Chapter 33: As Sharp and Long.
Joffrey's back was as straight as a plank, his breathing even. The soft pillow's of Castle Darry had proven too much for him, and he'd ended up in an extended meditation session. Minisa Darry had been despondent when Joffrey showed up with upwards of seven thousand men beneath her front gate, the news travelling faster than horse as always. Joffrey had barely manage to promise the lives of those within before she surrendered the castle… he was almost certain the Silent Sisters would have a new acolyte soon.
He dispelled the worries and the nightmares as he kept sinking within his consciousness, the sea of meanings growing indistinct as the blessed peace flooded throughout him, carrying him deep within. He felt like a stone sinking throughout the depths of the summer sea, sinking, sinking, sinking…
Again he felt the tiny brush of what felt like the bone tablet, familiar, so far away in the Red Keep yet so close all the same, almost as if he could touch it. His awareness slowly concentrated on a single point as he traced the feeling deep within, following the feelings of familiar mystery and knowledge, sea salt and storms, coarse lines over white smoothness. He followed its pull, the same way he'd done with Stars, using the sensation as a rope to guide himself. He examined the thing with something far more complete than mere eyesight, than sound, than touch. It was everything the tablet was, almost a concept, its very being anchored or connected by strange twisting lines around it. Joffrey followed the connections as they got more complex, twists turning into fractals, shadows acquiring weight and lines becoming tethers as Joffrey stared up and up and up until he realized he was staring at his very soul in all its terrifying complexity, held up by a never ending cathedral of terrible Purple pillars that extended to infinity-
He gave a strangled scream as he opened his eyes, breathing like a madman as he stood up from the ground and fell, curling upon himself as he closed his arms around his chest. He bit his hand as he blinked rapidly, rocking back and forth and drawing blood from his palm, the blessed pain anchoring him back to reality. Anchoring back to what he thought was reality.
…Even though the pain felt less real than the pillars.
"Your Grace?! Joffrey?!" shouted blessed Sandor as he shook him.
Joffrey looked at him like a drowning sailor eyes a bit of flotsam, practically strangling him as he leapt at him with shaky hands.
Sandor Clegane. The Hound. He felt real.
He hugged him tightly, feeling the cold of his breastplate and the slight breath of ale, the awkward patting and the dubious voice.
"It's only nightmares… Joffrey. It's only nightmares," he said awkwardly.
For a second Joffrey thought he was back in the Red Keep, so great was his disorientation. What was real? What was not? The slowly returning guilt over the killing of Lord Darry and his son was almost a balm to his being, the familiar, weary weight of his hopeless task and the tiredness of his body taking his mind away from the existential dread.
"I'm okay Sandor, I'm okay. I think…. I think I'm okay," he muttered as he let him go.
The Hound stood back with a hesitant step, Ser Barristan pointedly looking out of the room at his side.
"Thank you Sandor, thank you, thank you," he said as he took a deep breath, shaking his head every two seconds.
Does not even meditation give me peace anymore? He thought in mounting despair. He shook his head one last time, concentrating on the here and now. "Sandor… tell the men we move out today, they've rested enough," he told him.
The Hound nodded as he stepped back, the look of respect he'd strove so hard to get in so many past lives devoid of the laugh lines of friendship. He found out he much preferred the latter as he looked away, sitting in the floor again. He barely slept in beds anymore, his body almost finding the hard ground more comfortable than the distressingly sinking beds of Westeros. Certainly preferable than the claustrophobic shifting sand that passed for a mattress in Castle Darry.
He shook his head once more. There was work to do.
.-
The tale of what happened in the 'Battle of the Bloody Fields' spread far and wide, as those things tend to do. Joffrey had been a bit surprised by the name, though in hindsight Westerosi had an almost natural knack for naming things like that in a manner that was both highly creative and highly predictable at the same time. More surprised had been Lord Edgerton congratulating on winning such a battle so decisively.
"… why is everyone calling this a battle?" he'd asked him in an admittedly confrontational manner. Lord Geyn had just looked confused as Joffrey waved it off, disappointed at himself for unloading on the man. Besides the fact that their little scuffle by the God's Eye barely counted as a skirmish, battles were supposed to have… more… meaning… something. He felt calling it anything else but a farce was a disservice to everyone that died there… alas, his outburst had only served to gain him more strange looks from the knights and lords of his retinue.
His handling of the strange manner of martial politics involving war in Westeros had been decidedly lukewarm however. His decision to grant Castle Darry to one of Lord Buckwell's sons had been well received, and more than just in his opinion. The doughty lord of the Antlers had succumbed to his wounds the day after the 'battle', much to Joffrey's mounting frustration with the world in general. His decision to send Lord Gaunt to secure the loyalty of the nearby holdfasts and houses of the Ruby Ford had proven less successful. Lord Gaunt had been on the edge of rage as he rode off with a snarl, the fact that his men were the most intact within the force and his personality the best suited to the task apparently lost on the man. All he had cared of was the 'dishonor' of abandoning his liege lord in the middle of a campaign, to round up a few no name riverlanders. His lords and knights looked at him with respect now, sometimes even fear, but even so it seemed his 'hard' ways had been a strain for many to bear. From the organizing of the baggage train to his policy on raiding to placing the most competent in charge instead of those with more prestige or men, it seemed his way of doing warfare was trampling egos and prides like an elephant amok. The fear and respect had silenced many, but drove others to speak in private, merely managing their disrespect in private instead of doing it openly like before. Even his decision to completely encircle and annihilate the riverlander force in the 'battle' had caused some controversy, with many believing some smaller houses would have just been content to bleeding Joffrey's army a bit before yielding with honor and swearing their oaths on their own terms.
Joffrey couldn't really give a damn. If they'd thought he was going to leave an operational force at his back, free to raid his logistics or his rear out of some misplaced sense of chivalry then the lords still had a lot to learn.
He looked to his left at the meandering waters of the Green Fork, leaves and twigs floating down along with the occasional river trout, jumping from the depths and disappearing in an instant.
I'd like to take a river boat through these waters someday… with only the sun and the gentle swaying to worry about… he mused distantly as his horse cantered along the kingsroad, practically at the head of his army. The constant rumble of their march quickly awoke him from the reverie though.
"So, what's with the death wish?" he suddenly asked the rather weary looking youth in Mooton livery, riding his own horse at his side.
He seemed startled as he looked back, "Ah, Your Grace… Its… I was only carrying out my duty," he said, uncomfortable with the subject.
Master Willard Mooton had bent the knee and swore loyalty to the crown in the name of House Mooton, but they hadn't spoken much since then beyond an accounting of his surviving forces and the sending of a rider to fetch reinforcements to Maidenpool. Joffrey was curious to learn more about him, finding him vaguely intriguing. He'd joined him shortly after the army had gotten on the way, very wary at what his new King wanted from him.
"That was more than loyalty. No one expects a noble to charge to his death when there is the chance of an honorable surrender," Joffrey mused out loud. After so many years of travel and meeting so many people, he knew when there was something else to dig within the young heir.
"It was the only choice for me, Your Grace. I had to," he said with a strange kind of brittle intensity.
Joffrey leaned back on his saddle, "It's okay to be afraid Willard, anyone who-"
"I WAS NOT AFRAID!" he suddenly exploded, his whole body tensing.
Joffrey said nothing as he kept riding, gazing at the river again. A line of great poplar trees lined the edge of this part of the Green Fork, serving as a natural wall and drainage system that kept the river's flow stable, the compact earth and the small, weedy flowers evidence enough of careful tending by patient hands.
"I almost shat myself during my first battle," Joffrey said suddenly, his eyes distant. He could feel the incredulity in Willard's stare, the disbelief shining from him like some sort of fiery orb.
"It feels like a lifetime ago… multiple lifetimes ago," he laughed at his own pun, looking at a slight bend in the river, the small cul-de-sac filled with errant lily pads that had lost their way. "I ran away, couldn't stand the steady pounding of foot and bows… it was dark, nighttime," he continued, the lilies transforming into small row boats and burning galleys, each lily holding grim faced men from Dragonstone.
"Yes… I remember being shocked at how dark everything was. Looking from torch to torch as if trying to absorb their light for my own use," he said with a small chuckle. "I really did know nothing back then... So of course I was almost constantly blinded when I looked down the walls… I thought my heart was going to explode by the way it was beating… I had somehow constructed this image inside my mind of a dreaded warrior… the dread King Joffrey… with his named sword and his fine armor… a legend in the making…" he trailed off, his gaze going up slowly as if following an invisible projectile hurling itself towards the sky. "The arrows fell so quickly… they were like rain…" he almost whispered.
They rode in silence for a while, until Joffrey turned his gaze to the entranced Master Willard. "The dread King Joffrey…" he repeated again with a self-depreciating smile. "What are the men calling me now?" he asked him.
Willard shifted uneasily over his saddle, looking at a random pebble on the road before looking back to Joffrey's chin, "The Bloody Lion, Your Grace," he said at last.
Joffrey smiled lightly, looking back towards the road, "I would have loved that name back then… 'The Bloody Lion'… so evocative… like something out of the Dance of Dragons, a maesterly historical work… perhaps an old King of the Rock…" he mused before breathing heavily. "If only he'd known… if only I'd known…" Joffrey trailed off once again, looking down at his chest. "Later, the fear of battle… it used to make me feel alive..." he whispered, so low Willard had to lean, his attention supreme. "It used to be something visceral, terrifying while strangely invigorating… but now every time I feel it less and less…" he suddenly turned to Willard, holding his eyes with his gaze, "Fear does more than keep you alive… it grounds you. It… it's…" Joffrey tried to find the words, not really looking at Willard, but beyond.
"It's a mirror… A reminder. A partner… without it… without it… you lose one of the anchors," he finally managed, frustrated at the very imperfect analogy.
"One of the anchors?" asked Willard, still as a statue as their horses kept moving.
"One of the anchors that tethers you," said Joffrey, suddenly slamming his fist against his breastplate and startling Willard. "Here. Now," he said as he pounded the breastplate over his chest with each word. "You don't want to lose that anchor Willard… there's so few of them… so few of them left…" he trailed off.
They continued in silence for what seemed like an hour, a flock of river warblers flying overhead, chirping occasionally as they landed on the other side of the Green Fork.
Suddenly, Willard spoke. "My Lord Father… he… he's not the bravest of lords…" he trailed off as he shook his head, turning to look at Joffrey once more, decisive. "No. He's a coward. He's the laughing stock of Maidenpool's vassals. He wouldn't come out of the walls even if bandits were terrorizing a village half a day's ride away..." he trailed off, ashamed.
"Is that why you use a two-hander instead of a shield?" said Joffrey, "To show them all you're not afraid? That you're not like him?" he asked him.
Willard took his time, examining his hand. "I grew up surrounded by the laughter. The japes," he said the word like a curse.
"And yet you still fear," Joffrey stated.
"…Yes…" said Willard.
"That's good, Willard. It means your life is very precious to you. Some would say the only way to be brave is to be afraid… paradoxical, I know," he said with a small smile. "You refused to yield even after you saw me best knights and lords many times your better in war… I'd say you grew past the shadow of your father a long time ago," he said simply.
Master Willard said nothing as the horses kept cantering along the road, the lilies flowing downstream.
.-
The great oaken snake crushed him within its grip, his bones tearing apart as a liquid agony coursed through his veins, the screams of dying men all-encompassing like a discordant, maddened tune Joffrey couldn't stop listening to. The screams and the singing of steel on steel had him its grip as Joffrey rolled from under the blanket inside his tent, grabbing Sandor by the neck as his other hand held an obsidian dagger at the ready.
The screeching steel and the panicked screams did not stop as he woke up.
"Raiders! Get behind me!" The Hound bellowed as he turned back towards the tent flap with longsword, Joffrey returning the obsidian dagger to his ankle sheath and putt on his boots. In twenty seconds he was sporting his sword and hammer, though he didn't have time to wear anything heavier than a gambeson.
They both left the tent to the sight of Ser Barristan slashing at a horse's legs, brutally unseating the rider and delivering a swift finishing blow. "Tully's, Your Grace!" he shouted.
Hoster? Edmure? How?
"Follow me! Let's rally at the command tent!" Joffrey bellowed as he made his way throughout the chaos, shouting and roaring at everyone he could see, trying to make them follow him.
Soon he had a sizeable following, though there seemed to be more panicked trampling than fighting, a few enemy horsemen throwing torches at supply tents and makeshift stables before riding out as fast as they could in between the confusion.
"Spread out! Spread out! Don't let them burn the tents!" Joffrey roared, waving his sword and shoving bleary eyed levies and men at arms.
As soon as it started, it was suddenly over, the horsemen melting into the night as they left their fires to burn. Joffrey organized a bucket chain using the Green Fork as a source of water, all the while trying to get the men in order to receive a possible, second attack. Ser Barristan proved his worth in gold there, rallying the men and forming them up quickly beneath the raging fires.
"Where the hells were our scouts?!" Joffrey bellowed as he spotted a dazed looking, lightly armored Rosby man.
"Th-They came outta nowhere my liege! The Blackfish' himself cut down Ser Ethon with single stroke!" he shouted back, looking lost.
"What's your name?!" Joffrey asked him.
The man swallowed before quickly answering, "Tiler, my liege," he said.
"Find the rest of your riders, and take anyone else you need! You're in command until the morning, don't let them get the jump on us again!" he said as he clapped his shoulder hard.
He looked panicked for a second before Joffrey's steel gaze grounded him, "Aye ser!" he said as he ran back, shouting at a few of nearby men who were already atop their horses.
Joffrey kept organizing the damage control efforts, and soon the sun was rising over the east as he met with his ragged looking vassals by the command tent. "How did this happen?" he asked, his voice hollow.
Lord Edgerton looked outraged, "The Blackfish's men must have slain our scouts over the course of the night… We know for a certainty he personally led a fierce skirmish against Ser Ethon's group though… he struck us soon after, before word from the survivors could properly reach us.
Joffrey breathed heavily as he looked at Lord Rykker, "Renfred, our supply's?" he asked him.
The burly lord of the Dun Fort looked furious for once, muttering under his breath before looking at him, "Not as bad as we first though. They went for the bigger tents first, the ones that held the least…" he said as he nodded at Joffrey, "that idea of yours may have saved more than we can count, though we'll have to resort to foraging again. Casualties were light, but Lord Roote… he died when his burning tent collapsed over him," he said grimly.
Does not bode well for future Riverland vassals…
"Lord Roote was a former Tully vassal, could it have been deliberate?" asked Ser Lyle.
"Not likely, not with tonight's visibility," Joffrey countered.
"So, what do we do now?" asked Lord Gaunt, fixing one of his beady eyes upon Joffrey.
"What do you mean, my lord? We continue the same as before, and try to catch the Blackfish before he does any more damage," said Joffrey.
"I don't think that's wise. We should retreat back to the Ruby Ford, hold feasts and small tourney's, entice the riverlander houses with promises of seats and gold," said Lord Gaunt.
"And leave the northern Riverlands to Robb Stark without a fight? No, that's exactly what the Blackfish wants," Joffrey dismissed him.
"Of course, Your Grace," said Gaunt with a small bow, the sarcasm self-evident.
"Of course, Lord Gaunt." Joffrey bit back, his patience running thin. "The Tully's and thus many of their vassals are tied to Robb Stark by blood. A waiting game will only benefit them… besides after that damned trap at Wayfarer's Rest…" he trailed off, the lords looking nervous as they contemplated that little setback. The Vance's and the Tully's had laid some sort of ambush at Wayfarer's Rest. They hadn't even contested the passes out of the Golden Tooth, and thus Tywin had been overconfident…
Great surprise there… he thought sardonically as he scratched his head.
The Westerlander's had been bloodied though, and bloodied further when Tywin insisted on taking Wayfarer's Rest by storm to soothe his accursed pride. They were currently stuck outside Riverrun, trying to take the castle and fighting off raiders out of Pinkmaiden. Twyin had been wounded at Wayfarer's Rest, and the more cautious Kevan was making careful, painfully slow progress securing the three gates of Riverrun before marching to reinforce Joffrey… the awe shattering power of the Westerlands didn't seem that impressive when given the same time to prepare as the riverlords. They knew the country side well, and had taken measures to prepare their keeps and holdfasts for extended sieges and powerful sally's… and unlike the southern riverlands, they'd had time to prepare.
The fucking Mountain that Rides of all people had broken through with almost a thousand riders, supposedly with orders to reinforce him though the beast last been seen west of Raventree Hall of all places, razing everything he found to the ground and slaying anyone in his way, including Lord Jonos Bracken and Lord Tytos Blackwood, their generation's feud laid to rest with the cold embrace of death.
If he retreated back south, he'd be able to link up with the Lannister host, likely giving him numerical superiority against Robb Stark and the northern riverland houses he'd be sure to take… on the other hand, they'd be stuck in a bloody war of attrition over the narrow fords of the trident as the riverlands burned all around them, giving time for Renly or Stannis to strike…
The situation was unpalatable, and Joffrey's gut was loath to cede the initiative… it was almost anathema.
"We'll deal with Robb first before turning south. With the northmen defeated the riverlords will have no choice but to bend the knee," he said.
"We barely have over ten thousand men, assuming the Roote men don't decide to go home with their tails tucked in!" shouted Lord Gaunt, "And you mean to take on twenty thousand northmen?!" he exclaimed.
"They're led by a green boy-" started Ser Lyle only to be interrupted by Gaunt.
"And we're not?! One lucky battle and a few skirmishes does not a 'Bloody Lion' make! If we keep marching north-!"
Joffrey's hand moved almost of his own accord, smashing Lord Gaun't left hand with his hammer. Bloodied fingers flew around the table as Lord Gaunt fell to the floor, screaming. Pandemonium erupted around the table as everyone stood up, their shouting indistinct to Joffrey's ears as he stood up slowly, aiming the hammer like a crossbow towards Lord Gaunt. "You will obey, or the next time I'll take out your other hand," he told the seditious lord, his voice oddly still. Gaunt stared back at him in raw fear, clutching his bleeding hand.
He sat back down as Gaunt left the tent, and Ser Lyle swallowed before speaking, "Your Grace… perhaps you should speak to the Roote men? They-"
"No," Joffrey said, dropping his head and holding it tight with his hands, "They'll do their fucking job, the one they just swore to do, and that is the end of that," he spat out.
"Now, we march. And if anyone sees the Blackfish again, let me know," he ordered them.
.-
They kept marching north, the northern Riverland houses like the Keath's and the Terrick's staying well away from his riders. There were unconfirmed sightings of the Blackfish travelling between the various keeps that bordered the Mountains of the Moon, his attempts at forming a bigger host apparently falling on deaf ears. It seemed that with the Crownland's host so close by, those houses had decided to forget there was a civil war in all but name going on near their lands. Joffrey, for once, was glad for his absurd reputation. The tale of the Bloody Lion and the Bloody Fields had spread far and wide, and the more reclusive riverlanders seemed wary to see for themselves if the rumors were true. One thing was certain though… the northmen were close. Very close.
Joffrey dispersed his thoughts, sinking once again deeper and deeper within himself, using the pull of the tablet as the beacon to guide his awareness, being very careful never to look 'up'. The essence of the tablet beckoned, and Joffrey was mesmerized as he examined not the… 'soul' of the tablet itself, but the twisting contours at its edges, the parts that somehow anchored the tablet to the much greater whole… to him. The turning and twisting lines were like runes more ancient than man or beast. Familiar to him. Very much so.
He wondered about that as he stretched his consciousness towards the essence of the tablet itself, its smell and its shape and its texture flooding him as if he could almost touch it-
"Your Grace," said the old, steely voice of Ser Barristan. His voice felt like battle worn steel expertly maintained, glossy and trusty but chipped as well. It lifted him up like a bladder full of air lost in the seas, carrying him upwards until he opened his eyes. He let his body relax from the Half Lotus form Half Moon Jhos had been so fond of, his hands returning to his thighs.
Ser Barristan gazed at him with the look of a man resigned to an incomprehensible enigma. "Riders in the horizon Your Grace, half a day away," he said.
"The Blackfish?" asked Joffrey.
"No, they look like heavy horse… and they carry the Stark Banner," he answered.
"No parley flag?" he asked without hope.
"None, Your Grace," said Ser Barristan.
"Very well then, get the preparations in order," Joffrey said with a nod as he unfolded his legs, standing up in one smooth move. "Let's finish this," he said.
.-
The might of the Northern cavalry was a sight to behold. The Barrowknights of the North, along with a smattering of Manderly knights and Flint riders were trundling down the Kingsroad like a runaway freight cart, their multitude of banners held high and proud. They were almost charging already, intent on shattering to pieces the formation of Langward and Stokeworth infantry in front of them.
Joffrey smiled coldly, turning back to look at more than half of his cavalry hiding in the trees with him, archers to their left. They were hiding in a particularly thick forest of sentinel pines that crawled up lazily towards the Mountains of the Moon, the Green Fork in front of them. Perpendicular to them was the Kingsroad, where most of the northern cavalry were charging a 'surprised' formation of Joffrey's foot.
Joffrey's plan to wipe out a substantial portion of the roaming northern cavalry had been baited liberally. A bit less than two thousand crownlanders from 'his' fictitious van hastily fanning out and bracing against each other. Once they were pinned down with his men, Joffrey would charge them as the archers hidden to his left opened up… by nightfall, the majority of the northern cavalry here should be dead.
Ser Barristan though didn't share his 'optimism'. "Your Grace," he said from his side. The Hound looked at them with the gaze of a man which has seen the same discussion again and again.
"We've been through this Ser Barristan, even heavy cavalry won't charge against braced pikemen, and if they do they'll get turned into mincemeat," he told his kingsguard with a sigh.
Ser Barristan looked as if he'd wish he had more hair… to pull out, slowly and painfully. "Your Grace, please… let us charge now, avoid the loss of our infantry. They're going to melt!" he said the last in steadily mounting despair.
"They won't," Joffrey sentenced swiftly. "They're heavily armored and soon to wield pikes, it will be brutal, I'll grant you that… but the northern cavalry will be wiped out by tonight," he told him, swiftly returning his eyes to the battlefield.
A horn sounded from within the northern cavalry, followed by three or four more differently pitched ones, their sound eerie as their mounts sped up immensely, quickly eating the distance to the crownlanders.
A horn sounded from within the infantry this time, the troops kneeling and grabbing the pikes that had been on the ground, bracing themselves. It was double layered instead of the triple one used by the Dawn Fort's Iron Guard regiments, and considerably slower as well, the pikes rising up almost drunkenly and not at all synchronized.
A pike wall is a pike wall, Joffrey told himself as the northern cavalry didn't stop, apparently content to charge to their deaths.
They're going to bloody kill themselves… all to fucking bounce against a pike wall?!
The northern cavalry roared as they lowered their lances, banners from half a dozen northern houses fluttering wildly above them as Joffrey's pikes swayed lightly, as if the enemy roar had unleashed a small gust of wind upon them.
"WINTERFELL! FOR THE NOOOORTH!" they bellowed with all their might as the distance was reduced to meters, the pikes swaying wildly as the whole formation seemed to stumble back for a few seconds right before the northern cavalry slammed into them with the fury of a storm. Blood and helmets flew all over the small battlefield as men and horses screamed and died in an earth shattering crash, some knights even flying over the air without their mounts before crashing back down to the ground in bloody heaps. Even as the first line of knights skewered themselves on the pikemen, the second charged through, and the third, and the fourth. Lances pierced plate and flesh, Joffrey's foot stumbling back like a panicked mob even as the congestion in front of them slowed the charge of the remaining northmen.
"What are they doing?!" Joffrey whispered.
Instead of bracing themselves again and relaying on the pikemen behind them to kill the vulnerable horses right in front of them, Joffrey's men disintegrated as the now barely trotting knights drew longswords and axes, reaping a bloody harvest as the surviving front and second line of pikemen turned back and tried to escape, the bulk of their companions making such a task impossible and leaving their backs bared to the thirsty northern axes and longswords.
Quickly, the rows of men at the back started to flee, dropping their weapons and running for the forest or the road, their blood leeching into the Green Fork and turning it red.
"KNIGHTS!" Joffrey roared at his back as he hefted an unwieldy knightly lance aloft, "WITH ME! ARCHERS, LOOSE!" he bellowed before charging out of the forest.
The crownlanders and riverlanders of his host quickly followed him, forming up at his sides as their own horns thundered. Joffrey angled the lance awkwardly as he rode, not having a clue about what he was doing, his other hand holding his shield tight.
Should have paid attention to all those tourneys instead of watching the blood, he thought in mild distress as he shifted the unfamiliar weight of the spear. Fortunately he had no problems controlling his horse, absentmindedly driving it with his legs alone, though he noted the other knights used their shield hand to keep a stern hold on their reins.
The northern cavalry was already retreating back since before Joffrey charged, content with the bloody toll they had extracted from the shattered pikemen before speeding back north.
How could they have reacted so fast?!
"LORD EDGERTON!" he roared over the din of the horse, standing tall over the stirrups as the lord to his right flank looked at him. He slashed with his lance to a point vaguely in front of the retreating northern cavalry, and quickly the right flank of his charging cavalry line peeled off for an intercept, Joffrey's archers managing to lame a few horses before the northeners fled out of range.
Lord Edgerton's flank managed to catch some of the northern knights, delaying them enough for the rest of Joffrey cavalry to catch up from behind and slaughter them even as most of their compatriots fled his failed ambush.
Joffrey roared as his lance bounced off a breastplate, the force of the blow painfully wrenching it from his grasp. Ser Barristan outperformed his liege shamefully, skewering a knight right through the visor with his own lance.
What kind of Westerosi King doesn't know how to charge properly?! He thought to himself furiously as he took his trusty hammer and got to work on the northmen. While the charge itself had been pathetically executed, Joffrey's horse handling skills suffered no such fate. He'd spent many nights during their march north training and bonding with the stallion as he'd done with his own mounts over the pale sands of the Grey Wastes, trying to install an almost instinctive understanding with the black horse… and Moonlight had responded admirably.
He blocked an axe with his shield, Moonlight swiftly cantering sideways to close the distance as Joffrey attacked at the same time, reaching the back of the knight and making him fall down his horse. Joffrey looked behind him for a second before twisting his knees slightly, Moonlight turning swiftly and enabling him to parry another knight's longsword long enough for Sandor to slam his own mace on the man's neck. "Damn you Joffrey! Stay behind me!" he bellowed as he slammed down another knight that got too close.
Joffrey was about to respond when he caught sight of light cavalry in Tully and Stark colors entering the woods he'd just left.
"The fucking Blackfish is butchering our archers!" bellowed a nearby lord he couldn't see, and Joffrey's knuckles whitened under the strain.
The cursed asshole knew our whole plan… he thought in shock, the lack of competent scouts once again biting him in the ass.
"Ser Barristan! Finish these northmen!" he bellowed over the battlefield, his voice cutting through the song of steel on steel. "Sandor! Redcloaks! With me!" he shouted as he spurred his horse back towards the forest.
He cursed the Blackfish yet again as a couple of bloodied archers left the woods, two Tully horsemen appearing from behind them like specters, cutting them down. Joffrey snarled as he rode past them, decapitating one with his arming sword as he left his shield to tumble in the ground.
Sandor, a few redcloaks and some knights followed quickly behind him, and Joffrey was soon amongst the light cavalry who were busy butchering his men. He caved one's skull in even as he ripped another one with his sword, Moonlight whirling in circles and in between the enemy horsemen as Joffrey slaughtered them through their light armor. The quickly began to disperse though, riding much faster than he could catch them.
Joffrey snarled again as he saw a figure in a black cloak slash at a fleeing archer with his sword before speeding away, gesticulating at other riders nearby.
No, you Tully son of a whore, this ends today, he thought as he sheathed both hammer and sword, Moonlight reached one of his archers quickly.
"You! Bow and arrow, now!" he snarled at the archer, the man almost falling to the ground as Moonlight slammed to a stop right beside him. The man barely had time to react before Joffrey wrenched the quiver from his side and strapped it to his belt.
"Y-Your Grace?" he asked dubiously as he handed his bow, Joffrey saying nothing as Moonlight leapt over a fallen log and sped after the Blackfish. He could hear Sandor's enraged bellowing and the pounding hoofs of his escort behind him, but he was not going to let the Blackfish just get away with this.
He deftly maneuvered Moonlight over fallen trees and small streams, the Blackfish gesturing at the three riders close to him and back to Joffrey. They took their bows and fumbled with their arrows as they kept riding as hard as they could back north, dodging branches and rocks.
One.
Two.
Three.
By the time they were nocking, he slammed an arrow into one of the rider's back. He fell to the ground in a splatter of blood, Joffrey's hand automatically grabbing the next arrow as he felt the unfamiliar bow in his hands, aiming for the other two. Their shot's went wildly off target, the rocking of their horses throwing their arrows pitifully off their mark.
Unaccustomed to horseback archery you bloody pests? Joffrey thought in triumph as he let loose another arrow, his accuracy improving as he nailed an arrow to a horse's neck, bringing it down brutally and leaving its rider a broken heap below it. Joffrey was riding side to side now, the Blackfish and his surviving man only a dozen meters to his right.
The third rider tried to close in, unsheathing a sword that fell off his hand as he stared at the arrow planted on his chest. The Blackfish was weaving back and forth desperately now, trying to throw off Joffrey's aim even as he lost precious speed. His next arrow was caught by a pine, and the one after that grazed the Blackfish, tearing a bit of cloth from his black cloak as Joffrey closed the distance, lowering his head and avoiding a branch that almost tossed him off Moonlight.
Joffrey stilled his breath as he nocked another arrow, taking five seconds more to aim his next shot carefully, feeling the swaying of Moonlight as the Blackfish started another wild turn, leaning to his right…
Thung.
The sound almost startled Joffrey, the arrow leaping from his bow like an eager hound. He immediately knew it was going to hit.
The Blackfish was in the middle of another swerve in his mad dash north when the arrow caught him in the neck, making him fall off his horse in a tangle of blood and broken limbs.
Joffrey reared his horse in with a savage smile, the sound of his own men steadily growing closer as he eyed the Blackfish, belly down on the ground as his blood pooled around fallen green and orange leaves.
He wasn't one to gloat, but he felt the occasion merited an exception, "Well, if it isn't the black trout himself… you've been giving me-" a white whirl interrupted him, tearing into Moonlight and savaging the horse's throat as Joffrey fell back with an alarmed cry, protecting the bow as he tumbled down the ground.
He stood up in a swift water recovery, already nocking an arrow with his intact bow as the white wolf finished tearing fallen Moonlight's throat, raising its bloodied snout and red eyes.
"…Ghost?" Joffrey said, dumbfounded.
