a drone in the background as Joffrey walked, dragging Baelish to the room's balcony. The man's eyes widened as he registered what Joffrey intended to do. He fumbled for the dagger at his waist before Joffrey slapped it aside carelessly, tumbling down to the street below.

"What were you planning?" he asked calmly as he shattered the wooden rail with a kick before holding Baelish in midair, one hand at this throat and the other on holding his fine doublet. Baelish's legs swung wildly as he struggled for air, his panicked eyes looking down to the streets and back to Joffrey every second.

He coughed, red faced before Joffrey let him take a gulp of air and his feet managed to find a slight purchase against the edge of the balcony. "I was only tasked with keeping watch over your health my Princ- NO PLEASE NO!" Joffrey interrupted his excuses as he let go of his throat, the hand grabbing the Master of Coin's doublet the only thing stopping him from falling backwards to his death.

"What were you planning, last chance," Joffrey said truthfully, the gaping pit inside his belly growing wider and wider.

"Ahh! Ah! A change of heir! A change of heir!" Petyr confessed as he gripped Joffrey's hand with both of his own, holding on for dear life as the people below shouted.

Joffrey shook his head again, nonplussed, "Robert would never believe your word you stupid fuck," he spat.

"He believed Lord Renly and Ned Stark!" he blabbered as he kept staring down, hyperventilating as a small breeze shuffled his hair, "I brought them here and- please my Prince, I can help you fix this-"

"AND WHAT?!" Joffrey roared, extending his arm and almost letting go of him.

"They saw! The crown prince is mad! Filled with visions of despair like King Aerys come again!" Baelish screamed, the abrupt circumstances making him blurt out the standard response he'd no doubt been seeding around the Red Keep.

Joffrey could somehow hear the rush of blood inside his head, slowly drowning out everything else as he struggled to understand. "But Mother would never allow this… She'd kill Robert before… Oh…" he suddenly realized.

"That's exactly what you wanted, isn't it? Fucking Petyr Baelish… always, somehow, seeding chaos wherever you go… why did you… why did you have to ruin this… I… I needed this… I…" Joffrey slowly stopped speaking as everything turned red, the rush of blood drowning Baelish's scream as he shoved him, sending him flying through the air towards the ground.

He turned around like a White Walker, the sound of pounding fists on the room's door also growing inconsequential as he stared at a petrified Nalia, standing next to the bed. "…You knew?" he asked her, his voice hollow.

"Joffrey please! I had to! He said I'd-" her wailing also became indistinct as Joffrey walked towards her, a hollow, pleasurable smirk emerging from his lips as he drew his arming sword.

Nalia's previous ministrations where nothing compared to the joy she was about to bring him now.

Her eyes widened as she stumbled backwards, hitting the wall and opening her mouth to scream though Joffrey could hear no sound as he slashed at her leg, then at her arm, and at her beautiful chest, again and again, her hot blood feeling like a balm over his body as he hacked her apart… but he was going to leave her face for the last. His greatest work, his masterpiece.

When the door broke down and two of the local armsmen stumbled through with swords drawn, the bloodied form of Joffrey turned towards them, a savage smile on his lips as he charged with a wild screech.

.-

The rest of the day was a blur to Joffrey. It was only next morning that he regained enough lucidity to really comprehend what was going on. He jumped out of the small hummock he'd been sleeping on, rushing out the door and up a set of small stairs only to almost fall down the side of a small trade cog.

"I trust the accommodations were good enough?" grunted a man behind him.

Joffrey whipped around only to find a small, unassuming man with a small purple beard, a sardonic smile at his lips. "Paid enough gold for that," he grunted again as he shook his head in mild disbelief.

"Wha-" started Joffrey but the man held up his hand.

"Don't worry, we chucked the clothes to the sea. I don't know who you murdered, though it must have been a fat bastard… and I'm not asking. That is unless, you want my payment back?" he asked nonchalantly. Joffrey didn't need to guess what would happen if he said yes, sailors were not the subtle kind… and the two burly mercenaries at the man's back would be quick to reassure him if he tried to disabuse that notion.

"Keep it," Joffrey grunted as he turned back, leaning heavily on the wooden rail.

Gods… Nalia… what have I done..? Said a distant voice inside his head. He rubbed his face compulsively, trying to rub off her blood. He looked at his reflection through a nearby water bucket, and though his face seemed clean he couldn't stop rubbing it, trying to shake off her remains.

"Gods… no…" he whispered as he fell on his bum, the cog coursing through another wave as the sailors secured sails and swept the deck, not any one of them giving him more than a quick look.

I hurt her… I tortured her… I enjoyed it… the thoughts spiraled inside is head, threatening to make him loose his mind.

He remembered savaging Nalia with his arming sword, and later when he butchered the armsmen that came to stop him, as well as vague impressions of him walking through King's Landing… but there was a part of it where his memory went black, where he couldn't remember even a hazy impression, only blackness… the moment right before he started on her face.

The hollow pit in his stomach deepened as he contemplated what manner of horror he must have inflicted upon her for even his mind to block it…

Why does everything I touch turn to ash? Why am I this way?

The sea had no answers and neither did the crew… Joffrey thought nobody ever would.

.-

It was only when the ship arrived to Tyrosh that Joffrey came to the realization that he'd left his home to die again.

He'd stood there in the Tyroshi pier, the harbor of the great fortress city constantly moving in a frenzy of trade and commerce as he dumbly stared at the side of a dock warehouse.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!" He screamed as he punched the wooden wall. The pain barely phased him even though he'd almost punched clean through the wall, blood running down his fist.

He leaned on it as his legs gave out, slowly sliding to the floor as a nearby beggar shuffled away and the man behind the fruit stand gave him the evil eye.

Does this change anything? He asked himself, the question heavy with too many feelings flashing like lightning through his gut. He closed his eyes as he tilted his head up, the noon sun flooding his sight through his eyelids. Was what he'd felt at the top of the Red Keep that night just a mirage? A lie?

His mind felt strangely still as he pondered that question before he lowered his head and opened his eyes, blinking away the splotches of color flooding his vision.

"No," he said, savoring the simple word. He may have been cursed by the Gods themselves, he may be nothing more than a vicious animal beneath a thin veneer, but he'd long since accepted he was the master of his own fate. He'd made his choice at King's Landing, he was going to honor it. He could be a horrible person, a sadist at heart no better than Maegor the Cruel… but that didn't cancel the fact that only he had a realistic chance to stop what was to come, to give the Seven Kingdoms and maybe even mankind a fighting chance against the abyss…

It was probably impossible to salvage much of anything at this point in time though, after Baelish's scheming and the prince himself disappearing for weeks… either he was already branded as an insane illegitimate bastard or Cercei had gotten to Robert first. Either way the Seven Kingdoms had started their descent into madness, and there was nothing much he could do about it after all that had happened… too much damage had been done to his reputation to do anything about it. The Walkers were going to slaughter his friends and family again, if they didn't do it themselves first.

If you don't kill them first, whispered a hateful, treacherous voice inside his head.

The certainty of that thought hit him like a runaway carriage, yet he steeled himself against the blow, a snarl escaping his mouth as he closed his bloodied fist. Their sacrifice was already a fact, no matter if he died right now or twenty years hence…

He'd have to make the most of it, finally get to the bottom of his wild chase.

He stood up in one swift movement, eyeing the trio of thugs looking at him greedily not half a dozen meters away. He didn't have anything but the clothes at his back, and not even a dirk to defend himself.

Joffrey cracked his neck twice, taking a deep breath as he walked right towards them. He was going to have answers, and Gods and Walkers were not enough to stop him.

.-

Ax Island was the eastern most of the Basilisk Isles, a foreboding thumb of rock jutting from the ocean like an enraged Leviathan. The island was absolutely covered in green, and even though its jungle was said to pale in comparison to the green hell that was Inner Sothoryos, Joffrey thought it was a wonder anyone even lived here at all.

A rasping cough echoed from behind him, the black stone all around him muffling the sound and almost turning it into a whisper.

He turned back to the sight of a bloodied corsair in black leathers, slowly crawling away from him with his arms, his legs barely more than a dead weight for all the help they were giving him.

Well, a wonder that anyone used to live here anyway, he thought as he walked to the man, stomping a boot against his back and placing his boarding cutlass just over where the heart should be.

"P-please! I-I can give you gold! Women! I can aaaaghhh," Joffrey interrupted the headache inducing stream of bastard valyrian and pidgin ghiscary with a quick stab, blood pooling around the corsair's chest as his arms gave out and he hugged the cold, dark stone.

Joffrey shook his head as he wiped the blood off the cutlass with the man's body. For all the bravado and arrogance the motley crew of corsairs had displayed, Joffrey had found their skill profoundly lacking.

Serves the idiots right for attacking a simple explorer… Joffrey thought with a snort, striding towards the last set of stairs and through a ruined, threadbare cloth door.

Joffrey estimated that the corsairs had been squatting in the fort for less than three months, given the supplies and haphazard repairs all around the area. He doubted a full year of rebuilding would have made a difference though, for the fort of the much dreaded Xandarro Xhore was falling to pieces.

He raised an eyebrow as he kneeled, vaguely offended as he felt the black stone with his hand. It was obvious to anyone with even a passing knowledge of construction that Xandarro Xhore had been no architect. The black stones the man had looted from ancient ruins around the island were solid enough, eerily similar to the ones found in Old Town or the Five Forts… but the arrangement and the mortar the Qartheen pirate of ages past had settled on made very little sense indeed.

He took a deep breath of fresh sea air as he stood up, smoothing his ragged leather armor as he scanned the horizon for signs of any other pirate, corsair or even the occasional foolhardy trader. He swore he could almost see the tantalizing shore of Sothoryos to the south, the deadly continent where none save the Brindled Men could hope to settle and live.

With the horizon clear of any ships Joffrey was content to turn back to what he'd been doing before the damned corsairs had interrupted him...

He was hopeful, after all, Xandarro had to have looted the black stone from somewhere on the island…

.-

The rainstorm sounded strangely muffled under the massive canopy of leaves and branches, the torrent of water pouring from above reduced to only a few natural causeways by the leaves and dark brown branches. They were spread out in such a pattern that the water was naturally directed towards the tree's trunk like a Braavosi conductor might lead an orchestra, each branch and leave carefully positioned to make use of slopes and gravity to ensure its water supply. The competition was cutthroat though, with rival trees placing their leaves atop the others and carefully growing bone white spikes of wood that drilled into enemy trunks when the trees where close enough.

Joffrey was startled out of his reverie by the feather light touch on his arm, and not screaming was all he could do as he gazed at the beautiful yellow and green butterfly lazily flapping its wings, its tiny legs finding purchase over his light leathers. Joffrey staid still over the black stone he'd been sitting on, the frustration after not finding a single carving dissolved to nothing as he stared at the butterfly in dread, not daring to move an inch.

The butterfly stretched its wings a few times before deciding that Joffrey had been a good enough support pillar and that he didn't deserve to die, flying away with barely a sound. Joffrey collapsed on the ground with a heavy sigh, compulsively scratching his arm in relief.

He stood back up, giving one last look at the useless would-have-been obelisk before strapping a length of rope to it. He walked for a bit, making sure the rope was tense as he reached a small clearing. The thick, green canopy of Ax Island stopped as if it had slammed against an invisible wall, no trees growing close to the carriage sized hole at the middle of the clearing.

Joffrey strapped the rope to his waist before making sure his sealskin bag was tightly tied to his back, taking one long look down the dark hole before standing with his back towards it, letting the rest of the rope fall.

"Why, oh why couldn't they have left the freaking clues in the Summer Islands," he grumbled as he jumped down.

His gloves ran hot as the rope slipped through them, his body tumbling through the twilight darkness of the huge cave, the paltry light coming from above barely enough to see his hands. Inside the cave he could hear great echoes of fury, roars of slamming waves against rock and stone as he kept going down deeper into the abyss.

He engaged the iron break on the rope, stopping his descent and leaving his hands free to take the small torch tied to his belt. He carefully put it under his left hand before jamming the rings he wore on both thumb and index finger, the sudden sparks from the flint and steel dazing him for a second before the torch was lit.

He let the torch fall, following its uncomfortably long decent into darkness until it hit the ground with a dull thud, the rope just barely reaching its side.

Good, I'll be damned if I had to get even more rope… he thought as he let go of the iron break. As it was he'd nearly stripped the small corsair sloop of all its rigging. Perhaps the corsairs had not been as useless as he'd thought...

He finally reached the ground with only a few meters of rope to spare, the sound of the waves inside the huge cave almost deafening. He walked a bit to his right and saw the furious waves crashing against the hard, oily black stone, the torch now in his hand aiding little to his task as he gazed at the veritable lake inside the cave, jagged cliffs of black stone flanking its sides.

"Must be connected to the sea… an underwater tunnel maybe…" Joffrey mused to himself as he gazed at the black waves. He turned back towards the edges of the cave, looking for any signs of runes or pictograms, squinting and staring closely to every single patch of rock inside the cave.

He scratched his small, scraggily beard before nodding, a crazy smirk adorning his features as he carefully climbed down the steep black cliffs, towards the inner lake itself. He spent a while going in a circle around it, checking every single side of the cliffs. He almost missed the small opening just above the sea-level, a triangular tunnel boring into the rock.

Joffrey's heart beat wildly as he reached the tunnel, the light from his torch illuminating the carvings at the sides. The murals were the same as in Bonetown, a man standing up in defiance or despair or something, then it showed the figure being torn apart by a mob of other men and then scattering all over the tunnel. There the pattern ended, only for it to repeat a few steps later.

Joffrey kneeled besides one of the black seals that were spaced every dozen meters, grabbing the man shaped handle and pulling it pack with all his strength. For a moment he thought it wouldn't budge, but suddenly there was a dry click and it gave way. He kept pulling it, whistling slowly as a triangular prism of purple-black stone emerged from the wall.

"Obsidian…" he whispered, running a hand through its scarred and pitted surface. The blocks were thus that any sort of weapon could be fashioned from them, from arrow tips to even longswords, if someone had been foolish enough to try it.

A gift from the past… and this time not looted by traitors to mankind…

He left the shard there, continuing through the tunnel as his heart beat soared and his mouth suddenly felt dry. A section of the tunnel was angled downwards, strangely bent, and Joffrey cursed out loud as he saw water. It seemed something had given out above the tunnel, though its construction had been so sturdy that it hadn't cracked open. Instead it was bent, and water flooded the section completely.

Joffrey stared at it for a few seconds before taking off his leather armor, leaving only his small clothes and his sealskin bag on his person.

"Let's go for a swim then," he whispered before he dived.

The water was freezing, leeching the warmth out of his body as he pumped his arms and his legs, pushing himself ever forwards… and ever downwards. The light from the torch quickly turned into a distant memory as the passage turned darker and darker, Joffrey's hands growing dimmer until he could not even see them.

It felt like decades before he touched the ground, his hands feeling the rising slope that would take him back towards precious air… but his lungs were already burning.

He swam with all his strength, his hands still feeling the corridor's floor as it kept angling upwards, the burning pain spreading around his chest like wildfire, his mouth begging to be opened for just. A. Tiny. Second.

The corridor's upward slope became the only constant in Joffrey's life as he kept swinging his legs and everything turned dark, his own body invisible to his eyes as his strokes grew lazy and the corridor seemed to stretch to infinity, an infinity as deep as the Purple filled with unending fractals and shadows andpain—

Joffrey took a harrowing breath as his head broke the waterline, immediately expelling it and gulping for air again, wild coughs spraying water all around him as he splashed wildly, his hands frenzied and not really sure about what to do.

He breathed again and again as his hands found something solid and maybe drier, desperate strength pulling him out of the water and collapsing on the ground belly up.

A screaming, bloated Joffrey stared back at him. His hands clawed at his throat in despair, eyes almost squished under the pressure of the Strangler. From its sides tendrils of fractals and strange silhouettes flowed like water atop the trees just above the cavern, snaking through the chamber towards the center, where Joffrey knew his message awaited.

He rolled with a huff and a strain of effort, standing up in a bit of a daze as he got back his bearings. He was already going through the motions of taking his oil lamp from his sealskin bag when he realized he could already see.

He dropped the bag in stupefied amazement as he gazed at the final scene of his wedding illuminated by wild streaks of bright green moss and frail looking yellow mushrooms, hanging from crooks and crannies all over the chamber.

He stumbled to one of the flat topped mushrooms and the pale, beautiful yellow light emerging from its underside, his hand almost touching it.