The direwolf leapt at Joffrey with a snarl, but even as his wits shut down, Joffrey's reaction was automatic. He loosed his nocked arrow straight at Ghosts opened maw, already stepping to the side soon as the arrow had cleared the bow. Ghost landed right were Joffrey had been standing but half a second ago, the direwolf barely had time to register the arrow sticking from his snout before Joffrey completed the maneuver, slamming his dagger through the side of Ghost's neck and tearing up in a shower of blood, following instincts sharpened by the deadly claws of Sothory Raptors.
Ghost made a keening, gurgling sound before collapsing on the ground, still as a stone.
Joffrey stayed there, breathing heavily as he watched the dead direwolf, his mind a confused whirlwind as he turned back to the Blackfish. He approached the black hooded man slowly, shaking dagger at the ready as he barely managed to hear a slow rattling, barely a wisp in the wind. His shaking hand grabbed the man's shoulder, slowly, very slowly turning him around.
Jon Snow didn't seem to know what was going on around him, his panicked eyes swiveling randomly as blood poured down his throat, each breath a gurgling struggle as he kept shaking, the arrow in his neck almost completely covered in blood.
"Jon…" whispered Joffrey as he kneeled beside him, the dagger falling from his hand. Jon didn't seem to hear him though, his breath hitching suddenly as if he'd just choked on something. His eyes stopped moving as they widened, blood suddenly pouring out of his mouth as the shaking stopped.
He stayed there on his knees, staring at Jon for a while before Sandor found him, his insistent shaking the only thing to startle Joffrey from his trance.
"Let's get back to camp," said Joffrey, oddly still.
.-
The final tally was brutal. The northern lords had lost more knights than him by a considerable margin, and their cavalry had been substantially weakened… at the cost of over half the pikemen, a third of the archers and a few crownlander knights.
A few noble idiots had proclaimed that a good enough trade before Joffrey had slammed them to the ground, an inch away from ending their pathetic, worthless lives. Between Ser Barristan and Sandor though, they'd managed to contain his fury.
The Blackfish… and Jon Snow too, had lead their scouts superbly, giving Robb enough information to turn Joffrey's trap on its self… of course, if the useless cowards in the infantry had stood their ground as pikemen were supposed to do against cavalry, things would have turned differently… He'd almost killed Lord Langward for that…
That outburst had been… impulsive. He was not feeling like himself lately. Or was he?
Whatever the case, desperate measures had been necessary, and Joffrey's army had prepared a final gambit that would either win them the war or see them all dead, much to his many lord's apprehension. Robb Stark was out for blood, tired of skirmishes and ambushes, marching with his whole strength straight at Joffrey.
He'd gladly meet him on the battlefield, though on his own terms. It was time to end this one way or the other.
.-
The Red Wolf… mused Joffrey as he stared at the assembling northern host… no, army. He could estimate about fifteen thousand men in total… and further reinforcements from the North were sure to come.
Most of Joffrey's foot had taken refuge in a small valley in the outskirts of the Mountains of the Moon, creating a narrow front so Robb could not bear his numerical superiority against him. Robb could of course leave him trapped here, but this was not the Red Wolf, or at least not yet. He was still an unproven, arguably green boy playing at war. If he left a force at his back, one he outnumbered around two to one or more besides… things could get complicated with his vassals.
At least I can count on vassal clusterfucks to strike both sides… kind of like a natural disaster, he laughed at the joke, trying to lift his mind from the morass of darkness and failing. After all the Stark's that had died by his hand, he was doubtful Robb would have left him here even if he had a hundred thousand crownlanders.
The men at arms around him all looked at him strangely, though Joffrey didn't care. He was busy contemplating whether or not he had it in him to slay Robb Stark.
Gods… I hope he yields… he thought, clenching his hands as he walked in front of the line of shields and spears, behind the line of stakes, stiffening the infantry with his very presence after last time's debacle. He thought about giving a speech to rally the morale of the men, something sorely needed as the banners outside the valley's opening seemed to multiply by the second, but he found he didn't have it within him. The words that propelled his legionnaires until their end seemed dry, wrong. It would be an insult to use them here… for all that the siege of the Dawn Fort had been a much, much more desperate situation, Joffrey had fallen fighting, dying for what he believed in. With a purpose… all he could muster now was a black weariness and an iron will to keep going forward.
Tallharts, Manderlys, Forresters, Cerwyns, Karstarks… the banners went on and on.
No parley flags were offered as the Stark archers marched forward, readying their bows.
By the Old Gods I hope you get the timing right, Renfred…
"Archers! Send the curs back North!" he shouted as he turned back towards the line, "Infantry! Raise those shields high and ready the pikes! They'll be charging soon!" he called out, getting behind the first line of spearmen, clapping shoulders and mainly looking unafraid.
I wonder what I'll feel when I face Robb… regret? Satisfaction? Pleasure? He asked himself as the arrows rained down, one or two bouncing off his breastplate as he thought.
He remembered the long afternoon's he'd spent fighting him in Winterfell's training yard, Jon Snow looking on with interest for reasons entirely different from Sansa, who combed her hair as she watched from the upper walkway. He remembered Robb's smile as the boy complemented him about his ability with a spear, the way his eyes lit up when he'd asked Jon to join in too… Robb certainly hadn't expected that.
"Joffrey," muttered the Hound in his ear. He brought his attention back to the battlefield, it seemed Robb had had enough of the ineffectual missile duel. A rough estimate of bodies told Joffrey he'd won a minor victory there, superior crownlander plate giving his men an edge against the relatively lighter armored forces that composed the majority of the Northern foot.
Of course, the armored infantry that came next put paid to the myth that the north couldn't field heavy infantry. The ranks of Winterfell, Tallhart and Cerwyn men, amongst others, marched directly down the gradual slope of the valley, their ranks concentrating as the spaces got tighter and tighter, crownlander arrows doing little to slow them down.
His three Kingsguards stood in a triangle around him, with the Hound at his side, all breathing heavily as the pounding footsteps of the northern heavy infantry kept getting louder and louder.
No heavy cavalry charge… thought Joffrey. Robb had avoided the rookie mistake of sending his cavalry down a narrow valley possibly filled with traps and against braced spearmen with nowhere to run. Not exactly 'Young Wolf' worthy yet, though he was sure the Stark Lord would attempt something unconventional soon.
The northern heavy infantry crashed against his lines like a hurricane against a palisade wall. Many of them fell to the ditches and the stakes, but most managed to reach the line in somewhat ragged order, heavy battleaxes and warhammers unleashing a whirlwind of steel against his own spears and the heavy infantry standing behind them.
Joffrey was in the middle of it from the start, not so much as encouraging his men but unleashing a bloody harvest on the dozens upon dozens of northmen that seemed drawn to him like moths to the fire. Their hateful rage gave them power, but made them easy marks for Joffrey, who maintained himself calm and methodical, striking only when he saw an opening, conserving his strength as long as he could even as the heavily armored men fell to his precise blows, one after the other.
The battle raged for a good long while, neither side moving much as the valley was just too tight for any sort of complex maneuver beyond 'push forward'. What Joffrey had not been expecting though, were the ballista bolts raining on him and his men.
"What?! How?!" Joffrey shouted as they fell, piercing two and even three men at times. He could see a battery of ballista at the valley's entrance, lighter pieces that must have been looted from Greywater Watch or the Twins if the Frey's had already joined the north... They were inaccurate as hells, especially given that the crews, at least to Joffrey's opinion, barely seemed to know what they were doing… but if they kept it up for the length of the battle then things could turn bad.
Fortunately, Joffrey had a strategy of his own. He grinned darkly as he heard the steadily louder rumble that echoed inside the valley. It seemed Rykker had exercised some initiative and sped up his part of the plan, thankfully.
Dozens of heavy oaken logs thundered down the tight slopes at the valley's edges, slopes that had been too steep to climb without specialist equipment… or without careful planning and preparation. The logs rolled down incredibly fast, gaining and gaining speed with no sign of stopping… until they struck the flanks of Robb's infantry. As tightly packed as they were, some of the logs legitimately bounced, rising a few meters over the air to fall back again and crush untouched formations. More and more logs kept appearing from the ledges which had seemed secure to the northmen at first sight, being well beyond arrow range. The logs crashed and thundered, disorganizing even more men than those who died, and thus giving Joffrey his chance.
"Ser Lyle! Now!" he roared back. Almost as one fresh troops surged from between his lines, relieving the exhausted spearmen and heavy infantry and tearing into the dazed and disorganized northmen. Reinforcements from their rear were slow to arrive due to the logs, and Joffrey could see northerners franticly trying to clear the way as their brethren were slaughtered.
Joffrey could see the starting smidgens of panic within the eyes of the northmen as he cut them down, jumping past logs with his Kingsguard, Sandor and two dozen red cloaks, their flanks filled with crownlander veterans making good use of the shock and momentum. It was still not enough for a rout… no, Lord Edgerton would make sure of that. Him along with most of Joffrey's heavy cavalry and some infantry should be about to strike within the next five minutes.
Joffrey continued fighting, pushing back against the northmen until they could advance no more, the press of bodies too great. Slowly, they started to push him and his men back… and back, and back, and back… Several hours of battle had passed and the men's morale started to plummet as the northern host kept advancing and replacing its casualties, bringing up fresh men from behind, the ballistas still raining death from above.
Joffey was drinking greedily from a waterskin at the back of the frontline, getting ready to resist another push when a ragged, almost dead runner caught him.
"M'liege," he said in between gasps, two arrows sticking from his padded armor. "Lord Edgerton can't break through… the Blackfish and his men saw them coming and bought the northern cavalry enough time to reposition… He says he won't be able to smash into their rear any time soon m'liege," he rasped, swaying. His lack of competent scouts had bit him again, this time fatally.
Joffrey steadied the man as his heart beat soared, cold sweat slipping down his neck. "Go… go tell him to use his foot as a distraction, he has to break through right now!" Joffrey said almost desperately.
The man looked ready to faint as he shook his head, "His foot is gone m'liege… Lord Gaunt tucked tail and ran with all his men, along with the Langwards," he said before falling down to the cold, hard ground.
Joffrey stood there, stunned as Ser Barristan kneeled and checked for a pulse on them man. He shook his head in denial, in rage as all the thing's he'd done for this life turned to nothing. He hadn't played the damned, hellish game correctly, thus his vassals were abandoning in his hour of greatest need.
The cries of battle turned increasingly frantic, even panicked, as the news spread, likely through other messengers and word of mouth. Joffrey could see from here how his left flank started to erode, the Roote men routing completely and running towards the goat paths at the far end of the valley as his mistakes built on each other. The other riverland houses he'd managed to win over were starting to fracture as well.
All seemed lost.
All the suffering… all the death… for nothing.
Again.
The thought threatened to break him as he bit his fist, staring at the ground like a madman.
No.
I refuse.
"MEN! WITH ME! WITH YOUR KING!" he roared suddenly, startling those around him.
"King Joffrey, we can get our horses in the rear and track the back path's to-" starter Ser Barristan only for Joffrey to cut him off.
"NO! Ser Boros! Get me that banner! The one Rykker's men put together, go! GO!" he shouted at the Kingsguard. He dashed off as Joffrey turned, his left flank almost completely gone as he saw a Rosby banner fall. He manhandled the men around him, surprised to almost crash with Master Willard and some Mooton knights. He looked at him for a second before the man shook his head, "I'm going with you, Your Grace," he said, brooking no other option as he hefted his two hander.
Joffrey stared at him for a moment longer before nodding decisively and turning around to his red cloaks, veterans of the Bloody Fields and a dozen other skirmishes beyond. "I'M GOING OUT TO SKIN A WOLF! WHO'S WITH ME?!" he roared.
The men roared back as the rotund figure of Ser Boros returned with a big banner painted pure red. No sigils, no animals, only red.
Red Blood for the Bloody Lion.
"Stay behind me and keep following me!" he said to Ser Boros, the banner fluttering wildly with the wind.
I'm going to cut my way to the Red Wolf in a sea of blood if I have to.
"WITH ME!" he roared as he charged the past his disintegrating lines through to the northmen. There was no hesitation, no doubt. Joffrey rent aside shields with his hammer, cutting wildly with his arming sword, splattering blood all around him as he dodged and weaved as he could, turning just so his breastplate could contain those blows he could not dodge. His reckless slaughter seemed to embolden his companions as they roared their defiance, pushing through and beyond the first lines of northmen.
"STAAAARK! STAAAAAAAAAAARK!" bellowed Joffrey, pummeling down a man at arms that tried to get in his way. A big man in Umber livery tried to cleave him in half with a two handed axe, only for Joffrey to duck at the last moment and smash his hammer against the back of the man's leg. He roared in pain as he fell on one knee, Joffrey raising his arming sword at the same time.
Joffrey screamed as he cleaved the Smalljon's neck, the usually festive smile he reserved for drinking with friends and family replaced by agony as blood erupted from the huge wound.
He kept moving, his own men falling as they were attacked from all sides. "STAAAAARK!" screamed Joffrey as the Greatjon barreled towards him like a runaway freight cart, only for him to be pummeled aside by Sandor, his longsword managing to lick the Lord of Last Hearth's arm. "Keep going!" shouted the Hound with a snarl, parrying a great swipe from the Greatjon's axe.
"STAAARK! WHERE ARE YOU?! YOUR FATHER PLEADED LIKE A PIG BEFORE I CUT HIM DOWN!" Joffrey bellowed as two men at arms attacked him as one. He managed to parry them both with sword and hammer, twisting to the side and hammering the man's head before engaging the other one. At the same time, a fierce looking woman in Mormont livery jumped from his right with a one handed hammer and a shield. Ser Boros parried two blows with the banner turned spear before the woman bashed him brutally in the head with her shield, making him stumble back before she planted her hammer on the kingsguard's visor, extracting it in a shower of blood.
Joffrey finished the second man at arms quickly, turning to the sight of the enraged Mormont woman trying to split his skull in two. He dodged at the last second, but not enough. The hammer slammed into his right shoulder pauldron, the flange biting into his flesh as it ruptured a small part of the plate.
The Mormont's grin was feral as she extracted it, Joffrey bellowing in pain as he responded with a hammer strike of his own that was parried by her shield. He only just managed to stop her hammer this time, his arming sword screeching as she closed in and pummeled his face with her shield. "You don't look Bloody to me," she whispered almost to herself as she kicked Joffrey's leg, the King too dazed to stop the blow as he fell to the ground.
He could see Ser Barristan engaging a broad shouldered, bearded man in Karstark livery, the Kingsguard was a white whirlwind as he parried and counterattacked, two other Kartark's very similar to the broad shouldered man attacking him from either side. Ser Barristan pivoted as he deftly avoided one strike and absorbed the other with his plate, his longsword coming up exactly where the Karstark man overextended himself, the longsword chopping his arm off almost completely as Ser Barristan moved.
All of that happened in a second, and Joffrey was already rolling, narrowly avoiding the Mormont's hammer. He stood up as an arrow bounced on his back, grimacing as he managed to lick her arm with his own hammer. The woman responding brutally with heavy strike on his thigh, the plate only partially stopping the blow.
Joffrey bellowed a might roar, dropping his sword and grabbing the rim of her shield, shoving it aside with all his strength and startling the Mormont woman before she could get her hammer up. He slammed his hammer on her visor, same as she did with Blount.
"STAAAAAAARK! LITTLE BRAN WAS BRAVER THAN THIS! WHERE ARE YOU, YOU COWARD?!" Joffrey's roar cut through the battlefield as he extracted his hammer in a rain of blood and gore, the Mormont woman collapsing. The northmen were not exactly stopping their assault but rather giving Joffrey's group in general and Joffrey in particular a bit of space as he struck all around him like a crazed animal. Willard Mooton appeared by his side for a few moments, intercepting a northern axe and disemboweling the man with his two hander.
By the God's I'll knight him after this, he thought as he slayed a man in Cerwyn livery, nodding at Willard. A King can do that, I can do that, he thought as he kept slaughtering people, his blood mingling with theirs.
Suddenly Willard straightened himself, looking over the battle, "Your Grace! I think I see Lord Sta-" he was interrupted by an arrow slamming into his eye socket. He fell back, sprawling on the ground, the Mooton Salmon sewed over his breastplate turning red.
Another arrow flew, planting itself in the gap between Joffrey's pauldron and his chest plate, making him stumble half a step back before turning to the offending archer with a snarl. Theon Greyjoy stood a few meters to his side, he was already nocking another arrow with his trademark smirk, his smile growing as if to congratulate himself on his accuracy over a Mooton boy and Joffrey himself.
Joffrey stalked towards him as he ducked and grabbed his arming sword back, Theon taking his time to aim the next shot right at the other gap between pauldron and chestplate, trying to angle his shot in between the wild swirl of the melee. Joffrey followed his gaze and his bow, time crawling almost to standstill as old instincts reacted and he raised his arming sword sideways. Theon loosed, his tight smirk evaporating as his arrow bounced off Joffrey's sword with a high whined ping smoother than a bell. He was dropping his bow and taking out a one handed axe when Joffrey was upon him.
"Fancy yourself an Ironborn Theon?!" Joffrey snarled as he parried aside the axe with his hammer, his arming sword slamming through the man's neck all the way through the other side.
"THEOOON!" Bellowed someone in horror.
Joffrey saw Robb Stark pushing aside soldiers and bannermen like a madman, his eyes lit with a crazed anger as he locked eyes with him. "BARATHEON!" he snarled, batting aside Ser Meryn Trant's sword and splitting the kingsguard's face with a two hander, his rage too great for any other taunt than a gut deep snarl as he leapt over the falling body of the white cloak and charged Joffrey.
Half formed pleas for him to yield or go back home died as Joffrey charged as well, flicking his hammer constantly as he held his sword low.
He felt nothing as he tried to kill Robb Stark.
The Lord of Winterfell was decked out in full northern plate, his outfit eerily similar to that of the Red Wolf, his rage fuelled strength propelling the Valyrian sheen of Ice as if it were a living gale. Joffrey stepped to his left, the blade whistling fast, faster than a greatsword had any right to be. Joffrey stared into the eyes of the man that had been his nightmare for many lives, many, many years ago.
"And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours," the words came unbidden from Joffrey's mouth, his arm flexed back, his hammer parrying a blow that would have split his shoulder blades. He used the opportunity to close in with his arming sword, brutally slashing at Robb's elbow and making him grimace in pain.
Red Wolf you may be, but this Lion was soaked in blood too, long, long ago…
Robb stumbled back, managing a decent defensive move with his greatsword as Joffrey probed again with his hammer, crossing it sideways and warding Joffrey off with a preemptive slash. Joffrey angled the plate to stop the blow and leave Robb completely open for a swift kill, but gasped in surprised agony as the Valyrian Steel bit past the plate, gashing a moderate slash that nonetheless quickly turned red. He stumbled back with an arm over it as Robb quickly followed with a powerful, strong but predictable long swipe. Joffrey kept stumbling back as he raised his battered arming sword in an automatic parry with the flat side of the blade. He realized his mistake too late as the valyrian steel cut his arming sword in half, the razor sharp edge slashing his cheek and jaw in a shower of blood.
"Ah differhent cohlor…" Joffrey mumbled, coughing blood as he shook his head clear again. Robb was eyeing him warily, cautiously, the rage burning cold as he feinted again and again, angling his greatsword and abusing his reach advantage in the prelude to the next clash. Joffrey dropped the now useless arming sword, covering his jaw with his now free hand and trying to stop the bleeding.
He's waiting for some- his thoughts broke off as an animal snarl thundered right besides him. He screamed as Grey Wind tore his ear off, the bulk of the direwolf slamming him to the ground. He managed to ward him off with one hand, only for the savage beast to tear into his fingers and bite past the mail, tearing off a couple of them. He screamed in pain as he tried to stab the wolf with his hammer, but the Grey beast retreated backwards like a sinewy snake before he could do it.
Joffrey stood back up, dazed as he stumbled back and forth, almost closing his eyes as his heart hammered away wildly. The northmen were giving them a lot of space now, waiting for their lord to claim his prize. He swore he could see ash falling down around the Red Wolf's grey armor as the young lord regaled him with a triumphant snarl, looking at Joffrey as if he were the scum of the earth, Ice held straight up almost as if in ceremony.
"Kill him," Lord Stark commanded his brother.
Grey Wind leapt with a bloodthirsty snarl against swaying Joffrey, straight at his throat.
Joffrey twisted aside, his heart hammering like a gong, the scent of salt and storms and death and will overwhelming him as an earth shattering roar thundered behind him, Stars leaping from where Joffrey been standing just a second ago and crashing against Grey Wind in midair. They mauled each other in an unparalleled burst of savage, animal bloodlust, the two beasts crashing to the ground in a frenzy of claws and fur and teeth and blood. Joffrey could feel the ghostly pain deep within him as Grey Wolf bit into Stars, as if he were being stabbed in the heart. Everyone surrounding them took a step back in surprised awe, foe and friend stumbling back as Stars used his superior weight to pin Grey Wind to the ground, Robb frozen like a statue as the Silver Lion tore into his direwolve's throat, his silvery fur bathing in the blood of the agonizing Grey Wind.
The Bloody Lion reared his head over his fallen foe, roaring to the skies in a strange, keening sort of triumph, saddened but content. He prowled back to him, grinding his head against Joffrey's armor as he keened deeply, the outlet of Joffrey's pain and grief. He kneeled beside Stars, rubbing the side of his head as he hugged the big lion's head tightly, staining his fur with his own blood.
He spat blood before turning back to the still petrified Robb, the northmen behind him shuffling back in shock as Joffrey strode forwards, spilling blood everywhere and twisting his hammer from side to side.
"As long and sharp my lord… longer than yours," He enunciated clearly despite the blood in his mouth. It was not a taunt, but a statement of some sort of fact that Joffrey seemed deeply saddened about. Robb slashed with Ice and a strangled roar, Joffrey ducking low before leaning sideways as he avoided the back blow, and then he was past Robb's guard, jamming an obsidian dagger below his jaw, shoving it up all the way to the hilt.
Robb seemed to look at him in confusion and fear for a second, before his eyes closed and he fell back with the dagger still planted under his jaw, Stars roaring behind him once more, almost deafening him as the surviving redcloaks around him and the surprisingly close by crownlanders took up the cry.
They roared with all their might as Ser Barristan and Sandor reached him, both bloodied but alive, giving Stars a wide berth as Joffrey stared at the northern forces that had but seconds ago stood still waiting for their lord to kill the clearly finished blood soaked King. Blood still spilled down his jaw as his gaze bore into them, his face locked in deep fury. The sterner knights and lords didn't even have a chance to recover from the shock before their men started to run, in two and threes all around them, unleashing a chain reaction until the entire northern host was routing, lords searching for their sons or for horses, shouting for yield or ransom even as others charged to their deaths.
Soon he could see the northern cavalry melting away from the battlefield, leaving unprotected most of their foot to die beneath Lord Edgerton's late and somewhat ragged charge… the enemy cavalry only contesting charges against a curiously well-organized foot formation retreating in good order since the moment Robb Stark had died, whose most prominent banner consisted of the Flayed Man.
Joffrey looked at the body of the Red Wolf as the blood pooled around it, the surprise and the fear still etched over his faced like a freshly carved sculpture. It wasn't the Red Wolf, not really.
It was just a scared boy.
"We won, Sandor," he said as he turned, his voice hollow as he collapsed on the ground.
.-
Joffrey opened his eyes slowly, strange sights and banners and knives flashing at the periphery of his vision. His jaw ached horribly, a constant throbbing that kept pounding him with each heartbeat, each thump reviving the cold embrace of Ice. He closed his eyes.
…
He opened them again to find several maesters working on him, their sharp needles threading his flesh, the pain shunting him back into blessed sleep as Ser Barristan's steely voice argued with someone.
…
The third time he opened them, it was to the sight of Sandor. He tried to speak, but it hurt so much he stayed quiet, blinking slowly. One blink took too long, and Sandor was replaced by Ser Barristan, standing by his side in some kind of big tent.
"Brr… er…" he mumbled.
"Your Grace?!" said Ser Barristan as he turned, "You must keep your strength, your wounds…" he trailed off, no doubt wondering if he was going to have a third King die under his watch.
"…Whe…re…" he mumbled.
"Not too far from the battlefield, the northmen have been routed completely, and Roose Bolton came to us under parley flag. He has sworn allegiance to the Iron Throne along with a dozen other Houses," said Selmy.
Joffrey chuckled a bit, or at least tried to, blood sputtering out of his mouth as he thought about the machinations of Roose Bolton. It had all played into his hands all too well. The North must be ruled by a northener, and Lord Roose's men had barely been bloodied… He held all the cards to lose the war but win the game.
"Thell… the new… Lohrd Pa… Paramount … to go north… half his men… secure it… leave half…" he muttered, fading in and out of consciousness. "Your Grace?" Ser Barristan held his shoulder as Joffrey coughed more blood, "Tell the … bastard… well… played…" he muttered as he fell asleep again.
.-
He managed to order his lords south again, those that still lived anyway, learning dribs and drabs of information as he faded in and out of consciousness, the wagon carrying him often making his wounds bleed. It seemed the now twice Late Lord Walder, or rather his son, had done the Frey special again. The dogged Blackfish had been rallying the survivors from the battle that hadn't joined up with Lord Bolton, along with those of his raiders that survived the clash with Lord Edgerton's cavalry… but that hadn't lasted long.
Ser Stevron Frey had read his sire's letter stiffly, Old Walder's gleeful tone translating very badly, almost uncannily to the lips of his son. The letter placed a special emphasis on how the Blackfish's face transfigured from relief to horror as the three thousand odd 'reinforcing' Frey host slaughtered them to the last man. They had joined up with Joffrey's army a week later, and Ser Stevron's host had brought much needed supplies and men… perhaps too many men… Too many men to deny the old bastard's dream. Another well played move by another newly minted Lord Paramount, though at least the Frey bastards would not have the satisfaction of sacking Riverrun, Ser Kevan had finally managed to take the castle and the Riverlands were now truly shattered. Every day knights and lords came to his host to swear fealty, or raven's carrying the news from Ser Kevan to the same effect. The Frey's wouldn't even have to commit any greed fuelled executions, as the Blackfish's string of good luck had ended with a Frey crossbow bolt to the eye, Old Hoster had died during the siege of Riverrun, Ser Edmure during the defense, and Catelyn Stark, who had been accompanying Robb's host, was coincidentally 'missing'. Joffrey had the dark suspicion that Lord Bolton had buried her in a nameless mire somewhere along the Neck…
There was nothing he could really do at this point, events had spiraled out of control. Even if the overall outcome favored him (by a broad definition of favor), he couldn't summon up a shred of emotion. He felt lifeless, like a husk, a dark pit inside his stomach that seemed to leech his very being. It was even comforting, in a way.
His head wound hurt a lot, not yet reaching the maddening highs of agony he'd experienced during his long lives, but still causing him constant suffering, like black tendrils spreading around his head. His cheek, his ear, even the side of his neck felt swollen, pounding. He couldn't even eat due to the pain that got worse every day.
His head wound had infected.
The fever got worse the farther they descended back down the kingsroad, the nausea making sure he could barely drink water, the involuntary shivering unleashing streaks of black pain that seemed to envelop his ear canals right through his brain.
When they reached the Ruby Ford Joffrey could barely resist the pain of the road, each little bump of the mediocre carriage an agony. They had reached Castle Darry when Lord Rykker came to his tent.
"What… news…" Joffrey managed, his head hazy with pain and milk of the poppy.
"News from King's Landing, Your Grace…" said Renfred, shuffling.
Joffrey stared at him impotently, the throbbing inside his skull growing stronger, "Renfred…" he pleaded.
"It's… Lord Tyrion… He's dead," he said.
No…
"… What..? Stannis..?" Joffrey mumbled, each throb inside his head shooting streaks of black pain across his neck and the gums of his teeth.
"No, Your Grace, they found him dead in his chambers. A quiet, peaceful death by all accounts. The Queen has named Lord Petyr Baelish as the new Hand of the King in the meantime," he said, uncomfortable.
Joffrey's muscle seized up, "No… NO!" he screamed, an infinite rage blossoming inside him. He felt so cold, so bloody cold. "I'LL FEED HIM TO STARS MYSELF! I'LL… I'll…" the throbbing was no more, the pain constant as he started to shiver again, shadows streaking around the periphery of the room as the rage evaporated like morning dew, leaving him exhausted.
"Tell… Tell Sandor…" he trailed off, the pain overwhelming as he closed his eyes with a sigh.
.-
"…Your Grace?" asked Ser Barristan.
Joffrey was in the horrible, sinking bed again, the late lord Darry having his last laugh. He was staring at a fixed point in the wall, shivering like fish out of water, muttering to himself in sheer, genuine terror when the kingsguard entered the room.
"s-s—s-Ser- Barristnan," he managed, speaking even through the horrible pain.
"Your Grace, what's the matter?!" he asked, looking around warily as he moved beside his king.
Joffrey shivered wildly, at the verge of tears and pale as a ghost. "D-D-Don't… let her… turn around…" he managed between shivers.
"Turn? Let who, Your Grace?" asked the knight, replacing the wet towel over his liege's forehead.
"…S…San… Sansa…" said Joffrey, still staring at the wall, "Her… her face…" he said before giving a strangled scream and closing his eyes, shoving his head aside and opening his wounds.
"Maester Hyllim! Maester Hyllim!" shouted the Kingsguard at his back.
"Get! Where's…" Joffrey struggled against Ser Barristan's strong arms, shouting and ripping apart the stitches in his mouth, "Get-! Where's Xon-Mi?! Ser Barristan! Tell him! Tell him to fire everything! Oh! Oh Gods! I can't stop them!" Joffrey screamed.
A blonde haired maester entered the room, rushing as fast as his robes permitted as Joffrey kept screaming, "Tell… Tell Sandor to gather the men! Yham came from the Summer Islands, we can hide there! Get a spell from the Jade Scribes to hide us! Surely they can't cross the oceans, oh god, oh gods please don't, they can't right?! Tell Jon to run south!" he screamed hysterically as Ser Barristan struggled, the Maester quickly uncorking a glass vial and diluting its milky white content on a wine cup.
"We can lose them in Sothoryos! The Brindled Men won't allow Baelish's machinations! Yes! YES! Please Ser Barristan!" Joffrey spluttered blood everywhere, Maester Hyllim losing a hold of the wine cup as he tried to shove it into Joffrey's mouth, spilling it to the ground.
"He's going to kill himself at this rate! Move damn you!" Ser Barristan bellowed at the Maester, the man rushing back to the table and grabbing the glass vial as the Hound entered the room swiftly and helped Ser Barristan, both holding Joffrey down as he thrashed.