He stood there for a moment, mesmerized before he shook his head and lowered his arm. It was probably poisonous, like everything else in this godsforsaken island.

"Alright, what have you got for me," he said out loud as he strode decisively towards the center of the chamber, kneeling over the small circle filled with half dead scribbles and constellations. It seemed to be of the same design as that of Bonetown, though time and erosion had wiped away different parts, leaving Joffrey with new insights.

He hand traced the shape of a small building with seven sides, complete with tiny doors and windows if one stretched the imagination a bit and ignored the scars of time.

A Sept, thought Joffrey. The Sept. it was strange though, the Sept was surrounded by four extra dots…

He kept staring at the carvings, finding the remnants of what he now knew should be the Heart Tree and the Broom, exactly where they should be if they were whole, followed by other shapes.

A man with a hammer held high, a long and slim tower, a robed figure with a skull in its hands…

Joffrey went to his bag and brought it back, taking a cloak from it and wrapping it around his shivering body. He sat again just besides the carvings, thinking hard as he took out the oil lantern and lit it, the small warmth helping him fight the cold as he shook off the last of the water. He took out a strip of beef jerky, munching it for a good long while before drowning it back with a long gulp of his wineskin, the looted Ghiscary swill purging his throat rawer than the Strangler.

He took in a deep breath as he laid back, tired. "A lunch fit for a King," he declared to no one in particular.

So… Bran the Builder, The Watchtower and The Stranger..? He thought, images of stars and constellations cartwheeling through his mind. Those were the ones he had been able to identify immediately, though there were a few more he could likely salvage by comparing them with the other incomplete ones from Bonetown. That was a sight he was never going to forget.

It was strange though, some, but not all, of the constellations had one, two or as much as ten dots around them, while in other parts one or two dots stood alone, as if standing in for a constellation. They must add some extra meaning to each specific instance of the constellation, because he'd seen two Septs, one with four dots and one with three.

He gazed at the center again, his eyes lowering towards the inscription and filling in the letters he still remembered from Bonetown.

"V…R…Y…NE…" He spelled out loud, filling the missing letters with what he remembered. "EVERY..?" he sampled the word in his mouth, frowning. "EVERYONE..?" he asked himself. "EVERYONE B… H… PR..P…L… PURPLE?" he said out loud, sounding out the words. He kept going on through the small sentence again and again, trying to decipher some kind of meaning between what he saw, what he remembered and pure conjecture.

EVERYONE B- something H-something PURPLE something something TO something RIGHT?

By the Gods, I'm so close…

He could feel it in his bones, he was close, so tantalizingly close…

He turned back to the constellations, memorizing every single detail. He was going to need more to decipher this, but the question was… where?

Joffrey absentmindedly ate another piece of jerky, tapping the black stone with his fingers.

He took another drink from the Ghiscary swill, emptying the wineskin as he looked back to the constellations.

There's one other place I know of that boasts an ominous oily black stone construction…

It was talked about in hushed, dreaded whispers in the pirate havens of the Basilisk Isles, in restrained greed and resignation in New Ghis…

It was madness to even contemplate it... but then again, Joffrey was bemused and somewhat saddened when he realized he'd done worse.

He eyed the murals one more time as he nodded to himself, the last seconds of his first life staring down upon him.

"South," he said out loud, "I need to go south," he repeated, his eyes distant as he imagined the dread jungles of Inner Sothoryios, the distant shadow of the Ruined City of Yeen.

.-

The chair sized, long legged bird had multicolored feathers, a riot of color meant both to daze predators and attract mates. The feathers swayed almost with a mind of their own as the bird took one carefully measured step under the thick jungle, head tilted just so it could hear the tiny worms scuttling under the earth. The dark green canopy left the jungle in perpetual twilight, the light barely reaching the ground as if even the sun were scared to tread upon the ancient lands. The bird stood still, straining to hear the sounds of the jungle and its riot of life… but this far into Sothoryos the jungle was oddly quiet, the gentle, careful steps of the rainbow colored bird almost unbearably loud.

It took another step, right besides a clump of hardy looking bushes that had somehow been able to grow despite the paltry light that reached them. All around the bird numerous, numberless thin and thick tree trunks stretched towards the air in a maddened arms race for sunlight, while parasitic growth roots spread from treetop to treetop, strangling the very same trees that gave them life or sapping their strength with blood red roots. The ground was full of leaves and roots and moss, a veritable bed of nature that hid the very ground from sight.

Suddenly the bird struck, darting its long, needle like beak right through the leaves and even the mossy dirt, lightning like speed extracting a thumb sized squirming worm. The bird slurped it almost immediately, taking a second to luxuriate in the sweet basking of victory before deciding to fly away.

That extra second cost it its life as the bushes behind it suddenly darted forward, what had seemed like just another mound of dirt opening itself to reveal a double row of razor sharp teeth that closed with a cataclysmic crash, the strength of the thing's jaws strong enough to cut the bird in half and sent part of it tumbling away with a squirt of bright red blood. The apparent mobile mound of dirt and bushes revealed itself as something more as it swallowed its meal and considered whether to dart forward in search of the other half. The crocodile like beast was the size of a long table, with thick green scales, brown snout and a long, spiked tail. It opened its huge nostrils as its beady reptile eyes scanned the ground, taking a long smell for even a hint of another being close by.

Content with its safety, the big, lumbering beast stomped its way towards the other half of the bird, the bushes that grew from its back swaying to and fro.

As it devoured the other half, the tree to its side slowly opened two eyes, just a few meters above the beast. The pale green irises seemed to inspect the beast for a dozen seconds before a whole part of the tree collapsed with barely a sound. The man sized lump of dried bark and fresh leaves landed atop the beast with a fearsome roar, the steel tipped spear piercing right through its neck scales before the beast rolled aside with a wild screech.

The man sized lump of dirt, sap, bark and leaves landed on the cushioned ground, rolling before seamlessly standing back up, shedding leaves and pieces of wood everywhere.

The beast barely had time to shake the spear off before the man rushed towards it. It opened its huge maw and closed it faster than a free falling iron portcullis, but the man was already spinning to its left, jamming his serpentine like dagger in the same place where he'd stabbed the spear.

The beast screeched in agony, thrashing from side to side until it shuddered once more and staid still.

"… There's always a bigger fish. Well, lizard-thing-monster anyway," Joffrey sentenced as he kneeled down and flipped the beast with a grunt of strength, lean, powerful muscles bulging under the strain as he left the beast upside down.

"Hey! I know! Let's place the clues in the middle of the green hell known as Sothoryos! I'm sure the bastard will just love that!" Joffrey said out loud, slamming his dagger into the beast's belly and opening it up from head to tail.

"Excellent idea my friend! Let's place it so fucking deep inside he won't be able to see the sky sometimes!" he said as he started harvesting the body, cutting thick slabs of compact looking meat and leaving it on a bowl made of leaves to his side. His own skin looked like cured leather, tanned and pockmarked with scars and the odd missing bit of flesh.

"Yes! Yes! Maybe he'll spend so much time there he'll go crazy and start talking to himself!" he grumbled as he moved to the beast's head and started chipping away at its skull, expert strokes quickly opening the top and revealing its brain in plain sight.

"Ah, monster lizard brain, been a while since I've had this delicacy," he said to himself with not even a hint of irony. "How it can taste so good and not go bad in weeks I'll never know…" he said as he scooped it up and placed it in a wad of leaves he promptly turned into a ball.

He stood up and gazed at his half hours' worth of harvesting with a pleased nod, placing the meat inside his green leather backpack and grabbing his spear before scrambling off. This deep into Sothoryos half an hour was as much as he dared to stay beside a fresh carcass… There was always a bigger fish.

He hiked through the thick jungle, occasionally having to slash at the undergrowth with his saber and thanking all Andals for the gift of steel every time he did. Steel tools and maesterly lore had been the two things that had enabled him to survive almost one and a half (or was it two?) years in the hell hole known as Sothoryos. He thought the trip to Yeen by river boat would have lasted all of one or two months, but the entire Zamoyos river basin was a man eating death trap, as he'd personally found out. As it was he'd barely made it out of his skiff alive when the Brindled Men ambushed him twenty kilometers upriver from Zamettar… He couldn't complain though, the slightly gentler Brindled Men, those who lived closer to the coast and knew a scattering of the common trade tongues had warned him not to venture upriver like the semi-regular private expeditions from New Ghis. Even though one in five of those survived, the lust for the plentiful riches that lay upstream was enough for men to chance even those odds. Gems, gold, ivory, mahogany, tough exotic leathers, rare herbs and strange semi-precious stones. All enough to see every Ghiscary river galleys merrily sailing upriver slaughtered to a man by the Brindled Men who, Joffrey thought, must make somewhat of a decent living with the supplies those ships so obligingly brought to them every once in a while.

Still, by keeping himself well out of sight of the river he'd scarcely seen one of the massively muscled, big boned brutes past Zamettar. Instead, he got to meet every other happy denizen that made its living on the continent.

He was never going to look at a beetle the same way again.

Loosing sight of the river meant loosing the only obvious landmark to someone who did not outright live here though, and that had meant he'd gotten lost no fewer than seven times. Seven times he'd gotten completely, absolutely, hopelessly lost inside the green hell. One of those times he'd been unable to see the sky for three days. If he'd suddenly found himself in Gogossos, even though the damned ruin was in an island, he wouldn't have been surprised. As it was though, each time he'd managed to find his way again, and a week ago he'd finally sighted the river again.

It was noon by the time he made it to his base camp, starting a fire with the wood he'd collected last night and leaving some of the meat atop the small boulders he used to cook them. He collapsed with a sigh against a thick, fallen brown trunk conveniently located next to the camp fire, letting his back rest there as he looked down.

He was close, some mornings when he climbed atop the trees he could see the black domes of Yeen near the horizon in between the sea of green, a black beacon guiding him in. By now he shouldn't be more than half a week away at the most, assuming his regular marching speed. He was excited, relishing the payoff after months upon months of trekking up and down the thick jungles and fighting off everything from man eating worms to nightmarish monsters that looked like someone had slapped together a Shryke and a horse sized chicken.

His camp was now atop a small hill with a direct view of the Zamoyos, its lazy, murky waters undulating like a serpent across the landscape. Joffrey could just about see some sort of black building from here, right where the first big tributary of the Zamoyos river basin joined the main stream, a big black thing that could be a dome, an obelisk or something else.

He stayed there for a while, the sound of sizzling meat not enough to distract him from a very insistent feeling.

It was only when the fallen tree trunk was moving that Joffrey remembered there had been no such thing this morning. He tried to leap away but the thing was too fast, its huge, wood-like serpentine body wrapping around him impossibly fast.

His mind screamed as the brown colored snake squeezed, its ambush perfect. He managed to get an arm out before the snake locked him into position, the thing's impossible strength trying to crunch him into so much pulp. Joffrey screamed in pain, one flailing hand grabbing the dagger from the floor and stabbing the snake quickly. It wouldn't let him go however, the pain only making it madder as it turned its head towards him, blood red eyes and crazed tongue doing nothing to distract Joffrey from the real danger: the two dagger long fangs dripping with venom.

No! Not now! Joffrey thought as he jammed the dagger against the snake's body desperately, only for the Oak-like snake to slam its fangs against his shoulder.

"AAAAAAaaaaaaahhhh…" he screamed, feeling the sludgy, slow moving venom as it entered his bloodstream.

"No! NO!" Joffrey screamed as both prey and predator rolled on the ground, the snake's death grip unrelenting as it kept its fangs on the back of Joffrey's shoulder, pumping more and more venom into his body. He looked down the hill towards the river, the black beacon with his answers taunting him.

"NO!" he screamed as he pierced the snake's gums with his dagger, separating first one fang from the snake's mouth and then the other. They were still jammed tight against his shoulder but at least they were no longer pumping any more venom into him. The snake reared back its head, spilling blood everywhere as it screeched and tightened the death grip on his body, making him drop the dagger.

Joffrey could hear the sound of bones crunching as the birch like scales of the snake kept tightening around him, stealing his life but half a week's walk from his answers. He kept screaming as he searched deep within himself, the pain granting him an unusual clarity of mind, a deep thrumming that went beyond his breaking ribs, a roar that quickly drowned all other sound as a silver lion the size of a small horse slammed into the snake's head, pinning it to the ground with its great weight and savaging it with its teeth and claws. The pressure around Joffrey soon dropped, though the occasional spasm still sent him reeling in pain before he could disentangle himself from the snake.

Stars shoved the flaccid snake head with one of his paws, making sure it was dead before turning towards Joffrey and lowering his head. Joffrey grabbed Star's mane tightly, letting the big lion drag him away from the still spamming corpse of the snake.

"Tha… that's it… good boy Stars… good boy…" he mumbled as he dropped to his knees, one hand fumbling about for his backpack while the other crossed his chest and tried to dislodge the fangs from the back of his neck.

Joffrey bit off a silent scream, tears falling down his face as he rocked back and forth, his arm in agony… It appeared to be broken… and he didn't have the strength to pull the fangs out.

He stayed there, rocking back and forth as he rode out the pain, his other hand finding the set of boiled cloth bandages he kept in his backpack.

"Stars"- he said as he looked up at the Silver Lion's pale green eyes -"you're going to have to pull them out…" he whispered as he grabbed a small piece of discarded wood as well as a wineskin besides him.

Stars purred slowly as he stared right into his eyes. Joffrey nodded as he took a dozen breaths in two seconds, curling into a ball and biting down hard on the piece of wood.

Do it, Joffrey thought.

He felt Stars carefully positioning his muzzle over where the first fang lay, biting down gently for a second before his shoulder exploded in a storm of pain.

Joffrey screamed silently, huffing and mumbling in agony as he rocked back and forth like a madman, Stars keening in sympathy.

Don't stop, finish it! Joffrey thought in between the pain. He felt Stars quickly biting down on the second fang, and suddenly he was on his side, blooding running down his chest and pooling in the ground around him.

Joffrey shook his head slowly as he tried to sit up, stiffening under the returning pain as he tried to find Stars, though he was nowhere to be found.

Must have passed out for a minute or so, he thought in a daze, blood freely flowing down his shoulder and his chest.

He grabbed the wineskin like a drunkard, never more grateful for the cheap Ghiscary strongwine he'd looted from a beached crate, biting off the lid and taking a long gulp before spilling the rest on his shoulder.

He grunted as he rocked back and forth again in pain, taking another big gulp before tossing the empty wineskin away and grabbing a patch of boiled cloth, gingerly tying it around his whole shoulder.

He laid back on the ground as he took a moment to rest and think, closing his eyes as he remembered the work of Archmaester Volgin. He'd written the most complete compendium to date about the dangers and benefits of all manner of venoms and poisons to be found in Sothoryos.

"Think Joffrey… think… Volgin… Volgin…" he whispered to himself like his life depended on it.

…Fuck! It's been too long… Have to do it the hard way… He thought in despair as he remembered barely two dozen of the venoms and poisons instead of the 120 or so he had memorized.

He opened his eyes slowly, the burning pain in his shoulder slowly spreading around his body. He stood up, stumbling a bit before he got his legs under control and walked to the campfire. Joffrey ignored the half burnt meat as he took one of the raw chunks he'd left beside the campfire, taking it back to the still twitching corpse of the snake. Even in its death throe and covered in blood, the damnable snake still seemed like a fallen tree or an upturned root to him… Truly, everything in Sothoryos was capable of hiding in plain sight.

He grabbed the fallen dagger from the ground and promptly rammed it where the snake's fangs used to be, extracting it covered in gore and yellow, viscous liquid. He careful extended his broken arm forward, dabbing a bit of the venom on his unbroken skin.

He watched it slide down his arm and into the ground, the venom inactive against his skin.

Fuck… as I suspected… he thought as he placed the chunk of raw meat in the ground and did the same, placing some of the venom atop it. He cursed as he saw it fizzle gently, slowly, very slowly dissolving the meat into mush.

... probably an auxiliary digestive aid… leaving the skin unbroken so as to maximize its work time… He hypothesized as he counted the seconds it took for the venom to dissolve a chunk of meat the size of his nail, trying not to cringe as the pain inside his shoulder flared, the pain slowly spreading inside his body. It worked very slowly, but it didn't seem to be stopping.

Though the haphazard experiment would have been enough to expel him from the Citadel were he a real maester, Joffrey couldn't deny his eyes.

Prognosis… death, probably due to systemic shock in 12 hours… he thought as he gazed at the slowly sizzling drops, closing his eyes as he remembered his years in the Citadel.

No… from 12 to 36 hours after injection, depending on the patient's constitution and the size of the dose... no more than 48 hours due to probable acute heart failure.

Joffrey stood up, putting the essential back inside his backpack as he thought feverishly. Trying for a bloodletting without assistance was too risky, too big of a chance to bleed out on the spot… No, his fate was sealed this time.

… I have less than 48, probably 36 hours at the most before I'm turned into a bloody mulch from the inside out or my heart gives out… whichever comes first…

The pain kept creeping throughout his body, his face twitching in pain as he grabbed the spear from the ground, using it as a makeshift walking stick. He would have placed his arm in a cast, but he didn't have enough time, and he needed the mobility.

He was going to have to run if he had any hope of making it to Yeen.

Joffrey took a deep breath as the pain slowly intensified, taking off at a fast jog through the sparser edges of the Jungle, aiming at the black hills beside the Zamoyos.

.-

He jogged all day, through lianas and red colored trees, through cobwebs the size of inns and recklessly speeding through animal trails where he fervently hoped not to find any fellow travelers. By nightfall he'd reached the Zamoyos, and used it as a guide when the sunlight no longer shined over dark Yeen.

By the early morning the exhaustion was creeping in at an accelerated rate, and Joffrey found himself staring at the black domes in the distance in longing and disquiet. He rested for a while atop a big rock besides the river, catching his breath as the pain in his shoulder (and by now his whole body) kept getting worse and worse.

He watched the water carefully, ready to jump at the merest sign of piranhas.

There doesn't seem to be any, at least at this time of the day, he thought as he quickly washed his face, taking a dozen quick sips to refresh his parched throat. If he didn't die from the venom then he was sure to die from the bad water… not that he cared at this point.

Right, time to get moving, he thought, adjusting his backpack as he slid from the rock. The pain hit him like a runaway carriage in that moment, streams of burning lava spreading through his whole body at the sudden movement. Joffrey bit his hand, rocking back and forth as he rode out the shock.

He opened his backpack quickly, taking out a messily crafted wineskin the size of his hand, taking a long look at it before another blast of pain hit him, feeling something slow and sludgy swirling where his shoulder muscles should be. He took a short sip, the milky, water diluted sap sliding down his throat like a light wine. He had made the small wineskin himself from the leather of a particularly vicious Shortsnout, and used it to store the most potent painkiller known to the Brindled Men of the coast.

Red Bloom extract… I hope I don't regret this…

The pain slowly ebbed back down to reasonable levels, and unlike the milk of the poppy it didn't sap any of his energy. Its side effects were of a more… mental nature.

He tilted his head as far to the back as it could go, straining to see his back shoulder. What little he could see was… purple and swollen.

Don't think about it, just move, he said to himself as he leapt back to the riverside, running as fast as he could while still being able to dodge boulders and trees, the wild, chaotic jumble of bright greens and slender shapes crowned by the black dome in the distance, guiding him in.

.-

By the early afternoon, Joffrey's vigorous sprint had deteriorated to a fast walk, the living torture running through his veins leaving him incapable of any other thought.

He bit off a scream as he leaned on a burly gaboon, its great roots almost tripping him up as he breathed heavily. He looked down at his left arm, its slightly bloated shape sending shivers down Joffrey's spine as he tried to prod it with his index finger. His finger sunk unnaturally three or four times deeper than it should, the skin around it undulating slightly as if with internal waves.

Joffrey screamed as he collapsed on the ground, the agony wiping any other thought as he convulsed besides the tree, his legs shaking and kicking up dirt wildly with no plan nor forethought. When the agony passed, Joffrey was breathing shallowly, not daring to move a muscle as he stayed there on the ground, looking up at the leafy battlements of the great gaboon tree, a black bird of prey calmly watching him from a tree branch.

Joffrey realized the thing was waiting for him to die.

His hand move slowly, almost against his will towards his dagger. The serpentine edge almost glinted as Joffrey put it against his neck, the point piercing lightly into his skin and dropping just a sliver of blood.

…No… he thought as he let the dagger fall. Instead, he grabbed the small wineskin, biting off the cover and greedily downing all that remained, the disturbingly tasteless liquid almost eager to slip down his throat.

The pain ebbed down to the point where Joffrey could stand again, leaning heavily on his spear. He limped as fast as he could, guided only by his directional instinct as the sun slowly hid to the east and the few sounds of the jungle seemed to fade with it.

He stumbled to a halt when he saw a White Walker staring at him right in front, its icy blue eyes boring into his own, long white blade almost with a light of its own.

It's just the Red Bloom… It's just the Red Bloom… he kept repeating to himself as he seemed to drown inside the blue eyes of the Walker, the wights of Captain Shah and Captain Sabu standing at attention five meters behind it.

Joffrey limped with his spear right towards the otherworldly being, not stopping until his nose almost touched White Walkers's.

He stared at the thing's eyes, its shriveled eyelids, its bone white skin.

"I stopped being afraid of you a long time ago," he whispered, tilting his head slightly as he stared at it.

He walked around it, its deep blue eyes following him with unerring precision.

He gazed at the wights of Shah and Sabu, still in their scout armors, their decrepit flesh and hollowed out eyes a monument to Joffrey's sins.

"STILL WE STAND!" Joffrey shouted, slamming his fist against his chest, the pain distant.

The wights didn't move, but he could feel their acceptance as he kept walking, the otherworldly weight of Yeen pulling him like a magnet, his direction inerrant even as people shouted his name in the distance, the pleading voice of Nalia just at the edge of his hearing.

The pain kept getting stronger and stronger as the afternoon sun slowly settled, the moon unnaturally bright as his hands felt light and his spine twisted upon itself, each step unleashing ethereal spikes of pain that seemed to spread everywhere around his upper chest.

As if by magic, suddenly the trees and bushes and undergrowth were no more. From one step to the next, the jungle seemed to end. Instead, Joffrey found himself walking over dark stones, its construction perfectly level with the floor, a great walkway untouched by nature as it stretched forwards as if carved with a great ruler.

The great black road ran perfectly straight until it arrived to a small city of sorts, a land of domed black basilicas and triangular tunnels, all of it crowned by the great dome at the middle of it all.

Joffrey bit his lip, drawing blood as he limped towards it, each step towards the city an almost eternal agony, as if he were burning alive from the inside. He tried to call Stars, but he was so tired, so exhausted he couldn't bring himself to do it. He kept walking until he suddenly tripped, gravity bringing him crashing down on the floor.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHhhhhhh!" he screamed with all his strength, taking a breath before he screamed once more, his hands fumbling for the wineskin. He squeezed it as hard as he could, but no drop of the precious extract would come from it.

He failed to contain another scream, almost blacking out under the agony as his whole body throbbed against the black stone.

He was crying as he grabbed the tip of his spear, not caring for the cuts in his hand as he jammed it against the wineskin, ripping it open and licking its interior desperately, the dry leather wounding his tongue.

He screamed again as he extended an arm forward, trying to crawl towards the black citadel, barely moving at all as he fought for air.

"Pleaaase… pleaaaaaase…" he begged as he stared at the black dome, hypnotized, his body unmoving. He stared at it for a moment, or a year, the black dome tantalizing, unmoving.

Something shifted to his right, and Joffrey slowly tilted his head to look at it, blinking through tear filled eyes.

Spoiler: Music

It was a Brindled Men, its huge arms and shoulders framed by the dark jungle behind him. Its thick skin was patterned in the brown and white of his kind, but the dark red lines painted along its sloped forehead spoke of something more, something important.

The Brindled Men crouched very slowly, almost reverently, taking care to never touch the black road. It left an orange lotus on the ground, its cup like leaves almost brushing the side of the black highway… and then, without a word, it vanished back into the jungle.

Joffrey stared at the orange lotus dumbly, blinking slowly. He used his elbows to drag himself towards it, taking care to rest after each push, his quiet sobs the only sound in the entire vale. Each movement was pure torture, and it was through sheer power of will that he summoned the strength to crawl the measly six or so meters towards it.

When he finally reached it, he discovered that the tall, cup like flower was filled to the brim with Red Bloom extract, undiluted by water, enough to kill a horse. He lowered his mouth so very carefully, lapping up the white fluid as fast as he could, even taking chunks of the flower when nothing remained, eating it whole.

He flipped on his back as he finished it, staring at a completely clear sky for the first time in a long while. The stars seemed to shine brightly, The Stranger holding one skull in hand while the other pointed towards Yeen, the message clear.

I shall not be allowed beyond until I have answers… he thought, his body feather light as he picked himself up, the pain a distant memory as he opened his backpack and he took out a torch, lighting it with a flick of his rings.

He walked towards the Dark Citadel with only the moonlight and his torch, his path certain, his purpose clear. He absentmindedly saluted the redcloaks standing guard at the city entrance, their katanas glinting in the moonlight. Inside he made his way past servants and armsmen as they carried out their silent duties, walking in and out of the domed buildings and the triangular tunnels that opened up every block. He nodded at the Hound standing guard by his frozen room, the cold chilling him to the bone as he walked past it. He almost stayed there when he heard the soothing hum of his Mother, the gentle melody entrancing him for a moment before he kept walking.

The city had a strangely familiar layout, a spiraling form which made the traveler drift towards the middle…

But the Purple had never emerged from the center, it had always started its torment through Joffrey's throat.

He let his legs guide him, feeling the natural essence of the city beyond the buildings and the streets, following the abstract puzzle so very similar to his soul. He took a turn at one of the triangular tunnels, following its straight path, looking at his sides and the figures swarming and consuming the lone man as they always had, only to start again and again and again.

Joffrey wiped the thing messing with his vision, only to realize it was blood. He looked at the red smeared sleeve, confused as he felt not tears but blood flowing from his eyes. He blinked, dazed as he coughed, spraying blood all over the wall, the figures consuming it alongside the lone man.

He kept blinking slowly, the hallway growing longer after each blink, the cry of a woman in pain making him turn back. Nalia lay in the floor, rocking as she cried, both her hands covering her face. Her body was a bloody mess of gore and despair, his handiwork evident as one might identify a sculptor by the roundness of a chipped form or a painter by the weight behind each stroke.

Joffrey kneeled in front of her as she kept crying, breathing slowly as he gently grabbed her hands.

"…No, don't look," she told him, begged him.

"… I have to," Joffrey told her, begged her.

She lowered her hands slowly, her bloodied hair parting under Joffrey's gentle caress as he gazed at her face.

He stared at it, still as a statue even as his throat trembled, the whisper of his silent sobs echoing through the corridor, tears of blood freely flowing down his cheeks. He gently cupped Nalia's head against his chest, hugging her as he rocked her slightly.

"Never again… never again… my curse is mine to carry… my path alone," he promised her, promised himself. He stayed with her for a little while, gently smoothing her hair with his hand.

He kept walking, each step propelling him faster and faster until the tunnel dissolved entirely, a vast field of stars replacing it as Joffrey floated amongst the constellations, the guests at his wedding sneering at him behind cups of wine and plates of silver. He looked down at the millions of stars below him and the constellations in between, The Longship fiercely sailing against autumn storms and the flotsam of broken constellations, ravaged by time. Even as he looked the remains reconstructed themselves, piecing themselves together in a whirlwind of grey sand and dark water, emerging as definitive shapes with a will of their own.

He kept looking as a wise Greenseer judged him from beyond, withholding his judgment. He gazed at the rowdy Bannermen, swords and axes raised high as their many banners swirled with the wind. He contemplated the sly smile of the Hunter, bow in hand even as the other hid a dagger behind his back. He saw a great crown in the style of the Andals gleaming in the dark, seven points for seven virtues for seven aspects.

His vision grew progressively dimmer as he looked even further down, the specters of Andal script forming as if from shadows, cryptic beyond measure, a riddle from the past that was somehow the key to unlocking The Message.

EVERYONE BUT THE PURPLE PRINCE STEPS TO THE RIGHT, it read. He knew it was somehow the key to unlocking what the constellations were trying to tell him, but what did it mean exactly? A warning? Instructions?

Joffrey blinked slowly as he felt more and more blood running down his mouth, his ears, his nose. He felt very tired as he fell back, the void somehow cushioning his landing as the vast field of stars slowly turned Purple, the pain returning like an old friend.

.-

...

...

AN: Stay tuned for more Westeros next chapter. Thanks for reading and, as always, remember to comment!

Don't worry about not getting the inscription, its a bit pretty obfuscated. Paranoid message senders be paranoid.

Last edited: Oct 13, 2017

Purple Days (ASOIAF): From one day to the other, Joffrey Baratheon wakes up a changed man. Far from the spoiled boy-child known to the court of King's Landing, the Joffrey that comes out of his room three days after the death of John Arryn walks with the stride of a veteran commander and leader of men. A scholar, a sea-captain, a general, a lover. This is the story of how he became that man, and how he came to know his purpose through a cycle of endless death and rebirth that saw him explore his self and the known world from Braavos to Sothoryios and from Old Town to Yi-Ti... and beyond. (Character Development, Adventure, Worldbuilding, Mystery & Suspense, Romance, Action). (Turtledove 2017 winner!).

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Update ahoy! It's been a long wait but I should be picking up the pace by December.

.-

Chapter 31: Petals.

Maybe it was a system of coordinates after all… I'll have to try Archmaester Golgin's theorems for that though… It'll take a while to compute a list of possible results assuming Citadel-standard geometry…

…would the creators of the Purple use standard geometry though? The question floated through his mind's eye, memories of the many other, sometimes nonsensical variations of shapes, forms and planes he'd occasionally come across in the east.

His estimation about the colossal task ahead of him had only grown after months of intense studying, bolted up inside his room or the Red Keep's library. After all the time he'd spent looking for answers… after he'd actually found them he'd found himself unwilling to let go, his sheer stubbornness driving him day after day to concoct a bewildering array of theories and interpretations, not letting go of the problem as a hound would not let a scent go cold. Here, he thought his many lives were more of a hindrance than a help, as the sheer amount of possibilities he'd come up with, and the needed work to disprove them, had been an incredibly heavy time sink. From complex mathematical theories to in depth studies of ancient lore and legends, there was a lot of ground to cover.

Time had passed faster than he'd cared to admit, his effective immortality making it a bit hard to adequately judge the amount of time devoted to a single pursuit. He'd still kept an eye on things, making sure Bran didn't fall was practically routine by now, and keeping an ear open on the whereabouts of several of the Red Keep's denizens was a skill he was slowly developing. Tensions between the Stark's and the Lannisters seemed controlled, and Robert was in good health… there were many more months to come before he reached the point everything started going to hell, and by then he'd had hopefully broken the damned riddle and be in an informed position to somehow keep the bloody kingdoms from going down the gutter.

He was still deeply immersed in thought when the door to his room was opened, Joffrey not even consciously noticing the way his right hand found his sword's pommel in an instant.

"Oh… Prince Joffrey! You are awake already?" asked the servant as several of his peers seemed to flood the room.

"Yes Darrik, my I ask what is the meaning of this?" he asked him, annoyed. He liked to rise early, just before sunrise, the quick meditation session all the more calming in the silence just before dawn. They left him well rested for the day to come, the nightmares relegated to the fringes of his mind.

"Queen Cercei calls for your presence in the throne room, my Prince," said Darrik, slightly nervous as the servants readied some gaudy, fine clothes with far too many colors for Joffrey's taste.

"The throne room? At this hour?" Joffrey asked, confused as he absentmindedly waved away two approaching, jittery servants with a gold and black princely coat.

It was then he noticed the tolling bells of King's Landing, slowly rising in intensity as more and more septs added to the distant cacophony.

No… it's too soon… his mind echoed a painfully familiar thought.

He walked out of his room to find the Sandor and a wary, shuffling squad of red cloaks outside his room.

"He's dead isn't he?" He asked the Hound.

"…Yes," he answered uncomfortably. They'd hardly talked this time around, and as the guards escorted him to the Throne Room he could feel his heart beat hasten, in sync with the tolling bells ringing in the distance.

Fuck… Shit… Cunt!

"How..?" he heard himself ask.

"I heard his heart gave out," said the Hound before his face softened a tiny bit, "I'm sorry," he added awkwardly before returning to his stern and foreboding visage. The visage he wore with strangers and those he considered not worth his time… which, in Joffrey's favor meant almost everyone. The sudden and painful reminder of his eternal loneliness was quickly swept aside by his growing panic and planning.