"Sandor! Thank you, thank you, please, please go cross the Purple and fetch me Tyrion, we can lose them in Sothoryos! We can lose them there right?! No… NO BEHIND YOU! WATCH THE FANGS! WATCH THE SNAKE!" he bellowed, the maester pouring undiluted milk of the poppy down Joffrey's throat even as he spluttered over his bloodied shirt, "OH GODS THEY TURNED IT INTO A WIGHT! OH GODS, WHY WOULD THEY DO THAT?!" he screamed, tears of despair rolling down his cheeks as he kept shaking.
Joffrey stopped shaking gradually, his crazed eyes drooping slightly as the terror started to give way to emptiness. "Why does this happen?" he suddenly asked Sandor, the sheer anguish in his voice enough to shake even him. "Did the Purple create me? Can it kill me?" he slurred, blinking heavily. "Sandor…. Sandor please… tell the Purple… please…" he mumbled, his eyes closing into a sea of white, the pain fading away as sounds distorted into a timeless existence, white numbness giving way to Purple fractals.
.-
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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.-
Chapter 34: Shadows and Contours.
The man in understated finery walked past the throngs of fine whores and silk merchants, dodging the night's more rowdier inhabitants as he turned down an alleyway and knocked on a sidedoor to a sturdy, stone walled warehouse.
The three knocks, followed by two more were promptly answered by a fat, rough faced man with a short club, who opened the door slightly, squinted at the robed man and promptly let him in.
Inside, Wyll of Old Bridge, one of the four Keeper of the Keys of the Red Keep, sighed at the loaded crossbow pointed at his face.
"By the Seven, get that thing out of my face!" he said without patience at the impromptu crossbowman.
The crossbowman looked unconvinced, still glaring at Wyll as the other two men inside the room shook their heads and kept at their dice game over an upturned crate.
"How do you know he didn't follow you?!" asked the crossbowman as the fat man with the club looked at the heavens with a sigh, closing the door.
"I walked through half the fucking city, that's why I bloody know! Now get that thing of my face!" he said with a snarl as he pushed the crossbow down.
"Walked right through Fishmonger's Square too," said the fat man with a smirk, sniffing at the fine robes. "Didn't think you highborn types cared so much."
Wyll let out a scowl as he sat on one of the crates. He was barely a step above this riff raff in the hierarchy of King's Landing as far the nobility was concerned, his position as Keeper of the Keys be damned. It would be of no use to remind them of that though, "Oh, we care enough when the times are rough," he said with another scowl.
The crossbowman went back to his seat in front of the door, shaking his head. "It's the fucking Shadow, he'd follow you through the Seven Hells and you wouldn't even notice him," he said with dead certainty as the fat man barred the door.
"Well, if he followed you here then he'd have to literally turn into shadow, because the men on the roof saw nothing," said a thin man with a grey goatee, his arming sword and padded shirt not doing much to hide the lack of bulk or muscle. He came in from another door, locking it gently before turning to the Keeper of Keys.
"Wyll," he said, his voice neutral.
"Jonth," said Wyll before raising his eyebrows, "Why the armor..? And since when do you post sharpshooters on the roof?" he asked him.
"Since Golt's got burnt to the ground," Jonth responded with a scowl, walking towards Wyll and leaning on a crate besides him.
"Don't tell me you've bought into this 'Shadow' nonsense," scoffed Wyll.
"Well, you did walk through 'half the fucking city' to make sure he was not following you," said Jonth with a shrug.
"That's because Lord Baelish is getting paranoid…" whispered Wyll, leaning closer, "He says to keep up the good work and that he'll sort everything out, including a bonus for the stoutness of his subordinates."
Jonth smiled for the first time since entering the room, "The men will be happy to hear that," he whispered back, "The warehouse won't fill up for another month though, he's got another special delivery in mind?" he asked the Keeper of Keys.
"Yes, simple gold job, the Iron Bank again," said Wyll as he passed him a handful of letters, the Seal of the Master of Coin glowing under the torchlight.
"I love those," said Jonth as he tucked the letters to the satchel he carried on his belt. "Walk in, hand a letter, receive more gold than I'll ever spend in my entire life…" he said wistfully.
"Don't even think about filching," warned Wyll.
"Steal from Lord Baelish? Are you insane?" scowled Jonth as he stood back up. "You should go," he said as he nodded towards the fat man by the door. He unbarred the door as Wyll scratched his head.
"You sure you can deliver without Golt?" asked the Keeper of Keys, dubious.
"The man and the building may have burnt to ash, but we still have the ships, shouldn't take anything more than a headache trying to sort out the lost records," he answered as he beckoned at the door with an open hand.
"Alright alright, I'll go," said Wyll as he shook his head. "Say hello to the Shadow for me if you see him," he told the crossbowman with a smirk. The incensed man didn't have time to respond before the fat guard closed the door and barred it quickly.
Jonth gazed at the letters in his pouch for a few minutes as one of the men on the table growled in defeat and the other laughed out loud, grabbing the fistful of coppers on the crate. "I hope you enjoyed that Alren, we'll have to work tomorrow," said Jonth as he turned back towards the other door, stopping when he saw a black robed figure just past the door's frame, the long and thin Braavosi dagger in his hand dripping blood.
"I wouldn't be so sure about that…" said the figure as Jonth drew his arming sword with a yelp, the two gamblers shouting as they stumbled up.
"It's the fucking Shadow!" screamed the crossbowman as he aimed his weapon towards him, the crossbow shaking like a leaf in his hands even as the fat guard took a guarding position beside Jonth.
"Tha… That's Wyll's blood?" asked Jonth, trying to regain control of his suddenly speeding heart, thinking of a way to get out of here.
"No, he's been useful so far. I'm sure he'll lead me to some other fine catch soon… fucking Baelish, worse than a squirrel…" he said with a sardonic laugh, leisurely walking towards them, "You should hire better spotters," he said.
"You followed him," Jonth said as he took a couple of steps back, one hand on his arming sword and the other on his bodyguard's shoulder, trying to buy time.
"I did lose him at Fishmonger's Square…" said the black hooded man, "Though I knew he'd end up here eventually. It's always whores and silk with the Littlefucker, don't you agree?" he asked, a storm of restrained fury hidden beneath the steel edge of his voice. He was now only a few steps in front of them.
"KILL HIM!" shouted Jonth.
One second, the man was still walking, the next he had one of the gamblers by the neck, the poor bastard still struggling as a crossbow bolt materialized right over his heart. He let the man fall before the other gambler attacked him with the chair he'd been sitting on a moment before, only for the robed man to twist out of the way, his hand and the long stiletto flashing under the torchlight. The second gambler took a couple of steps more, swaying a bit before using his chair as an impromptu pillar to rest upon, blinking for a second or two before Jonth realized the pool of blood forming below the man. He collapsed suddenly, the sound startling him.
"…pathetic," said the Shadow.
"Lerris, go!" Jonth shouted as he retreated back, his bodyguard launching himself at the man with a roar, swinging his club sideways. The Shadow somehow avoided the blow, nicking the fat guard's hand and making him drop the club. He wasn't prepared for the crazed bulrush that followed though, Lerris letting out a roar as he slammed the figure against the wall and pinned him with his superior bulk. The Shadow tried to stab him on the side of the neck, but Lerris caught the stiletto just in time, the needle thin steel driving right through his hand and almost up to his neck. He didn't mind the blood nor the pain as he started hammering the Shadow's ribs with his other hand, each blow extracting a pained 'Ughf' from the pest that had been dismantling the many… ventures of Lord Baelish.
Jonth's own breathing and the winching sound of the panicked, reloading crossbowman seemed to drown the room as the Shadow caught Lerris' fist after the third blow. Instead of pitting his strength against it though, he coiled his arm around Lerris' own, moving it a bit to the right and then immediately up.
Lerris screamed in pain, a scream that redoubled in intensity as the Shadow raised the man's arm even higher, sickening pops resounding throughout the room before the stiletto was extracted from Lerris' other hand and driven sideways into his ear. The big man gave a step backwards before falling on the ground with a dull thud, the stiletto still driven through his head.
"NOW!" shouted Jonth.
The crossbow squealed, and the Shadow inched his head left minutely, the bolt grazing his cheek and tearing apart the black handkerchief that his most of his face.
"… you shouldn't have done that," he said as he stalked towards them with a resigned expression.
The crossbowman screamed in fear as he dropped the crossbow and dashed to the door, trying to lift the bar before a throwing dagger slammed into his shoulder.
"Fuck, need to keep training that," said the Shadow as he took another dagger from his belt and slammed it into the man's kidney, ripping up before taking it out, the crossbowman letting out a scream of agony before collapsing to the ground.
Jonth was in the corner of the warehouse by now, trembling sword held high as his eyes scanned the room wildly, his padded shirt soaked in sweat.
The Shadow took off his hood, not paying even a smidgen of attention to the blood running down his face from the gash on his cheek as he scratched his blond hair. He cleaned the stiletto with the crossbowman's corpse before turning towards Jonth, his pale green eyes boring into his soul.
"I think we should have a talk, don't you?" he asked.
Jonth dropped his sword.
.-
The waves crashing against Aegon's high hill seemed to erupt upward, spraying themselves on the jagged rocks of the steep cliff. The seagulls screeched gently above the waves, flying in circles and extracting their bounty from the seas that often ended up splayed on the rocks.
Joffrey was leaning on one of the Red Keep's balconies, watching one of the short lived rainbows that was birthed to life by the crashing waves. He kept watching as it faded away as if it had never existed, only the sea remaining below as eternal as it had been before, the seconds long life span of the rainbow but a blip compared to its own. Joffrey took a deep breath of the salty, fresh air, a slight smile peeking through his lips as his eyes turned distant.
The smile disappeared as he let his head fall slightly, his eyes closing as he thought.
Where had it all gone wrong? He supposed everything could be traced to the neglect he'd shown to the realm's dangers the first few months of his past life. His attempts at damage control had hurt as much as they had helped though… he'd been thinking about his mistakes, about what could have gone right and what could have gone worse. He supposed treating his vassals as Legion officers had been one of his first missteps. Westeros did not have the degree of centralization the Five Forts had enjoyed, no complex bureaucracy to keep the wheels turning without relying on nobles or strongmen. He could not punish or sack his vassals as one did to a seditious or incompetent officer in the Beyond… nor could he push his men to the same heights as legionaries. Everything, from the spirit of the fighting corps to the physical resilience of the soldiers to the training they had was fundamentally different. His debacle with the pikemen had been one of many such incidents. Sure, a veteran Iron Guard's company could slaughter even a heavy cavalry charge with their pikes, but westerosi small folk were a whole different kettle of fish. When knights charged, you either ran or you died. Only an allied countercharge by your own knights could save the infantry barring extraordinary circumstances. That was a law of perception in Westeros, and as Joffrey had found out many lifetimes ago, perception made reality… He'd have to learn how to handle his vassals and his men to as efficiently as he could if he had any chance of surviving the Long Night.
… and find a way to train competent scouts, he thought with a sigh. Maybe he could manage that in a relatively short amount of time, but for that he'd need money… and that was a whole problem of its own.
On the other hand, he couldn't just lay aside his search. He was so close, so close to unraveling what he hoped to be the answers to… everything. He'd have to balance things, and he'd have to use his time as intensely as he could. The first year of each life afforded him the most freedom and the most opportunities to make sure the realm didn't go tits up, and he had a lot of thinking to do.
He concentrated his will around him like a sturdy holdfast, opening his eyes once more. The black morass still skirted the edges of his mind, but nothing would be gained by letting it go wild.
I can't brood, I have to keep moving or I'll go insane… again…
He shivered at the prospect. If he went mad again from the unrelenting despair… from the pervasive bleakness that seemed to crawl just a tiny bit around his vision after every life…
If I lose it again… I'm not sure I'll be able to come back…
He took a deep breath yet again. At least his ongoing hunt of Littlefinger's assets was providing a much needed vent to air his frustrations. The Master of Coin was, though Joffrey hated to admit it, a financial genius. Where others would have skimmed off the top of the Crown's taxes, Littlefinger had set up elaborate trading companies, warehouses, docks and pillow houses (many of which didn't seem to exist in reality) and used them to funnel taxes before they reached 'him' in his official capacity. With of course the bi yearly supplement of loans from everybody from the Lannisters to the Faith to the Iron Bank… all in the King's name.
He was slowly, very slowly shedding light on the bastard's huge financial enterprises, though he'd kept his activities strictly confined within King's Landing for obvious reasons. He had no doubt the bastard had a hand in the murder of Tyrion during his last life, probably using his mother as an unwitting pawn… the imp must have gotten too close to the truth. He'd spent many a night silently reading through the Baelish's records, and it was obvious Tyrion must have found several discrepancies, just as he did.
The players make the game, and the game makes the players… he thought cryptically. With so many puzzles surrounding him he was feeling a bit poetic, truth be told. Perhaps Rhaegar Targeryen and his obsession with the harp had not been as crazy as he'd thought… or he was already as crazy as him anyway.
He shook off the errant musings as the bells tolled midday. There was work to be done.
And what incredibly and fulfilling work that was going to be…
.-
Robert had laughed out loud when Joffrey asked him if he could attend the small council meetings, and laughed again when he'd insisted. When Robert realized he was actually serious though, he'd been strangely silent, his thoughts only his own as he stared at some far away distance. He'd acceded with a slight nod shortly afterwards.
Whatever small measure of respect he'd gained with his erstwhile 'Father' had been lost when Joffrey had tried to make him see reason.
"Father, a hundred thousand gold dragons for a tourney… its insane!" he said, grabbing his head with both hands.
They were in the small council chambers with the whole worthless lot of them, excluding Ned of course. The usually cool temperature within the small council chambers had disappeared, replaced by a mind numbing heat that Joffrey had to somehow slog through without risking madness.
I don't remember the sum being so high… its… its…
"This is insane," he whispered as Robert eyed him dangerously.
"Don't you dare take this away from me, boy," he said, looking only a few steps away from rage and maybe even… despair?
Joffrey shook his head dumbly as he turned to Ned, "Lord Stark, please make my Father see reason," he pleaded to the Hand of the King.
Ned looked wary and uncomfortable, shaking his head too as he gazed back at Joffrey, "I've already tried to make His Grace see reason… to no effect," he finished, looking back at Robert.
"I bloody well see reason, and it says 'stop yapping and do as your damned King says!'" he snarled, smashing his goblet on the table. "Now, about the Targeryen wench!" he said as he turned back to Ned and Varys, "I want her dead, and that idiot Viserys too," he sentenced.
Joffrey was not paying attention though, he was rubbing a hand against his face almost compulsively.
The Realm is already in debt for six million gold dragons… six million! He despaired as he looked at an outraged Ned trying to defend a Targeryen of all people.
Six million already making its way to seven!
"We don't have the gold for the Royal Army nor the Royal Scouts, but we have the gold for this spectacle?! I could equip the First Legion with that much!" he burst out as he stood up.
Robert looked as if he was deciding whether to strike him or just laugh out loud. "Oh yes, we do. You can play at war when you're the bloody King, I'm sure that spectacle will be a sight to see… Royal Army…" he said with a grunt, finally deciding on a small chuckle, mirrored by the patronizing smiles from most of the small council. Everyone from Renly to Pycell had regaled him with a tidy little lecture about how warfare worked when he'd floated his idea about a large military force beholden to the Crown only. It involved things like vassals and levies, which mustered when called.
He sat back with a huff.
'I KNOW HOW WARFARE BLOODY WORKS, I'VE KILLED MORE MEN THAN ALL OF YOU PUT TOGETHER! I'VE SEEN THE END OF THE WORLD AND THE LEGIONS OF THE DAMNED!' He'd wanted to scream, but instead he'd managed with a sardonic grin which granted, hadn't helped his case at all.
He was a green, idiot boy prince again, and he'd forgotten about that little fact when he'd returned from the Purple yet again. He shook his head, returning back to the moment. Seeing the dysfunctional small council that steered the Seven Kingdoms (for a given value of steer) in action was an incredible learning experience on how not to run a realm. It was no wonder the stability of the Seven Kingdoms shattered every time after Robert died… the conflicting interests and the ineffectual ruler ship thanks to an absentee King had degenerated governance to the level of a Free City. Sure, even a big city like Volantis could get by with the constant scheming of its magisters and advisors at the top level, but try that on a whole continent…
"Sometimes, rulers have to commit horrible acts for the good of the whole realm, Lord Stark, it is a terrible reality to be sure, but a duty we must take on nonetheless," said Pycell. He really had a gift for sounding patronizing.
"Think of the thousands that will die, my Lord Hand, should Viserys Targeryen cross the narrow sea with an army of Dothraki at his back," continued Varys, his voice reasonable. He was making a better effort than Pycell, though knowing Ned… he doubted it would work. Watching the small council decide on Daenerys' assassination was fascinating… he could only conclude Ned had managed to talk Robert out of it eventually, given the fact that she'd seem very much alive when he saw her in Quarth…
He supposed now was the turn of dear Lord Baelish. He turned to look at him with interest and disgust, wondering what sage advice he had in mind. He wouldn't be all that surprised if the unpredictable bastard declared himself a Targeryen supporter right then and there and somehow came ahead, or if he'd concoct some twisted argument to spare Daenerys and kill Viserys, that would explain why he hadn't seen him in Quarth at least… With his penchant for succeeding in the midst of chaos, anything was possible.
Finally he spoke, though Joffrey's constant stare was starting to make him sweat for some reason… he looked a bit ragged too, his perfect, helpful façade strained after many sleepless nights no doubt.
Having your financial empire get gradually dismantled by an ominous, unknown threat might do that for you, Joffrey thought vindictively, a cruel smile peeking out unconsciously as he kept staring at the man. Baelish managed to look away from him before turning to Ned.
This should be interesting…
Baelish cleared his throat before going for his standard, assured smile. "When you find yourself in bed with an ugly woman, best close your eyes, get it over with," he said, as his smile turned knowing, "Cut her throat," he said as he grabbed his cup and drank.
He fumbled with the cup, the wine spilling as everyone in the room was startled as if by a great sound. Joffrey kept staring at Baelish, tinges of red trying to flood his vision as he bit his lip.
He suddenly realized everyone was staring at him, and that his hand was on his broad hilted dagger, which was stabbed upright over the oak table. He wrenched the dagger out, sheathing it back to his belt as he leaned back on the table, trying to wrench his savage bloodlust into a harmless smile.
"Yes, cut her throat… you'd know about that wouldn't you my Lord," he said, still staring at Baelish, his smile more feral than harmless. He looked confused and vaguely scared as Joffrey managed to grab a hold of himself. He decided to keep talking and make as if nothing had happened.
"I concur with the rest of the small council, Lord Stark. Daenerys Targeryen can't be afforded to live…" he said truthfully, looking back to Ned. "I know the vague prospects of future war seem hazy when compared to the lives of an innocent child, and of a woman that did nothing wrong but be born in the wrong family… But Ned, you've seen what war does to men, to innocents, to towns, to this very city… please, remember their faces, the faces of the widows and the starving children, the failed crops and the muddy, bloody fields… sure, the Royal Navy will make mincemeat of any sellsail fleet, but catching them in the open will be hellish task, there's a high chance they'll slip through and land in the mainland… and then, yes, we will defeat them… at the cost of thousands of bodies just as the next winter strikes. Please, Ned, think of the thousands you are condemning to die," he pleaded.
I hope Daenerys never crosses the Narrow Sea… he thought as Ned mulled his words, the conflict clear in his face. Yes, she'd lost her Khal and her khalasar somehow during her march through the Red Wastes, but she'd also hatched dragons… and there was something within her… something that set the hairs at the back of his neck on edge.
So many lives could be spared if she died, though there was also a high chance the pit of intrigue that was Essos swallowed her whole, and dragon's wouldn't do much to help her there…
Robert slammed his hand on the table again, "Never thought I'd say it but my son talks sense, by the seven Ned, just do it!" he said.
Ned looked conflicted before shaking his head.
Here we go again… thought Joffrey.
.-
His frequent forays into the city had not gone unnoticed, especially the ones during the morning where he used the daylight to case the various fronts Littlefinger had throughout the city, watching them carry out their nominal operations. When his mother had confronted him on his forays, he'd blurted the first thing to come to his mind. Well, the second.
"Tyri-" he'd trailed off as he remembered the hate she had for his uncle, "Ah, I mean, I'm courting Lady Sansa, of course," he'd said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the universe.
She'd seemed pretty mollified by that statement… it was only later that he'd come to regret that particularly bright idea. The lie would collapse upon itself if anyone so much as asked Sansa about it… and then he'd bring more attention on himself… He should have gone with Tyrion instead and damn the outburst that would have followed. It had worked well enough a few lives ago, when he'd met… Nalia…
He took a deep breath.
"Joffrey? What's wrong?" asked Sansa as they walked through the Hook.
"Hm? Nothing," he said as he blinked, looking behind him and spotting the Hound a few meters back, keeping an eye out for trouble or pickpockets.
Sansa looked curiously at him, her red hair doing little to help her disguise. She'd found the notion of going out in 'secret' with the Prince throughout the city to be hopelessly romantic… Joffrey had thought himself clever for hiding his secret purpose under plain sight of another, much more benign 'secret'.
After all, who would suspect dutiful little Sansa to serve as the cover for the murderous maniac tearing apart Littlefinger's empire bit by bit? Granted, suspecting him of all people would be insane even by Baelish's standards, but the Littlefucker had to know it was someone with easy access to the Red Keep, and after he exhausted every other lead he was bound to consider the coincidentally absent little prince.
He had to admit though, he'd come up with all those justifications after the deed.
"It's so big… how could they make the stained glass big enough to cover those windows?" she asked him as she looked at Baelor's Sept which towered nearby.
"They actually had to import the pieces straight from Myr, and half of them shattered on the way here," he said, remembering the time he'd spent studying architecture. "You can actually see the indentations below the window proper where the work crews built a temporary crane to hoist them up, one for each window," he said.
"It must have taken months of hard work," she said, distracted as she grabbed his hand.
"Years," answered Joffrey, feeling vaguely warm and relaxed as he turned to look at her face.
'Joffrey please! I had to! I had to!' screamed a voice, his hand holding the sword in anticipation as his own grin grew and grew and grew-
"Ou! You're hurting me!" suddenly yelped Sansa.
Joffrey let her hand go as if it were a hot poker, breathing hard and swaying unsteadily. "Ughf… ughf…" he mouthed after each breath, his mind still reeling from the unexpected sucker punch. He would have fallen on one knee had it not been for Sansa's steadying hands. She grasped him firmly, and he could hear her suddenly wildly beating heart close to him as she guided him somewhere.
"Joffrey? Joffrey?!" she said as they sat on a couple of discarded crates by the side of the road, the throngs of people passing by with not a care in the world, the Hound looking at him strangely and a second away from ending this whole charade and dragging them back to the Red Keep.
"I'hm… okay…" he said, breathing deeper as the fuzziness disappeared gradually. "Its… It's been a while since I had one of those…" he said shakily as he took refuge within Sansa's arms, which had not stop holding him since they've sat down.
He came back to his senses and stood up as if he'd been sitting on a bonfire, Sansa's touch both soothing and tremendously painful at the same time.
"Sansa I'm sorry, please I'm so sorry-" he said in a panic even as she shook her head.
"My hand is fine," she lied as she tried to hide it beneath the plain dress, but Joffrey could see the blood starting to circulate through it again, gradually returning it to a healthier pink.
I hurt her again-
"Joffrey! Don't zone out like that again! I'm fine!" she insisted fiercely as she shook him lightly.
Joffrey was mildly shocked at the uncharacteristic behavior, but not enough to make him reconsider his decision, this whole thing had been a terrible idea.
"We're going back to the Red Keep, no-" he was interrupted by a slap to the face, from Sansa's hand no less.
He stood there, nonplussed and dumbstruck as the left side of his face tingled, blinking slowly. Sansa looked defiantly at him for a quarter of a second longer before she went red from chin to forehead and covered her mouth with both hands.
They stared at each other for what seemed like hours before Joffrey let out a grunt.
Suddenly, his face disfigured itself as a strange, snorting sort of chuckle emerged from his mouth like some kind of unwilling, grumpy Snark. Sansa still had her hands over her mouth as she started to laugh too, looking for all the world like she was having the worst time of her life as she tried to contain her steadily rising chuckle to no effect. Joffrey kept laughing, not even trying to hold it in any longer and just losing himself in the unreality of the situation.
She stopped shortly after him, as Joffrey took a great, deep breath.
Gods that felt… good, he thought, vaguely surprised.
Joffrey scratched his head before looking back at Baelor's Sept. "Eh… the main altar is even more beautiful than the glass…" he trailed off awkwardly.
"Sounds nice," said Sansa, her voice nervous as she nodded almost compulsively, "Let's go see it," she said quickly as she started walking towards it, pretending as if nothing had happened.
Joffrey quickly followed her, mixed feelings warring inside him with the fury of sea and storm, his self-awareness but a small boat lost in the confusion.
He barely cased one of Littlefinger's fronts that day.
.-
Sandor entered Joffrey's usual spot in the Royal Library, and was confronted by the sight of the Prince standing to the side of ten other assorted servants with varying expressions of long sufferance, fear, confusion or humor.
"Alright everyone… wait for it…" Joffrey said, standing very still.
"Now!" he said, staying deathly still as everyone else took a step to the right.
They stayed in that position as Joffrey closed his eyes intently… and opened them with a sight.
"Nothing," he said, disappointed. "Maybe if we do it the other way around…" he mused as he scratched his nonexistent beard.
"… I'm desperate alright?" he said as he saw the Hound, as if excusing himself.
The Hound just looked nonplussed before recomposing himself.
It hadn't been the strangest thing he'd seen him doing as of late.
"Your mother's been looking for you," he said as the servants started to leave the library. He could only guess what the little shit had been making them do for his own amusement.
"What does she want?" Joffrey asked back, walking back to the table and looking at the constellations drawn over it in supreme detail.
If he had any hope of saving Westeros, then he had to get to know the players of the damned game, and that meant investigating all the players present in the capital. He'd started with Littlefinger, for obvious reasons... not least the little stunt he pulled off just before he died. He supposed he'd have to do something about his mother as well…
He sighted, gazing at the constellations again even though he'd already memorized them backwards and forwards.
He'd almost killed Baelish when he woke up in this life, but caution and the prospects of a better reward stayed his hand. He had to know every little scheme the bastard had before taking care of him… all those gold dragons must have fled somewhere… and he needed those dragons, the sooner the better.
He had plans.
"Something about the frilly dress you should wear for the Hand's Tourney," Said Sandor as he collapsed on one of the couches with a tired grunt, no doubt irritated about being treated as a glorified errand boy. Joffrey for one was grateful for the snark, Sandor seemed to be coming out of his huffy shell, like he'd remembered him so long ago…
He grunted as he shuffled the sheets and parchment, "A frilly dress huh? I'll go in my armor, maybe 'Father' will start taking me seriously then… bloody hundred thousand gold dragons…" he said, shaking his head at the stupidity of it all before his back suddenly straightened.
"A hundred thousand gold dragons…" he mouthed, savoring the words.
"A hundred thousand gold dragons," he repeated as he turned to Sandor, a slightly manic smile taking over his face.
The silence stretched as he gazed at his sworn shield thoughtfully.
"Sandor, I need you to teach me how to joust," he said.
The Hound looked dismayed.
.-
The tourney grounds just outside the walls of King's Landing were a beehive of activity. Laborers were busy setting up tents and stalls, as well as viewing stands all around the three main areas of the coming competition. Joffrey could feel the excitement of a whole city, nobles and commons alike as the great pavilions of the great houses and the wooden stands for the smallfolk erected themselves like great whales awakening from their slumber. Each day more and more banners joined the tops of the tents to greet the city each morning, though the lords and knights were absent, only the smallfolk laborers, smiths and lumberjacks working day and night to complete the tourney grounds 'for' the Hand were in sight.
And Joffrey, clad in the full plate he'd used just a life ago to lead the Crownlands into war, atop a black horse and with a lance and shield in hand.
"GO!" roared the Hound from the ground to his right.
"Come on Moonlight!" Joffrey bellowed as he spurred his trusty mount, lowering his lance as he quickly gained speed, galloping down the jousting ground.
"Your lance is too low! Up! Up!" bellowed the Hound.
Joffrey compensated just in time to slam into his wooden backed, hay filled opponent. The mock up's shoulder erupted in splinters as Joffrey let the lance go with a wince of pain. He slowed Moonlight with an unconscious command from his knees as he rubbed his own shoulder, grimacing in pain.
"A bit better, but you're still not bracing enough. It's not a hammer, you need to brace it with your whole body… your arm is barely the…" the Hound trailed off as he searched for words in the air with his hand. Joffrey had the impression he never expected to teach someone how to joust… much less him.
"The end result of the equation? The natural expression of the combined effort put in before? The story's natural resolution?" Joffrey tried as he stopped Moonlight just besides the royal box, otherwise deserted except for Sandor and a few peeking smallfolk.
Sandor huffed as Joffrey knew he would. "Just think of the arm as the end result of everything else, your inertia, your knees, your back, your arm barely tells them if they succeeded or not," said Sandor.
"Hm, the arm is the thing that ties it all together then? It has the power to deny a perfectly good tilt, but can't make one by itself… sounds like a bloody king!" Joffrey grunted as he trotted back to his end of the jousting ground.
"Again!" he commanded as servants replaced his wounded combatant with a fresh one from the cart at the end of the grounds, another one handing him a lance.
A charitable man might have called the expression on the Hound's face as one of grudging respect when Joffrey looked at him with a nod.
"GO!" he roared.
Joffrey spurred his mount forward like a lightning bolt, his lance coming down, but not too down on the target as he narrowed his eyes, bracing himself forward. In an instant he was past it, his lance shattered but his shoulder only hurting a little instead of the huge, strained bruises he'd been leaving on it for days. The wooden enemy lay on the ground with a hole on its center, and Joffrey smiled as Moonlight cantered over to Sandor.
"… You're a fast learner," said the Hound, a faint tone of disbelief hiding behind the statement.
Joffrey laughed at the good joke, "I wish," he said with another smile as he called out once more. "Again!" he said as he cantered back.
"We're actually done for today, you have done well… very well," said Sandor as he leapt back down from the royal box.
"What are you talking about Sandor?! We're burning daylight!" he called back, grabbing another lance from the slightly wide eyed servant.
The Hound tried to digest that as the servants replaced the fallen hay man for another one. Joffrey slammed into it again, improving his aim as he skewered it through the center.
"… We've been at this since first light, you've already trained harder than any squire I've seen… you're done for the day," Sandor vaguely commanded him, his face uncanny.