I need more fucking time, I'm not ready yet… he cursed again and again as they quick walked past scrambling servants and other squads of red cloaks taking positions for the coming bloodbath.

Before he could think his way out of this one however, the doors to the throne room were opened. He eyed the Iron Throne almost in dread, its looming form getting steadily bigger the closer he walked towards it, the red cloaks inexorably carrying him forwards as if towards an inevitable destiny. Robert's hunting tapestries hanged from the ceiling like drying clothes, intermittently stopping the budding sunlight coming from the west. The red cloaks were arrayed in front of the throne, and behind them the seven knights of the Kingsguard handled the close in protection of Queen Cercei, her vicious, triumphant grin barely restrained by her fake grief. She'd already won, and she knew it.

He swore he could hear half remembered voices coming from the corners of the room as he kept walking towards the throne, the red cloaks dispersing behind him, only the Hound by his side.

Prince Joffrey? If you are going to kill me, just do it.

Oh no Stark, not this time…

He walked past the line of assembling red cloaks, his eyes lost in memory.

Bring me my crossbow! I command it!

The knights of the Kingsguard stood aside as he passed them by, Ser Preston Greenfield and Ser Barristan Selmy barely nodding, their eyes nervous and their grips light as they took in the oppressive atmosphere inside the great hall. He stopped as he reached the last steps, the morning sun just barely starting to illuminate the hunk of twisted metal at its zenith.

Ser Illyn! rip out his tongue!

Joffrey took in a deep breath as he stared at it, mingled feelings of guilt and dread mixing with a heavy tingling in his gut, half-forgotten plans and musings swirling inside his head as he kept staring at it.

I think the spike suits him, don't you think? No, stare at him Sansa! Stare at him! I command it!

His mother was telling him something in fake sadness, her triumphant eyes betraying her apparent grief, something about Robert's heart finally giving out after a 'hard night of work'. Her words soon seemed to lose meaning though, her droning becoming indistinct with the tolling bells of King's Landing, the great bells of Baelor's Sept sounding like a great, slow gong that reverberated to his bones.

He gazed at the throne as his mother whispered sweet nothings, his gaze far away as he remembered the screams of dying men and the despair of a dying world.

Slowly though, the panicky jumble of suppositions, guilt and doubt crystalized into something. He didn't know what exactly, but it was something solid, real. He closed his eyes, feeling the sensation as if it were a strong, coarse wine.

He took one more deep breath, wondering if it would find him worthy.

He sat carefully, his eyes opening to find the world the same as before, and yet subtly changed at the same time. The sun was now shining throughout the hall, banishing the darkness enshrouded in the dead hours before dawn.

He grunted slightly, lifting his hand and looking at the bleeding cut right on his palm.

So, I'm not worthy, he thought, thinking about all the monsters that had sat upon this hunk of rusted metal, himself greatest amongst them all.

He curled his fingers, fisting his hand tightly as more blood flowed from it, splattering on the floor.

I'll take it as a complement then, he thought with a small smile.

"Joffrey! You've cut yourself!" Cercei stopped her prattling as she started to call for the Grandmaester.

"I'm fine, Mother. We have more pressing concerns at hand," he said as the doors opened again, this time letting in Lord Eddard Stark and a heavy complement of his house guard.

"All hail His Grace, Joffrey of Houses Baratheon and Lannister, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm," proclaimed the Royal Crier, his voice carrying all over the hall as Lord Stark took each stride with care, dozens of goldcloaks spilling to his sides and taking position under the baleful hunting tapestries Robert had used to replace the old dragon skulls. Commander Janos Slynt stood behind his goldcloaks, safely away from any wild blades in the melee to come, his murdering sycophant whose name Joffrey couldn't remember standing behind him with a nervous tick and hands on both sword and iron maul.

Joffrey shook his head as Slynt sent a few nervous looks to his mother and to Baelish, the unspoken communication plain for all to see.

How the hells didn't you notice, Ned? He thought as the tension ratcheted up linearly with the amount of armed men in the throne room.

Ned Stark's approach seemed glacially slow, even though this time around Jaime had not disabled his knee. His ice blue eyes seemed hardened to what was to come, harder than what he could remember… it seemed King Robert's sudden death had broken all sense of plausibility, even for Ned's dull and misaligned grasp of intrigue. It was one thing for his supposed father to die in a hunting accident… another altogether for him to suddenly croak in the middle of the night just in time for a Lannister backed fait accompli. There were a lot of poisons that could imitate a heart attack, Joffrey knew that from both study and personal experience.

Ned stood there defiantly, glaring at Cercei in restrained anger, one hand on his sword's pommel. Littlefinger came to a stop a half step behind him, calm and composed with the ever present helpful smile that had fooled so many people into thinking him harmless.

As Cercei opened her mouth, Joffrey decided to take the initiative, projecting his voice to carry throughout the throne room.

"Lord Stark, you have come to us in the most terrible of times. My father lies dead and the stability of the Realm is at risk, threatening to throw the whole of Westeros into a war it can ill afford," he said, his mother leaning on his shoulder and whispering something about letting her take care of this. He waved her away with a bleeding hand, shocking her into silence as he kept talking.

"Lord Stark, you served my father well and faithfully as Hand of the King. I would ask you to continue that task, for Winter is Coming. The strongest winter in generations if the Maesters are correct… Please Lord Stark, take your rightful place by my side and let us lead the Seven Kingdoms into an era of peace and plenty," he almost begged him, his impassionate plea resonating throughout the hall as memories of war, hunger and cold flashed too fast for his mind's eye to process.

"What my son means to say is-" Cercei started in a hurry only for her to be swiftly cut down by Joffrey.

"Silence!" he roared, staring straight into her eyes and shocking her once more into silence.

The long silence seemed to stretch over the hall as Ned Stark mulled over the fate of the Seven Kingdoms, surrounded by guards and men at arms and all the panoply of war.

Come on Ned, shake off that godsdamned honor. Robert is fucking dead, who cares if I'm not his son?!

Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North looked up to him, his face set in surety and resolution. "Preventing a war is what I'm trying to accomplish here… I'm sorry Joffrey, but you have no claim on the Iron Throne. Stannis of House Baratheon is the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms," he proclaimed grimly.

Joffrey sat there, anger and rage coursing through his veins as his distractedness pushed the Seven Kingdoms into all-out war yet again.

Cercei quickly jumped in as visions of wights and walkers roaming through an already devastated Westeros swirled through Joffrey's mind like some horrible venom. "Your own words betray you Lord Stark, Ser Barristan, arrest this traito-"

"I SAID SILENCE!" Joffrey roared as he grabbed her by the back of her neck, squeezing until a small 'eep' of pain emerged from her lips which quickly caused his hand to retreat back as if it had been burned.

What is another woman for me to torment? Nalia, Sansa, that nameless wench I filled with bolts… why not my own mother? The thought came unbidden as he tried to keep a lid on the endless well of despair that seemed to torment him unrelenting. He thought he had left it all behind, but much like Westeros it seemed to stick to him like viscous, black oil.

His voice almost broke as he called out once more for reason and peace.

"Ser Barristan! Hold where you are!" he called out the aged knight before he could take another step towards Ned. "Lord Stark is clearly distressed and confused by the death of the King, he shall return to his home to grieve in peace!" he shouted.

Ned looked at him strangely, pity, duty and adrenaline filling his voice as he called out. "Commander! Escort the Prince and the queen to their chambers and keep them under guard, no blood need be spilled today!"

"Men of the Watch!" shouted Slynt, the gold cloak's spears coming down and aimed towards the Kingsguard and red cloaks around the throne.

"NED! YOU ARE SORROUNDED! FOR THE LOVE OF YOUR FAMILY DON'T DO THIS!" Joffrey roared.

Ned shook his head in confusion, turning back to look at Slynt, but it was already too late. "Now!" shouted Commander Slynt, the gold cloaks swiftly aiming their spears straight at the backs and sides of Ned's men, ripping through light leathers and chainmail and filling the hall with the scent of blood and gore.

Despite all his failings as a courtier, Ned Stark's reflexes were still good, and it showed. With no milk of the poppy or pain from previous injuries to slow him down, he was already turning and taking out his sword as Baelish fumbled with his dagger, trying for a haphazard hold at Eddard's neck.

"I told you when you oughff-" Littlefinger's vain taunt was cut as Ned shoved an elbow to his diaphragm, followed by a panic fuelled fist that left the Master of Coin on the floor, dazed as he tried to crawl away.

Joffrey barely had time to stand up before Ned threw himself in desperation towards the doors and trying to escape the hopeless ambush, batting aside a spear and cutting the offending gold cloak's throat before two spears caught him from behind, brutally puncturing through the gambeson and emerging back out through his chest.

Joffrey sprinted down the steps, the Hound finishing off a Stark man before cursing and following him toward Ned's prone form. Joffrey casually evaded the last stragglers until he reached Ned, though it was hopeless.

Eddard Stark's face was locked in surprised horror, his back a bloody mess of ripped flesh and torn lungs. Joffrey stood there in mild shock, Ned's face being replaced by a dozen different iterations of pain, horror, surprise, anger and more. The collage of Ned's various post mortem expressions almost overwhelmed Joffrey before one of the gold cloaks by the side smirked like a stupid dog.

"We got the traitor clean through the lungs you' grace," he proclaimed. The sudden silence as the last Stark man gurgled his last breath gave it an otherworldly air.

Joffrey's hands were shaking as he slowly, very slowly turned to face the gold cloak.

"You sure did you IMBECILE!" Joffrey roared as he slammed his fist through the man's nose, tinges of red coloring his vision as he sat atop the now prone gold cloak's chest, his fists working like pistons as he let go of all the anger and despair at once, screaming as the man's helmet blew away and his face was reduced to a red mush.

It was his breathing that brought him back. After decades of using it as a concentration aid, he had developed some sort of intrinsic understanding of the flow of air in and out of his body. When he realized he was breathing hard and did not know why, he came back to his sense.

The gold cloak's face was covered in blood, but his chest still seemed to be moving… haltingly at least.

Joffrey shook his head as he stood up, gazing at his blood filled fists.

"Something wrong indeed, Ned… Indeed…" he whispered as he gazed at the body of his slain mentor.

To think he could have ever redeemed himself now seemed foolish in hindsight. He was who he was.

Joffrey, the Monster and the Silver Lion. He'd come to think of them as two struggling identities, but the truth was that they were one and the same.

There was nothing to redeem… To try to escape from himself was as futile as trying to escape the Purple. He gently uncurled his bloodied fists, the stares of everyone in the throne room burning into his back.

No… the time for introspection is over, he thought as he took a deep breath.

I am who I am… and by the Gods as my witness, I will drag this continent towards survival.

The time for self-doubt was over. It was now time to rule.

"Clean this mess," he commanded as he waved his arm at the dead, startling everyone in the room and extracting a panicked whimper from the other gold cloak that had stabbed Ned. "Give Lord Stark's body to the silent sisters and prepare a ship for White Harbor, with Ice and the rest of his possessions," he commanded as he walked towards the Iron Throne, his little scene still holding most of the room in suspense… except for the Hound of course, he could feel him walking in lockstep behind him, keeping his thoughts to himself.

He stopped, turning around to stare at the guards for a second, "NOW!" he roared, startling them into action.

"And would somebody please get that gold cloak to the Maesters!?" he shouted as he walked towards the small council room, his mind now fully devoted to the monumental task he had set upon himself.

.-

To Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

It is with great sadness that I convey to you the news of the last few days here in King's Landing. My father, King Robert Baratheon, is dead, having died in his sleep due to a strained heart. Your Lord Father, Eddard, was ensnared in a web of intrigued and convinced to plot against me by traitors within the Capital. I regret to inform you that he was slain as he carried out what he believed to be his duties—

Joffrey snarled as he grabbed the parchment and balled it up, tossing it back and grabbing another one, his quill almost breaking as he slammed it into the blotter, splattering ink everywhere and sending said blotter tumbling down the table.

"Godsdamnit!" Joffrey snarled as he tossed his quill aside, "It's useless!"

"That quill looked perfectly useful to me," said Tyrion as he walked into the room, the quip doing nothing to hide the strained, nervous smile on the imp's face. "… You called for me, your grace?" he asked, no doubt already aware of the events of the bloody morning.

"I did Tyrion, thank you for coming," he said absentmindedly as he lifted his face to see the assembled councilors seated around the table, plus Tyrion as he was relegated to the farthest chair from him. No doubt he was confused and perhaps even scared as to why he had called him with such urgency, especially given the fact scant hours ago the throne room had been turned into a butcher's shop.

Cercei, Varys, Littlefinger, Pycell and Janos Slynt filled the other seats.

Fuck me… its like the small council from the seven hells… except Ser Barristan I suppose-

Joffrey's eyebrows creased.

"… what is Commander Slynt doing here? And where the hell is Ser Barristan?" he asked.

His mother seemed to have recuperated from his abrupt behavior, though she was still looking warily at him as she leaned slightly towards him. "Ser Barristan is old and weak sweetie, I think its high time for your uncle Jaime to take his rightful place as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, don't you think?" she said.

Joffrey stared at her for a second before turning back to one of the two armored white statues at his back. "Ser…" he trailed off as he stared at the rotund, beady eyed figure of Ser Boros Blunt.

"Gods preserve me…" he muttered as he turned back to the table, placing a palm over his face.

After a few seconds like that, Joffrey turned to his other side. "Ser… Preston! Good! Go fetch Ser Barristan," he commanded.

"Aye, your grace" said Ser Preston Greenfield as he quickly walked out of the room.

I had forgotten what it felt like to have seven unthinking stooges at my beck and call, he thought uncharitably. Best make use of them anyway…

He turned back to his mother and spoke very slowly as he stared at her eyes, "It's 'Your Grace' or 'Joffrey' for whenever we are not in private. Don't infantilize your King or else none will follow him," he told her harshly. "And do not countermand me again in public," he warned her, feeling something vaguely bile like inside his mouth. One part of him wanted to send her straight to Casterly Rock and out of his hair, while another part wanted nothing more than to cuddle in closely and take refuge under her protective embrace.

He resolutely ignored the part of him that wanted to make her suffer.

She nodded halfheartedly as her confusion returned yet again and he turned to the other problem in the room. "Now, Commander Slynt, the door awaits," he said with a wave of his hand.

"Y-Your grace! I-" Slynt started but was quickly interrupted by Littlefinger. "Your grace," he said, completely in control of his smooth voice and his irritable little helpful smile. One would be forgiven for thinking he'd been a hair's breath away from being disemboweled by Lord Stark a few hours ago, so nonchalant was his composure. "We of the small council think that due to the loyal services given, risking life and limb for his rightful King, Commander Slynt should be made Master of Laws. Who else better to protect the realm's laws than the man that has kept watch over Westeros' most populous city for more than a decade?" he finished with a flourish, all the while using that dastardly helpful, suggestive tone.

Joffrey stared at Baelish, stone faced as he pondered what to do with his erstwhile Master of Coin. Was he already colluding with the crown's enemies? Or did he just do that when he thought the tables had turned sufficiently against his side of the moment. He had to admit the littlefucker had a good command of rhetoric, and was intelligent enough to only use it when it would serve him best, otherwise returning to the helpful façade of the relatively unimportant Master of Coin.

There was one big flaw to Littlefinger's style of intrigue though: it all fell apart once one got into his game… though in his favor, that usually only happened when the bastard was ready to move anyway. The façade of the unthreatening bureaucrat was all the more grating now that Joffrey knew, from countless personal experiences, that the man was a damned snake and pathologically incapable of ceasing his plotting.

He briefly thought about commanding Sandor to take the bastard's head, hell, he could do it himself right now with his arming sword. Two steps atop the table and a Windy Gondola, the bastard wouldn't even have time to stand up before he bled to death.

Something about his bloodthirsty plans must have showed on his face because Baelish was getting steadily paler, his helpful expression becoming slightly strained to the keen eye.

No, not now. I have to know exactly what the bastard has been planning all these years.

"Hm. What were we talking about?" he asked little Petyr.

"… Commander Slynt's ascension to the small council-"

"Right!" Joffrey nodded as he turned towards the man in gold tinted chainmail and half plate. "Denied, get out of my sight," he told him. "Now, Pycell-"

Slynt spluttered, looking between his King and his master like a whipped cur as Baelish stood up to defend him, "Your grace, Commander-"

"Ser Boros, if Commander Slynt does not leave the small council chambers within ten seconds, you are to cut off his hand," he said without looking back, shuffling bits of parchment around.

Ser Boros grunted almost in pleasure as he took a step towards the Commander, starting to draw his sword. Slynt shuffled back in panic, his chair falling back as he scrambled towards the doors, almost crashing against Ser Barristan as he came in.

Ser Barristan seemed bewildered as Slynt practically scurried by his side, the two Kingsguards by the chamber's entrance closing the doors again.

"Your grace, I thought the Queen did not want me to attend this meeting?" asked Ser Barristan, looking at Cercei with a carefully neutral expression. No doubt he already vaguely suspected the idiotic power play his mother had planned and carried through without fail every single life Joffrey had spent inside the Red Keep… Fortunately, he had sent uncle Jaime to supervise the Stark children and make sure nobody else did anything stupid, so his 'fathuncle' would not get in his way regarding this. Besides, he needed a firm hand to guard the Starks… They had nabbed both Arya and Sansa, a blessing and a curse in the form of hostages but also targets for the Young Wolf to aim for… But Bran Stark had been slain by an idiotic gold cloak when the kid managed to outrun the red cloaks that stormed the tower of the hand, thanks to the chaos and the slaughter caused by three enraged Direwolves, which had also ended up slain. By either inherent talent or sheer bad luck, he had managed to surprise and wound one of two patrolling gold cloaks near the Outer Yard. He'd stumbled upon them with his small arming sword, stabbing one in the back as the other one panicked…

Fate does love its japes… I saved Bran from being a cripple but I couldn't stop 'my' own soldiers from killing him… Will the Red Wolf come calling..? Joffrey asked himself, his eyes glazing over in reverie.

"… Your grace?" asked Ser Barristan.

"Right, sorry. Ignore my mother's orders, I have need of your council," he said as he waved him over. "Just one more thing before we get started…" he said as he kept looking through the mound of parchment, and then feeling his pockets with his hands.

"Aha! Here it is!" he said as he tossed the metallic trinket towards Tyrion, the Hand of the King's badge of office skidding to a halt just in front of the stunned imp. "I, King Joffrey of House Baratheon bla bla bla, do hereby name you Hand of the King. I'm sorry Tyrion, it's a rather thankless job but I need you," he said apologetically. Joffrey tried not to laugh at the fish face his mother had been reduced to, the silent 'O' being replicated by Littlefinger, but not Varys, to his credit. Not much could phase the eunuch's terrifyingly neutral dice face it seemed.

Joffrey nodded, content that nobody challenged him this time. It seemed his earlier actions had cowed the small council into momentary retreat. Alas, he knew it would not last for long…

"Now, Grandmaester Pycell…" Joffrey said as he turned to the old man, struggling to contain the urge to facepalm again.

"Y-yes, your grace?" asked the stooped Grandmaester as he lifted his eyes to look at him, his doddering speech oddly clashing with the way his eyes considered Joffrey carefully.

… strange.

"… I want you to draft a letter to Lord Robb Stark, informing him of King Robert's untimely death and that of his brother and father, the latter of which was caught in a web of lies and machinations by Lord Renly which unfortunately forced him to act against the Crown," he said, painfully aware of just how ridiculous it all sounded. The Young Wolf was going to march no matter what he said… even if he offered all the surviving Stark children to him it would only be viewed as a trap… perhaps… perhaps if he offered one it would seem more genuine.

"Add in an offer to release Arya Stark in exchange for his oath of fealty, to be carried out in a suitably neutral location in the Riverlands, coordinate with the Hand on this matter as to where would be best. Make it clear I would also be open to discussing these terms" he said, thinking hard. He needed Robb to at least pay token respect to the Crown, and to not declare for either Renly, Stannis or an independent North. If he could manage to relegate the northmen into at least a Dorne-like shimmering resentment, he would count it a victory. As long as the North was not depleted of manpower the Walkers would have a much longer and harder time establishing a beach head past the Wall… and after the invasion… there would be no time for recriminations, the northerners would in all likelihood welcome any and all assistance against the apocalypse. Hopefully the carrot in the form of Arya and the stick in the form of the unfortunate Sansa would be enough to stay Robb's revenge trip, though he was not hopeful.

Sansa… at least she'll be safe and comfortable in the Maidenvault until things get more stable…

His whole train of thought derailed as he thought about Sansa.

Am I still supposed to marry her..?

Over my dead body, he sentenced swiftly, quickly shaking his head and turning towards his uncle.

"Tyrion, thoughts?" he asked him.

Tyrion still seemed ensorcelled by his badge of office, only stopping his gawking when Joffrey spoke to him.

"Joffrey… why?" he asked in complete confusion.

"What do you mean?" he asked back, confused himself.

"I d- You…" Tyrion seemed to be at a loss for words… a very serious sign coming from the imp.

Belatedly, Joffrey realized he had barely spoken to his uncle this life, having spent most of his time cooped up in his room. "Ah… Well, I trust you Tyrion, and you've got a very keen mind which I very much have a need for right now…" he said, vaguely awkwardly.

Tyrion nodded, still somewhat bewildered as he thought about the task at hand. "I… very well your grace… may I suggest the Isle of Faces? The thought of breaking parlay there would be unthinkable to the northeners… though I think it will do little good in the end," he said as he shook his head. "The North loved Ned Stark, they will not let this pass lightly… and Robb Stark loved his brother too…" he said.

"Probably… well, at least my lord grandfather will buy us time, perhaps if we time the letter after the northern host has been bloodied a bit the terms might stick…" Joffrey mused out loud.

"… Lord Tywin, your grace?" asked Ser Barristan, who had been quiet until now.

"Yes, we should send a raven to the Golden Tooth instructing him to secure the Twins, if we can keep Robb bottled north of the Twins and cut off from the rest of the Riverlands, then after the northern lords have a chance to cool off their heels… and avoid any linking up with riverlander lords… perhaps…" Joffrey trailed off.

"… but your grace, Lord Tywin is in Casterly Rock… there's not enough time for him to assemble a host big enough to seize half the Riverlands before a northern army comes down from the neck.." Ser Barristan said carefully. He seemed to seize up his King, thinking of a way to say what he thought without coming off as insulting, "Assembling a host takes time your grace, levies have to muster, equipment must be requisitioned, and logistics have to be ironed out," he lectured him carefully, no doubt already dreading the prospect of trying to ride herd on an eager, totally green boy king.

Joffrey sat stone still, still looking at Ser Barristan even as his eyes glazed over and his fists curled slightly in foreboding. "Of course… There was no skirmishing in the Riverlands this time… the Westerlands have not yet mobilized…" he muttered in incipient shock.

"I can assure you your grace that the Riverlands are as peaceful as they were when you and your late father last visited them," finally spoke Varys with a small bow of his head.

"The Red Wolf will descend through the Kingsroad like a ballista bolt, straight for King's Landing and bolstered on his way by the undiminished Riverlander Houses…" Joffrey whispered as visions of the burning capital assaulted him, followed by the sight of a vengeful Tywin finally striking east from the Golden Tooth and razing the Riverlands to the ground in retaliation, the countless dead pilling up as farmsteads burned and Stannis, Renly, the Reach, and the Ironborn entered the fray.

"No," he said suddenly as he gazed at Pycell, "Call the banners, the Lords of the Crownlands and their levies are to meet with their King with all due haste at Brindlewood," he said.

There was a second of absolute silence before several people spoke up at once.

"Y-your grace, we should first consult with Lord Tywin before-" said Pycell.

"Joffrey, Robb Stark will see this as a provo-"

"AT THE HEAD OF A HOST?! ABSOLUTELY NOT-" screeched Cercei.

"Your Grace, there is still a small chance for peace within the realm, if we march now-" reasoned Ser Barristan.

"SILENCE!" bellowed Joffrey, his voice cutting through the prattle like valyrian steel. Baelish and Varys, the only two not to speak looked on with intense interest. The possible machinations being built behind those devious minds threatened to make Joffrey ill… but there was no choice, he had to end the war of the five kings before it got into full swing, there was no time for cunning plans on his part.

He eyed his councilors one by one, making sure they understood one thing. "The last ruler of these kingdoms took a somewhat lax approach to actually ruling them, and that may have left all of you with strange notions about what it means to give your council," he said slowly. "You are my loyal councilors" he lied, "not my regents. Act like it."

Baelish's frown deepened as Varys conceded him a slightly raised eyebrow… he was going to have to deal with them in some manner… but not now… there was no one he trusted enough to oversee the end of hostilities in the Riverlands before they even began… he'd deal with them when he came back.

As for the rest, he would have to wait and see…

"Grandmaester Pycell, I will need you to write me drafts for the following destinations, I'll tell you the details after this meeting: Casterly Rock, the Citadel, Winterfell, Storm's End-"

.-

The small carriage looked mournful, the Stark greys in seeming harmony with the cloudy skies of King's Landing. The Red Keep's portcullis was opened, and now the small carriage trundled forwards, its honor guard of red cloaks making sure it reached the harbor safely.

It was then that Sansa started crying, the solemn, brave front she had put on for the occasion disintegrating under the grief and the loss. Arya was latched to her hand like a limpet, crying too as the girls held each other tightly. Ser Arys Oakheart stood behind the girls, stone faced in his armor made of finely enameled white scales… according to Ser Arys, Arya had insisted on seeing the return of her brother and father, and after hearing her, Sansa had insisted on her seeing it too.

Joffrey almost regretted letting them see the departing carriage, the bodies of Eddard and Bran Stark were leaving the south to never return again… or would they?

Not if I have anything to say about that… he thought, his eyes unconsciously finding Sansa's. She looked broken, the paint and powder barely doing anything to hide her deep exhaustion, likely due to several days' worth of poor sleep. She had been despondent at the news of her father's death… all of her emotions for that particular day had apparently been spent on her breakdown earlier when she saw her brother sprawled in the courtyard with a spear in his belly, and... Lady had been hacked apart so completely the little, yellow eyed direwolf had barely looked recognizable.

He realized she was staring at him, her vaguely terrified red eyes boring into his. She seemed to be muttering under her breath, her hands twirling nervously as if trying to convince herself of something.

It wasn't my fault, he wanted to tell her. Instead, he turned back towards Maegor's Holdfast. He had work to do, or else soon a lot of little girls like Sansa would find themselves in the same situation.

.-

He was busy writing letters like a madman inside Robert's former solar. It had not been as deserted as he had thought, it appeared his supposed father had actually used it from time to time as a hiding den where he could drink in peace without any Lannisters bugging him, when his mood was so poor he couldn't even drink with the usual bootlickers and courtiers which seemed to follow his merry feasting whenever they had the chance.

He was busy leveraging the huge population of the city to move along the logistics necessary for the coming forced march into the Riverlands. Here, his training as a Bronze Scribe had served tremendously, as well as his experience managing the 'Lion's Army' and the Dawn Fort. Arrows had to be fletched, armor had to be bought, and food stores had to be made available and a hundred other things too. He had a brief window of time where food from the Reach was still making its way to the city, so the Crownlander houses which would later have to supply the city still had enough food output to maintain the steadily forming host at Brindlewood… a good thing too, as his plans required the Riverlords to be amenable and not wary at the sight of a ravaging army living off their lands. He had other plans for the food situation in general, plans he would have to leverage later… suffice it to say, he knew quite a bit about Essosi trade routes…

A sudden knock disturbed his work, and he glared at the door. "Yes?" he asked.

"Pardon your grace, Lady Sansa insists on seeing you," came the vaguely apologetic voice of Ser Barristan.

"… send her in," he called out, puzzled. He haden't locked Arya and Sansa per se, though they were guarded at all times and forbidden from leaving the Red Keep… what was this all about?

Sansa strode into the cellar stiffly, each motion under iron control as if her steps had been choreographed. Joffrey was completely nonplussed as he eyed the revealing dress she had put on, a dark red, silver lined gown which despite sporting a revealing bodice still seemed too big for her.

Joffrey sat there, mildly stunned as the still red eyed girl curtsied perfectly. The excessive makeup managed to hide her slightly swollen cheeks in a way, and her hair was somewhat messily braided in the southron style, Ser Barristan looking at her warily from behind.

Joffrey recovered his voice as he sat straighter, "Lady Sansa…" he said, still confused, waving Ser Barristan away. The Lord Commander made to protest, but Joffrey silenced him with a look, making the old knight grimace as he left the cellar and closed the door.

Sansa opened her mouth, but no sound came from it. She tried once more before settling on a halfhearted smile, avoiding his eyes as she walked around the big oaken table.

"Lady Sansa, to what do I owe…" he trailed off as she kept walking and came to a stop right beside him, her mouth trying to speak but barely making a sound at all, her eyes excessively avoiding his own, even to the point of staring at the wall behind him. She gave up and instead went for another smile, though Joffrey thought it was the saddest, most terrified smile he'd ever seen.

He didn't have time to do anything as she quickly, jerkily brought her hands up and undid the clasps on her shoulders. Her bodice opened up like a petals from a flower, revealing her pale body only covered by the most outrageous of smallclothes, something belonging only to dirty maiden's tales as even whores would shy away from using it.

Joffrey bolted upright, his chair falling behind him as he stumbled back. "By the Old Gods and the fucking New! Sansa-! What the hells are you doing?!" he spluttered as a whirlwind of confusing sensations flooded his body.

Her face was almost stone like in its stillness, her dry voice barely audible as she swallowed. "D… Don't you like it..? Y-….your grace..?" she managed, moving a bit sideways in a sad, awkward reconstruction of feminine seduction as the gown slipped from her back, showing off her unblemished back.

Joffrey was paralyzed in shock, trying to make sense of the whirlwind of feelings inside him when he felt desire creeping up his spine like a warm serpent. Desire for the devastated barely fifteen year old little girl in front of him.

Nausea overwhelmed all other emotion as Joffrey supported himself with his desk, covering his mouth with the other.

"Wh… what… what did I do wrong? Please…" Sansa whispered as she tried to undo the small buckle by her waist.

"STOP!" Joffrey managed to bellow as he regained control of himself, leaning towards Sansa and back again for a second as his hands grasped air before finally deciding to stride forward decisively, grabbing the hanging 'petals' and covering her up almost brutally.

Her composure at last collapsed completely, rivers of tears running down her cheeks as her legs seemed to lose all strength, "Pl- please! I can do better! Ple.. ..!" she wailed, her speech growing incoherent as the sobs took her by storm. Joffrey swallowed something bitter as he basically supported her towards the two chairs in front of the table, sitting her in one as he sat next to her, swiftly grabbing a silver pitcher and serving her a cup of watered wine.

"Here, drink this," he told her, his voice sounding a bit raw to his ears too. Sansa's head had turned down, shying away from him as she kept crying. He managed to make her take a sip, which quickly turned into a gulp as she drank the whole cup.

Joffrey's hand hovered in indecisive agony above Sansa's now covered back before settling on an awkward patting, the very need to comfort her opposed to everything he now stood for.

They stayed there for what seemed like eternity to Joffrey, Sansa's sobs growing weaker with time, aided by the occasional sips of watered wine. "Sansa… what were you thinking..?" he finally asked her.

His voice seemed enough to almost set her off again, the sheer fear and anguish clear in her voice as she dared to look at his chin. "I… I can please you… Joffrey"- she said his name as if it were something strange, foreign- "I can learn… Arya could help me prepare your- bedroom…" she managed to say.

Joffrey stared at her as he shook his head slowly, "Sansa… Sansa look at me"- he said as he gently grabbed her chin forcing her skittish eyes to meet his -"Are you afraid I'll… that I'll kill you and Arya if you don't please me?" he asked her in vague shock.

Sansa seemed paralyzed by his stare as she spoke "You… you killed Father because he was a threat… Bran too… and L-Lady and Nymeria and Septa Mordane… I… understand traitors can't be allowed to live-! But I can-!" she was starting to sob again as Joffrey spoke over her.

"Gods… Sansa, I'm not going to kill you nor Arya! Why would I-?! Listen…" he calmed himself, taking a deep breath. "Your Father's death was due to intrigues beyond my control, and Bran's was an accident by an idiotic overzealous fool... I… Gods…" he trailed off as he leaned back in exhaustion…

I wonder how many sleepless and lonely tormented nights… how many distorted facts must have taken for her to reach such a harebrained plan…

He arrived to the belated conclusion that no one had actually told the girls anything about what had really happened beyond the rumors they would have heard from the servants…

An irrational urge to pummel the Purple to death assaulted him as he gazed again at the thoroughly broken face of Sansa, still looking at him in confusion.