Joffrey looked downright insulted as his horse trotted in front of Sandor. "Done for the day? Sandor, my charge's pathetic, I'm supposed to be a King and I can barely defeat some straw man in a knightly charge?" he said, his disbelief supreme.
Alright, I don't know which girl he wants to impress but this has gone long enough, thought Sandor as he made to grab Moonlight's reins, "We're going back to the Red Keep, no but's about it-" he said before Moonlight almost bit his hand off.
Sandor felt chill run down his spine as the boy prince that had raved about his food a couple of months ago stared him down, his face made of marble as he willed Sandor to step back.
"We're staying here under literal moonlight if we have to, are we clear Sandor?" he commanded, his voice carrying itself throughout the grounds.
The Hound said nothing, his eyes trailing down and seeing Joffrey's slightly swollen shoulder and the bit of blood from a scratch on his hand. "Your wounds-"
"I know my own body Sandor, I'm good for another two dozen tilts," he said as he passed him by, shaking off pain that would have left a middling squire red faced on the ground, to Sandor's estimation.
"Again!" called out Joffrey as he neared the servant. "And go get more lances," he told the man as he gazed at the half dozen lances left in the barrel.
.-
The Red Keep slept uneasily in the night, patrols of guards making their way through halls and battlements as the nightly shift of servants silently took care of waste and dust. One guard in particular, a Redcloak from Lannisport named Tyfer, took a moment to look out the window. He peeked down the heights of the tower, gazing at the Red Keep's courtyard and making sure no would be assassins were scaling the wall. The irony of a Lannister soldier looking for climbing killers intent on breaking into the Red Keep was not lost on him, and he shook his head with a snort. Hypocrite or not, Tywin Lannister was his liege lord and the man which had indirectly raised him from a likely life of squalor.
Content with his vigilance, Tyfer kept walking down the corridor, the red carpet below his feet muffling his steps as he checked the corners occasionally left by the buttresses along the long corridor.
A slight breeze of wind picked up when he was gone, the torches fluttering a bit before returning to normal, a bird chirping in the distance. There was silence in the hallway for a while before a pair of leather boots slowly lowered themselves from the window's top. The pair of boots were followed by midnight black pants and a cloak, and soon a black clad figure was prowling through the corridor, his feet all but silent over the red carpet as he moved quickly. The figure turned past an opened door and climbed the long, spiral steps up the high tower, before stopping for a moment.
The man's pale green eyes narrowed for a second, the rest of his face inscrutable under the black handkerchief. Suddenly, he leapt through the window to his side, and there was silence.
A few moments passed before trundling, heavy steps resounded throughout the spiral staircase, soon revealing a man in mail walking down the stairs, torch in hand. He passed down the window with barely a look, yawning.
The stairs were silent again, and the black figure prowled once more up the flight of stairs. He stopped in front of an oaken door, placing his ear close to it for five minutes before kneeling slowly and taking out a set of lockpicks. He cursed quietly as he worked, seemingly unfamiliar with the tools at first but quickly getting more and more efficient as picks were tested and clicks were heard. He opened the door slowly, entering the room and closing the door behind him.
Grandmaester Pycell's study looked awfully familiar even though Joffrey couldn't remember the outlines of it, piles of parchment and maesterly instruments scattered through the shelves or the heavy oaken table. He prowled inside swiftly, his eyes scanning everything as he got to the Grandmaester's great desk. He worked his lockpicks on the big drawer for a bit, before opening it and grabbing ahold of a pile of letters. He shuffled through them lightning fast, the already opened seals revealing nothing but platitudes or requisition orders, as well as the occasional academic correspondence with the Citadel. Joffrey shook his head as he kept shuffling letters quickly, eyes moving swiftly before his hands exchanged letters, bringing a new one to his attention every few moments.
He stopped when he heard steps, strong and quick. He looked desperately around for a hiding spot inside the cramped chamber, but there was barely space to stand in in between the books and the mess.
He looked up to the high ceiling as he heard a key entering the door's keyhole, and he took a single step back before running for half a second until he was climbing the wall itself, his feet and his hands scrabbling up the bricks.
The door opened to reveal a suspicious looking Grandmaester Pycell holding an oil lantern, looking strangely at his keys as he closed the door. He shook his head before walking quickly to the reagent's cabinet, muttering to himself too lowly for Joffrey to hear. He stood hanging from the study's wall, a few meters from the ground and deathly still as Pycell looked around the room, shaking his head yet again and taking a key to the nearby reagents cabinet. His motions were completely self-assured, with not even a single stutter or stumble, his stooping motions replaced by a decisive stride. Joffrey could barely believe his eyes as the Grandmaester took something from the cabinet, a small flask he quickly uncorked and took down in one gulp. He sighed contently, leaning on the cabinet for a few minutes as he popped his neck.
Joffrey licked a bit of sweat that travelled close to his mouth, barely breathing as the Grandmaester grunted, closing the cabinet before going back to the door. Joffrey heard him lock it shut, but it was not before he heard his steps, becoming more slow and hesitant the more he descended the tower, that he decided to slither down the wall.
I knew something was bugging me around our erstwhile Grandmaester in my last life… his eyes gave him away. Too alert to be the doddering fool he presents himself as…
He sheathed the dagger that had found the way to his hand as he walked next to the unlocked cabinet, opening it and taking the empty flask. He gave it a quick sniff, before bringing it closer to his nose and taking a deep breath.
"… Lady's lace…" he whispered as he tilted his head, taking another deep breath, "With something… Nightshade..? No…" he said to himself as he searched at the far reaches of the cabinet, behind a line of big bottles that obstructed his line of sight, big bottles that Joffrey could tell right then and there that were filled with nothing but vinegar.
Interesting… what do we have behind here…
He found two other flasks with some orange tinted liquid, and he uncorked one before taking a careful sniff.
"Definitively not Nightshade… a bit of Liverwort? Yes… Interesting… what else what else…" he muttered, completely taken by the thrill of the investigation. It had been lifetimes since he'd done this at the Citadel. "Goldencup?" he asked himself before dabbing his finger lightly on the vaguely viscous liquid, leaving a little of it on his tongue before wiping it clean with his sleeve.
"No… too strong…" he whispered, his other hand grasping air as he thought.
It's on the tip of my tongue, he joked to himself as he scrounged his face in vague frustration. He relaxed before taking another sniff.
"Spiceflower…" he muttered as he looked at the vial. "But why blend it with Lady's la…" he trailed off as he raised his eyebrows. "Oh," he whispered.
To make Spicemilk, a stimulant.
A very potent stimulant considering it was laced with Liverwort.
A very potent, very addictive stimulant.
Sneaky sneaky Grandmaester Pycell… not only is the scoundrel faking old age's deterioration, he's actually even more aware and active than he should be if he were merely faking it. I wonder how many others have fallen for the first bait…
He carefully stashed everything back as he'd left it before returning back to the desk. Knowing what he did now of Pycell, he knew he'd find nothing on the big drawer. Even the locked strongbox at the back below the window was obvious bait. Instead, he kneeled below the table, his hands questing everywhere and feeling every contour of the table, until he found a small bulge hidden behind the bulk of the big drawer. He carefully nudged the small drawer open, using his dagger in case Pycell had left some kind of trap tied to it.
His caution proved unnecessary as a wooden box fell on his hands, Joffrey's pale green eyes glinting in the light delivered through the window by the rising moon.
He opened it to find a bundle of letters and three other orange flasks. He riffled through the letters carefully, reading quickly but effectively.
It was all in code, but Joffrey had come prepared with parchment and quill. After the months and weeks he'd spent remembering and even expanding his knowledge of ciphers from the most modern to the most bizarre in his wild attempts to crack the code behind his answers, he found the reversed version of Maester Goyle's vertical cipher almost cute.
His eyebrows rose higher and higher with each letter.
Tywin's pet through and through… nothing new there I suppose…
The depths of the cooperation between the two of them was a sight to behold though, and Pycell had been much, much more than merely an informant supplying all manner of valuable information to Casterly Rock. Through the Grandmaester, Tywin had unrestricted access to the medication of the entire Red Keep and directed it at his leisure, from botching Cercei's weekly Moon Tea so thoroughly as to render it harmless but also useless, to his instructions on how to handle Robert's heartburn. The last bordered on treason… what with mixing the usual remedy with distilled Saffron buds… an obscure, light coagulant.
No wonder Robert barely bled after that pig mauled him… by the Gods…
Joffrey shook his head in disbelief, hard in thought.
Holy shit, half the times his 'poor heart gave out' must have been genuine instead of Foxglove... with his bloody eating habits… King's Landing's nonexistent sewers must be cleaner than his arteries!
But why? Why would Tywin do this?
…Well, why now?
Something must have gone wrong with the plan, he thought as he sat back, still keeping an ear out for movement but hearing nothing. He closed his eyes as he hazarded a few guesses, delving into the murky world of intrigue which seemed so alien to him. What does Tywin want?
Easy, Lanniser rule above all. Which means me as King… and Robert dead… I'm still too young though, he must know an early succession would have a high chance of Renly chancing his claim… Why not wait until I'm older, more seasoned and secure in the minds of the realm? Maybe he thinks the threat posed by Renly is too small to care for? Maybe he's not aware of the Tyrell's backing…
No, he decided, Tywin's too careful when his accursed pride is not involved… even the Stormlands alone could wreak havoc on his legacy… he must have planned for Robert to eat and drink himself to death a few years from now, to take Robert of the picture when the heir… me… stood in a better position. That makes sense considering his meddling with Mother's Moon Tea dosage, he wants a couple more heirs just in case…
There must be a flaw in the plan… he thought, trying to dredge up everything he'd found out about Pycell during this life's investigation.
He wasn't the brightest mind in medicine, at least according to rumor. Sure, he got his silver link, but Saffron buds are tricky to handle, especially given their relative obscurity as a medicinal reagent. Most Maesters would use… he wracked his mind searching for the name.
Gilerose, a much simpler coagulant… easier to detect too.
Pycell's calculations must be off somewhere, the dosage too strong… add Jon Arryn's death, plus his reckless lifestyle… it's no wonder Robert keeps dropping dead one way or the other.
Joffrey blinked.
The damage… its already done.
Sure, there were palliative treatments and changes in lifestyle that could help but…
Joffrey kept rifling through the letters, quickly realizing the 'treatment' had begun quite some time ago. Far too long.
Robert was dead man walking.
… You bastards… ignorant, foolish bastards…
The linchpin keeping the peace in the Seven Kingdoms was going to die one way or the other… the only real question was when.
Joffrey smothered the dark urge to slaughter Pycell with a rusty sword, trying to keep his mind out of it as he searched for the other letters. There was a missing piece somewhere. Someone had to be supplying the old fool with Spicemilk, because the tricky bit of chemistry required to make it was beyond the scope of his laboratory, and possibly his expertise as well… and Tywin's letters showed no knowledge of Pycell's addiction.
Joffrey frowned as he found a few letters with no cipher, but a simple list. The subjects varied immensely, from 'Ibbenese merchants' to 'Jon Arryn's death' to 'Daenrys Targeryen' to 'Dragonpit'… along with a small leather strap smaller than his hand, perfect for fitting a vial or two of Spicemilk… and no signature.
On and on they went, and Joffrey quickly realized the sender was asking for information… though there was no way to be really sure without seeing Pycell's own responses.
Another double bluff, two hidden masters, one hiding in the shadow of the other.
The game of thrones went deeper than he thought… and he hadn't even started with Varys, the most obvious player of the intrigues… or was he? Could an even more competent player be hiding beneath the shadow of the spider too?
I hate intrigue, he thought, annoyed with the twists and turns. They weren't all that different from the puzzles regarding the Purple now that he thought about it, just different kinds of frustration and double guessing.
How is Pycell receiving the Spicemilk though, it can't be through the rookery unless his two apprentices are in on it…
He hummed slightly as he walked to the window, looking down briefly before feeling the window's frame for anything out of order. The sill was wiped clean, very clean.
Joffrey narrowed his eyes as he felt the edges of the sill, feeling something dry and vaguely sticky right by its edge. He sniffed at the black thing before he scrounging his nose, wiping his finger clean with a handkerchief.
Raven waste… They're delivering Pycell's dose and orders through his own window… that means Pycell's second master has access to specially trained ravens… Interesting.
He ordered everything as it had been when he found it, silently lockpicking the door and locking it behind him as he made his way down the stairs. He had a lot to think about.
.-
Wyll of Old Bridge had been a delight to follow. As one of the four Master of Keys, he reported directly to Baelish and served as one of the intermediaries between the Master of Coin and his corrupt network of Goldcloak gate captains, shipping ventures, warehouses and, of course, pillow houses.
He'd gotten a good long look at the sizable financial empire Baelish had somehow managed to erect in the capital without anyone knowing. Of course, he'd also personally burnt and maimed a large part of said empire, an extremely needed exercise in venting his frustrations. As of late, however, other musings had taken root in Joffrey mind.
Idle musings of getting said empire to work for some other… more enlightened pursuits. After all, why burn what you can use? Especially when Joffrey had some rather… expensive ideas in mind.
His nose twitched as he nonchalantly hid behind a wagon full of steel ingots, just as his mark looked back.
Fixing the capital's sewers sound like a good idea right about now, he thought as he slowed his pace just so that when he walked out from behind the wagon, he was sedately walking behind a laborer carrying a tall crate.
His mark kept walking, the singing of the Street of steel's hammers and smithy's a constant tempo of creation. Baelish had finally realized Wyll had been thoroughly compromised, and Joffrey had realized he'd realized when Wyll had spent two whole days just walking in circles around the city, not even getting close to Littlefinger's remaining ventures. That and the bands of thugs that followed the Master of Keys, no doubt intent on finding his tail and bashing the dreaded 'Shadow's' skull in with a club.
And so Joffrey had moved on to greener pastures, following the underlings of another Master of Key's, one Jennet Waters. It seemed the responsibilities of this particular stooge had more to with pure espionage than economical ventures, as he spent the majority of his days organizing a pack of spies that spent their days following the various high born or otherwise important inhabitants of the city, from Lady Stokeworth to Thoros of Myr.
He stopped by a gaggle of squires haggling with a beefy looking smith and his vaguely larger apprentice, stopping just so the casual observer would think he was a part of the group, but far enough that the group itself could write him off as just another passerby looking at the wares.
He tilted his head just so and saw Jennet Water's lackey, a no name gutter rat from Flea Bottom, stopping near another shop, pretending to look at the wares. His eyes constantly moved between that, however, and another smithy, one guarded by two gruff looking northmen in Stark livery.
Joffrey repressed the urge to groan.
By the Old Gods Ned, must you be any more conspicuous?
The gutter rat haggled halfheartedly with a smith, a quick show of coin showing he deserved the attentions of at least the apprentice and not the apprentice's hammer, despite his ragged clothing. All the while he kept an eye on the smithy at the other side of the street, the Stark guards as oblivious as their master about the unwanted pair of eyes watching them.
Ned Stark came out of what he suddenly remembered to be Tobho Mott's smithy, his face scrounged in concentration as he distractedly waved at his guards to follow. Joffrey thought he could have been standing right behind him and he wouldn't have noticed. The spy soon followed, and Joffrey was left to stretch his wits.
What the hells is Ned doing at a smithy, and why is Littlefinger taking note of it? Did he know Ned would come here and is he thus making sure everything went as planned? Or is this a surprise as much to him as to Ned? He thought as he made his way inside Tobho Mott's. He was 'playing' the game for a given value of play, but that didn't mean he had abandoned the bull headed audacity that had carried him through so many lives.
"What did Lord Stark want?" he asked Tobho at point blank range, startling the man and making him drop the hammer he'd been fixing.
The man stumbled back a bit as he directed a half second gaze to the ringing pounding of metal on anvil to the back of the store before they turned back to Joffrey, "I don't know-" Tobho said instantly before biting his tongue, his face quickly turning red at the intrusion and preparing to unleash a powerful invective as Joffrey passed him by.
"Of course," he said as he followed the direction of the gaze, walking past a cloth partition and weathering the sudden heat of the forge. In the middle of it was Tobho's apprentice, a broad shouldered boy with powerful arms and dark hair, hammering the anvil with great strength, a length of hot iron held by tongs.
The apprentice stopped working mid swing, his hammer still held in the air as his sweat drenched face turned to look at him. Joffrey could almost imagine Rhaegar Targeryean in place of the anvil, blood on the boy's face instead of sweat. The boy didn't have time to say anything before Joffrey walked out of the store… he'd seen enough. Tobho Mott watched him go, carefully gripping his hammer like a man who knows what to do with it.
Joffrey walked down the streets deep in thought, cutting through an alleyway.
He had come to realize that a considerable chunk of Ned's time in King's Landing was always devoted to unearthing the truth about his parentage. No matter if he saved Bran or not, Ned was always suspicious of his origins and always strived to investigate it… almost as if there was an active force pushing for that development. A particularly wretched and rotten force which smelled awfully familiar. He'd already seen him visit a few brothels where Robert's most recent bastards had been whelped, and it hadn't been all that hard to tie the dots, what with Ned's tremendous grasp of intrigue. He was being carefully guided from bastard to bastard, left to follow the trail of clues that ended with him in the black cells and the realm with the War of the Five Kings. Only the matter of the puppeteer remains.
The obvious follow up question was, Varys or Baelish? Pycell was unlikely given how deep he was in Tywin's pocket, mysterious enabler or not, and Cercei and Barristan were obvious nonstarters. Stannis had decided to dump the game overboard and flee to Dragonstone… which showed a remarkable amount of common sense really.
That left Renly, an interesting choice… except he'd never declared Joffrey or his brothers and sisters bastards. His claim always assumed nobody wanted a Lannister puppet, and that the follow up choice then of him or Stannis was obvious. It was likely he didn't know the truth.
Varys was always a likely culprit. The spider kept his cards close, seemingly never making waves nor involved in great schemes… which of course meant the opposite in reality. The hard question there was finding the where and the why, and maybe the how…
But in his heart of hearts, Joffrey just knew the Littlefucker was behind it all. It all smelt like him.
Littlefinger always ended up on the Lannister's side after each confrontation in the throne room… backstabbing Ned and ensuring chaos and war. If he had orchestrated events for Ned's honor to have no choice but to dispute the succession, and had at the same time placed himself before Cercei as the solution to the very same problem he had created…
Then he really was as good a player as any, setting events in motion so he could rise even higher due to the damned chaos, thanks to his aide with the goldcloaks, with Maergery's marriage, with everything that followed… It fitted with what Joffrey knew of the fucker.
There was one quick way of finding out if Baelish was behind it all indeed… but he needed someone closer to the Master of Coin, not the cats paw's doing the dirty work.
He turned through another alley as he put on his black cowl and hid his mouth with his black handkerchief, his pace quickening as he ran up a stack of crates and jumped to a balcony hanging from a small if well-furnished manse. The man with the crossbow barely had time to draw an alarmed breath before his throat was slit, collapsing on his knees. Pushing the gurgling man aside, he entered a hallway which quickly led him to a small study.
He opened the door to find the gutter rat giving his report to one of the Master of Key's, Jennet Waters, a rotund man clad in far too much overcompensating finery for his post… and his earnings. Jennet's eyes widened as he saw Joffrey, who already had a hand on the gutter rat's mouth as the other pierced the long and thin Braavosi stiletto through the man's jaw and up, the smooth metal sliding up like a Valyrian Steel through sand.
"You!" gasped Waters as he stumbled back, the chair behind him falling to the ground.
A part of him dreaded the pleasure he was soon to feel… even as another reveled in anticipation.
"Me," agreed Joffrey as he extracted the stiletto and the spy crumbled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.
.-
He washed his hands almost compulsively, the water bucket turning red as he kept rubbing his hands again and again. The closed door behind him throbbed inside his mind, even as he tried to pay it no heed.
He kept telling himself he hadn't wanted to do it, but he knew that was a lie.
He shunted the conflicted feelings back to the back of his mind, pitying the poor sod that entered the room come next morning and found the husk that had called itself Jennet Waters. It had taken a while to him talk. He was- had been very scared of Lord Baelish.
At least I didn't do it for its own sake, I did it for a purpose. To save the realm, he told himself as he kept washing his hands. He shook his head, trying to bring his mind back to what he'd learned.
Baelish knew the location of every single one of Robert's bastards in King's Landing, and had even shuffled a few to more visible locations. He'd personally instructed Waters to keep eyes on Ned at all times, and to report back to him the moment Ned went to Mott's and saw Gendry, Tobho Mott's apprentice and the oldest and most similar of all of Robert's bastards.
All my lives… it has been Baelish the one that's most caused me harm… after myself of course. He knows the truth of my birth and is manipulating Ned to find out by his own… all a part of his plan to rise on top of the eventual confrontation…
Baelish had also paid for more than a score transcriptions, all of a single book, most of which had been stashed under the manse's cellars… except for a handful delivered to Baelish himself.
Looking at the book, 'The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms', Joffrey couldn't help but sigh. He had a feeling he knew where this was going.
I need to meditate, he thought as he shook his head.
.-
As the Red Keep's heart tree whistled with the wind, his awareness kept sinking lower and lower, his attention intent on the thread of meaning and direction granted by the tablet. Just as he always knew where the tablet was in relation to himself, away in his chambers and below his bed to be precise, so did he know the direction where its essence lay. As he'd done before with Stars, he let his consciousness follow that thread of meaning as he kept sinking and sinking and sinking, the outside world loosing meaning, loosing existence itself as he felt and saw and touched and smelt a kaleidoscope of sensations, arriving to a place deep within him. He could feel the ominous, reality shattering strength of the fractal filled purple pillars above him, holding him to the aeons if he but cared to look, but Joffrey didn't give in, not even risking a quick peak to the sanity shattering thing that somehow held everything that he was. He kept following the meaning like a bloodhound as he smelt blood and heard shattering steel, felt passion and strength and loneliness. The last sent a metaphysical shudder throughout his… he didn't know. He couldn't feel his body. He was his body. But more. He was awareness.
He traced the line until he reached the essence of the tablet itself, anchored by thick, powerful tethers to what he knew to be himself. He cradled it, it was mystery, it was bone and salt and storms.
But more. It was Meaning, the thought reverberated throughout Joffrey. The twisting lines, his twisting lines, him, the part of him that snuggly anchored the essence of the tablet was complex, full of meaning, practically a shadow of the tablet itself due to its very nature. A part of Joffrey had been molded to receive the tablet, lovingly, thoughtfully, forcefully… Carefully.
Joffrey realized he was at the contours, the edges of his very soul, a vast sphere of meaning that encompassed all below him, around him, but not above him.
Above lay the pillars.
The twisting lines that anchored the tablet to him were very, very familiar. He'd seen something like it before. He was sure.
He extended all of his awareness to the tablet itself, cradling it close and tasting the mystery and the salt and the bone and its very shape and form and composition as he realized the tablet had never actually left him, never, it was practically a part of his soul. It was right there. Right here.
Right here, he thought as the tablet flooded him.
He opened his eyes, and found the tablet fitted in between his hands, as if he had been holding it this entire time.
He held it up with a trembling hand, unsure if he was still within or without, the sound of nearby birds and the soothing winds surrounding the heart tree soothing his nerves, making him realize he was back in… in what he was almost certain was reality.
He breathed slowly, almost frightfully as he lifted the tablet close to his eye, gazing at the runes and lines and twists it held like never before.
The tablet did not depict a language, they were not runes, they were not messages. Joffrey realized it depicted a crude caricature of the contours of his very soul… but only a small part of it, the edges of a small, empty space very much like the one the tablet's essence occupied, the one he'd just seen deep within himself, snug against his soul.
"It's a map…" Joffrey muttered in awe, "A map to some section of my very soul… a map to an empty anchor," he whispered, the words sounding unreal to his ears.
…
But what is it supposed to anchor?
That's all the tablet depicted, the contours that should anchor a very specific something, a something that was missing right now. That was the purpose of the tablet. To bring his attention to that missing section of his soul.
…
"I need a drink," he muttered.
.-
Thanks for reading and, as always, remember to comment!
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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Dec 18, 2017
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Threadmarks Chapter 35: Sleep. New
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Dec 22, 2017
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AN: Mhmmmrrraaagh been having trouble with this one, the Joffrey of the moment is damnably hard to characterize correctly without falling into one of several pit traps, just hope it works. Special thanks to Duesal Bladesinger for the feedback, much appreciated.
Chapter 35: Sleep.
"Where the fuck is Lord Langward?!" Joffrey shouted at the man besides him as he pummeled a wight to the ground with his hammer.
"They're still trying to break through your gr-" his report was suddenly cut in half by the arrow that planted itself on his neck.
Joffrey turned back to the gaggle of shrykes and westerosi leavies holding the tiny hill against the onslaught, seeing they were about to be overwhelmed. "Stand tall! Stand tall!" he shouted.
He turned back and came face to face with Jon Snow, his eyes blue as he opened his mouth to speak. "Joffrey," he said, blood bubbling from his mouth like a fountain and flooding the battlefield in death.
Joffrey opened his eyes to the sight of the Red Keep's ceiling, bathed in the light of the morning sun. He could hear the last minute preparations for the incoming tournament as the armory was emptied and horses were led through the Red Keep's portcullis.
He knew was already late, at least half an hour late for donning his armor at his own pavilion… but a strange force was conspiring to keep him in bed, his limbs slow to move. Joffrey thought he'd been running a lot lately, it made sense he was a bit tired.
Come on, got to get moving, I'll miss the archery competition if I don't, he thought.
He'd been planning this for months, surely he was not going to let the chance slip by because he was a bit tired in the morning?!
…
Joffrey took in a deep breath as he thought about all the lives his legion would paradoxically save, all the good he could do with that money, all the incredibly important preparations for the apocalypse, all the lives living in squalor right now.
He rose from his bed with a grunt of effort, rubbing his face for a while before taking in a deep gulp of water from the goblet on the nightstand.
He stretched for a bit, shaking off the strange feeling. He yawned as he dropped to the floor, doing a few quick scout exercises to loosen the wrists and strengthen the arms.
He was already feeling a bit better as he left his room, cursing when he realized he was even later than he'd imagined.
.-
Ser Balon Swann had a good chance of winning the competition, at least in his opinion. Most other archers had already shot their arrows, the chaff inherent to any competition swiftly falling away as a bit less than half of them couldn't even hit the first mark. He was keeping an eye on Jalabhar Xho, King Robert's pet prince from the Summer Islands and a worthy opponent with his goldenwood bow. For all that they called him a beggar prince the man was good with a bow, he'd give him that. There was also a smallfolk that showed promise, though he couldn't remember his name. There was always one in these competitions, hardy hunters and trackers who tried their luck when in town. He'd buy the man a drink if he made it to the finals, such talent was well worth cultivating.
He'd have to disappoint them all though, because there was no way he was going to let ten thousand gold dragons escape his fingers. Enough to build a keep of his own if he could get the land for it somehow… or the finest destrier and armor this side of the Narrow Sea.
Everyone had already taken their shot, and the servants stood ready to move the wicker roundel twenty paces back for the second phase.
Well, everyone but one.
"Next up, his Royal Highness Prince Joffrey of House Baratheon," said the crier again besides the wooden board filled with heraldry, unleashing whispers and even a few barely heard scoffs.
Ser Balon didn't know the prince practiced archery, in fact from what rumors he'd heard the boy was barely capable with a crossbow, and he didn't have the most sterling of reputations. Ser Balon rarely paid heed to such rumors, but he had to admit that great or terrible with a bow, the crown prince's absence spoke badly of him. If this had been a joke then it had been ill played.
"His Royal Highness, Prince Joffrey of House Baratheon," said the crier yet again, looking around at the crowd of participant. They were nearby the Melee grounds, the gaggle of participants looking at each other and muttering in irritation. In front of them and besides the crier with the competition board lay the chalk line, and beyond it a barren stretch of field with a wicker roundel right in the middle of it.
The crier shook his head as he made to remove the shield of House Baratheon of King's Landing, only for a few startled cries to shift his attention back to the crowd. Said crowd was busy parting way for a knight in red and gold plate atop a black warhorse, the great beast stopping with barely a command from its rider some fifteen paces from the chalk line.
"My apologies for the delay, my lords and ladies, it's been a rather busy day," said the rider with a heartfelt sigh as Balon realized it was just a boy. "Have I been struck from the list already?" he asked the crier.
"Not yet your highness," said a nearby knight in a vaguely disrespectful tone. Ser Balon looked at the man with thinly veiled contempt, such was no way to treat royalty! Most of the competitors merely looked on in boredom or amusement though, waiting for the prince to get out of the way already.
"Right, give me a moment," the Prince said somewhat apologetically as he stood over the stirrups, looked at the target for a half a breath and then nodded nonchalantly, sitting back down and spurring his horse into a gallop.
He must have confused this with a tilt! Balon thought in slight shock as the horse cleared the space in mere seconds, a bow suddenly materializing on the Prince's right hand as his horse reared just a few paces from the chalk line and whirled in a half circle, an arrow leaping from the boy's bow before he was galloping back the way he came from, not even looking at the target.
"Be right back, keep going without me!" he called out, his mind clearly intent on something else as he sped away.
The crowd was stunned into silence, same as Ser Balon as he looked at the target down range with an arrow placed right in its center.
Getting those dragons was going to be harder than he thought.
.-
Taking his time with the bloody armor had almost cost him the competition… and then he'd forgotten his helmet. He really needed a squire… and he needed to talk to whoever had arranged the time table. Who put the first phase of the tilts just after the archery competition?!
Be that as it may, he'd arrived just in time for the second shot, a modest one he'd been able to take from Moonlight's back again, but after that things had gotten interesting. Jalabhar Xho had bit the dust during the last round, and now only him, Ser Balon Swan and a hunter from the Dornish Marches named Anguy.
I used to have so much fun with archery… he mused as he looked at the target downrange.
He took in a slow breath as he steadily drew his bow, the arrow's tip glinting in the midday sun as he aimed higher and higher, the string reaching his cheek. He spent a timeless moment in that position, feeling the whistling of the wind and the slow thrum of his heart.
Suddenly, the arrow leapt as if with a will of its own. It flew high and true, before descending and planting itself on the wicker roundel.
"There goes the Keep," said Ser Balon Swann with a slight shake of his head, not too bothered by that fact as he turned to Joffrey. "A magnificent shot Your Highness," he said, the compliment sounding truthful and simple to Joffrey's ears.
"You did great as well Ser Balon, few indeed are those that can reliably place an arrow at such distance," said Joffrey, honestly impressed with the man. He seemed dependable as well as not very prone to schemes… Hadn't he served as Kingsguard sometime during his first reign..? If so, he must had been one of the few good choices for the order since Robert acceded to the throne.
The servants made haste to move the target back another ten paces, the roundel shrinking once more in the distance… now it was up to him and Anguy.