This life has already gone to shit…

He shook off the thought as he stood up slowly, "Sansa, listen to me carefully," he said as he helped her up. "Nobody is going to kill you nor Arya. I'm going to ride to the Riverlands soon and make sure nobody does something stupid, okay? You'll be safe and sound here in the Maidenvault whatever happens to me or anyone else…" he told her, letting a small sigh of relief as he saw her nod very slowly.

"… You're going to kill him… Robb," she said slowly.

Joffrey said nothing, Sansa's gaze returning to her lap as she blinked out her tears, a kind of hollow strength filling her as her face hardened. "He'll come for you," she whispered suddenly, a fierce, gleeful certainty invading her voice as her gaze turned distant, tired beyond measure.

Joffrey walked her towards the door, slowly. He tried to find the words to sooth her but failed miserably at it. What was there left to say? He watched her go mutely into the steady grip of waiting Ser Arys, back towards the lonely Maidenvaults.

"Tell Grandmaester Pycell to give her a bit of nightshade, milk of the poppy if that doesn't work…" he told Ser Barristan, his voice heavy.

.-

"Can't say I'm surprised…" Joffrey said as he strode towards his horse, Tyrion's waddling gait barely keeping up.

"At least it's a clear answer…" Tyrion said.

"Can't get more clear than calling your banners to Moat Cailin," Joffrey grumbled as looked back to the three score red cloaks around the Red Keep's courtyard. "Mount up!" he called out, before turning to his horse and making sure his spear was secured tightly to the saddle.

"Are you sure you know how to…" Tyrion trailed off as he looked at Joffrey's plate armor, eight point war hammer, and arming sword. He blinked as he reformulated the question, "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" he asked.

"Not really, no," said Joffrey as he mounted up, the Red Keep's portcullis already opening up. "Any word on Tywin?" he asked him.

"None yet… I wouldn't put my hopes on the Westerlands for now. He's usually careful, he'll want to verify with his spies first before mobilizing, and when he does…" he trailed off.

"Robb Stark could already be within a half a week's marching from the Golden Tooth with more than twenty thousand men…" Joffrey muttered.

"Indeed… are you sure you don't want to take the gold cloaks? I think you'll need them…" said Tyrion, squinting against the early morning sun as Joffrey settled on his horse, cracking his neck and feeling the weight of his red and gold breastplate. Joffrey felt strange in it, as if he were playing at war, the intricately detailed golden lions too glaring for his taste… alas, the armor had been a nameday gift from Lord Rolland Crakehall, made specifically to meet the 'requirements' Joffrey himself had listed a bit more than a year ago, or alternatively a million lifetimes ago depending on who was counting. Still, despite the frills and the gold, the armor was well made and fitted his size just right. Lord Crakehall may have had to pander to the whims of an idiotic 15 year old boy green in war, but he'd apparently made sure his gift actually protected his future King, instead of just being a pricey court dress.

"You'll need them more than me, and they'll probably not be enough anyway. Make sure to strengthen their numbers and prepare for an assault. I doubt Stannis will patiently wait for me to come back south," he told the imp. "And uncle… about our little problem…" he trailed off.

"You'll have your full report, don't worry. It may take time though… I've been able to leaf through some of his books when he's not looking and his records seem to follow a very peculiar logic," said Tyrion in a vaguely hushed tone.

"Good, the littlefucker is hiding something, I know it…" said Joffrey.

There's no way a shifty bastard like him didn't steal as much as he could from the treasury… especially regarding the absurdly huge amount of debt the Crown had accrued. Hopefully by the time he came back Tyrion would have a proper accounting of their real finances… because there was no way in hell he was actually indebted by six million golden dragons… There was no way in hell Robert had spent that much money in whores and tourneys…

Right?

He shook his head. "And his influence is too damned widespread. I'll see if I can get a decent replacement for Slynt from a loyal crownlander who proves himself in the battles to come…" he said grimly.

Tyrion nodded, thoughtful as he gazed back at the red cloaks and back to Joffrey, "Good luck, Nephew…" he told him.

"Someday, Uncle" he jested as spurred his horse. "Let's go!" he bellowed back, the red cloaks following him along with Sandor and three of his Kingsguard. "Someday…" he whispered as the horses trundled down Aegon's High Hill.

.-

Purple Days (ASOIAF): From one day to the other, Joffrey Baratheon wakes up a changed man. Far from the spoiled boy-child known to the court of King's Landing, the Joffrey that comes out of his room three days after the death of John Arryn walks with the stride of a veteran commander and leader of men. A scholar, a sea-captain, a general, a lover. This is the story of how he became that man, and how he came to know his purpose through a cycle of endless death and rebirth that saw him explore his self and the known world from Braavos to Sothoryios and from Old Town to Yi-Ti... and beyond. (Character Development, Adventure, Worldbuilding, Mystery & Suspense, Romance, Action). (Turtledove 2017 winner!).

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Nov 25, 2017

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Nov 26, 2017

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Surprise chapter time!

Well actually its just the other half of the original chapter 31, but still. Enjoy!

.-

Chapter 32: The Songs and the Slaughter.

Brindlewood was a veritable sea of tents and pavilions, banners from dozens of different crownlander houses adorning the training rings and makeshift stables that surrounded the small core of wooden houses. Joffrey rode with Sandor, Ser Barristan, Ser Boros and Ser Meryn at his back, the two worst fighters in his Kingsguard balancing out the Hound and Ser Barristan. He'd been reluctant to leave Tyrion completely defenseless against the machinations of every other courtier in King's Landing, so he'd left him the most capable ones except, Ser Barristan excepted of course.

He rode past the bowing guards, through the absolute mess of an encampment dodging stray dogs and hangover soldiers. He quickly made sense of the labyrinth, angling his horse towards the biggest pavilion, from which countless Baratheon stags and Lannister lions seemed to leer at him, hanging atop poles. It seemed a feast was in progress… to his honor no doubt. He could hear the roaring laughter and the buzz of conversation as he dismounted swiftly, striding towards the pavilion as a couple of knights at the entrance barred the way. "Halt! Who…" trailed off one of them as he took in Joffrey's fine armor and the three white cloaks at his back.

"Make way for the King you cunt," said Sandor as he walked forward and almost tossed the startled knight aside.

The corner of Joffrey's mouth twisted up as he looked wryly at his sworn shield. He said nothing as he pushed the flap aside and entered the tent, Sandor, Ser Boros and Ser Meryn with him as Ser Barristan kept watch outside. Inside, the great pavilion that had been erected in his 'honor' boasted great wooden tables and swarms of serving wenches, catering to the rowdy gaggle of knights and lords with ale and hearty meats freshly hunted from the nearby forest.

Joffrey walked towards the center of the tent, dodging drunk knights and wenches suspiciously devoid of trays and drinks but with ample bosoms instead. "Good afternoon my lords, I trust the merriment has been worthwhile?" he called out, his voice clear.

The noise died down very quickly, heads turning in his direction as looked at the assembled crownland lords and knights, slowly turning around and gazing at the scene around him.

"Your grace!" called someone behind him, and Joffrey turned to the sight of Lord Darlan of House Buckwell. Not everyone in the tent was armored, but Lord Darlan sported a smartly polished half plate, the twin stag antlers of his house emblazoned over his chest. The man was a semi regular constant about four months after starting each life, his quest for a fine suit of armor to gift to his son sometimes carrying him to some of Robert's feasts.

"Lord Buckwell, it's good to have you here," Joffrey told him as more and more knights and lords took a knee as they realized the brat before them was their king.

"Rise, we've got work to do my lords," Joffrey called out.

"King Joffrey, please accept my condolences, your father was a great man, an inspiration to us all," said a man in a fine purple doublet with a silk voice as he stood up. Joffrey nodded as he waited for the man to continue, exanimating the three black lances laced over the purple. "We were prepared for your arrival, a feast is already being prepared in your honor for tomorrow, to share all the plentiful bounty of the Crownlands, followed by our oaths of fealty of course," he said with a magnanimous, helpful nod.

To Joffrey, it looked as if the feast had started without him, not that he cared. He didn't like the little 'helpful' way everything had been ordered for him. Who did they think he was? A child?

… probably, answered an uncomfortable voice inside his head. Who was this lord again? Lances over a field of black…

"Don't worry about that, Lord Gaunt. It won't be necessary," Joffrey told him, taking care to note who was in armor, who seemed too drunk, and who was still armed with something bigger than a dagger.

"The oaths?! But, your grace-!" started Lord Gaunt only to be interrupted by a wave of Joffrey's hands.

"You misunderstand me my lord, there will be no feast. We'll need those supplies once we're past Harrenhall. I'll take your oaths of fealty now," he said as he pierced him with his eyes.

He seemed vaguely nonplussed as he opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, Joffrey still staring at him until he finally kneeled. "Hail, King Joffrey. I'm yours to command," he said stiffly. The other knights and lords followed soon after with varying degrees of excitement or surprise, though eventually all kneeled.

"Rise, lords of the Crown. You all have an hour to sober up before we meet again here, we'll need to march fast," he said as he turned back and walked out of the tent. "Ser Boros, get me a map of the Riverlands," he commanded, leaving the stunned lords behind.

.-

The banners of the crownlands (or at least, those who had joined Joffrey in time) marched north at a snails pace. About eight thousand men had answered his call, way below the theoretical maximum of fifteen thousand that the mainland lords of the crownlands could call upon without straining the harvest too much. It was a pitiful force compared to the enormous armies fielded during the War of the Five Kings, but Joffrey honestly preferred it that way. He feared any larger force would actually move slower than a snail, and that was a cost he was not prepared to accept. As it was, his ordering and ongoing restructuring of the gaggle of quartermasters every single lord and knight seemed to field was a colossal time sink that was already earning him the ire of his 'leal vassals' and a permanently throbbing headache. The mere act of organizing their horrendous, hodgepodge logistic systems into something vaguely approaching 'acceptable' had unleashed irritated muttering from absolutely everyone, earning him the dubious nickname of 'The Baggage King'.

And they hadn't even reached Harrenhall…

At least the pace had picked up slightly once news of Robb had reached the host. The Lord of Winterfell had already crossed Moat Cailin, marching south hard with upwards of fifteen thousand angry northmen at his back…

He was riding in the van along with Lord Darlan Buckwell and Lord Renfred Rykker, two nobles which had managed to gain his attention. Lord Darlan was a veteran of the Trident and a simple sort of man who disdaining courtiers and spent most of his free time sparring or hunting when he was not ruling the Antlers. The short but stocky Lord Darlan fought hard for the dragons but still answered his call… of course, the fact that his lands bordered the Riverlands may have played a part in his willingness to serve him, both to be informed and forewarned in case of defeat and to reap the lands of their vanquished foes if victorious. Simple, but not stupid.

Compared to Lord Darlan, Lord Renfred Rykker was a study in contrast. A young, excitable boy barely past his nineteenth name day with the frame of a bull and a voice to match, the young crownlander had a Seven given knack for organization. His late father, also named Renfred, had died in a hunting accident shortly before he called them to levy. Joffrey had basically kidnapped him into serving as his overall quartermaster, a task most would have found insulting and demeaning for a Lord… a task Renfred had embraced wholeheartedly. The brutish looking lord's sheer joy at the royal attention would have left Joffrey wary for plots if not for the fact that it seemed so genuine. Lord Rykker almost preened with the responsibility he had been entrusted, and had dedicated himself completely towards the task, something that Joffrey (and his throbbing forehead) couldn't thank enough.

He was shaken from his reverie by Sandor's gruff warning. "Rider from the front," he said, signaling at a man in boiled leather riding a small horse as fast as he could, straight towards Joffrey as he dodged the columns of marching peasant levies and men at arms.

"Ya'grace!" he bellowed once he got there, reining in his horse brutally as he bowed his head. Joffrey winced at the poor handling of the animal as he nodded at the rider.

"What news from Ser Ethon?" he asked.

"We've spotted an armed host ya'grace, some two thousand, maybe four thousand strong camping smack in teh' middle of the Kingsroad a few hours away from 'ere," said the man.

"Northmen?" asked Lord Rykker, suddenly wary.

"Impossible, they're still too far out," said Lord Buckwell.

"Spot any banners, soldier?" Joffrey asked him.

The man nodded quickly, "Aye ya'grace, a red salmon over white and a plowman over brown, there were a few others too," he said.

"Houses Darry and…" Joffrey trailed off.

"Mooton, your grace," supplied Ser Barristan, who had been riding at his back.

"As well as 'a few more'," ended Joffrey.

By the gods what I would give for a Patrol or two of true Scouts, he thought sourly.

"Tell Ser Ethon to keep an eye on them and report all movements," he ordered the scout.

The rider bowed awkwardly over his horse before he rode back, kicking up dirt as Joffrey turned to Lord Buckwell. "Ready the men for battle, I'll take a hundred horse and ride on, see what's this all about," he told him.

"Surely it won't come to that, your grace?" asked Lord Rykker.

"For all our sakes, I hope not," Joffrey said with a small sight, already kicking his horse into a trot.

.-

Joffrey was the first to spot the parley flag flying over the heads of a dozen riders, standing tall over four other house banners. Behind them stood or milled about a small army of men and horse, evidenced by the small tents and the ramshackle tourney grounds. It seemed some Riverlords were holding an impromptu tourney… complete with their smallfolk levies.

Joffrey sighed as he and his most 'important' lords rode towards the parley party, Ser Barristan himself carrying their own parley flag. All around it flew the banners of Houses Buckwell, Gaunt, Hayford, Rosby, Rykker, Stokeworth, Edgerton and Langward, their lords or representing knights carrying them with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

"I don't like the looks of this," muttered Lord Rykker.

"Calm your tits Rykker, stay behind me and you'll be safe and sound!" boasted Lord Geyn Edgerton, his thick beard not doing enough to hide the disdainful smile he regaled his target with. Lord Rykker clamped his mouth shut, letting the insult pass unopposed as Joffrey grimaced. Getting involved there would only worsen Lord Rykker's reputation for meekness. The man was surprisingly gentle despite being built like an ox and with having a voice to match.

They made their way through the fields of the Riverlands, Harrenhall already visible in the horizon. The riverlanders had positioned their 'tourney' well, with one side anchored on a batch of rolling hills to the east and the shores of the God's Eye to the west.

Joffrey and his lords finally stopped a few meters in front of the parley party, and he had already recognized Lord Raymun Darry, his expression giving away nothing. To his left was an old, red haired man in plate with a tabard of green and brown maple leaves; the sigil of House Blanetree, his face neutral even as his eyes betrayed an unnervingly cold hatred directed straight at him. To Lord Darry's other side stood a youth of seventeen or so namedays, gazing back defiantly at Joffrey as if he were a moment away from striking him, the red salmon of House Mooton sewn over the banner he held with excessive pride, straight as steel. It seemed more bravado than real anger though, at least compared to the hole boring stare of Lord Blanetree. The group was completed by the constantly shifting man in Roote livery, the two headed horse of Lord Harroway's Town seemingly in flight given the man's constant shuffling. The gaggle of knights behind them all bore one of the four house's liveries.

"My Lords," said Joffrey with a nod.

"Your Gr-" started Lord Roote but was quickly silenced by a look from Lord Darry.

"Prince Joffrey," Darry answered for the little group. The crownlanders bristled at the disrespect, their horses shuffling nervously as hands went to pommels. "That is the King you are speaking to, you know better than this Lord Raymun!" Ser Barristan said with a grim scowl, duty and oaths compelling him to defend Joffrey's honor.

"Ser Barristan," said Lord Darry with a nod which seemed to mix both revulsion and grudging respect, "The only King I know of is King Robert, first of his name," he said, an almost sarcastic twinge deeply hidden within the tone of his voice.

It makes sense really, House Darry lost a lot defending the Targeryens during the Rebellion, Joffrey mused as he let the scene play out.

"And I'm not seeing him here," he finished.

Before Ser Barristan could say another word Lord Edgerton guffawed loudly, looking at the Riverlanders as if they were imbeciles, "I know Riverlords are a bit slow, what with all the plowing"- he said the last word staring directly at Darry with a savage smile-"You all seem to gladly receive every twenty years, but even you, Raymun, must know that when a King dies, the Prince is made the new King?" he asked, raising his bushy eyebrows.

"Say another word my lord and blood shall be spilled!" suddenly spewed the youth in Mooton livery, his hand grasping the pommel of a longsword that seemed too long by half.