"Anguy of the Dornish Marches!" called the crier, peeking at the range and trying not to miss the shot. The rest of the defeated participants, plus the small crowd that had gathered around it, watched in baited anticipation as the doughty looking smallfolk hefted a well-worn bow to the skies, nocking a simple hunter's arrow.
The hardy, smallish hunter let the arrow go, and Joffrey followed its arc through the sky until it reached the roundel's edge, almost missing.
The crowd's halfhearted clapping redoubled in intensity when Joffrey joined in.
Bloody hells he's really good, he thought as the crowd muttered in interest and slight awe, exchanging gold on bets missed and bets to come.
Joffrey was troubled, the man had a lot of recent practice, and he seemed superbly competent with the bow. He'd taken shots like that during his time with the Scouts… but that had been a long time ago…
There was no way he was botching this though, he needed that gold. The thought of a properly trained legion under his command made his mouth salivate.
By the gods give me five thousand men, no more, five thousand men and I could dance rings around any levy five times the size.
He took a deep breath as the crier called his name, taking an arrow from his quiver and stepping up to the chalk line. He nocked and drew with long practiced ease, feeling the call of the wind as he heard the delighted laughter of children and the merry feasting of lords and even commons in the distance.
He loosed, watching the arrow fly for a second before turning back to Anguy and nodding respectful at him, "Your skill is superb, the gold's well deserved," he said with a slight, wistful smile as the arrow almost reached the target, burying itself on the dirt a meter to its left.
The crowd erupted in shouts and hesitant cheers, cheers which redoubled when Joffrey raised Anguy's hand up in the air, proclaiming him the victor.
"Thank you ya'grace," said Anguy, his voice coarse as he looked at the crowd and the crown prince of the realm in vague shock.
"I don't suppose you'd take a job offer right about now?" Joffrey asked, taking the edge off the question with a smirk as a squad of Redcloaks carried forth a chest filled with gold.
"Ah, no, thank you ya'grace," the man blabbered as he looked at the chest, no doubt thinking about the ten thousand gold dragons stashed within.
"Thought so," said Joffrey with a shrug of his shoulders.
Oh well… nothing to it.
He made his way past the crowd, his armor clanking with each step as he readied himself for the first phase of the jousts. The crowd parted around him, showering him with compliments and small talk that would no doubt lead to some favor or another.
He resolutely ignored them as he made his way to his horse, squashing the small tendrils of longing at the sudden companionship and popularity. It would only bring pain.
He stumbled in surprise when he saw Sansa, Septa Mordane and Lady nearby Moonlight, Sansa twitching her hands nervously as she avoided his eyes.
"Lady Sansa! I thought you were watching the first tilts?" he asked, confused as he walked up to her.
Lady tilted her head and regarded him carefully as he neared her master, the lean and vaguely regal looking direwolf seemingly judging him for a moment before deciding he was not a threat.
Foolish, blind dog, thought Joffrey all of a sudden.
"I was going to, but then I heard you had entered the archery competition… that was, was, incredible Joff!" she suddenly blurted, sounding much too similar to Arya for her comfort, he suspected.
Both of them reddened as Joffrey politely nodded at Septa Mordane. The old crone partly responsible for Sansa's future plights nodded back, constantly weary for any sign of impropriety.
Stupid crone, I'd never… never intentionally… he fumbled with his thoughts as his face creased and the budding butterflies in his stomach were replaced with a slowly rising black bile.
Sansa snapped him out of it as he grabbed his hand, carrying him forwards almost hesitantly towards the jousting grounds. "Come on, aren't you going to participate in the tilts as well?!" she asked him, her voice cheery with the spice of summer and the wonder of a little girl whose dream had come true.
"Come on Moonlight," he said over his shoulder, distracted as the horse cantered behind them.
Joffrey let himself be carried forwards, deciding to let himself go of the worry and apprehension. Letting himself enjoy the simple moment.
Even after all those years, Ned Stark's council still held sway over him.
There was something about Sansa that simply made him feel happy. The banners swirling atop the hundreds of pavilions seemed more colorful somehow, and the flower petals that flew around the grounds from the hands of laughing maidens seemed fresher, hypnotizing. So far, so far away from the horror of war and death and betrayal that they seemed like a bad nightmare, instead of his past and soon to be future.
"It's not that impressive really, Anguy beat me there in the end after all," he told her as he savored the feeling like a fine wine, gorging himself on it.
"Not that impressive?" she asked as they walked hand in hand, looking around the plentiful open aired feasts around the great tents, lords and knights toasting to King Robert as they ate their way through the treasury.
"Well, such accuracy is seldom used in the battlefield, as it's hard to take long shots when there's a man in front of you trying to chop your head off," he said as he raised his eyebrows.
Sansa genuinely pouted as she looked at him, "Now now, Septa Mordane says false modesty is almost as bad as pride," she reprimanded him, loud enough for the Septa to hear her, chaperoning them as she was a few meters behind them.
Did she just bad mouth the Septa and myself at the same time? Maybe not all his lost! He thought with a chuckle.
"What's so funny?" she asked, slightly defiant as they waited for a wagon to pass through a quickly forming road in between the tents.
"You. You're cute," Joffrey told her simply, smiling.
Her face turned so red Joffrey was afraid she'd explode, and that only made his grin grow and grow as he laughed yet again.
"Stop that! You're doing it again!" Sansa wailed as she turned even redder and her hands flew to her mouth, an unwilling chuckle emerging from her lips. This time though instead of holding it in, she let it go wild, reveling in the feeling as she dropped her hands and embraced his arm, still chuckling as she leaned her head on his shoulder.
Joffrey let the air leave his lungs as he closed his eyes and let his head lean on hers, feeling a strangely timeless sensation of wellbeing, the hopelessness fading like a bad dream in the morning's light.
A grumpy 'Ahem!' shook him off the trance, but he didn't want to go back. He really didn't.
He realized what he was doing quickly though, startling himself and letting go off Sansa as if she were on fire.
Septa Mordane was looking at them with a thunderous expression, but what took his attention was Sansa. She seemed bewildered as she blinked heavily, almost shaking her head when she saw him looking at her. She offered him a tentative, apologetic smile, the fear of rejection plainly drawn upon her face as if by a skilled sculptor. "I'm sorry my prince," she said as some rigidity returned to her pose, curtsying lightly, "I- I got carried away," she said, sounding a bit confused.
Joffrey stood still as a statue, feeling vulnerable and unsteady. What he really wanted to do though was hug her like a drowning sailor hugs a piece of flotsam. Instead, he turned his back on her, staring at the ground and breathing hard, screams of agony and memories of blood passing through his mind's eye almost too fast to process.
By the Old Gods and the New, get it together you imbecile! He screamed at himself in the privacy of his own mind, the promise he'd swore under moonlight and black stones a guiding beacon for his battered mind to rally around.
The rest of the walk was devoid of that magical feeling, their talk strained as Sansa took his reaction as some sort of disgust aimed at her.
Better this way, Joffrey told himself as they reached his private pavilion, each step almost painful.
"You should go, Lady Sansa. You'll miss the other jousts," Joffrey told her, feeling vaguely ill.
She looked like she wanted to say something for a moment, but instead she curtseyed yet again, Septa Mordane guiding her back to the stands.
Joffrey entered the tent and swiftly closed the flap behind him, taking a few deep breaths as conflicted feelings left something sour deep in his being.
He gave a might bellow as he tore into the wooden, armored mockup of a knight he'd placed inside the tent a few nights ago, chips of wood flying everywhere as he reduced the thing to splinters under the savage pounding of his hammer and the brutal, barely aimed cuts from his arming sword. Just as fast as the incoherent fury had taken him, it was gone, leaving him breathing hard as he stared down the shredded remains.
At least it wasn't a person, he thought as he made a mental note of getting the servants to secure him another one of these.
At least he felt a little bit better.
He frowned for half a second before he gave a step to the side, raising his arming sword and placing the tip of it just below a boy's throat.
"What are you doing here!?" Joffrey all but roared.
"M-M-M-MMMore w-wine?!" sputtered Lancel as the tray in his hands fell to the ground and the precious liquid started spilling from the bottle.
"Please!" Joffrey said as he sheathed his sword and kneeled for the bottle, taking a long swig before looking back strangely at him, "Mother sent you with wine?" he asked dubiously. Cercei had almost forbidden him from participating, so that sounded unlikely to say the least.
"Ah, no my prince, that was the King," he said, before sputtering again, "King Robert I mean," he amended, still shaking slightly.
Joffrey tilted his head slightly, "You don't say? It could have been King Mudd freshly raised from the grave!" he said as he raised his eyebrows.
"Wha- I, maybe-" Lancel tried to answer as Joffrey shook his head.
"It was a joke, relax. Gods…" he trailed off as he heard a horn in the distance. His turn was coming up soon.
He waited a few seconds for his erstwhile cousin to recompose himself, securing his own helmet and grabbing a lance from the rack. "Why did Robert send you?" he asked him.
"Ah, he, ah, wanted to make sure you were ready for the joust my prince," he said, stiff lipped.
"I'm sure, and the wine?" said Joffrey as he left his sword and hammer in the rack.
"To, ah, that is-"
"Spit it out Lancel!" he shouted as he turned back to him.
"So you don't unman yourself! I'm sorry my prince!" he let out, almost cowering.
Joffrey's expression turned thunderous as he stared at Lancel. "Unman myself…" he muttered.
The prince in red and gold armor shook slightly, and the chuckle that came forth from him sounded very different to the one he had enjoyed mere minutes ago.
"Unman myself!" repeated Joffrey as he laughed, as if he'd heard the best joke in the world. "Guess there's only one way to find out eh Lancel?" he said as he closed his visor, still chuckling lowly as he strode out, "Bring my lances! I need a squire!" he commanded as the big, black war horse outside the tent snarled.
Lancel did not unman himself.
.-
The banners roiled with the wind, shifting this way and that with each gust, the crowd cheering as the latest knight was defeated and the other returned to the front of the royal box, bowing at the King, the Queen and the various high born nobles around them. Even little Tommen and Myrcella were watching, taken in by the splendor of the colors and the cheering crowds of smallfolk by the enormous stands that had been erected around the jousting grounds.
"Come forth, Prince Joffrey of House Baratheon, and, Jory Cassel of Winterfell," proclaimed the crier.
Jory Cassel's plate armor shined in the afternoon sun, the smooth polish speaking of the care the man had dedicated to it, making sure Winterfell was well represented in the Tourney. He met Joffrey right in front of the royal box, looking at him wearily as the prince's horse reared to a standstill seemingly by its own will.
Joffrey nodded at the Captain of Winterfell's guard, before turning his sight to the assembled nobles. Cercei looked extremely nervous, quite the contrast to Robert who looked at him with thinly veiled resignation.
Have I fallen this low in his esteem? He thought darkly, his jaw working all on its own.
Ned, Bran and Arya all looked at him in varying degrees of fascination or excitement, same as little Tommen and Myrcella. Sansa however didn't look at him, she was busy gazing at the stands behind him.
They bowed in unison, as Robert waved away negligently with his hand, "Yes, yes! Get on with it!" he said, his eyes stopping for a second on Joffrey's, and then moving on.
Joffrey closed his helmet and ordered Moonlight back to his area, the shield of House Baratheon of King's Landing securely strapped to a wooden pillar. He found Lancel with a lance and shield waiting for him, and he shook his head as his cousin passed him the implements of war.
He looked at the stance and saw Sansa, who he realized was seated right in front of Baelish. He could see the weasel faced man now, tilting his head forward and filling Sansa's ear with poison.
Joffrey snarled as he closed his helmet, hefted the lance forwards and kicked Moonlight into a gallop, just as the horns thundered. Moonlight quickly gained speed, the thundering of his hooves overwhelming as Jory Cassel neared, his lance angling for his chest.
Joffrey snarled as he tilted his body forward and slammed the lance into Jory, absorbing his with his shield. Jory was sent flying back to the ground, tumbling wildly as Moonlight kept going, finally stopping at the other side of the jousting ground.
He turned back and saw Jory bleeding on the ground, clutching his leg with a pained expression, his helmet laying a few meters behind him. Two other Stark men helped him off the ground as his face squeezed itself in pain, biting off a scream.
Joffrey returned to the center of the royal box as he dropped his wrecked lance, stopping in front of a vaguely speechless Robert.
"My breeches appear to be unsoiled, Father. Must be the wine," he said with a sardonic smile as he took off his helmet. He didn't deign look back on Robert's startled expression as he rode past a somber looking Ned Stark and a horrified looking Sansa, Baelish still whispering sweet poison as Joffrey reigned in a monumental instinct that kept insisting his dagger should be up in the bastard's throat.
"I wouldn't listen to him Lady Sansa, Lord Baelish seems scared of even shadows these days," Joffrey twisted the metaphorical knife gleefully, startling littlefinger into silence and making him swallow something sour.
Come on Baelish, tie the dots, you're a smart fellow, he thought as he gave him a smirk.
He kept riding out of the field, straight for the Red Keep. He hoped the Heart Tree would be able to soothe his frayed mind once more.
.-
Joffrey was submerged in the depths of his soul again, his awareness a fleeting balloon floating over the contours of his self as he searched for the piece of the puzzle the tablet had given him, an empty anchor meant to hold something. He scoured sideways along the glossy surface of his self, the ominous Purple strength of the pillars above almost calling him, like a siren's call. The intricate depictions on the bone tablet were but a fleeting caricature of the depth and breadth of the confusing meanings carved into his self, a jagged landscape of soulstuff that stretched on until it reached a purple tinged horizon beyond sight and sound and self.
Joffrey kept searching, remembering the shape and form of the edge he was supposed to find. The task seemed titanic, and yet Joffrey felt strangely on point as he searched. As if knowing what he was supposed to find already gave him a sense of direction in the almost infinite expanse of meaning.
Here, whispered an instinct older than him, older than time.
Here, thought Joffrey as he felt himself near his edge.
As a child's scribble resembles a Tyroshi masterpiece, so did the tablet resemble the anchor. Joffrey neared the strange, empty space, so similar yet different from the tablet. It seemed somehow deeper, stronger, more robust than the contours that surrounded the tablet's essence. It reached deep into the core of himself like a deep water well, the bone crushing depths of his being which not even his awareness could traverse. From there it reached to the edge of his self, the jagged landscape of his soul below the baleful glare of the Purple.
His awareness reached to the contours themselves, the metaphorical flower that peeked out of the earth instead of the roots themselves. He did not know the purpose of such a gigantic tear that reached so deep into his very self, but as he reached the outer edges of it he could feel something. The perfectly molded edge was like a shadow to the thing it yearned to embrace, to anchor. Joffrey breathed in the edges, his quest for answers unrelenting as he tasted something old. It smelt of purpose. A tool. A bridge. And sharp… so sharp.
Something shifted his concentration and Joffrey peeked up for a second and saw the gloryoftHEETERNALPILLARS-
JoFfReY gave a startled scream as he opened his eyes. He shivered wildly as he scratched at the ground with his nails, trying to feel something real with his hands as he folded his knees close to his chest, a silent scream locked inside his throat as he swayed lightly, trying to feel anything as he swayed and swayedandswayed-
"Joffrey I'm sorry! Please! Joffrey!" wailed Nalia right on his ear, and Joffrey froze in horror.
But it wasn't Nalia's voice, not really. He realized it was Sansa's as a pair of hands kept shaking him wildly, something small and wet landing on his face. He dared to open his eyes again and saw her frantic face, desperately calling for a maester as tears fell down her cheek to land on his face.
"Sh… Sansa?" Joffrey asked, dazed.
"Joffrey?! I'm so sorry, please I didn't know-" she blabbered before Joffrey placed a hand on her thigh, trying to calm her down.
"It's okay Sansa, I'm… I'm okay," he tried, realizing he lay sprawled on the ground. Sansa managed to hold in a shuddering breath as he managed to sit up, blinking slowly at the too bright sun.
"Wh- What happened?" he asked her, rubbing his own face compulsively.
Sansa almost burst out in tears again as she opened her mouth and closed it again. She took a deep breath before she swallowed, talking quickly but coherently, "I don't know! You were sitting below the Heart Tree in a weird position, so still I thought you'd fallen asleep! You were so pale… your forehead was drenched in sweat too… I, I thought you had fallen asleep and were having a nightmare so… so-" she stammered the last part, Joffrey holding her arm gently both to steady her and to anchor himself back to reality.
Sansa Stark. His bones knew she was real.
"So I tried to wake you up but then you- you fell to the ground shaking and your face looked as if, as if you were coursing through this terrible agony and I thought you were- were-were dying," she managed, barely holding in the tears as Joffrey hugged her, breathing deeply.
"It's okay Sansa, you did nothing wrong, you did nothing wrong," Joffrey said as she slowly stopped shaking, their breathing slowly evening out as Joffrey smelled the scent of her hair.
He let her go jerkily, swaying a bit as he stood up, shaking his head.
"Joffrey… what… what happened?" she finally asked him as he leaned back on the Heart Tree's trunk.
Joffrey looked at her for a long while, the falling leaves of the oak tree distracting him, "I looked at something… I shouldn't…" he said, shaking his head.
Sansa looked at him with questing eyes, she seemed ready to ask him something else entirely when they heard the shouts of several guards, the Hound loudest of them all as they searched the Godswood.
"It seems they heard your scream," Joffrey told her, smiling sheepishly.
She didn't look ashamed though, instead taking a step closer and looking straight at his eyes, "Joffrey… What were you looking for?" she asked with uncanny insight, confused.
"I…" Joffrey mouthed before the Hound broke into the clearing with a few Redcloaks, looking from him to Sansa and shaking his head. "Alright, who was screaming for a Maester just a minute ago?!" he huffed, annoyed at the apparent waste of time.
Joffrey just shook his head again, taking another deep breath as he tried to clear his head.
.-
The Tower of the Hand seemed almost deserted, many of its guards joining the festivities below as they took part of the incredibly extravagant feasts Robert had arranged (or rather the grudging Hand himself). Joffrey carefully scaled the last stretch of bricks between himself and the window, hugging the wall even more tightly as a sentry peered down from above the crenellations. He stayed still until the man went away, leaving the way clear for him as he carefully but quickly climbed the last few red bricks before peering at the Hand's solar through the window.
The sheer drop would surely mean his death if he lost his grip, but Joffrey persevered, making sure no one was present before jumping up and over the sill in a burst of strength.
His encounter with Sansa had left him rattled. Did she think him a bloody butcher for laying on to Jory in such a way? He hadn't intended to leave such a grievous wound on the Captain of Ned's guard, but when he'd seen Littlefinger whispering in her ear something within him had snapped. And the Godswood… he'd seen her before, peeking at him from beyond the clearing sometimes, when he meditated.
In the Godswood… He'd been a second from babbling everything and being consigned to Pycelle's milk of the poppy and possibly Tywin-ordered foxglove to make way for a saner heir… thankfully, blessed Sandor had showed up and broken him from his reverie before all the progress he had achieved in this life evaporated.
Must have a weakness for beautiful women, he thought with a light snort, mirth and painful loneliness playing with each other before he dispelled those thoughts and cleared his mind.
He prowled through Ned Stark's solar, and he didn't take much time at all to find what he was looking for. Right there on the bookshelf as if the fate of thousands of lives didn't depend on it, lay Ned's copy of 'The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms', Baelish's very own perfectly aimed stroke that had, arguably, already sent Ned to his doom.
The scripture was very similar to the copies held in the late Jennet Water's burnt out manse. Both this copy and the other odd score ones that had been held there in a cellar clearly came from the same copyist… a maester in Littlefinger's pocket, no doubt.
He stared at the book for a while, already intricately familiar with its content. To call the evidence contained therein 'satisfactory' was a stretch, but combined by the great distrust and hostility between houses Stark and Lannister, along with Jon Arryn's suspiciously badly timed death… Joffrey could see how this book would and had propelled Ned through the labyrinth designed for him, a mere rung to be stepped on in Baelish's rise to power.
He returned the book with a sigh, shaking his head. Taking it now would only arouse further suspicion from Ned… and Baelish was stoking the hostility and suspicion already. He'd found out Summer's recent ails came from poisoned food, delivered on Baelish's orders. A brawl in a tavern near the Street of Silk had left a Lannister guardsman dead and two Stark ones injured, and Joffrey was looking at troubling activity from one of Littlefinger's surviving Master of Keys, sniffing around Flea Bottom for something more difficult to find than mere spies…
Knowing what he did now, it was obvious that Bran's various assassinations throughout his past lives (carried out from within the Red Keep no less!) had been Baelish's attempt at stoking the fire when the stakes between both Houses were not as high as he wished.
He returned to the window, looking up at the dark, cloudy night as he thought. He'd already mapped a substantial portion of Baelish's assets in King's Landing, and spied a few in Gulltown as well thanks to intercepted correspondence. The Master of Coin himself was nearing the end of his usefulness, but Joffrey still wanted to milk him for all he was worth, to make his revenge absolute even as he used everything he stole for worthier endeavors.
He was already exchanging letters with the Citadel, inquiring about Maesters and Archmaesters by name. If he was going to rule, then by the gods he was going to rule. Halfhearted musings of trading companies and infrastructure projects from dreams many lives ago were troubling his mind once again, and they were thirsty for coin… though the prospect didn't make him as giddy as before. In his mind, his vision of a prosperous King's Landing now seemed fake, its denizens uncaring, false.
There was nothing to it though, he had work to do.
I'll need more than an army to stop the Walkers, after all, he thought as he jumped through the window.
.-
The second day of the tourney opened up with the Melee, twenty thousand gold dragons in a chest atop a high table, as if daring the participants to stretch up and grab them.
Of course, the combatants would never admit something so crass. No, the greatest price in the melee was honor and glory, and the different Houses seemed to be united in the sentiment. The great ring was chock full of banners and shields depicting all manner of fantastical and mundane beasts, quartered in varying shades of vermillion, blue, green, yellow and all the colors imaginable as the knights and lords readied themselves.
A small gaggle of courtiers and bootlickers had neatly assembled for Joffrey, praising him for his surprising showing in the archery contest yesterday and showering him with compliments and worthless nothings. Joffrey had just silently stared at them for a while, until they realized their hasty torrent of words was not being returned at all. There was an awkward silence as he kept staring at them, his eerie gaze finally too much to bear as they slowly dissipated from his surroundings.
It seemed lifetimes ago since he'd had a good night's sleep, so long in fact he had gotten used to it. What he was not used to were the strange difficulties he was having to get out of his bed. Sure, he'd been having them for lives now but he didn't remember the temptation to just lay there after waking up being so strong…
Joffrey snorted as he readied his hammer and sword. His choice of weapons was frowned upon by some knights, and gazed in consideration by others. After the prowess he'd shown in both archery and his first joust, Joffrey had shown the realm he was no weakling prince. A green boy playing at war? Probably, but it seemed his efforts had been noted by some of the nobility, and a crown prince with at least a minor knack for warfare was something a vassal could approve, he supposed.
He stopped his ruminations when he spotted a familiar face amongst the prospective combatants.
"Lord Buckwell!" shouted Joffrey, pleasantly surprised as he walked towards the doughty man in plate.
"Prince Joffrey? I don't think we've been formally introduced, an honor," he said with a respectful nod.
Joffrey had almost slapped his breastplate in camaraderie before he remembered himself. "Thank you my lord. Looking for a share of the honor? I'm afraid you won't find it here," he confided with a flippant smile as he looked at the banners everywhere. Lord Buckwell chuckled lowly, shaking his head, "And yourself, your highness? I heard you made a strong showing at the archery contest, perhaps you'll reap a share of the nonexistent glory yourself?" he asked him.
"Perhaps my lord, perhaps… If I fall today, then I hope it's beneath your blade, I'd be honored," Joffrey told him truthfully.
He raised his eyebrows as he considered something, "I note you said 'if', not when," knowingly remarked the lord of the Antlers as he put on his helmet and nodded.
Joffrey snorted as he nodded back and returned to his position. The participants were all around the ring, almost hugging its circumference, looking at their neighbors thoughtfully and planning their stratagems.
Joffrey put on his helmet and looked around, seeing if anyone he knew was watching. He didn't find anyone he recognized, so he shrugged and wielded his hammer and sword, popping his neck. He didn't feel any excitement, any purpose as he readied himself.
I need that gold, he told himself as the horn thundered and he moved.
.-
Thoros of Myr circled around Joffrey carefully, his flaming sword swaying in circles as if probing ghostly defenses. Joffrey kept up with the man, his feet moving with a will of their own as he readied for the final clash. All around them lay knights and lords in differing conditions, from barely conscious to barely bruised. All of them, however, had been defeated.
"If you think a bit of fire is going to unman me Thoros, then you're sadly mistaken," he called out playfully, feinting left and then right, the damnable washed out fire priest not falling for it.
His head was drenched in sweat, from the heat of the fire or that of the confrontation Joffrey couldn't say, but the man was already parrying when Joffrey leapt. He pivoted after he dodged Thoros' riposte, feeling a searing heat sail above his head as he rose up again, his sword slamming into the man's arm and making him stumble back, the follow up hammer blow wrenching his flaming sword from his hands. He finished it with a slightly flashy water whirl, his arming sword's tip ending just a centimeter beyond Thoros' throat.
"I yield your highness, and well fought," said Thoros, wide eyed.
Joffrey smiled as he lowered his sword, "And well fought to you too Thoros," he said, out of breath as the exhaustion caught up to him. The crowd around the ring seemed vaguely speechless as the crier beckoned him to take his winnings, declaring him the winner of the Melee.
Joffrey was startled by the sudden cheering, smallfolk and lords alike clapping and even whistling as he walked to the great stand where the gold lay. He hazarded a smile to the wild public, and to his surprise, found it almost genuine.
Ironically enough, his old self loved the cheering of crowds, and in a way he still did. The fake, simpering kind only made him mad though… He didn't know if that made him better or worse. In any case, the sweet sight of the gold was enough to soothe his aches as he beheld the golden glint of the dragons. His mood worsened when he remembered seeing that very same gold in the sad excuse for a 'treasury' the Red Keep had.
He saluted and nodded respectfully to lords, knights and even smallfolk in his way, but was briefly startled when he saw none other than Petyr Baelish staring at him, mouth wide open. The Master of Coin was startled as well when he realized Joffrey was looking back. He swiftly disappeared from the crowd, leaving Joffrey with a cruel smirk all to himself.
Ah, the dots connect! He thought. Messing with the Littlefucker was one of the few things he seemed to take joy in nowadays.
.-
With what he'd won so far he'd be able to equip the greatest force of scouts ever seen in the continent, but he wanted more than that. He wanted to train and arm one legion at the very least. Westerosi knights had no equal in mounted warfare throughout the known world as far as Joffrey was concerned, and they'd butcher Dothraki horsemen in a melee.
No, it was the infantry that needed work. Peasant levies stiffened by the odd men at arms was not going to cut it against the string of apocalypses he was sure to hit before the White Walkers, much less the White Walkers themselves. Joffrey doubted his infantry as is would even make it to the melee against the ice demons, they'd melt before even getting to bow range, he was sure.
For his first legion, he needed to win this bloody joust and take home the forty thousand gold Robert had all too freely tossed down the potty. It would be hard, he could tell already, to try and push through noble interference and inertia and poor recruits… a mind-numbing slog it was going to be…
But duty kept carrying him forwards, and in a brief but furious burst of violence, he unseated Ser Arwood Frey, Ser Andar Royce, and Lord Beric Dondarrion. By then the crowd was going wild every time the 'Golden Prince', as the damnable improvising singers and mummers skirting the edges of the grounds had called him, unseated one knight after the other. He had to admit, Robert's steadily disbelieving expression was a sight to behold, not so the horrified expression in Mother's face. Tyrion was very confused, while Bran didn't know whether to clap or to cry, a study in contrast to joyous Myrcella. Sansa regarded him curiously, the grand joy of losing herself in the magic of her dreams come true, the reveling in the spectacle and the banners and the knights had… been tempered, somewhat. She still looked wide eyed and joyous at the tilts, the fancy armors and the well-dressed ladies, but her rare, thoughtful frown was appearing more and more often.
But now came his biggest challenge yet: Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers. Joffrey had made an extremely good showing by almost anyone's reckoning, considering previous standards at least, but if he wanted to pass the round of sixteen and enter the round of eight, he'd have to defeat one of the most skilled riders in Westeros.
Loras cantered atop his horse as he soaked in the cheering crowds, giving winks to blushing maidens and leaving young knights and squires green with envy. Ser Loras came to a stop in front of Sansa, his bright silver armor enameled with green flowers and vines shining in the afternoon sun. He gave her a smile as he handed her a rose, Sansa blushing at the attention.
Joffrey felt a brief stab of something before it was ruthlessly squashed, Ser Loras giving him a leer as he cantered back to the front of the royal box, right next to him. "Beautiful flowers do naught but attract a lot of bees I'm afraid," he said, twisting the knife.
The fact he knew it was obvious ploy to shake him didn't do anything to placate the part of him that wanted nothing but to jump and strangle the flowery bastard.
"Tis' fortune then that the bee searches for a different kind of flower entirely, eh Ser Loras?" Joffrey said with a suggestive smirk.
He left the nonplussed Knight of Flowers to think about that as he bowed to the fat king on the big chair. "My breeches remain unsoiled thus far Father, though I fear the end might be nigh for them this time," he said in worry.
Robert raised his eyebrows before he let out a loud guffaw, chuckling in good mirth for the first time in ages. "Just show that flowery ponce how Baratheons do war!" he waved away in good cheer.
Joffrey bowed rigidly as he closed his visor swiftly, before anyone could see his suddenly red eyes. Moonlight guided himself to the end of the jousting ground before Lancel handed him a lance. Against all odds, Joffrey had taken a liking to his not-squire. His fumbling ways seemed awfully familiar, and Joffrey felt his cousin was somewhat lost in life… maybe that's what the boy needed, a firm hand and a worthy duty… there was potential behind those perpetually self-doubting green eyes, he could feel it.
Moonlight sped as the horn sounded, his lance coming down as Loras did the same atop his brown stallion, the distance shrinking until there was a sudden crash of sound and pain. Joffrey took a painful lungful of air as Moonlight kept going, slowing down as he circled the tilt barrier for the next tilt.
Joffrey tossed his broken lance away, shaking his head. Ser Loras was good, he'd barely gotten him on the shoulder while the Knight of Flower's own blow had almost unhorsed him. The pain from the blow made him feel vaguely useless… as if he was not himself. What was he doing here, playing at war? Why do any of this? Why was he denied the sweet embrace of oblivion?
The last few thoughts startled him as he shook his head like a terrier with a rat, almost painfully bringing himself back to the present. He checked his body for wounds or nicks, maybe for some trace of poison, but found nothing. Perhaps he'd been pushing himself too much lately…
He shook his head once more as the horn sounded and Moonlight sped up, his lance lowering again and seeking his opponent's chest. He remembered the wars to come and his need for an army worth the name, to save everyone and stop an apocalypse… The Knight of Flowers barely managed to intercept the blow with his shield, his own lance striking Joffrey right in the center of his breastplate. He flew backwards from the blow, slamming into the ground painfully and tumbling through the mud.
Joffrey laid there in the mud, breathing slowly as he gazed up at the blue sky, framed by flying leaves and birds startled by the sudden noise of the clash.
He felt so tired suddenly, an all pervasive bleakness somehow bypassing the holdfast that was his will. Joffrey realized he didn't want to stand up… he wanted to be left alone here, looking at the sky. The unexplained and abrupt desertion of his will should have left him panicked and afraid, but he couldn't bring himself to care.
He tried to stand up, barely lifting his head before letting it fall back to the mud.
More war, more death, more plots, no escape.
He could hear the cheering crowd, fickle as the wind as they acclaimed Loras, no doubt already bowing to his fat oaf of a supposed father…
We should all just sleep… we should all close our eyes… thought Joffrey as he kept looking up, feeling drained until Lancel was suddenly at his side, helping him stand up and taking off his helmet.
The crowd was cheering again for Ser Loras as he cantered around the tilt barrier, saluting and soaking in the glory of the lords and the smallfolk. Moonlight was right next to Joffrey, ready for him to jump atop and ride back into battle as he had been trained, but Joffrey just shook his head as he patted his dutiful companion's head. Moonlight neighed, impatient.
"Not today you beast," he told him with a halfhearted smile before turning back to Lancel. "Thank you cousin, take him back to the stable please," he said. Lancel had looked worried for a moment, perhaps thinking about all the manner of hells Cercei would deliver on him if something untoward had happened, but he settled for a relieved nod as he took Moonlight's reigns and guided him out of the field. Joffrey himself walked to the front of the royal box, where Ser Loras was bowing to Robert, though Sansa was looking at Joffrey with a frown. Fortunately, Baelish was not in attendance or the bastard might have received a throwing dagger to the face.
"Unmanned yourself yet?!" shouted Robert in good spirits.
Joffrey just looked at him, feeling hollow.
Robert looked nonplussed for a second before speaking again, the words rushing out of his mouth as if he could not bear the silence, "A good showing son, a good showing, don't you agree Ned?" he asked his best friend almost desperately. Ned looked startled for a moment, before nodding, "It was, Your Grace," Ned said simply, as was his want.
He's made up his mind already, Joffrey realized as he looked at Ned. Whether he knows it or not…
He reconstructed the holdfast of his will as he could, though he could tell it was cracked… no, it had been hollow for a while now…
He'd been pushing himself too hard lately, that must be it… that had to be it…
He shook his head as he bowed to the royal box. He walked out of the grounds, the crier already calling the next tilt.
.-
Petyr Baelish could scarcely believe it. He'd thought himself mad for even contemplating the possibility… but after exhausting every other thread, and after seeing him in action… there was no doubt.
Prince Joffrey, the simpering man child, was the fucking Shadow. The living, breathing killing machine that had burnt most of his work in King's Landing to ash.
Years of practicing his cool, collected demeanor had ensured he didn't panic, but it had been a close thing. He'd barely been getting enough sleep when he started to find black handkerchiefs in his solar inside the Red Keep… after that, he'd been sleeping maybe one or two hours every night, his dagger under the pillow as he nervously watched the barred door.
He took a deep breath as he collected his wits, the not so gentle swaying of his cog enough to steady his nerves. He'd never given up before, not even when Brandon Stark had gutted him like a fish for daring to protect Cat from a life of misery and barbarism… and he wasn't going to give up now. With Prince Joffrey of all people revealed as the Shadow, he had no choice but to tuck tail and run. His plan had been set back by months, or most likely years, but he'd adapt with the new circumstances, hatch new plans, ride the ever changing currents of chaos like he'd always done.
Yes, he thought, it was merely a slight setback. He still had Lysa and through her, the might of the Vale. He had a few hidden nest eggs in Gulltown too, that would provide some much needed cash for the wars and plots to come.
Baelish smiled as leaned back on his chair. The first thing he was going to do after disembarking at Gulltown was going to give him great satisfaction: Hire a dozen good killers to jump at the bastard the moment he dared step outside the Red Keep again, and signal his contact amongst the Prince's own servants to poison his wine. He didn't care which one got to him first, as long as he was dead.
He looked at the empty goblet on the small table before he called out, his voice smooth to his ears, "Jerryk, wine," he said.
He frowned when nothing happen, his superbly trained servant nowhere in evidence.
"Jerryk," he called out again.
Unacceptable, he thought, shaking his head. He thought Jerryk knew better than this… a shame really, a shame.
He got up from his chair and opened the door to his personal cabin, only to find Jerryk slumped against the wooden bulkhead, a thin trail of blood sluggishly running down his neck and pooling at his pants.
Baelish took in a startled breath of horror, fumbling for his dagger as he looked down the corridor, his heart beating wildly as he found nothing.
No, he thought in dread.
He gave an unsteady step forwards, his dagger shaking like a leaf in his hand. I've got to get out of here, he thought as he kept walking, gaining speed as he turned a corner. He found two of the cog's crewmembers on the floor, one with his throat slit and another with his face locked in panic, a sea of blood around him that had probably erupted from his now empty socket.
Baelish felt as if he were in a nightmare as he kept climbing ladders and walking down corridors, finding every single member of his crew slain one way or the other. The hallways of horror were almost too much to bear as he finally reached the deck, vaguely hyperventilating as a cold gust of nightly wind froze him to the bone.
He was still as a statue when he saw the Prince, his head and face bare for all to see as he splashed a bit of lantern oil on a pile of kindling near the main mast.
"Oh, Baelish. I was wondering when you'd come up," he said as he looked at him, before returning to his task with all the nonchalance and boredom of a sailor with long hours of work ahead of him.
Baelish swallowed as he grabbed the door's frame, looking around the deck and spotting a dozen crewmembers plus the half dozen mercenaries he'd contracted for this very journey, all dead. The waves jumbled the ship from side to side, the lack of helmsman making it sway dangerously after each wave.
"You really thought you'd be safe here huh?" Joffrey said as he shook his head, placing a bit of pitch around a batch of folded canvass. "The double bluff was interesting, I'll give you that. It takes guts to arrange the departure of your official vessel in so obvious a manner and actually board it, instead of taking that little carriage of yours up the Kingsroad," Joffrey said as examined the pitch with a frown.
Baelish ran to the edge of the ship, looking down to the grumpy sea and noting the lack of his small cutter… though he could see the coast not that far away.
"I wouldn't bother if I were you, I'll just fish you out and then I'll be wet and irritated. Trust me, you don't want to do that," said the crazed Prince as he pulled a rope, the ship's last sail folding on itself.
"Wh…" Baelish swallowed, trying to gather his wits once more as he turned to improvisation, the one tool that had never failed him. "Of course my Prince," he called out with his smooth voice, not a hint of worry present in it, "You have won our little game decisively and proven yourself the better player by far, and I commend you for it. You have seen for yourself my skills at building what most other nobles would never even dream of…" He let the silence build up for a moment before continuing, "I can be a powerful ally to have at your side, all for the price of a few minor concessions, certainly less than what you have already destroyed… Whatever you want, I can get it for you," he told him with confidence. His model for Prince Joffrey was still off kilter and slightly shattered, but he was busy reconstructing it as he spoke, already gleaning useful tidbits of information. The spirit that had somehow possessed the crown prince was ruthless, incredibly skilled and likely valued competence. He had no care for honor or pageantry but was incredibly centered on the task or goal at hand. He could work with this.
Joffrey looked at him with a sad, vaguely amused smirk. "What I want is not in your power to give, Master of Coin. I want a happy people and a Kingdom worth governing, I want my friends to remember me, I want to beat the Night King to a pulp with my bare hands… I want to feel wonder at the world again, even a little would do…" he trailed off in longing, looking at the night sky. "Most of all, I think I'd like to sleep… yes… a dreamless, eternal sleep… Feels like I haven't gotten a good night's rest in decades…" he continued as he returned his gaze to Baelish, "You know, as of late the only thing that is sure to motivate me out of that damned sinking bed is the prospect of your suffering. Ironic I know," he gave a mirthless chuckle as he cleaned his hands with a rag, "After tonight I don't know if I'll have the willpower to get up again…" he said as he walked closer to him, stopping a few meters away and leaning on the rear mast as he gazed at him. He seemed eager to talk.
He's melancholic, severely melancholic… suicidal even, Baelish thought in a hurry, keeping his body nonthreatening and rigidly still after sheathing his dagger carefully. He'd always been a good reader and had read Maester Gwylliam's 'On the Moods of the Mind' quite a few times, finding some very interesting tidbits amongst the useless drivel, tidbits that had served him well even if he'd forgotten half of it. Perhaps he could-
"I admire that, you know? Your mind is always moving, always planning the next step, always ready to jump, always improvising… You could have been such a boon to the realm…" Joffrey trailed off, looking disappointed.
"I can still be that, Joffrey, our ambitions need not be opposed, we can talk-"
"Stop," commanded Joffrey, shutting up Baelish with a single word. He shook his head in exasperation, "What am I even doing? Fucking Baelish… fucking Baelish," he repeated, the shift in his tone of voice sending shivers down his spine as Joffrey's face turned angry, perhaps even furious.
"Your body will never be found. Your ship will burn to the waterline and sink to the depths of Blackwater Bay. All will wonder about the fate of Lord Petyr Baelish, scoundrel thief who was never seen again in this life…" he said with a cruel smirk.
Petyr swallowed something dry, trying to find his voice again as he inched slightly to his left, "You intend to burn me?" he asked, buying time.
Joffrey looked at him strangely before his face suddenly disfigured itself, a horrible, runaway laugh emerging from his throat. Joffrey laughed loud and hard, as if he'd been told the funniest joke in history.
The hair at the nape of his neck was on edge as Joffrey looked at him once more, still trying to restrain a few errant chuckles. "Oh Baelish… you poor, ignorant bastard… I should feel pity for you, but all of this is making me feel rather good! Burn you? Faster than you deserve I'm afraid. No, I'm going to torture you until I extract every single tidbit of information I've missed so far, and then I'm going to keep going until your emaciated husk stops breathing. That's what I'll do," he said with a wink.
Baelish couldn't restrain the anguished cry that escaped his lips as his heart battered against his chest, his hands almost fumbling with the loaded crossbow on the deck before he gripped it steady and turned around back towards Joffrey.
Joffrey was right in front of him, his hand moving the tip of the crossbow an inch to his right before Petyr pressed the trigger, the bolt flying harmlessly away into the cold dark night.
"Let's begin, shall we?" Joffrey said as a dagger flashed and he lost control of his limbs, falling to the ground in a heap. He screamed for someone, anyone to help him as the Shadow dragged him by the legs back inside the ship, whistling the Rains of Castamere in a terrible, off kilter tone.
.-
The depths of his soul stretched up the purple horizon in the distance, his awareness again returning to the place he'd sough before. He held the empty place with his awareness, bringing it closer to him, trying to understand the missing thing through the shadow the contours formed around it. It was something meant to channel, to kill, to bridge, and sharp, so very sharp he could almost cut himself as he beheld its shadow, his concentration supreme as he tried to understand what they wanted, what he'd been forcefully shaped to receive…
But it was not enough… he needed to get even closer, he needed to forget about his body entirely, transcend it and flood himself with the empty anchor… and there was only one way Joffrey even suspected could work…
He opened his eyes and gazed at the vial of poison in his hand, tilting it so the moonlight flooding the Red Keep's Godswood illuminated the little vial perfectly.
Ned already suspected and would likely not be dissuaded… Stannis plotted from Dragonstone as Renly gathered swords from the knights and lords of the tourney… The players readied for war as winter came and the dead shambled and Sansa likely thought him a monster… he didn't know why the last one bothered him so much…
He gazed at the poison thoughtfully. The tourney was over, he had not been able to get out of bed today until the late afternoon. He had grown tired of the sneers and the intrigue, of the war and the death, of the plans and the hopes… Did that make him a bad person? Did he even care?
The depressingly hollow miasma that clouded his sight was different from the harrowing despair he'd felt before. There was no angst, no throat squeezing ghost that would sometimes attempt to choke him, no terrible flashbacks of agony. He just felt… empty. As empty as the anchor within him.
What did he truly have to look forward to? The intrigues of the capital. And after that, the war and Robb and Tywin and Renly and Stannis and Balon and Daenerys and the Walkers… so much to do, so much to do die for. If he ran? He left everyone to die, and the end of the world would catch him once again and throw his soul back into the fray… forever more.
What happened at the jousting grounds? He wondered. He was starting to crumble into pieces but nothing bad had really happened. Baelish was gone, he wouldn't bother him any longer. He could build his scouts, he could try to ride out the war, he could confine Ned to the cells and keep him healthy, he could, he could… he could…
He could. But he didn't want to.
When did I get so tired? He thought as he leaned back on the Heart Tree, an invisible force begging him to close his eyes.
Maybe the answers will make me care again… he mused as he gazed back at the vial.
Maybe the answers will finally kill me… he mused again, tilting it so it was obscured once more.
Spoiler: Music
He opened the cork and took it in one fell swoop, swallowing every single drop of the liquid and leaning back on the Heart Tree. He closed his eyes and let himself sink through himself, his awareness delving deep within his soul and reaching for the empty anchor. He studied it for a while, an ominous rumbling rising in intensity as the Purple above seemed to glow more strongly, a rumbling of his very being as pain assaulted him, pain and agony that sought to crush his limbs and his throat, to torture him beyond sense or reason.
But for the first time, Joffrey didn't care. It was not the empty denial of madness, nor the courage of defiance. He greeted the pain with a metaphorical grimace, his mind narrowing as he kept gazing at the empty anchor and his soul was flayed by the Purple, intent on making him loose himself in the agony and the pain… but he would not be denied, he would not be blinded. He could feel the Purple's incomprehensible strength carrying him up and up and up, the Pillars absorbing him and propelling him through an incomprehensible array of twisting structures bigger than anything he had ever felt, bigger than the Hightower, than the Mountains of the Moon. He was carried through something bigger than the eternal horizon of the Grey Beyond, bigger than the night sky and the stars beyond and Joffrey knew that if he dared look he'd be no more, but would it truly be oblivion? Or would it be mere madness?
He let the temptation slip by with the agony, the assault on his senses so harrowing as to paradoxically clear his mind, no sweet numbness hiding the atrocity being committed to his soul as the natural order of the cosmos was broken in a terrible discordant tune of unreality. Still he gazed at the anchor through soul rending agony, his being pure thought, pure awareness as he felt the contours of the empty space and savored sharpness, as he smelt oldness, as he sensed purpose wrought in magic and blood for petty power and glory, now waiting to be reused, now soon to be scavenged by something far, far greater in breadth and intent than its original creators, to serve as a makeshift, desperate bridge, a tool of death, a tool of creation, a weapon of war, a legacy of his blood, so sharp, sharper than steel, sharp as Valyrian Steel, old and forgotten, a tool to complete his purpose. To complete Joffrey's purpose. To complete the Purple's purpose.
There was no break in his awareness, no dizziness to hide the memories, no hidden transition as the eternal Pillars thrummed and the fractals glowed, no disorientation as the pain screamed and he opened his eyes to the sight of his room in the Red Keep, no vomit as he stood up from his bed and fell to his knees on the cold floor, no doubt as he gazed at his steady hands.
"Brightroar," he said as he kept looking at both anchors even as he gazed at his hands, illuminated by the morning sun rising from the east and peeking through the window, the tablet materializing over his left hand in a brief twirl of silent fractals as he gazed at it thoughtfully with both sights.
"They want me to get Brightroar," he mused in soul deep certainty as he looked at the crude caricature inscribed in the tablet.
.-
Last edited: Dec 23, 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
Dec 22, 2017
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Threadmarks The Black Princess and the Purple Prince. New
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kclcmdr
kclcmdr
Kai The Kmpire!
Amicus
Jan 5, 2018
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#1,737
Here is a little OMAKE Pic depiction Xover between The Black Princess Alyanna and Purple Days nJoffrey in his quest to climb that Stinkin Mountain...
Siblings Omake
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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kclcmdr
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Threadmarks Chapter 36: Skies. New
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baurus
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Special Circumstances Agent
Jan 5, 2018
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At LAST! Its done... Might want to strap in for this one folks, its a bit long, as the alert no doubt warned you...
.-
Chapter 36: Skies.
The small yacht tumbled through the stormy seas, one incoming wave almost capsizing the small ship as it broke against its hull. The clash unleashed a mighty spray of saltwater that seemed to obscure the ship almost entirely, the lone man at the tiller wiping his pale green eyes as the yacht's jib was inflated to its maximum extension by the powerful winds. The small ship rode the back of the wave in seconds, quickly gaining speed before the next great wave was upon it and it struggled against the high slope, barely making it to the top before it went downwards again, the man holding the tiller with all his strength as he eyed the fixed compass next to him.
Joffrey could see the outline of the Valyrian Peninsula steadily becoming larger and larger, the wretched sea around it in perpetual anger as if the Doom still echoed down the ages, large plumes of smoke blotting out the horizon and becoming larger the closer Joffrey got to the mainland.
He maneuvered the small boat steadily, reading the currents and the force of the waves to judge his approach to the peninsula. Every bit of his skill as a sailor and a navigator was put to the test as he skirted the edges of strange whirlpools and unnatural currents, roaring as he shoved his body weight against the tiller and barely missed a great vortex of water, as if some god had unplugged the bottom of a gigantic Braavosi tub.
He wondered how many bigger ships had been unable to skirt the strange currents and hazards undamaged, how many ships had been lost to the abyss that was the southern approaches of Valyria. The Eastern and Western approaches were safer for ships, for a given value of the word anyway, but the noxious fumes that seemed to flood the peninsula were at their strongest there…
The waters calmed as Joffrey cleared the worst of the currents, the winds growing less and less pronounced as he neared the jagged, black cliffs of the doomed peninsula. There was barely a wisp of wind as he neared the great black horizon that seemed to stretch high into the air as the city walls of Volantis itself, as if some great giant had cleaved a mountain in half and submerged one piece even as he raised the other higher into the air.
Joffrey gazed up the black, jagged cliff with a considering look as he threw the yacht's small anchor down, the ship coming to a stop right beside the great unnatural wall. He took a hold of his climbing rakes and got to work on it, a length of rope tied to his belt as he left his big backpack behind, climbing the near vertical slope of what had once been the middle of the peninsula. The black stone was difficult to work with, and only experience ensured he didn't tumble down to his death when the rakes slipped.
He made his way up, grunting with effort every time a rake loosed and he dangled from the cliff. Eventually, he reached the crumbling summit and managed to stand up, gazing at the desolated wasteland beyond.
He hadn't known what to expect when he set his mind to the task that had doomed so many other would be explorers, the task that had seen the loss of King Tommen Lannister and Brightroar, the task that had even claimed the life of his great-uncle Gerion. Sometimes he'd imagined Valyria as a sea of ruins and monuments to long forgotten gods, other times he'd envisioned the lost peninsula as a land reclaimed by some sort of twisted nature, like a dark, ashen Sothoryos…
What he saw when he cleared the last boulder on his way was a sight that took his breath away, both lesser and greater than he had imagined. From his feet to the horizon, what had once been the heartland of the Valyrian Empire beckoned.
It was a terrible wasteland of black, jagged rock and dull grey pumice, an ashen desert of unending grounded dust that seemed to whisper with but the slightest breeze. Instead of gently rolling hills, Joffrey found faceted, chiseled outcrops of ancient bedrock jutting up at seemingly random intervals, where he'd expected horrible monsters and stuff of nightmares, he found only unending ash that continued onwards to the horizon, where it formed a great curtain of grey that reached the heavens themselves.
Joffrey took in the sight for a moment, caught in between horror and awe, stunned by the scorched, mangled wasteland where not even worms could hope to survive. He shook his head after a moment, taking a deep breath before he started walking, one foot at a time, same as he always had.
.-
The climate was oddly still as Joffrey munched on some hardtack, the salty, meaty meal a feast to his ash filled mouth. He was inside a small tent, trying to fight the otherworldly chill that had seemed to invade the blasted wasteland that was Valyria by night. He rubbed his hands against his arms as he thought about his objective… because as unnerving as his surrounding were proving out to be, he had not come to gaze at Old Valyria… he had come to retrieve a family heirloom lost to time and ambition.
Brightroar, the Valyrian Steel family sword of House Lannister, had been lost when the current head of House, Tommen II Lannister, King of the Rock, had taken it along with a great fleet of galleys straight towards ruined Valyria in search of wealth and glory. Neither King nor ship nor sword were ever seen again… and it was that sword that the Purple needed to… do something. It was a missing component in the eldritch thing's plan, and Joffrey's most clear lead in a long time, one he'd grabbed with both hands. One thing was certain though, Brightroar might have been created as a weapon, but the shadow within his soul whispered other things… a tool of life and death, a key to slot into the great hole that reached to the core of his soul, a connection…
He was shaken out of his introspection when he noticed the ominous rumbling of the ground, his tent shivering slightly as a distant roaring increased in intensity. Joffrey peeked out of the tent and saw an all-consuming curtain of grey ash and black smoke blanketing the horizon, blanketing the earth itself as the previously stilted winds suddenly increased in intensity to the force of an autumn storm, stronger and stronger until the terribly jagged sand was scalding his face and his eyes, the winds somehow still gaining power and shrieking like a great beast of old myth. The grey curtain advanced steadily across the horizon, straight towards the shore and against Joffrey's tent.
He retreated back inside, trying to open his backpack and grabbing a finely woven handkerchief which he promptly soaked in water. He tied it around his mouth and noise as the wind shrieked like a demon, the tent shifting to one side as fabrics strained and Joffrey covered himself in his blanket. The tent finally couldn't take it anymore as great gashes ruptured it, almost disintegrating once the first gash gave way and unleashed a chain reaction. Soon there was no tent anymore, only Joffrey hugging the scorched earth as everything turned ashen grey, Joffrey barely seeing his hands as the wind deafened him and he coughed, holding both hands close to his mouth and the wet handkerchief. He coughed again and again, each time more strongly as the smoke turned overwhelming, a sickly, warm thing which flooded his lungs, his eyes, everything turning black and grey as he coughed and coughed and coughed until the handkerchief was swept with the wind and Joffrey tumbled lightly against the ground, the wind dragging him even as he grabbed his throat and tried to breath, only for a strangled, whining sound to come out instead.
No, he thought as he managed to grab a hold of the ground, dragging himself upright and stumbling towards his backpack. It felt as if he were pushing against a Leviathan, but he was soon on his knees again, not a smidgen of air entering his lungs as he gaped and shook, dragging himself forward even as streaks of purple flooded him and he was consumed.
.-
Everyone but the purple prince takes a step to the right… does that mean everyone moves on but I remain here, trapped, unable to truly die? He mused, looking at the constellations.
No, he'd discarded double meanings from his musings a while ago, they seemed too complex, too easy for the true meaning to be misinterpreted. If Joffrey knew one thing from the mysterious beings behind it all, was that they wanted him to understand, wanted it fervently… The constellations held the real message, and the riddle was merely the key they'd left so someone else who knew the westerosi tongue couldn't crack it completely. It was a message for him only, and he felt the answer should be so bloody obvious… try as he might though, he couldn't crack it. There was not enough information to align a simple substitution code, and it was too short to try Maester Klin's comparative equations… he'd been reduced to the most obscure of cyphers and decryption methods known to the Citadel, with no luck so far. He couldn't shake off the feeling he was overthinking it however… the constellations held the answer somehow…
He took a deep breath as he stood back up, his resting time over as he climbed the small room's great closet, placing his legs securely on its top before leaning backwards in a hanging position. He started repeating the same repetitive movement, quickly raising before falling down again. After so many lives of getting back to shape, Joffrey knew his body like a Maester knew his chain. He knew exactly what to do and when, how to turn the body of the weakling, idiotic man child Prince Joffrey into something that was vaguely respectable without killing himself in the process.
He was focused, his entire being aligned on a single goal, his stubbornness on finding his answers serving as an adequate bulwark against the despondent, black pit that did its level best on ensuring he didn't leave his bed every morning. He had the sinking suspicion that once those answers were found all would come tumbling down… even now he could feel his motivation on finding his answers being slowly, oh so slowly chipped away every time he woke up and stared at the veiled disdain in Sandor's eyes, at the simpering flattery of the courtiers, at the dull repetition of the Red Keep's day to day routine as everyone kept dancing to the strings of fate. His burning curiosity, his all-consuming desire to know what he was, the thing that had carried him so far…
To see it being slowly grounded down seemed almost heretical to Joffrey, as if he were starting to become less and less of a person and more a… some kind of machine, a mill spinning endlessly against the rivers or the air, a cog that did nothing but spin and spin and spin…
He reached a hundred repetitions as he suddenly shouted, giving voice to his amorphous frustration as he stayed still, hanging down from the closet and looking upside down at the small, abandoned room he'd commandeered as his lair in the Red Keep.
He stayed there for a moment before the door opened to the sight of Uncle Tyrion, goblet in hand.
Hmm, his quarters are not too far away from here, must have been on his way to Chatayas', thought Joffrey as he left his arms to hang, looking at the upside down form of his favorite uncle.
Tyrion looked nonplussed as he eyed the shirtless Joffrey, debating inside his head whether or not he should keep walking. "Didn't know you fancied a new room nephew," he finally called out, looking at the heap of opened books and wall sized drawings of constellations, the old plate armor stashed by the corner and even a few colorful pieces of canvass tossed around the room.
"Needed a place with peace and quiet Uncle. You off to Chatayas'?," he asked him as he grabbed the mace he'd left at the closet's top, now repeating his exercise again but this time holding the mace with both hands and giving a quick jab in a random direction every time he returned to the stretched position.
"… maybe. Yes," Tyrion said distractedly, looking at his nephew. "…What are you doing?" he asked him.
"Getting my body back in shape as fast as I can, it's a chore but always well worth it," he said as he kept repeating the exercise, changing hands and now jabbing at imaginary, upside down enemies to his left.
"Getting back in shape for what exactly?" asked Tyrion as he decided on finally entering the room, his curiosity already piqued as he closed the door behind him. He'd never seen his nephew quite this concentrated… and quite as uncannily alien as he felt right now, hanging from atop a closet and moving every part of his body as he twirled with a one handed mace, an open book below him almost as if he could read a bit of it after each repetition, if such a thing were of course possible.
"For Valyria. I'm going to go fetch Brightroar, if I can dig it from the mountain of ash its most likely buried under that is…" he said with the resigned air of a man contemplating a time absorbing chore to come.
Tyrion stood still for a moment before a small chuckle emerged from his lips, the little bastard had played him well. Tyrion was not too disappointed with himself, after all, elaborate jokes had never been Joffrey's focus, so he was forgiven for not anticipating that one. "Right, and the hammer is for heroically fighting the sphinxes guarding the palaces, I suppose?" he said with an amused smirk.
"What palaces? Damn thing's a barren wasteland, can't believe it's been a magnet for power and wealth hungry fools for hundreds of years now… I'll be sure to write you if I find any though," Joffrey said as he kept pumping up and down.
Tyrion raised his eyebrows as took a sip from his goblet, "Not charging out to glory just yet then?" he said, following his game.
"Nah, I'm going to the Citadel two days from now to try and shake Archmaester Benedict's head until some sort of breathing apparatus comes out his ear… basic Westerlands miner's gear is not going to cut it," he said as he stopped for a moment, turning to gaze at Tyrion for a moment. He tossed the mace at the pile of sheets and blankets before he raised himself one more time, grabbing the top of the closet before letting his legs lose their grip, the falling inertia making him spin in midair before landing on the floor. "I have some sketches already, but I could use your head for this, Uncle. Ash and dust can be stopped by compressed feathers, but the noxious, volcanic fumes are more complicated. What do you say, fancy a tour to the Citadel?" he asked him as he dried the sweat with a towel.
"… You're serious…" Tyrion realized in mild shock as Joffrey put on a simple white shirt before strapping a dagger to his hip. He gazed at the intricate sketches of full face masks and air tight tubes that lay sprawled around the room, the carbon drawn lines smooth and purposeful as an Archmaester's sketch of the human body.
"Dead serious Uncle," said Joffrey as he popped his neck from side to side.
.-
And so Tyrion was somehow swept in a wild, strange adventure that brought him, Joffrey and the Hound to ancient Oldtown itself, home to the Citadel and the legendary Hightower. What had at first begun as a way to keep his nephew from killing himself and avoiding the stresses of the Capital, had turned into a dizzying race of horses and dirt roads and fevered discussions of ideas and materials.
When they had finally reached the city, Joffrey had gone straight to the Citadel and Archmaester Benedict, whose rod and mask were pure steel. Joffrey had known exactly how to communicate with the at first reticent Archmaester of forging and smithing, and soon Tyrion had found himself in a dense discussion of such and such material's strength and the crazed diagrams of two experts with too much to do and not enough time to talk about it. He'd been way out of his depth, contributing what sane, common sense advice he could to the Archmaester and the spirit that had possessed Joffrey.
At first he'd been humoring him, and then he'd been making use of the opportunity to get out of the capital and the intrigues that had been thrown in wild disarray after Petyr Baelish had been found in his bed with his throat slit. By now though, Tyrion was just trying to make sense of the whole thing, watching as Joffrey crafted himself a set of climbing rakes and otherwise equipped himself with a sundry array of tools and ropes and equipment.
"Why are you doing this, Joffrey? It's not fame nor wealth… but what?" he'd suddenly asked him one day in incomprehension.
"I've got to get Brightroar Uncle, I just have to," he'd told him with bone deep certainty.
"Uncle Gerion said the same before sailing to Valyria as well... He preferred to speak of the prestige and honor it would bring back to House Lannister though…" Tyrion had mused out loud as his eyes were suddenly lost in recollection.
"You two were close," Joffrey had said, more of a statement than a question.
"Yes, Gerion was… different from Tywin and Kevan. He took a more… relaxed I suppose, approach to life than either of his brothers," he'd said.
"Wise man," had said Joffrey, "The pair of them must have been rather jealous, having a brother without a stick up his ass," he'd delivered with aplomb.
Tyrion had cracked up, tears almost leaping out his eyes in mirth, "I suppose so, the nanny must have run out of sticks by the time Gerion traipsed out of grandmother's womb, that's for certain," he'd said in between laughs.