Lord Edgerton seemed decidedly unimpressed, his eyebrows somehow lifting themselves up even higher, "Oh! The get of cowardly old William speaks! I thought you'd be cowering under his bed right now, father and son both!" he laughed.

The boy gave a scream of incoherent rage as he tried to draw his longsword, the two knights in Mooton livery at his back grabbing him before he could spur his horse forward. Joffrey blinked, startled at the boy's willingness to break parley even as his hand swiftly dropped to the mace strapped to his belt and the Hound's steed took a single step forward. Even Lord Edgerton looking somewhat surprised, though the Riverlords seemed more exasperated than anything, Lord Raymun fixing the boy with stare that promised retribution. Joffrey gave a stare of his own to Lord Edgerton, warning him to keep quiet.

"Forgive Master Willard, my Prince, he has been drinking rather heavily," Said Lord Darry, silencing the next outraged outburst with another look.

Joffrey waved the apology away with a negligent twist of his hand, looking at Lord Darry with an impatient scowl. They were wasting precious time here. "Lord Raymund, it seems the news have somehow not yet reached you, but my father King Robert is dead. I'll be accepting your oaths of fealty now in the name of your houses," he said simply.

None of the lords (or young Willard) looked particularly surprised, Lord Darry nodding along as if Joffrey had told him it was about to rain. "I'm afraid I can't swear my fealty to you, my prince, without receiving confirmation by raven that King Robert is indeed, dead. Signed by the small council and the Hand of course," he said.

Ser Barristan bristled, and it was clear this time the implied slight had been personal, "You would doubt the honor of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard?" he asked lightly, suddenly still.

Lord Darry's face disfigured itself for a microsecond as he whipped back to Ser Barristan, "Don't speak to me of honor, traitor!" he bit off, swiftly reasserting control as he turned back to Joffrey. "Pardon, my Prince, it's been a long day… especially considering you are bringing an army through my lands. We are carrying out important work out here, and I'm afraid I can't just stop it without a direct command from King Robert or Lord Hoster," he told Joffrey.

Joffrey leaned back on his saddle, pondering who had come up with this little trick, and why. He didn't remember much of Edmure, but this had all the signs of Old Hoster's work, from what he had heard about the man at least. If he could be delayed here one way or the other for a few days the Tully's could perhaps marshal their strength at the Ruby Ford if they were moving already, bottling him south until Robb Stark reinforced them… and then it'd be over.

He examined the group slowly, an unnatural silence falling down the wheat fields only punctuated by the gentle lapping of the God's Eye to the west as Joffrey kept staring at them. Lord Roote seemed ready to bolt, while Lord Blanetree had kept staring at him throughout the whole exchange.

"Did Old Hoster promise you back the lands he took from you after the Rebellion for this little stunt?" he suddenly probed.

Complete surprise was evident as Lord Darry almost reared back in shock, giving way to an awkward silence as he mulled something inside his mouth. "Wh- again, Prince Joffrey, if you want to-"

"By the Seven, let's stop this farce before we sully our honor any longer!" Lord Blanetree finally spat, combing one hand through his grey tipped red hair in exasperation. "Tell me boy, is it true you chopped off Ned Stark's head yourself? Or did you order your dog to do it?!" he snarled at Joffrey and Sandor.

And so the masquerade comes tumbling down… not that they expected much from it, he thought as Lord Raymun let out a resigned sigh.

Joffrey took a deep breath, the words sounding dirty and gravelly as they left his mouth "Lord Stark was caught in a web of-"

"Yes, caught and slain by evil Renly's web of deception, along with his ten year old son," he sneered. He seemed to scan Joffrey from head to toes before spitting to the ground. "Lannister rot to the core, I'm not surprised. That fine armor won't make you a warrior, child," he said, turning his horse around, "I'll look for you in the battlefield," he promised before spurring his mount onwards, his knights trailing behind him.

Joffrey swallowed the anger as his hands curled, frustration and rage fighting for control over his body.

"House Mooton shall fight to the last man!" called out Master Willard as he followed Blanetree back to their camp, trying to hide his shaking hands.

Joffrey stood on his stirrups for a few seconds, gazing at the camp and the banners beyond before sitting back down. "We outnumber you more than three to one, Lord Raymun, don't make me spill the blood of innocents for your ambitions," Joffrey pleaded with him.

The mask seemed to fall completely as Lord Darry looked at Joffrey as if he were nothing but dirt beneath his feet, much like he did when he thought no one was looking at him when the King's party crossed Castle Darry on their way back from Winterfell. It was an old hate, different from Lord Blanetree's but all the more potent for it. "The Old Trout didn't promise me anything, it would take more than a few crownlander traitors for him to give my family back what is rightfully theirs," he sneered, "Heh, I could be facing the Legions of the Seven Hells and the old greedy bastard wouldn't do it," he said as he turned his horse around. "Innocent blood…" he mused as he shook his head in disgust, "Innocent blood shall be avenged alright, that which was spilled by the old lion and his pet stag," he spat before turning to Lord Roote. "Let's go Lester," he said.

Roote seemed ready to shit himself as he looked from Joffrey to Raymun and back again. "Lord Roote!" repeated Darry. That was enough to shake the lord as he bowed to Joffrey, deeper than he ought to a 'prince', before spurring his horse back to their camp along with Darry.

Joffrey sighed as he watched them go, before turning his own horse around. "So be it," he said to himself as the crownlanders started to argue amongst themselves again.

.-

The afternoon sun was already starting to hide to the west when Joffrey held his war council.

"Lord Roote seemed ready to change sides right then and there. If we take a few days I can arrange for few discrete men to give him an offer he can't refuse!" said Lord Gaunt, almost shoving Ser Lyle out of the way with his pudgy belly as he leaned on the map, a big mug of ale in his hand.

"We should strike tomorrow, at dawn! Any more time and they'll dig themselves deeper!" responded the knight as he refused to be tossed aside.

"Oh, indeed?! Straight from one of the wealthiest houses in the Crownlands, the one who came with a whopping fifteen knights and five hundred peasants! Those will be my men that will do the dying, not yours!" bellowed Lord Edgerton.

"Please my lord's, let's keep this civil," said Ser Barristan, trying to keep the peace. Joffrey grimaced as he shook his head, trying to think above the constant shouting between the crownlanders. It didn't help that Lord Edgerton was right, House Stokeworth's levies had been pitiful for one of the wealthiest houses of the Crownlands. Before this life, it had taken the prospect of Lady Tanda Stokeworth herself trapped in the Red Keep beneath a vengeful Stannis for her to authorize a contingent of men at arms to reinforce the city. The dribs and drabs she'd sent him this time were barely short of treason, and their only saving grace was their commander, Ser Lyle of Old Bridge.

"We could attempt to flank them, the God's Eye is impossible but we can sneak a few knights past the hills on our right flank without them noticing," said Lord Buckwell.

"Not enough to make a difference on their own," said one of the Rosby knights. Lord Gyles had been too sick to come himself, or so the man had said.

They all seemed to be more or less ignoring him, and who could blame them? To them he was a green boy in fine armor playing at being King.

"We could just march through, force them to attack first," mused Lord Rykker with his grave voice.

"And you will march at the van? There won't be much baggage there I can tell you that!" Japed Lord Edgerton.

"Silence!" suddenly bellowed Joffrey, angry at them, at himself, at the damned purple.

"We'll attack tonight," he said as he stood up from his chair and re arranged the wooden pieces on the map.

Ser Barristan grimaced, lowering his voice as he spoke, "Your Grace, the darkness will make horse handling difficult, it would probably be better if-"

"We won't be needing the horses for this," he interrupted as he completed his re arrangement. "If we let Robb stark link up with the whole of the Riverlands before Lord Tywin can get here then all will be lost. This ends tonight," He sentenced, his voice oddly grave as his eyes glazed over deep in thought. "Ser Lyle, you'll command the left flank with your Stokeworth's, the Langward's and half the Gaunt's, your task will be to-"

Lord Gaunt looked apoplectic, his big belly straining his fine robes as he shouted over Joffrey. "My men under some nameless landed knight with less than five hundred foot?! I won't-"

"Lord Gaunt, I will listen to your objections later," Joffrey reprimanded him with a stern look before returning to the map, "As I said, Ser Lyle-"

"I'm not some dog you can silence with a word and a stern look, boy." Shouted Lord Gaunt, planting his mug of ale on the map and splashing beer over Joffrey's hands. "I won't have my men-" Gaunt started before Joffrey's hand moved like lightning, throwing a dagger at the mug. The strength behind the blow wrenched it from Lord Gaunt's grip and sent it tumbling to the floor.

"I said, I will listen to your objections later," Joffrey said, this time devoting his full attention to the man.

Gaunt stared back defiantly, not saying anything. A minute passed, two, three before Lord Gaunt looked down. "Very well," he bit out.

Joffrey kept staring at him.

"Very well, Your Grace," he managed, red faced.

"Good, Ser Lyle, your task will be to hold our left flank at first, but soon after battle is joined you are to retreat backwards slightly. Lord Buckwell, you'll command the right flank with your men, the Rykker's and Lord Gaunt's remaining half. Your task will be to push hard, buckling their line as Ser Lyle gives ground, thereby trapping the entire host against the God's Eye," he said, showing the basic maneuver with the pieces before looking up at Lord Buckwell.

"Aye, Your Grace… It will be difficult to coordinate in the dark though…" he said dubiously.

"…it's a simple pivot, I'm sure the men will be able to handle it," Joffrey told him before turning to Geyn. "Lord Edgerton, you'll command the reserve with all of our horse, use it run down any stragglers. I'll take the center with my red cloaks and your foot, as well as the Rosby's. We'll split the remaining minor Houses evenly between the three forces" he said, the Rosby knight nodding slowly as Lord Edgerton scratched his beard thoughtfully, unsure if he should feel insulted or honored.

"Does anyone have anything else to add?" asked Joffrey, straining not to slow his gaze too much at Gaunt's face.

There was silence before Joffrey nodded again.

"Very well, ready the men, we march in half an hour," he sentenced.

.-

"Our men will be tired, while the Riverlanders will be fresh," Ser Barristan tried once more as they walked past the lines of crudely armed peasants, the moon rising over the horizon.

"Yes, but their men will be rousing themselves when we reach them, they won't have time to mount up or armor a great many men," replied Joffrey.

"I understand, Your Grace, but the dark will cause us more wounded than if-"

"Ser Barristan," said Joffrey as he halted his horse and looked at him. "I appreciate what you are trying to do, really, I do. I'm honored to have such sage advice as yours by my side when riding for war, but you must understand that the decision, once taken, lies with me… and with me alone…" he said the last with a faraway look.

Ser Barristan nodded respectfully, carefully hiding a grimace, "Indeed it does, Your Grace. I only ask of you to be careful," he told him.

"… Your Grace?" he asked.

Joffrey was staring at the horizon, hands shaking slightly as he blinked, "I'm sorry Ser Barristan, what were you saying?" he asked the old knight.

"… It's okay to be afraid, everyone is, especially in their first battle," he said instead.

Joffrey looked at him with a sad smile, "If only it were fear Ser Barristan, if only…" he muttered as he spurred his horse onwards.

.-

The crash of armies was as sudden as it was brutal. Cries from scouts and guards giving way to the sound of hastily clad armor giving way to the screams of dying men and the screeching of steel on steel. They slaughtered a dozen surprised work crews before crashing into the camp proper, it appeared Lord Darry had been betting on receiving an early morning strike, given the state of the quarter dug ditches and piles of sharpened stakes laying in mounds, still to be deployed. Resistance immediately stiffened as they cleared the outer camp, terrified peasants and grim faced men at arms assembling where they could in a jumbled mess of swords, banners, pikes and axes. They had a bit of time to assemble thanks to the words of their scouts, but they were still unprepared when Joffrey was upon them.

Joffrey was at the back of the center, surveying the maneuver. He almost panicked when Ser Lyle seemed to stall too much in the left flank, but he managed to give way eventually, later than Joffrey would have hoped for and giving the Riverlords precious time to organize themselves, but manage he did. Lord Buckwell folded his flank magnificently, his right flank batting the enemy left flank back towards its center and enveloping against the God's Eye, whose generally gentle waves sounded thunderous in the middle of the night.

Disaster struck when a panicked, bloodied runner managed to find him, if only by accident. "Lord Edgerton! Lord Edgerton! The right flank is shattering and Lord Buckwell is nowhere to be found! We need the reserves," he screamed.

By the old gods how lost can one get with a little darkness?! This is the godsdamned center! He thought, the confusion quickly giving way to panic as he grabbed the man. "The reserve is that way!" he roared, shoving the man towards Lord Rykker's horse.

"Kingsguard! Sandor! Let's go!" he shouted at them, running to the right flank. They'd left their horses when they fought at the camp.

He arrived at the left flank to a sea of blood, frenzied knights and men at arms from different houses trying to break the encirclement by all means possible. Men in the livery of the Antlers lay sprawled on the ground, along with a few Gaunt's. It seemed the Riverlords were throwing everything they had to break free, he could already imagine their right flank disintegrating as they shoved everything they could through here in a mad bid to escape.

These bastards have cost me enough, he thought as he hefted his arming sword aloft.

"DIE!" he roared as he charged them, mace held low as he relieved a thousand battles inside his head.

I didn't want to return to this place, whispered a tiny voice inside him as he let go and devoted himself completely to the skirmish at hand, as he had done so countless times before.

A terrified peasant screamed as he tried to skewer him with a spear which Joffrey batted aside with his mace, his sword severing the man's arm and the mace caving his head in a second. Next came a man at arms with Darry's plowman sewn across his tabard, a tabard that was soon coated in blood as Joffrey parried the slow thrust of his longsword, his mace breaking the man's neck and the follow up slash slitting his exposed throat. He twisted, slipping between four peasants armed with scythe's and short swords. Their cloth armor seemed like paper to Joffrey, his arming sword cutting down two of them before they could react, his mace breaking the third's hand. The man bellowed in pain before bringing his scythe down slowly, so slowly. Joffey parried it with his sword as he twisted, his mace coming down on the man's head like a whipped rope, caving it in a shower blood.

He twisted yet again, mace angled for a blow that never came. The fourth peasant had thrown his spear on the ground and was kneeling. Joffrey took two steps, mace held high as he tried to make sense of the sound coming from the man's mouth.

"Plh-pleaase m'lord! Plhease don't kil-!" he cried in anguish, his plea cut short as Joffrey planted his mace right between the man's eyes, a shower of blood coating his back as he turned and went deeper into the battle. He realized he'd lost Sandor and his Kingsguard, but he couldn't be bothered to find them, so he made his way through the battlefield alone. He was going to try and find Lord Darry, see if he could make him pay for this mess. For this farce…

A knight charged him with a two handed hammer, slightly faster than the rest. Joffrey twisted to the side, letting the hammer pass but a hair's breath away from his nose, the steel spike digging itself on the ground. He delivered a flurry of quick blows on the man's arm with his own one handed hammer, denting the plate and spilling blood. The knight raised a hand, managing to grab Joffrey's before the next blow came, but the King snarled as he gave a step forward, lifting the man's arm high and shoving his arming sword through his armpit. He twisted brutally before taking it out, the knight falling like a length of oak before Joffrey was engaging the three knights behind their late comrade, who seemed vaguely cowering with their shields held up, trembling hands holding unsteady swords and maces. He was absolutely surrounded by men, and he didn't recognize any crownlander banners or livery.

He battered at the three knights and their shield wall before a smallfolk spearman managed to pierce his leg with an adrenaline fuelled, highly pitched yell, jumping from his right. Joffrey barely felt the blood flowing down his sheen as he cut the spear with a grunt, his mace coming up in a brutal backswing and shattering the little boy's jaw from below. He barely had time to gurgle before Joffrey finished him with a stab to the heart. The way he constantly turned his head, keeping sight of his blind spots, was the only reason he saw the blow to his back coming. He dropped to the ground, extending a leg backwards and tripping another smallfolk, robbing him of his equilibrium. The water drop was perfect as he stood pack up, elbowing the stumbling man's nose before turning again and planting his sword on his heart. A small circle seemed to be clearing around him as some men moved away even as other jumped at him. He had to leave his sword in the gaping man's chest as he stepped back, parrying a man at arm's thrust with his hammer even as he twisted again and dodged a spear. He grabbed the man's spear before pulling him closer, using him as a shield just in time for the man at arm's spiked one handed hammer to burst his head like a watermelon. Joffrey shoved the body aside as he disarmed the man at arms, breaking his fingers before pounding his forehead with one of the mace's flanges.