Perhaps his biggest discovery had been the fact that this new Joffrey was a delight to have around. Witty, smart, charismatic when he was arsed to try, a great conversationalist and genuine, good person. The last had been somewhat of a rarity back in King's Landing… and the world in general really. Despite it all though, the force that had transformed his nephew had left him somewhat melancholic, prone to heavy silences and an almost hollow brooding. Occasionally, Joffrey would not come down from his room at the inn until lunch time. He'd claim he'd been oversleeping, though the bags under his eyes and the occasional harrowing screams in the middle of the night seemed to kill that little white lie before it was even born. When questioned, Joffrey had simply looked at him over his cup of exotic, distastefully strong tea, blinking before a small, wan smile peeked out.
"It's complicated," he'd said before taking a big gulp of the strong tea.
The afternoons were the time when Joffrey really came alive though, his seemingly suicidal quest taking him and not letting go. He'd tinker with the Archmaesters, consult books, lore and more besides… strangest of all perhaps, despite the mysticism and the smithing, was the trading. He'd sometimes spot a 'good' deal in the harbor, and the day later the small bag of coins he'd carry around would double in size.
"Time… it all boils down to time, Tyrion," He'd said with surprising passion when asked, over a late night dinner with Sandor and himself, the fine Arbor Gold going down like apple juice down their throats.
"One would think gold is what it's all about, being merchants and all," the Hound had said with a disbelieving snort.
"You'd think that!" Joffrey had jumped, his eyes wide and his smile smug. "I thought that too at first. Gods, it took me a while to get that… so complicated and yet so simple… It doesn't matter if you could get a deal twice the better if it takes thrice as long. Harbor fees have to be paid, watchmen bribed, ships maintained… but it goes even further than that. The time you spend selling that cargo for the perfect price is time you could have spent bringing forth another batch, or doing anything else to your benefit… this applies to everything, not just ships and ports, but the grain trade, the smallfolk's labor, even war… Time is the universal currency, shared by all who follow its stricture; time is gold, pure and simple," He'd said with his by now usual clarity… when devoid of mysticism that is.
Tyrion was not completely lost, after all he was an avid reader himself and the concept was not revolutionary. He suspected though that never before had a prince of the realm known such a truth so intrinsically, so instinctively.
"I suppose that makes me the wealthiest man in the planet," he'd bitterly whispered almost too low for Tyrion to hear, as if it were a curse. The mystery deepened.
"So you sell them time?" had asked Sandor with the face of a man humoring an imbecile.
"Eh… yeah, kind of. Though I suppose it would be better to say that I buy their uncertainty," Joffrey had told him.
Sandor had just stared at Joffrey.
"I think you broke him," Tyrion had told him as he poked Sandor's non burnt cheek.
"Get your hands off me!" He'd barked as he shoved it away, the slight smile betraying the gruff exterior.
Joffrey had looked almost teary eyed, before he quickly recomposed himself. The Hound hadn't seemed to notice though, taking a big bite out of the pork chop they had been served. "Give me good solid steel and I'll show you what the universal currency is," he'd said sagely.
"No argument there," Tyrion had agreed.
"Copper," Joffrey had muttered, so low Tyrion didn't think he had meant to be heard.
"Hm?" Sandor had asked as was his wont.
"It should be Copper," Joffrey had said, taking a deep gulp from his cup of Arbor Gold before taking his leave.
"… you think he's really going to do it?" Sandor had suddenly asked, intense.
"I think he will," Tyrion had told him.
There was silence as they thought about that, the gentle light of the Hightower flickering in the distance through the inn's small windows.
.-
Tyrion woke up to the sight of the Hound's burnt face screaming in his ear.
He could already tell this was going to be an interesting day.
"What did he do?" Tyrion mumbled as he got up.
"Going to get himself killed, left us a letter though!" The Hound thundered, saying the last as if it were a curse.
Sandor was already rushing down the stairs as Tyrion waddled after him, trying to tie the last of his clothes before he spotted him sprinting out of the tavern, straight towards the harbor.
Instead of running after him and loosing what little was left of his dignity, Tyrion instead turned around and left through the backdoor, getting a bucket and using it as a step to mount his horse. He sped for the harbor quickly, to the sight of Sandor blocking the Prince from a cog's boarding ramp.
"This has gone long enough Joffrey, I'm not going to let you kill yourself," he declared, brooking no disagreement.
Joffrey smiled at the mention of his name, "Sandor, if I wanted to kill myself there's nothing you could do to stop it… please just take the gold I left you, live a good life somewhere south, Lys or Tyrosh maybe, Tywin won't-"
"To hell with your fucking bribe! And to hell with fucking Tywin! I'm not going to let you die over a fucking sword!" he'd spat, red faced as he advanced on Joffrey with both hands.
Joffrey somehow twisted away, sweeping Sandor's legs from him. The Hound lay there in the ground, nonplussed as a crowd formed around them, the cog's crewmen grabbing clubs as they made towards the plank.
"Keep working," Joffrey commanded as he walked towards the plank. He was about to say something else when the Hound, already up and moving, grabbed him from behind. Joffrey gave him a face full of elbow, swiftly followed by a blow right at the Hound's left hand, making Sandor release him. He was not going to let him go so easily though, as he grabbed him again and threw Joffrey against the hard cobblestones. Joffrey recovered as he tumbled, and Tyrion could only look on horrified as who he suddenly realized where his best friends charged each other in pure anger. The Hound slammed a fist against Joffrey's face, making him tumble back before he jabbed Sandor two times in the chest and a third in the jaw, making him fall back down.
"Sandor, stop, please," he said staring him down.
Clegane looked at him for a moment before standing up, looking defeated.
"Thank you-" started Joffrey before a fistful of sand crashed against his face, swiftly followed by a sucker punch that left him spluttering on the ground as Sandor bodily grabbed him like a sack of potatoes and tried to carry him off. Joffrey twisted his legs in midair, working the inertia to make them both tumble to the ground in a heap. They started hitting each other as Tyrion finally had enough and reared his horse right at their sides.
"THAT'S ENOUGH!" He roared, his small frame incongruous with the power behind the shout. Both of them looked at him as he dismounted and waddled towards the ship, "I'm going with you, my crazy nephew," he declared as he strode up the plank as if he owned it, the sailors shuffling away as they stared at him warily.
"You too, stupid Imp?! That sword worth your life too-" started the Hound only to be interrupted by Tyrion.
"I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE GODSDAMNED SWORD!" he roared back from the ship, "I'll go make certain Tommen and Myrcella grow up with a loving brother!" he spat, something shining in his eyes, "And maybe find Nuncle Gerion's body, bury him below Casterly Rock… Gods know he deserves it, truer Lannister than both his brothers combined," he said as he shook his head, walking towards the cabin.
Joffrey and Sandor stayed still, still looking at the ship as they lay there, vaguely knotted together.
"… I can't just tell him no I suppose…"Joffrey muttered.
"Why not, hypocrites are nothing new in Westeros," said Sandor.
They stayed still for a few more seconds before there was a silent agreement to mutually disentangle themselves.
"Wine?" asked Joffrey.
"Please," the Hound said, thinking. If he couldn't stop the crazy idiot then by the Gods he was going to see this whole thing through.
Joffrey dusted himself off before handing him the wineskin.
"Who taught you to fight like that?" he asked before taking a gulp. Incredible as it sounded, the damn kid was good, and not above dirty tricks. He approved.
"You," said Joffrey, taking a step to the side as Sandor spat and a shower of precious Arbor Gold rained over the cobblestones.
.-
Joffrey smiled lightly as he lowered his far eye, the green coast of Sothoryos coming steadily closer as he shouted at the helmsman, correcting their approach. He stood at the cog's bow, the ship at his back a hive of activity.
"Sothoryos… Why visit only one place of certain death when you can visit two!" Tyrion exclaimed from beside him.
"Sorry uncle, but it's the only place one can get Sothori Cotton… it's kind of there in the name, I'm sure you'll get it," Joffrey said cheekily.
"We should visit the Thousand Islands after Valyria, sing a song with the fucking cannibal frogmen, why not?" mused Sandor, taking it all in stride with a vague 'why the fuck not' attitude.
He'd gotten like that past Naath.
"Feathers, pre heated charcoal, now Sothori Cotton… I'll be surprised if you can breathe anything at all after all those layers," said Tyrion with a raised eyebrow.
"That's the idea," Joffrey said before turning back, "HELMSMAN! FIVE DEGREES PORT!" he roared.
Tyrion watched the display of expert seamanship in silence, watching Sothoryos steadily consume the horizon in deep green before he spoke once more. "What will you be needing next Nephew? Some Levaiathan's from Ibb mayhaps?" he asked him.
Joffrey actually looked considering as he tilted his head, "Leviathans..? Nah, too big… I'll need some pigs though, or rather their bladders," he said.
"Do I even want to ask?" said Tyrion.
"Air containers for emergencies… only problem is they keep popping after a vaguely useful amount of air is pumped in," he said as he shook his head.
"Valves giving you trouble?" asked Tyrion. He remembered seeing him and the Archmaester pouring over that particular diagram for days… it had looked durable to him though, and a rather ingenious device.
"No, it's the material itself. I need some kind of reinforcing agent that's able to stretch along with it and not break apart in the process… No luck so far though," he said as he raised the far eye again.
They spent a while in silence, the southern, warm waters of the Summer Sea making Tyrion yawn.
"… I could help with that," Sandor said all of a sudden.
Both of them stared at Sandor in mild surprise, waiting for him to spit it out.
"… It's a poultice… smells disgusting…" he said as he stared at them, "Should do the trick after a bit of work though…" he trailed off.
Joffrey was possessed by burning curiosity, but didn't ask… showing respect to his friends made him feel a little more whole these days.
"Mighty' Warrior! It's fucking huge!" bellowed the man atop the spotter's nest.
Joffrey scanned the coast with his far eye and quickly found the cause of the sailor's distress, a huge monstrosity of green scales and claws, moving on four legs. Joffrey lowered the far eye and blinked, still able to see it.
"That's it for the cotton then?" Tyrion asked, feeling faint.
"What?!" Joffrey spluttered, then laughed, "Uncle, don't be ridiculous, it's harmless!" he said in exasperation and not a smidgen of sarcasm as he turned around and ordered the crew to lower the cutter.
"Well, so slow as to be harmless anyway, clumsy, bumbling buildings that they are," he amended with a wistful smile, "Stupid too, can't understand the difference between a staked pit and a leafy tree… makes a mighty stew though," he said almost to himself, licking his lips. "You know uncle? Maybe we could eat one tonight, supplies are low anyway," he said in sudden realization as he turned back.
He blinked owlishly at the ogling crew of the Yellow Streak, the frenzy of activity gone.
"… What the fuck are you waiting for!? Klens, lower that boat! Helmsman, steady does it! And somebody rig that foresail!" he roared, the crew startling back into action.
The stew was delicious, Tyrion gave his crazy nephew that at least.
.-
Joffrey had thought about visiting Lys, Tyrion learned, but in the end decided it was too much of a hassle for the unlikely prospect of a better ship and crew. Tyrion didn't know who the hells Nakaro Faenys was, but his ship and crew had long sailed by now and could be as far away as Braavos right now, according to Joffrey's… prophecies, for the lack of a better name.
"So you were not thinking about bedding a fair woman one last time?" Tyrion had asked him, rather disappointed with the final decision. The prospect of one or two dozen Lyseni beauties waving tearful goodbyes as he sailed towards certain oblivion appealed to Tyrion.
"Hah! Not a bad idea Tyrion…" He'd trailed off, looking at the floor in mild disgust all of a sudden.
"Hey, it's not the floor's fault!" Tyrion had told him. "Good, solid wood, don't heap this on it," he'd said seriously.
That had served to crack him up, though the same melancholic air hanged about him as he hugged Tyrion.
"Thank you uncle," he'd said with a heartfelt smile.
Confused as he was, Tyrion did not hear any screams from Joffrey's bed that night at least.
.-
The passage through the Valyrian peninsula's southern approaches had almost cost them their crew and their life. Joffrey had practically nailed himself to the ship's bow, calling out corrections and maneuvers with supreme attention. The water churned and raged, an eddy of wild currents that sought to rip their ship apart as Joffrey navigated his way around a million hazards that turned the southern approaches into a veritable maze of death. The Western approaches were easier to sail, but carried one directly to the Smoking Sea and a slightly more certain death…
They knew it could be done, after all, that had been King Tommen's original route before no one saw him and his fleet again. Joffrey had been almost prescient, as if he'd already scouted the route, guiding him through the currents and the waters. His instructions had to be obeyed without hesitation by the Helmsman, instantly and with no doubt, for even a second's delay could mean their doom. Such had been Joffrey's insistence on this that he'd placed the Hound with an unsheathed dagger right behind the poor man, with instructions to cut him slightly if he delayed.
Tyrion had to fast talk his way out of no less than three distinct mutiny attempts, only the promises of hideous torture, mountains of gold and even lordships managed to halt them, along with the Hound's full plate and longsword staring menacingly from beside the Helmsman.
Tyrion supposed the snug cloak Joffrey had fashioned out of that Sothori thing had also played a part in his intimidation tactics. Talk of mutiny made their captain irritated.
He had not been irritated when he brought down a monster the size of the Red Keep's gatehouse with a saber, a bow and a shallow ditch. No. He'd been having fun.
And so they sailed past the corridor of death, and soon the winds mysteriously gave way to unnatural stillness. Joffrey had been, unsurprisingly, prepared for this too. He ordered out the oars he'd commissioned in Oldtown, and the crew made haste to fit them in the loops specially made for this occasion… and so they sailed. Awkwardly and gracelessly, like any cog sporting oars, but sail they did.
It was only here that Joffrey seemed to pick up more interest in their surroundings, the huge, fractured wall of black rock and pumice that seemed to emerge directly from the sea and up towards the sky seemingly not enough to get his attention at first.
Tyrion personally thought he was taking all this rather well, for a man all but doomed to die… in fact, he was beginning to feel quite the adventurer, and the jolt of excitement that travelled through his being was redoubled when they started seeing shipwrecks around them.
Joffrey's careful eyes steered them clear of sunken, jagged rocks of incredible hardness, the tallest of them crowned by cogs and galleys of ancient times, graves to those who sought Valyria and failed. Some of them seemed older than others, and it was not long since they started seeing old fashioned galleys with distinctly Westerosi styles, some of them sporting roaring lions that seemed all but rotten, or fading twirls of gold along their masts.
Soon, as days gave to nights and rowers ate and rested, they began to appear everywhere. As the seabed below grew more and more uneven and jagged, so did more and more ships appear from the thin mists around them. It seemed they had found Tommen's treasure fleet… or rather its graveyard. Great war galleys lay split apart or torn asunder, rotten and blackened by the passage of the ages, with nothing inside but dust and bones.
The Yellow Streak hugged the coast as much as it could, trying to find any sort of beach where Tommen's flagship could have landed, but all they could see was more and more of the eternal black wall. Tyrion thought there was a good chance Brightroar was in the bottom of the ocean right now, because for every ship they saw now there must have been a dozen more in the depths… and King Tommen's flagship's bigger size must have made it unwieldy… a death sentence in these waters.
Joffrey thought seemed sure the sword was somewhere accessible, not even bothering to sleep as they neared what the old, pre Doom maps of the peninsula labeled as 'Vhagar's Valley'… a valley not too far away from Old Valyria proper filled with agricultural estates, and by Joffrey's reckoning a likely candidate for a post Doom sunny beach… a descent enough harbor given their surroundings and perhaps smooth enough to climb without gear, and near enough the City that Tommen must have been drawn there like a moth to a flame.
Joffrey had apparently earned his Geology link at the Citadel too, because why not?
I any case, his nephew's guesswork paid off immensely when they sailed into the newly renamed 'Vhagar's Bay', a great harbor filled with a mishmash of jagged black rock as well as smoother, grey hills. And just where the water ended and gave way to a steadily rising slope lay The Goldray, the ruined, rotten hulk that used to be King Tommen Lannister's flagship.
.-
"Nothing but dust and… shit, there's not even maggots here… even the flies are smart enough to stay the hell away," said Sandor as he ripped a hatch apart with a small hand axe, peering at the dank hold with a torch.
Joffrey was busy searching the Captain's cabin, and only finding rot and filth. "Keep looking Sandor! Valyrian Steel doesn't just rust!" he called out.
Tyrion was walking around the beached hull's exterior, feeling it with a gloved hand as he lost himself in reverie.
"Tyrion! Found something?!" Joffrey shouted as he cleared a hallway, peering at the imp below from a hole in the rotten hull.
"Nothing but two dozen cairns a bit upslope, each next to the other in groups of seven," he said as he shook himself off.
"Graves… any one fancier than the rest?" called out the Hound as he jumped from another hole, his hard boots sinking a bit in the wet, gravelly pumice before he managed to walk away from the waterline.
"They all looked the same to me," said Tyrion as he sat down.
"This thing must have sported more than two hundred crewmembers… no way in hells they all fit in two dozen cairns… plus, who buried them?" Joffrey said as he appeared over the top deck.
"The survivors could have boarded one of the escorts and tried to sail back," Tyrion mused.
"After the hell they just went through? And come back empty handed assuming they survived the way back? Come on uncle, you know us Lannisters, what would you have done in Tommen's place," Joffrey asked him before sliding down the length of rope they had tied to the hull.
"Press onwards, see something before I die or we're forced back," he mused out loud.
"I think so too, and from here to Old Valyria shouldn't take too long, maybe two weeks on foot assuming the slopes level out a bit… and Volantene records show the Goldray alone was carrying three months' worth of supplies for its entire crew… crates and urns that are nowhere to be found right now…" said Joffrey.
"Because they took em with them," said Sandor, taking a small gulp from his wineskin.
"Only one way to be sure," said Joffrey as he sat next to them.
They spent a while in silence, eating their midday meal as Tyrion gazed at the anchored Yellow Streak in the middle of the bay.
"How long do you reckon they'll last?" he suddenly asked.
"Two days," huffed the Hound.
"More like none," said Joffrey with an amused smile as he pointed at the rising anchor with his finger, gazing at the ship as it lowered oars and started to leave the harbor.
"… Can't say that was unexpected," Tyrion said as he watched them go.
"I told them to leave," Joffrey confessed, unashamed as he sat down and got a bit of hard tack from his backpack.
"You told them?!" Tyrion said in disbelief.
"Never give an order you know won't be obeyed. Besides, if they stayed too long they might have gotten greedy and looted our only chance of survival," he said as aimed at the small, one masted sailing yacht that had carried them ashore, filled to the brim with supplies.
The Hound grunted approval, and Joffrey smiled.
"You have it all figured out huh…" Tyrion mused.
"Well, up to this point anyway," he said with an innocent shrug.
"Oh," Tyrion said as he looked at the great slope. "Should be interesting," he added.
"That's the spirit! The Broken Knight spirit!" Joffrey suddenly said with an admiring smile.
"The what now?" asked Sandor.
.-
They traversed through what remained of the valley, clearing outcrops and jagged boulders that blocked their way through the slope. Soon, Joffrey was once again in sight of the vast, ashen horizon with nothing but blackened ground to tread upon, a flat plain of black, brittle rocks that snapped loudly when stepped upon. They walked for hours, days with no other sound but the brittle cracks under their feet. Joffrey imagined the Seven Hells, if such a small minded and human centric concept had ever existed, may have looked like this… for it was not horror that drove the soul to despair, it was the absence of it and everything else.
He knew.
Still, no hells could have had such fine a company, and although the Broken Knights were missing a bastard and a wolf, Joffrey still found immense pleasure in simply talking the nights away, their meager campfires of scavenged wood giving a bit of solace and color to the blighted landscape. The imp's wit was a constant salve on his frayed nerves, and a useful resource when confronted by the unexpected. Sandor's rare, approving nods were a delightful dessert to his soul, and his incredible strength helped both in emergencies and in speeding up the moving of their base camp. His backpack was the biggest by far.
Joffrey had been whistling a sailor's tune, scouting ahead a bit before suddenly stopping.
He gazed intently at the dark grey horizon and realized it was moving.
"TYRION! SANDOR! MASKS NOW!" he roared as he raced back down the small hill of aged black rock.
They didn't need further prompting as they started to get the unwieldy masks out of their backpacks, Joffrey already securing his as he braced against the rock. "Over here! Brace damn you!" he screamed as he fitted the filter and his vision was reduced to two small glass windows the size of his thumb.
His breathing sounded heavy as Sandor bodily carried Tyrion through the last steps, reaching the small overhang Joffrey had taken refuge under. "Hang tight and hold on!" Joffrey shouted as the wind screamed and the sun slowly began to dim, his voice sounding strange under the mask.
The horizon slammed into them with the fury of a hundred storms, bits of rock chipping away as the sheer backdraft of the speeding winds made small whirlwinds along their side, picking up smaller rocks and unsecured gear. Darkness descended upon them as the sun was completely blotted out by the dark clouds, the air tasting warm to Joffrey's mouth as each time he had to breathe harder for air to reach him. The wind almost seemed to pick him up, but the Hound held him steady with one hand, the wind shrieking like the screams of the damned... After everything Joffrey had seen, they might as well be just that.
The three of them braced closely, the black smoke reducing visibility to nothing and staining his glass, and the only way he had of knowing he was still alive was the Hound's bulk, holding him tightly.
They passed what seemed like hours there, only for the wind to suddenly reverse directions, the black wind going back the way it came from.
When it was over, Joffrey took off the mask and breathed in hard, coughing before doing it again. He slapped the Hound's back in heartfelt gratitude, the gruff dog shaking it off with a snort.
Tyrion however, lay still.
"…Uncle? Tyrion?!" shouted Joffrey as he turned him around, ripping his bent mask off and freezing for a second at the pale hue of his face.
"Hang on!" he shouted before he breathed air into his uncle's lungs, followed by a frantic heart massage the Maester's of the Citadel called the Sustained Breath, learned from the priests of the Drowned God many centuries before Aegon's Conquest.
He kept breathing and pumping his uncle's smallish chest, leaning his ear close to his mouth and trying to shush his frantic heart.
He heard him breathe, slowly but surely. He collapsed on his back, wiping the sweat of his forehead as Sandor tossed him the wineskin.
"He's alive," he said as he leaned over and heard him breathe, vaguely surprised.
"So… it … seems…" mouthed Tyrion as he struggled to get up, coughing wildly and holding his head as Sandor helped him the rest of the way.
"Must be the luckiest imp in the blasted world," Sandor said with a relieved smirk.
"Well… I've always wanted… to glimpse what's on the other side…" he said in between breaths, trying to smile as Joffrey passed him the now half empty wineskin.
"Saw anything Purple?" he suddenly asked, looking at Tyrion intensely in mixed dread and hope.
"Purple? No, only fading blackness I'm afraid…" Tyrion said as he shook his head. "Should be purple though, much prettier color," he ended with a half-smile.
"I suppose…" Joffrey trailed off, peeking to look at the steadily receding grey-black horizon.
"Right, that's enough whimpering! Need to find a good place before its night again," said Sandor as he stood up, shaking them off their respective musings.
Sometimes, that was all one needed.
.-
Joffrey was laughing at the antics of his Broken Knights, Jon and Tyrion playing a silly little game with Ghost, seeing who could make the direwolf sprint faster as they threw a bone down the small study they had taken for themselves, almost at the top of the Dawn Fort's Bastion District. Joffrey shook his head fondly as he returned to the constellation he was studying, that of a simple man, standing alone. He didn't know what bothered him so much about it, and as he tried to find out the figure slowly began to disappear from the book, slowly turning immaterial before Joffrey's own eyes.
"Guys, look at this!" He shouted as he gazed up, but Sandor, Tyrion and Jon were looking at him as if he were a complete stranger. Tyrion looked at him in deep disappointment as Sandor stared in silent disgust, while Jon looked at him as if he were some unknown beast that had just neared the campfire.
"Sandor? Jon, Tyrion, Wha- What's going on?" he asked them in mounting despair as they turned their backs on him.
"Wait!" Joffrey pleaded in desperation as he grabbed Jon's shoulder and turned him around.
"Kill him," Jon commanded as he looked at him, blood flowing down his mouth.
Joffrey turned around to the sight of a monstrous Ghost turned wight, jumping at his throat with a snarl in a blur of cold blue eyes.
Joffrey opened his eyes, a silent scream dying inside his throat as he gazed at the half hidden stars beyond the ceiling of black smoke that blanketed the sky. He slowly sat up, looking around the small outcrop they'd taken refuge amongst the black wastes of Valyria. Sandor was sleeping at his side, while Tyrion kept watch over the horizon. When his uncle turned back to look at him, Joffrey was half confused to find no wary distance nor disappointed disgust. He was so disoriented for a moment that he thought the Purple had gotten dizzy as well and had started to fragment his reality.
"It's a bit early for the shift yet. You should try to get a bit more sleep nephew," he said as he stretched and yawned, looking a bit concerned.
"It's okay Tyrion," He rasped, touched by the concern evident in his voice. He coughed a bit so he could speak better, looking at the black horizon. "What do you think await us there?" he asked him.
"At first, monsters out of my worst nightmares… but I'm sure you'll have a word with those if they dare show around," he finished with a fond smile as he gazed at Joffrey's bow. He hadn't even realized he was holding it already, and dropped it with a sheepish smile. The small composite bow had turned into another nightly companion as far as Joffrey was concerned.
"Then I thought more riches and wonders than I could dream of, until… well, this," he said, gesturing at the black wasteland.
"It does rather put a damper on the whole 'glorious adventure' part implicit to raiding Valyria…" Joffrey mused.
"Think how King Tommen must have felt, wasting the brightest and boldest of the Westerlands for this… plus his whole fleet," said Tyrion, still looking at the horizon.
They stayed quiet for a while, before Joffrey spoke, "Do you think we'll find Gerion out there?" he asked him.
"Sometimes I find myself hoping not to," the Imp surprised him as he turned to face him.
"Why?" Joffrey asked.
"Can't imagine him living a happy life away from Tywin and the rest if I find his body," he said with a sad smile.
"I suppose so," Joffrey said, thinking. "What was he like?" he suddenly asked, hungry to further get to know another decent Lannister. Tyrion liked to talk about him sometimes, though never for too long.
"Foolish," Tyrion said simply, as if it were a complement.
"…How so?" Joffrey asked.
"He was quite impulsive and didn't have a smidgen of self-preservation," he said fondly.
"I suppose that's quite obvious, what with Valyria and all," Joffrey said.
"Indeed, he lived his life as he saw fit, and didn't mind losing if it was well lived," Tyrion said, somewhat admiringly. "He was always quick with a joke or a jape, a story or a song. He had a penchant to make others laugh…" he trailed off.
"Well, now I know where it comes from," Joffrey said with a smile, looking at his uncle.
"What? Me? Please, I am but a simple novice in front of a Grandmaester, compared to him," said Tyrion, completely serious.
"Oh? Well, he must have been good then. Make Sandor laugh good," Joffrey teased.
Tyrion chuckled slightly, before shaking his head, "He could have made The Mountain laugh," he said with a snort.
"I'm going to take a nap, if you don't mind," he said after a while, laying down on the small blankets.
"Don't mind at all," Joffrey said with a slight smile, looking at the horizon. His friends didn't remember him, but now they knew him again. He was not alone.
He kept repeating himself that as he grasped the bow again, eyes steady on the horizon, aware of monsters and smokestorms that may be prowling nearby, intent on snatching everything he held dear.
.-
The rest of the week was devoid of further smokestorms, their pace uninterrupted over the long, desert like plains of charred stone and pumice, the horizon and Joffrey's compass the only things that ensured they didn't lose their way. The sun blasted them with heat every day, and the cursed ground released more of it by night… they knew they were in the correct direction, as every day they spotted a couple of manmade stone cairns, unmistakable in the distance. Likely victims of exhaustion or starvation along the march to Old Valyria, perhaps. Joffrey doubted the smokestorms had killed them, because in that case they'd just find a whole lot of skeletons and no cairns at all.
Joffrey guessed they were four days away from Old Valyria proper when they found the actual remains of something. A small village, or likely a wealthy estate, being this close to the capital. The great houses were made of black stone typical of Valyrian fortifications, chief amongst them the central manor, still somewhat standing after Doom and centuries of neglect.
"They might have taken refuge there," Sandor said as he examined the houses from the small hill they had stopped upon.
"I don't know about Tommen, but we should! Right now!" Tyrion said as he turned back from the horizon and sprinted for the manor.
Joffrey saw the curtain of black, horrible smoke coming closer yet again, giving it barely a moment's thought before running after the Imp with Sandor close behind him.
They reached him halfway to the manor and passed him by quickly, crashing against the heavy, purple tinted door which seemed made out of sheer iron for all that it failed to move.
"Fuck! Door's heavy!" muttered the Hound as he slammed it again with his shoulder at the same time as Joffrey.
"hhhmmMMMRRAAAAAAAHH!" roared Joffrey as he strained against the door with all his might, not even budging as Tyrion caught up to them.
"It's no use! We'll have to weather it here!" shouted Joffrey.
"Push damn you!" bellowed the imp as he crashed behind them just as they shoved, the door moving a hair's breath as something within snapped in half. They roared as they pushed again, this time moving it halfway open before they scurried inside, the steadily darkening horizon leeching the light out of the skies as the constantly buzzing sound of crazed sand, dust and ash increased in intensity.
"Close it!" roared Joffrey as they all pushed and the door closed grudgingly. The Hound spat as he saw the broken, rusted iron braces lying on the floor. He took out his longsword, sheath and all and rammed it through the brace, securing the door just in time as the horizon slammed against the house and everything rattled.
"Fuck, I think I lost my flint… Tyrion?" called out Joffrey.
"Here," he called out as something snapped and the torch in the imp's hand flickered to life. He already had his mask on, and Sandor and Joffrey followed through quickly enough.
The dark interior of the house seemed like a cavern, the screeching wind vaguely muffled and only their torches bringing in any light. Joffrey turned around and saw two strangers hugging each other, mouths wild agape in terror and fear. He screamed as he took out his arming sword, followed by a cursing Hound with his hand axe.
The two strangers didn't move, still holding themselves tightly, bracing against the back wall and looking at the door.
"What the…" Tyrion murmured as he walked closer, the tip of his dagger touching the frozen figures. Soon as he did though they crumbled, turned to so much ash in the floor.
Joffrey looked around and realized the whole floor was filled with ash, one trembling hand lighting up his torch as he stared around the countless figures frozen in groups or alone. "Bloody hells…" whispered the Hound, his voice muffled through the mask, staring at the final moments of over twenty people in the lobby alone.