Even then two lightly armored men with the look of levied hunters attacked him, one of them tearing his grip from his hammer with a woodsman's axe. He let the hammer go as he'd done in countless skirmishes against wights, surprising the man by taking a step forward instead and delivering his armored fist to his mouth. He pummeled him twice more, quickly, intent on breaking his skull when he heard a scream from his side, "Brother!" screamed the second hunter as Joffrey let the first woodsman go, dodging the axe that would have cleaved his shoulder. He disarmed the second woodsman, coiling his arms around the haft and slamming the butt of the axe on the man's belly. He followed up with a blow to the man's neck with the haft, leaving him spluttering and breathless, both hands holding his throat as Joffrey pivoted and slammed the axe against his skull. He whipped back to the first woodsman, who was still looking confused, dazed as Joffrey grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and shattered his face with the force of his gauntleted fist again and again. The man fell back like a sack of potatoes, Joffrey taking the unusual reprieve to quickly stride two steps back and grab his fallen sword and mace. By now the circle around him was meters wide, with only him and the three knight's he had spotted before inside it.

He turned to the trio of knights, their feet shuffling back and forth as they took refuge in each other's shields, their eyes wide in fear, holding their swords as if they were crossbows, the sound of battle strangely soft. "COME ON!" Joffrey roared as smashed his mace against the top edge of the center shield, using his mace as a hook as he brought it back down, shield and all. In less than a second, the knight's field of view was replaced from his shield to the rapidly approaching tip of Joffrey's arming sword, and then to blackness. The knight to Joffrey's right, the one in Blanetree livery, was the first to react, bringing down his sword on Joffrey's arm and intent on severing it. Joffrey instead let his arming sword go, rotating full circle and letting his other arm extend right at the end of it, his mace striking the man's helmet so hard it got stuck there, beyond his grip as the knight fell backwards, convulsing. The third knight gave a harrowing, adrenaline filled scream as he slashed with his sword, nicking a tiny bit of Joffrey's cheek as the King leaned away precisely, bending the other way as he avoided the backswing. He ducked the horizontal slash as he grabbed a spear from the ground, sweeping the knight's feet and forcing the man to the ground. He twirled the spear two times quickly, to get a better feel for it as the knight desperately reached for his sword, a lifetime away. He gave up as he instead grabbed his shield, Joffrey completing the third twirl with an unconscious nod. "You'll do," he muttered as he grasped the spear tightly with both hands and raised it high over the knight's throat.

"Please! Wait! Ransom!" the panicked knight shouted as he managed to cover his face with the shield just in time to receive Joffrey's spear thrust. The shield splintered and buckled as Joffrey snarled, raising the spear and bringing it down again, this time piercing the shield as the panicked screaming from below turned to gurgling. Joffrey roared as he redoubled the effort behind the thrust, practically shoving his body weight against it, driving it a couple of inches deeper.

The knight's hands flopped to his sides, unmoving as blood spilled like the Trident from beneath the splintered shield. Joffrey stepped back, letting the spear stand there like some sort of bannerless pole, spitting before he ripped a piece of cloth from the dead knight, tying up his own leg wound with a grunt.

He realized the din of battle had turned almost completely quiet, and he raised his eyes to the sight of dozens of wide eyed smallfolk levies and men at arms, his mere gaze enough for them to stumble back in near panic. He was unarmed and seemingly surrounded by enemies, but they didn't seem to quite understand that fact for some strange reason. Joffrey was honestly befuddled as he turned around, gazing at all the terrified men that surrounded him.

What a farce, this is all a farce…

He placed a foot over the dead knight's chest before pulling the spear out with a grunt, blood flying up in an arc. He grimaced as a bit fell on his shoulder, then shrugged when he realized he was soaked in blood anyway, even the hair beneath his helmet felt damnably sticky. He let out a long sigh, it wouldn't be the first time he'd have to clean that much blood of his armor.

He turned his gaze back to the men surrounding him, still seemingly petrified. He realized the full moon gave a lot more illumination than he'd anticipated, the glowing orb in the sky and the reflected light that struck the God's Eye enough to let him see a goodly portion of the battlefield.

More than half the battlefield was standing still, men, knights and lords from both sides looking at him as if he were some kind of White Walker. The thought threatened to send Joffrey into an incoherent, black rage.

"IS THIS NOT WHAT YOU WANTED?!" he suddenly roared, pacing around like a caged bull, twirling the spear again and again to keep his hands from killing again. "ALL THE GLORY OF WAR?! THE SONGS AND THE SLAUGTHER?!" he bellowed, his spectators scrambling out of the way if he got too close to the edge of the ever expanding circle. "THE RED BLOOD AND THE BROKEN DREAMS!" he screamed, his voice hitching. He blinked away the tears as he kept turning around the circle, "DARRY! DARRY! LORD DARRY!" he roared, still twirling the spear.

After a few moments of deafening silence, one end of the circle parted to make way for an ashen faced Lord Raymun Darry, a crude bandage over his head as he walked up to a respectful distance, followed by a small gaggle of knights and other familiar faces. Joffrey could see Master Willard amongst them, but Lord's Blanetree and Roote were nowhere to be seen.

He looked pale as he signaled the rest to stop. He continued alone, only followed by a very similar if much younger version of himself. The youth looked haggard and ready to piss himself, while Lord Darry looked crestfallen as he handed his shield to his son. He kneeled in front of Joffrey, bowing his head and laying his sword sideways as he called out. "King Joffrey, please accept-" he trailed off as Joffrey laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

Lord Darry's expression turned steadily more horrified as Joffrey's laughter acquired a slightly maniacal glint. When he finally stopped, Lord Darry was surprised to find tear trails slowly making their way down Joffrey's bloodied cheek. "You think you can just bend the knee and call it a day? YOU THINK YOU CAN MAKE THIS ALL DISSAPEAR WITH THE FLICK OF A WRIST AND A SWORD IN THE GROUND?!" he roared, the spear trembling in his hands. "No. Pick up that sword Lord Darry. Die as you lived," he spat.

Lord Darry took a deep breath as he stood up, swallowing something sour as he turned to his son, "Lyman, take care of the family, tell Minisa-"

"What are you doing?" Joffrey interrupted him.

"… can't a man give a few last words for his son to carry?" Lord Darry asked, his tone vaguely pleading.

"…Who told you your son was making it out of this field alive?" he asked in turn.

Lord Darry looked like a stunned ox, almost swaying as he blinked again and again. "Wh- What?" he muttered as Lyman's grip on his father's shield tightened, the Darry Plowman painted atop its surface shaking like a leave in the wind.

"Your Grace!" suddenly said a voice behind him, "House Darry-" Ser Barristan Selmy fell quiet as Joffrey turned and stared at him, the blood still dripping down his breastplate, his legs, everywhere. Sandor and the other Kingsguard's were standing with him, just entering the circle with Lord Edgerton. By this point all the enemy knights and levies around them had laid down their weapons, and were transfixed by the scene playing out in the middle of the circle.

Lord Raymun Darry looked as if he was going to vomit, looking at Ser Barristan and the other lords and back to Joffrey again and again. "Please, Your Grace, he's just a boy-"

"A boy?!" cut Joffrey. "Oh, I'm sorry, my mistake then!" he said as he turned back and walked away. He grabbed one of the smallfolk he'd slain. "A boy! You know who else was a boy?! HIM!" he bellowed as he tossed him the dead body of the little spearman that had managed to wound him. He couldn't have been older than fourteen namedays, his face locked in a rictus of agony, his gangly limbs hanging awkwardly as Lord Darry skittered back.

"Back there are two woodsmen I slew, brothers! And before him lays an old man, a father! Husbands! Uncles! Men!" he snarled as he walked back and forth again, just barely restraining the black urge.

"But they're just smallfolk, right? Stable hands and farmers and crofters, they don't have names, they're not like Lyman," he sneered as he gazed at the quivering youth. "Lyman Darry is a real person, with a Future and a House and a Castle!" he said, punctuating each word with his spear's butt.

"You should have thought about them before you did this my lord. Every son to war a little Lyman, every grieving widow a Minisa," he said as he walked right to his face, splattering blood over his face. "The sigil of your vaunted House is the plowman Raymun, and yet you don't know. You don't know the universal truth that those who live below your castle live and breathe," he said as he tilted his face, staring deep into his eyes.

"You reap what you sow," he whispered, the words somehow echoing along the shores of the God's Eye. Lord Darry's chin trembled as Joffrey walked back. "Now let's get this over with!" he bellowed, slowly twirling the spear in circles and closing his eyes, the constant movement soothing his frayed nerves.

Lord Darry was breathing heavily as he turned to his son. "I'll distract him, you wait for the moment and pounce for the kill," he said as he grabbed his helmet from his son's unresisting hands and put it on. Young Lyman looked ready to faint as he breathed deeply. "LYMAN!" bellowed Lord Darry.

"Yes Father," he said, startled, still somehow unable to stop looking at Joffrey.

"Lyman, look at me," said Raymun as he grabbed he's son's head with both hands. "Look at me. Remember the yard below Plowman's Keep, remember the yard?" he asked him as he shook him gently.

"I- I- Yes Father, I remember," he said, looking back at him.

"Good, just like we practiced in the yard, remember your footwork, and remember to keep your guard low," he said, willing him to remember, his grip on Lyman's head tight.

"Y-yes Father," he nodded again.

"Remember… remember…" Lord Darry trailed off, looking at the ground for a second or two before returning his gaze to his son. "When we get back you could see that Lolliston girl, show her the great hall," he said, his voice growing hollow as he hugged him.

"Wha-?! But- Father, I thought you disapproved?!" said Lyman, completely nonplussed by the sudden turn.

"Don't worry about it son, don't worry about it. Let's go home," he said, quickly turning so Lyman couldn't see the tears crawling out of his eyes. He coughed as he readied sword and shield, facing Joffrey. "Let's get this over with," he snarled as Lyman readied his own bastard sword more confidently than before, standing at his side with eyes only for Joffrey.

Joffrey was looking at the horizon, breathing heavily. "Let's," he said as he turned towards father and son, walking towards them. Lord Darry roared as he advanced, his feet moving quickly but carefully, feinting to the right before trying to bash Joffrey with his shield. Joffrey grunted as he rolled to the side, coming up with a riposte that made Raymun stumble back. Master Lyman quickly positioned himself at Joffrey's back, trying to keep up with Joffrey constant whirling and feinting. Lord Darry went for a thrust that was quickly parried by Joffrey, who followed with a quick stab that Raymun barely dodged, grazing his helmet. Joffrey ducked as Lyman struck from behind, shoving his spear's butt past the bastard sword's guard and slamming it into Lyman's stomach. He was breathless as he stumbled back, Joffrey following up with a quick cut to the man's left hand that left him open for a-

"Lyman!" bellowed Lord Darry, shoving Joffrey away with his shield. Joffrey came up in a water recovery, slashing at Raymun's leg and making him stumble back. The old lord shook his head as he tried to regain his footing, grimacing in pain.

"Father-!" said Lyman as he stepped towards Joffrey's side.

"Wait for the kill son! Wait for the kill!" he bellowed, quickly looking at his son's bleeding hand wound before clamping his eyes back to Joffrey. He swayed lightly as he feinted left, then right, his sword periodically drifting in circles.

"Come on!" he shouted at Joffrey.

Joffrey gazed at him for a second longer before dashing straight at him like a bolt from a crossbow, spear light in his hands. Lord Darry swept low with his sword, only barely missing Joffrey's feet as the King jumped with a shout of strained effort, falling to the ground with a roll and avoiding Darry's follow up shield bash, leaving the back of his leg exposed. He stabbed at the man's thigh between the plates with an angry roar, tearing flesh away as he placed his foot over the man's hip and sent him tumbling back, extracting his bloodied spear with a snarl.

Lord Darry bounced on the ground, biting out a bellow of pain, desperately trying to scrabble backwards and failing to stand up due to his leg wound. Joffrey twirled the spear for the finishing blow before Master Lyman crashed into him with a roar. "Father!" he shouted as they both tumbled to the ground, Joffrey losing the grip on his spear as he rolled back up, much quicker than Lyman.

Joffrey breathed heavily as he gazed at the young lordling, a hand wiping away blood from his busted lower lip. He looked at Lord Darry in vague regret for a second before unsheathing his dagger and holding it close to his chest, the other hand held low and flat.

"Father! He's disarmed! We can win this!" shouted Master Lyman as he eyed the spear on the ground and the dagger in Joffrey's hand.

"Lyman don't!" bellowed his Father, but Lyman was already thrusting. Joffrey bent as he stepped to the side, the bastard sword screech against the edge of his breastplate as he let the Darry scion carry himself closer to him. His eyes barely had time to widen in surprise before Joffrey slammed the dagger through his eye socket.

"NOOOOO!" wailed Lord Darry as Joffrey wrenched the dagger and extracted it quickly and cleanly, Lyman Darry collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut.

"No…. no…." whispered Lord Darry as he tried to stand up, only to fall back to the ground.

Joffrey grabbed the spear and walked towards him, though Raymun made no effort to defend himself. "Just do it," he whispered, his voice devoid of any emotion as he kept staring at the body of his son, blood pooling around him.

Joffrey hesitated for half a second before driving the spear through his throat. He stayed there, looking at the swiftly closing eyes of the late Lord Darry as the blood kept flowing, as the muscles in his body relaxed.

"Ser Ba… Sandor," Joffrey called out, still looking at the corpse.

The moonlight seemed to give the scene a surreal property, as if the lords, soldiers and levies watching were made of pale stone instead of flesh. "Yes, Your Grace?" said Sandor, the first time he called him that. For some reason it hurt worse than a million battle wounds.

"Pass me a handkerchief, would you?" he asked softly.

The Hound looked unusually subdued as he took a white linen handkerchief from his person, probably looted from a lord or knight. "Here," he said.

"Thank you," said Joffrey, wiping the grime, blood and tears from his face. He took a deep breath before asking, "Lord Blanetree?"

"Lord Rykker caved his skull in with an axe, he won't be troubling you any longer," he said.

"… Good, Roote?" he asked.

"Surrendered once it was clear this was no skirmish," the Hound said with a disdainful snort.

"… but it was," Joffrey said, vaguely confused.

"Was?" Sandor asked.

"A skirmish, I mean," Joffrey said with a distracted shrug, looking at the ground for his mace and sword.

Sandor said nothing as he looked at the broken bodies and the shuffling soldiers, the spell starting to be broken as the looting started.

"Anyway, Blanetree. Hm. That leaves…" he trailed off, looking to the small gaggle of grim faced knights.

"I-I'm not afraid to d-die," said Master Willard Mooton as he stepped forward, unsheathing a trembling, two handed greatsword.

Joffrey looked at the heavens as he took another big breath, "Oh for the love of the Old…" he trailed off as he grabbed his forehead.

"Just bend the knee Mooton. The Darry's already paid for this whole insanity," he said with a sigh.

"I-I said I-I'm not afraid-" he trailed off as Joffrey stalked towards him like a banshee, the spear suddenly in his right hand. The men behind him scrambled as Joffrey reversed the spear and struck, Willard's late parry not doing much as the butt hit him in the belly and then in the chin. He stumbled back as Joffrey spun, delivering a heavy strike at his hands with the butt and making Willard drop his sword. He followed up with a thrust to the knee that left him on the ground, the spear tip almost touching his neck.

"YIELD!" roared Joffrey.

"I yield! I yield!" screamed Willard.

Joffrey kept breathing heavily as he withdrew the spear, "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" he shouted at Willard, "What the fuck is wrong with this continent!?" he bellowed at no one in particular. "ALL WE HAD TO DO, WAS FOLLOW! THE DAMNED! ROAD!" he screamed, punctuating every word with a slash his hand, aimed north.

He shook his head before dropping the spear, "I don't know why I bother," he muttered as he walked to the enemy camp. "I'm going to sleep, I'll take the oaths tomorrow… today, whatever," he said as he gazed at the full moon.

"Oh, one other thing!" He said as he stopped and gazed back to the mob of men starting to loot or to properly surrender. "Anyone so much as gives me a lick of trouble, you'll wish you were Lord fucking Darry!" he spat, feeling spent.

"Lord Edgerton, please take care of this mess," he said as he passed beside him, the belated knights of the Kingsguard hurrying behind him.

"I will, Your Grace," said Lord Geyn Edgerton, for once without even a breath of boast or jape.