They walked slowly down a set of wide stairs, torches illuminating the macabre gallery of ash statues frozen in various positions. Joffrey spotted a group of seven or so childlike figures hugging each other under a ruined metal table, a bigger shape trying to grasp them all and failing.
"Gods…" muttered Tyrion, adjusting his mask as he breathed uneasily.
"Death must have been near instantaneous… though they must have seen the Doom coming in the distance," Joffrey hypothesized, trying to analyze the scene rationally.
"How much time?" the Hound asked as he peered at a side room, gazing at the crumbled remains of a couple holding each other tightly atop a broken bed.
"Minutes…" Joffrey whispered, imagining the agonizingly slow passage of time as a whole village or family despaired with nothing to do but await death.
"There's more here," called out Tyrion. Joffrey followed the glare of the imp's torch, down another set of wide stairs and finding a curious sight. Groups of figures sat or stood upright around the small room, looking for the entire world like dignified magisters convening for an afternoon of leisure, though some of the ashen sculptures still retained enough definition Joffrey could sometimes see the expressions of subdued terror. The figures tended to converge nearby, and many of them crumbled to ashes as the Hound cleared the way for the rest of them, the three of them traversing the silent statues that made the air at the nape of Joffrey's neck stand upright.
They reached a rotten, crumpled door guarded by two stern faced soldiers by the look of it, even their armor turned to ash as they kept at their vigil for more than four hundred years, still holding their ashen spears. The other figures gave them a respectful distance, though they were all in some way gazing at the doors.
Joffrey pushed his way past them, their watch ending for this life as they crumbled to dust. His breathing sounded harsh, almost drowning all other sound as he wiped the mask's glass with a handkerchief.
He looked at nine kneeling figures, their forms incredibly preserved as he gazed at their expressions of stern, supreme concentration, their hands folded across their chests. At the center of the circular room was a tenth figure, standing tall with both arms opened grandiosely.
"What the fuck…" Sandor's mask managed.
"Spellwork," Said Joffrey as he walked around the central figure, looking at the sheer hope and terror lovingly edged and preserved by the ash. "Didn't work," he added.
Tyrion swallowed inside his mask before peering at one of the kneeling figures, "I suppose the failure is rather obvious… Trying to stop the Doom?" he voiced out loud.
"Unlikely," Joffrey mused as he examined the etched remains of the ritual circle. "I don't think anything could have stopped something the sheer size, the sheer magnitude of the Doom..." he said as he kneeled and peered closely at the lines etched into the rock itself. "They were most likely trying to shield the villa or the house… maybe it did work, in a way," he continued, his breathing amplified by the mask.
"Time," mused Tyrion out loud.
"Whatever the Doom was, I don't think these poor bastards had a chance even if they'd had hours to prepare…" Joffrey said as he walked to the black wall and knocked it with his hand. "Whatever it was, it scythed right through solid Valyrian blackstone… the shield, if that's what it was, may have blocked the blast and the searing heat, but we all know the Doom was much more than that. The metaphysical component must have punched right through…" he said as he hit the wall twice with his hand.
"Metaphysical component?" asked Sandor as he pointed with his torch at two figures not in the ritual circle proper, bent over a metal table at the other side of the room.
Joffrey walked towards the figures as he kept talking, "Magic, Sandor. The magic must have…" he trailed off as he looked at the figures, both of them peering at something in the table.
"Metaphorically speaking, I suppose it might have been as if a child had shored up his sand castle's walls before a flaming shot from a trebuchet reached it…" Joffrey said as he waved away the figures, turning them to disassembled ash so he could see clearly. Atop the table and in the floor under it he found the telltale shimmer of Valyrian Steel, still glossy under the ash.
They look like instruments, Joffrey thought as he lifted what looked to be some kind of Valyrian Steel astrolabe, numerals and arcane symbols still etched along its intricate surface. Another instrument looked like a compass, though with multiple arrows and arcane, bizarre symbols. He found a few others, all having the look of precision instruments but he utterly lost on their purpose. It had likely been lost along with the rest of Valyrian knowledge.
"Found something?" Tyrion asked as he neared.
"Our first batch of loot I suppose, rings any bells?" Joffrey asked him as he handed him the astrolabe.
Tyrion stared at it under the torchlight and the small glasses, tilted his head and gave it back to Joffrey. "While I can barely see my own hands and this damned mask keeps fogging my vision, I can confidently say I have no clue what this is… except for a very expensive finger cutter," he said.
"Storm's ending," Sandor called out from the entrance.
"Good, we've got to change filters soon," Joffrey said before turning back to the instruments, tossing them all inside a bag and into his backpack.
"I'll say this for the Valyrians, they died with their boots on," Sandor said as they walked up the stairs.
"All one can hope for in the end," Joffrey muttered.
.-
Joffrey was breathing hard, the rhythm of his heart slowly accelerating as he stared at the slightly quivering form of Sansa Stark, kneeled on his room and holding her face with her hands.
Joffrey stared at her in silent horror, before trying to run away from the accursed room. He quickly found he couldn't move a single finger however, his entire body locked still as he stood there, gazing at her. Sansa's sobs didn't change, retaining the same cadence and volume even as Joffrey's heart kept pumping faster and faster for every second he stood there, a terrible, all-consuming dread slowly forming around him, slowly squeezing him from all sides of the room as his breathing got out of control. Sansa kept crying silently as Joffrey tried with all his might, with all his willpower to get out of there as the room kept getting smaller around him and his heart hammered out of his chest, he screamed silently when Sansa lowered her hands and looked up at him with no face at all—
Joffrey gave a scream as he woke up and sat up from the ground, the sleepy, bleary eyed form of Tyrion shuffling at his side before grunting and turning around, still asleep. Sandor was next to him, poking at their pathetic little fire with a piece of looted wood before looking at him.
"Just a nightmare Joffrey," he said gruffly, if not unkindly as he patted his shoulder.
He's right, for once, Joffrey thought whimsically as he rubbed his eyes, trying to rid himself of the cobwebs that didn't want them to open completely. Even before Valyria his sleep had been thrown off kilter. Here, looking at the eerily silent black wastes that stretched as far as the eye could see, Joffrey was not surprised to find his sleep reduced to only a few tormented hours a night.
Still, the companionable silence was a slow acting balm on his frayed nerves as he sat there, staring at the fire with Sandor as the half glimpsed moon moved along the sky, her form shrouded by the distant clouds of black smoke.
"Sandor… the modified poultice we used to coat the pig bladders," Joffrey suddenly said as he aimed at the unused, balloon shaped forms hanging from his backpack. They'd be good for only a few breath's worth of fresh air, but sometimes that's all one needed. "Where they for the-"
"Aye," interrupted Sandor, looking him over, "… They were for the burns," he said with sigh, one hand subconsciously moving to his face before returning to his side.
Joffrey nodded, staying silent as the small fire crackled. They didn't even need the heat at this point, but the sight of it calmed Joffrey's mind, and Sandor's too, even if he wouldn't admit it. In a place like this, even his old torment was a familiar sight.
"My sister applied it when the Maester stopped," he said after a long moment.
"You've never told me her name," Joffrey said as they watched the fire.
"Aye," he agreed.
They stayed there as Tyrion snored, watching the fire before Sandor shook his head and tried to sleep, leaving Joffrey alone to ponder the heavy weights in his mind.
He took a deep breath as he felt for the tablet, its physical manifestation stashed far away in King's Landing even as its essence lay anchored snuggly against his soul. He stared at his hand as he stared at the essence at the same time, for why close his eyes when the strange perception of his soul relayed on means that had nothing to do with the material world? Indeed, the tablet travelled with him through the Purple, it was clear that the essence of its existence was something immaterial to human sight… thus, there was no reason he had to meditate to reach it. He just had to feel its shape, anchored deep within.
He stared at his palm as his awareness neared the essence of the tablet, understanding the simple truth that for all the distance that separated them, the tablet was always at his side.
He let the essence flood him as he metaphysically grabbed it and he smelt bone and mystery, felt salt and purpose and a message as the physical manifestation of the tablet appeared on his hand, a brief, almost too quick to see silent sea of fractals materializing out of thin air and drawing its shape in but a heartbeat before they were gone and only the whalebone tablet remained.
He stared at the tablet as he grabbed it with his other hand, looking at the caricatures of the empty anchor in his soul. What purpose had Brightroar, he wondered. Was it just a weapon to help him kill White Walkers? Somehow, he didn't think that was the answer. After all, the plentiful obsidian stashes the creators of the Purple had left him served that function adequately. No, it was a key piece of… something, he could feel it. A weapon of war, of life, a bridge… a bridge to what exactly? Why did Brightroar's anchor cut so deeply into his soul?
The questions chased him all the way to Dawn, and were only banished by a disapproving thump in the back, courtesy of Sandor.
.-
They were roughly two days away when they saw one of the Fourteen Flames… or rather what remained of it. What had once been the first of the proud volcanoes of Old Valyria had seemingly exploded at half its height, for the great bulk of the volcano ended abruptly, a jagged line unevenly bisecting what by all rights should have been but half of its true height, as if some godly headsman had beheaded the mountain itself. A great dark torrent of smoke poured from its gaping mouth upwards towards the heavens, only for it to fall away in the distance.
The ground itself seemed to grow hotter and hotter the closer they got to Valyria, and the cairns seemed to grow more numerous the closer they got. They seemed more haphazard too…
The slope gradually got steeper as they neared the destroyed city, until they were almost climbing its jagged edges, the Smokestorms almost claiming their lives as the smoke and wind tried to batter them off the ledge...
But they persevered, and when the climb had almost turned impossible they managed to clear the peak and Joffrey saw the ruins of Old Valyria, Capital of the Valyrian Freehold.
What remained of the city looked as if its foundations had been tilted vaguely clockwise and then plunged downwards. It was nestled inside what seemed to be by all rights a gigantic crater, and the city itself seemed to have sunk downwards and sideways. Joffrey could see the upper parts of great black towers peeking from the sea of blackened stone and pumice, all either crumbling or destroyed. All of them seemed tilted to the right, all but the tallest of towers buried the ash, stone and solidified lava.
"Gods…" whispered Tyrion.
"No, Uncle. Men," Said Joffrey as he surveyed all that remained of Old Valyria.
What immediately caught his attention though was the enormous, titanic black dome in the middle of the city, tilted as the rest of it. It must have been bigger than Aegon's High Hill, and that was only counting what Joffrey could see. The whole structure could range anywhere in between King's Landing and the whole of Dragonstone, depending on how much exactly had the city sunk.
"Ten golden dragons Tommen made a beeline for the dome," Tyrion suddenly broke the silence.
"Bad bet," Joffrey said automatically.
"Twenty golden dragons Joffrey makes a beeline for it," Sandor said in turn.
"Even worst bet," Joffrey said as he turned back, "Let's go and get that damned sword, I'm being roasted right now," he said as he wiped his head.
There was no disagreement as they made their way down the slope. Joffrey quickly touched the sea of pumice and rocks, finding it not too hot to walk over.
"That dome must have been halfway submerged in lava and it's still standing," Tyrion said as they walked through what had once been the city's skyline, taking care not to get near any of the tilted towers. With Joffrey's luck, it was bound to fall upon them if they strayed too near wrong.
They walked for a long while, wary of smokestorms as they traversed the almost barren plain.
Old Valyria must have been huge, twice as big as Volantis at the very least… Joffrey thought uneasily as he kept moving. He tried not to think about the likely millions of bodies he was walking over right now. The big dome in the distance seemed to grow and grow until finally they were in front of it, its great bulk dizzying to look up.
Joffrey quickly found an entrance, or rather a window. The arched window gave way to an open aired hallway with blackstone handrails, intricately carved with figures of Dragons and monsters. He peeked down over the handrail and saw the cavernous interior of the dome, big enough to fit the Red Keep, the Dragonpit and Baelor's Sept all together and leave enough space for more. He lit a torch and threw it down as Sandor and Tyrion caught up, all three of them watching the torch tumble down as it illuminated the vast, circular walkways that kept spiraling along the dome's edge. The ones nearest the top were filled with decorative work over the handrails, while the ones at the lower levels seemed simpler.
"What is this place?" muttered Sandor, the glare of his torch illuminating the burnt side of his face. Some parts of the walkway seemed ruined, missing sections.
"Must be the Agora," Tyrion said in vaguely restrained awe as he gazed at the open aired walkways. "It is said all the freeborn landowners of the Valyrian Freehold had a hand in its government, and for that to be true you'd need a veritable arena to house them all," he said as he gazed down, "Well, at least those who lived in Valyria proper… or half a day away on dragonback…" he amended.
"The upper floors must have been reserved for the dragonlords themselves, the Forty Families," Joffrey said as he started walking down the huge, spiral walkway.
"You're telling me the Targeryeans used to hatch their schemes right here?" Sandor asked as he and Tyrion followed him.
"Well, scheme is too strong a word, after all this whole dome, Agora, however you want to call it, was in all likelihood a mummer's show," said Joffrey.
Tyrion looked on proudly as he nodded, "Well said nephew, the Forty Families had in all likelihood 'governed' from their private manses, convening in private to square out matters of greater import," he said.
"Or atop their dragons," remarked Sandor, showing the Hound was not as simple as he wanted people in general to believe.
"Indeed," Joffrey said as he gazed down again, "Is that… are those bodies?" he said as he broke into a sprint.
They managed to catch him as he kneeled over the broken remains of a couple of skeletons, still clad in rotting light armor.
"No Valyrians, these ones," Sandor remarked as he lifted a rusted sword, "Castle forged steel," he said.
"For common sailors?" Joffrey asked.
"Tommen Lannister had all the wealth of the Rock at his back and no liege lord to send his taxes to. I'd say outfitting the crew of his flagship with good steel was not much on an expense, all in all," remarked Tyrion.
"Good point," muttered Joffrey in vague envy as he stood up, "Come on, there's bound to be more further down," he called out as he kept going.
They found dozens of bodies the further down they went, most of which seemed to have been in the middle of doing something to the finer looking of the handrails, before they'd stumbled randomly and died.
"They were looting the masonry," said the Hound in faint disbelief.
"Yeah, they must have been desperate… can't say I blame them, this place is a wasteland," Joffrey said as he looked at the disposition of the skeletons.
"A smokestorm must have hit them while they were in the middle of it… poor fools never had a chance, did they?" Tyrion said as he turned back from one of the corpses.
Joffrey shook his head "Smokestorms must have been even hotter back then, these bones look almost charred," he said before he kept walking down, his eyes alert for fine armor and the gleam of Valyrian Steel, jumping over missing sections of the walkway that had fallen not to any mortal hand but to time itself. They reached the bottom of the stairs soon enough, or rather, reached the point where the sea of rock and pumice made it impossible to go on even if one jumped downwards. The rocks and pumice seemed to solidly placed Joffrey might as well have been on the ground floor.
All around the sea of rocks Joffrey could spot great chunks of black masonry, some bigger than a heavy wagon. They peppered the area randomly, and Joffrey could see the telltale signs of structural failure… It seemed the missing parts of the walkway had fallen here, their support beams giving way under the strain of time.
"How many more floors do you think this thing goes?" Joffrey muttered as the Hound caught up to him again and he walked over the sea of rocks, grabbing the torch he'd tossed a while ago.
"Too many," he rasped, breathing hard. Poor Tyrion was even worse, still trying to catch up and in dire need of 'tits and wine' as he'd been haranguing for the past few days.
Joffrey walked to the middle of the Agora, the pumice creaking under his boots as he gazed up at the huge, gaping hole up in the middle of the dome. It served as a convenient skylight, letting in a bit of sunlight from the exterior. He looked back down to the veritable sea of choking skeletons and shook his head, looking everywhere around him and trying to find Brightroar. By now he wanted to strangle Tommen's corpse for the doomed task the man had set upon himself. The black chunks of fallen masonry seemed like reefs jutting out from under the sea of pumice and solidified lava, their presence along with the burnt, mangled skeletons strewn around giving the whole place the air of a mausoleum.
At least now I know where part of a certain, crazy devil streak comes from… he thought with a snort, his eyes narrowing when he saw the glint of a pommel. Tyrion was already reaching the last of the stairs and the Hound was at the other side of the Agora, checking a few of the corpses.
Joffrey's heart raced wildly as he walked towards it quickly, reaching a mangled corpse clad in the remains of an incredibly fine armor, gold enameled armor. The husk itself didn't seem to have any legs, and the torso was light in Joffrey's hand as he turned it around.
For once, could it be so easy? He dared ask himself as his hesitant hands descended over the corpse. The skeleton of King Tommen was locked in place, both hands grasping forwards almost desperately. It was there, half covered by the corpse, that Joffrey found Brightroar.
The bastard sword's hilt sported a snarling lion head, and the blade itself shimmered slightly when the light from Joffrey's torch caught it, a golden yellow that gave the classical Valyrian Steel gloss a stately aura. Joffrey lowered his hand almost against his will, trembling slightly as he dared grasp a piece of the Purple's plan.
He lifted the deceptively light sword with his left hand, its grip feeling both awkward and familiar in his hand. He didn't use bastard swords all that often, but there was something about Brightroar that made it feel right in his grip. The ancestral blade of House Lannister made the wind whistle slightly as he twirled it about, feeling its grip, its essence. There was something about the blade that seemed to just… fit… no, not the blade. Him.
"Tyrion! Sandor! I found-" he stopped after he turned around and everything turned dark, the light that reached the ground through the great hole in the dome no more. Joffrey looked up, confused as he saw some dark blob blotting the entirety of the gaping hole, as if some great black tarp had suddenly attached itself to the ceiling.
His breath hitched as he gazed up, petrified as the thing that had been blocking the light suddenly fell towards them, the returning sunlight illuminating its enormous, scaled form.
Spoiler: Music
A Dragon bigger than Maegor's Holdfast landed in the middle of the Agora, its glossy black scales almost vibrating under the sunlight as the impact sent Joffrey tumbling to the ground, the great beast rearing its head upwards and roaring, the echo threatened to leave Joffrey completely deaf as he covered his ears in pain. It stood on its hind legs before slamming its two wings into the ground and using them as forelegs, both of which ended in wickedly sharp claws bigger than a horse.
He stood up drunkenly to the sight of Uncle Tyrion still standing, his mouth agape in complete and utter shock, slowly taking the form of an unrestrained childish smile, "A dragon…" Joffrey could somehow hear him whisper before the beast opened its great maw and unleashed a searing firestorm that almost blinded him. Joffrey cried out loud as he held his eyes, blinking repeatedly as he struggled against the glare. Even through the almost blinding light, Joffrey could see how Tyrion's sillouhette disintegrated, leaving nothing but ash and a blackened smudge against the black wall.
"TYRION!" he screamed as tears leapt from his eyes, the sight of his uncle vaporizing in front of his own eyes repeating inside his head again and again. Memories forever lost, the quiet moments by the campfire, the silent approval, the caring concern, the fits of laughter, all now soon to be replaced by the weary disgust, as it has always been, as it will always be. The Dragon turned around almost lazily, its great coiling form making it seem slower than it actually was. The beast's great maw opened to reveal rows upon rows of ashen, wickedly sharp teeth, and the back of its throat glowed orange before Sandor was suddenly shoving him sideways, both of them landing on the hard rocks as most of the firebreath slammed into the wall behind him and vaporized Tommen's corpse.
Most of it… Part of the fire had latched itself upon Sandor's back. The Hound's face was but a millimeter away from Joffrey's, and he could see it disfigure itself in fear and pain as he smelt cooking flesh. "Run," he whispered in agony as he stood up and bodily threw him towards the walkway.
Joffrey stumbled towards the stairs, the words of his sworn shield echoing inside his head as Sandor bellowed a mighty roar and charged the black dragon. He managed to slam his longsword against its lower chest, barely scraping its tough scales before the beast gored him with a great claw longer than himself. It rented apart what little armor Sandor had been carrying and made him tumble through the floor, half his guts spilt over the rocks. He didn't even manage a scream before the dragon devoured him whole. All of three seconds passed between Sandor's last command and his death.
Joffrey was still stumbling in shock towards the walkway, his mind staggering under the sudden events as he turned to face the dragon, the beast roaring at him. "No… no… They knew me… I had them back… I had a piece of them back…" he mumbled as he tripped and fell to his knees, feeling drained and hollow like never before, the last embers of his will burning away as he lost the strength to even crawl.
"It's all pointless," he whispered as he turned around, the dragon stalking towards him, each trundling step shaking the ground and making the pumice rattle wildly as it turned its maw towards him and finished the job of returning him to the Red Keep, back to the sadistic, disgusting Prince Joffrey Baratheon.
Back to the wariness and the disdain.
As it always had. As it always will. Forever.
Bottomless rage surged from the depths of his being as an animal snarl escaped his lips. Rage at the monster that had taken his true friends, never to be seen as they were. Rage at the world at large, for fulfilling only death and suffering. Rage at the Purple for cursing him with existence. Rage at the despair and the emptiness. Rage at himself.
"No," he told the Dragon as the back of its maw turned orange, giving light to half the Agora as he stood up, purged and hollowed. An emptiness soon filled and overflowing with an all-encompassing red rage.
He jumped and rolled behind a piece of fallen masonry, the blast of fire and heat making him sweat instantly as a torrent of flames incinerated the spot he'd been occupying just before. The dragon's maw followed him, toasting the great piece of masonry Joffrey had used as cover and turning the air around him almost too hot to breathe.
When the torrent ended, Joffrey walked out from the other side, twirling Brightroar in his hand as a cruel smirk adorned his features and he charged the colossal black dragon.
He didn't know where the thing had come from. He didn't care why it had done what it did.
He only knew he was going to make it suffer.
The dragon roared and tried to skewer him sideways with one of its great claws, but Joffrey ducked down at the last minute and let the claw fly by, lifting Brightroar and slamming it upwards against the leathery wing that followed it, trying not to be buffeted aside with the force of the blow. It was incredibly strong, but Joffrey kneeled and braced Brightroar further as the sword pierced the wing and the Dragon's strength did the rest, tearing a long section of the wing and extracting a toll of sizzling blood.
The Dragon reared back as it roared in rage and Joffrey darted towards it with a roar of his own, a torrent of great searing flames following his path towards the beast as he sprinted for its huge belly. The great Dragon screeched in pain as Joffrey slammed Brightroar with all his force against its belly, extracting it and rolling under its hind legs half a second before the beast let its weight drop and slammed against the sea of stones, cracking pumice and shreds of obsidian and making Joffrey stumble as he lost his equilibrium. He didn't have time to dodge as the beast's long, powerful tail slammed into him and sent him flying against the wall, tumbling against the sharp rocks in a shower of cuts and bruises.
Joffrey spluttered as he tried to stand up, holding his belly as his eyes tried to close in pain. He shook his head slightly, stumbling as he coughed a bit of blood and searched franticly for Brightroar. He didn't have time to get his bearings before a huge weight slammed against the earth after one leather flap that drowned his heartbeat, a huge maw filled with ashen white teeth filling his vision from one moment to the next.
He bellowed as he jumped as hard as he could, rolling on the ground and barely missing the beast's sword like double row of fangs, its huge jaw almost snapping him in half. It reared back and tried again, this time using the length of its neck like a coil or a whip to slam its head against Joffrey before he could even think of standing up.
Joffrey rolled towards the beast as fast as he could, its head slamming against his former position and missing him by a breath, its huge maw only eating stone as Joffrey found himself beneath its huge head, blotting the light from the skies. Before it could raise its head again though, Joffrey slammed his arming sword up through its lower jaw, the castle forged steel finding it a bit softer than the rest of its scales. It was only a shallow cut though, and Joffrey had to leave it there as he rolled sideways as the beast slammed its head backwards and downwards, trying to squash him like a bug. The blade snapped in half, the pommel bouncing near his position as he stood up.
The Dragon's neck coiled back and forwards again, Joffrey spinning with a water twirl and grasping the shattered blade as he dodged the head again, barely. The Dragon opened its huge maw and roared at point blank range, leaving Joffrey deaf to the world at large and hearing only a continuous, high keened whistle. Joffrey screamed silently at the force of the roar that seemed to push him backwards with incredible force, kneeling before jumping forwards with a burst of strength and slamming what was left of his arming sword up the Dragon's palate and leaving it there. He tried to retreat his hand as fast as it could, but it was too late as the Dragon snapped them shut and Joffrey's left hand found itself missing two fingers, blood spilling everywhere as he ran and took cover behind another chuck of the walkway, a stream of otherworldly, almost liquid fire following his path and searing the piece of masonry. The Dragon retreated back, content to keep the range as it kept pumping the masonry with a jet of blood boiling heat and flame.
Joffrey slowly slid down the chunk of steadily warming masonry, holding his hand close as it kept bleeding, his eyes closing in pain as he coughed blood again. He took out a rag from his slightly torn backpack, wrapping it tightly around the torn fingers. He had trouble breathing in the hot air as took off the backpack and stringed his composite bow, grimacing in pain as his fingers throbbed and his lungs burned.
It has to stop eventually, he thought, sweating like a pig as the chunk of masonry turned too hot to touch and he had to slide a bit forwards. He finished stringing the powerful goldenheart bow, the castle forged steel arrows held tightly in his other hand. Despite losing his ring and little finger, he could still use the bow.
It has to stop eventually, he thought as the jet of flames slowly acquired sound to his ears, a deep, gravelly throttled thrumming that whipped around with the force of a hurricane.
It has to stop eventually, he thought as his lungs burned and his vision grew dizzy.
The earth thrumming power of the flames disappeared from one second to the next, and Joffrey was already rising, his boots smoking as he sprinted besides the half slagged chunk of masonry, the residual heat hurting his face as he tensed the bow, aimed and loosed at the dragon in a second.
The arrow sailed into its mouth just as it took a deep breath. It slammed its mouth shut, biting into the thing that had dared hurt it and only spurting more blood in the process. It turned its hateful, yellow eyes towards Joffrey and breathed in quickly, a burst of fire emerging from its maw.
Joffrey was already running for the next chunk of fallen, blackstone masonry, but this time he was too slow. The gust of flame clipped him in the shoulder, and he arrived behind the chunk in a tumble, his upper shoulder an agony of pain as he rolled and tried to put out the flames. They carved deeply into him before they were put out, but Joffrey was already nocking another arrow, screaming in pain even as he let it purge him of all further thought but the murder of one of fate's tools.
He peaked and loosed, the arrow bouncing against its scales as the Dragon closed the distance and took in a shallow, little breath before flames exploded out of its mouth. Maybe it had learned not to leave its maw exposed, or maybe it couldn't draw longer breaths because of the damage already done. Either way, short, furious bursts of fire began assaulting Joffrey's position.
He was exhausted and in great pain, the furious anger that had propelled him just moments ago giving way to a strange kind of serene emptiness as fire raged and black smoke slowly started to invade the Agora from above.
Breathe, someone whispered.
Scalding hot fire buffeted his position, making the great weight of the masonry slide minutely against the ground under the force of the blast.
In, Joffrey whispered in the stillness of his mind.
Another gust of fire slammed against the masonry, but this one was aimed at the opposite side from where Joffrey had entered, the one he was closest to right now. A bit of the searing hot flames disintegrated one of his eyebrows as he closed his eyes.
Out.
In between that one and the next he was already moving, boots sizzling against the ground and bow aiming up and up and up at the Dragon as it reared on its hind legs, its body several stories tall as its head followed him and its eyes narrowed, as distant as a banner atop Maegor's Holdfast.
He loosed the arrow as he ran, its wickedly sharp tip piercing right into one of the Dragon's beady eyes and unleashing blood and gore as it screeched in ear renting agony.
But the beast would not die as it closed the distance again, undeterred by the loss of its left eye as it moved as fast as before, its snaking, spiked form rushing Joffrey as he spotted Brightroar dozens of meters ahead of him, too far to reach before the beast was upon him.
"Wind, guide me," he uttered in the harsh tongue of the Far East as he loosed, the arrow slamming against the Dragon's right eye just before its clawed wing descended upon him. He twisted and barely avoided the deadly claw, but the hard bone and cartilage of the rest of the wing still slammed into his belly, sending him tumbling through the air and slamming against the floor.
Everything was blurry as Joffrey raised his head from the hard stones, a trickle of blood descending from his forehead and blinding his right eye as sounds warbled and distorted, the earth shaking like the end of days as some sort of blackness kept filling the Agora. He blinked slowly as he turned his head and saw the Dragon thrashing wildly, its huge form butting into different sections of the Agora in literal blind rage, his bow turned to splinters nearby.
Joffrey turned his head to the other side and saw Brightroar, its golden yellow sheen brighter than ever in the midst of the encroaching darkness. He crawled towards it, slowly making his way as the earth kept shaking and sky shattering roars thundered, he kept crawling as black smoke narrowed his senses to the pommel itself, the roaring lion.
He stood up when he reached it, using it as a cane to steady himself, coughing blood as the Dragon tried to take flight blindly, only to crash against part of the walkway.
It's trying get its bearings, trying to fly up… he thought in strange staccato, his thoughts jumbled and confused as he shook his head and felt pain, clearing it slightly.
He coughed again, and looked up to see more and more smoke billowing in from the hole in the dome and the windows of the upper floors from where he'd entered. He swayed as he searched for his mask, finding it mangled and almost broken as it hanged from his half destroyed backpack. He put it on before looking back at the great thrashing beast, flying up a few stories before crashing against the walkway and back into the ground. It was only a matter of time until it got it right.
No, came the thought in crystal clear clarity as he turned to the walkway and ran like never before, the Dragon screeching as it heard him and unleashed a torrent of flames that followed him up the walkway.
Joffrey sprinted up the spiraling walkway like a man possessed, the path making him run great circles around the Dragon in the ground floor as it desperately tried to angle itself for a clean surge upwards, drunk with pain. It kept shooting streams of fire randomly, setting whole sections of the walkway ablaze as Joffrey ran and ran and ran, searing heat scalding his legs and his lungs wheezing in agony as he stumbled thanks to the poor vision and tripped, the mask cracking under the blow, black smoke intermingling with the clean air of the filter.
His own wheezing breath sounded distorted through the mask as he stood up and kept running, vapor crawling atop the glass surface and further limiting his vision as he looked down and saw the Dragon finally angle itself correctly and launch itself upwards with a burst of strength and a roar of triumph, circling the great Agora from the inside as its titanic wings unfurled themselves, pumping with enormous power time and again as it flew higher and higher.
Joffrey traced its flight as the great wings echoed through the silent mausoleum, sprinting like lightning over the bones and ashes of the scions of Ancient Valyria and the Barbaroi of the West, all united through the silent embrace of oblivion. He ran and ran and ran until he suddenly leaped over the handrail and fell, his guts and spirit crawling to his throat as the great acceleration of free fall threw him downwards with ever increasing speed, Brightroar held down straight as he roared in grief and pain and rage and loneliness as he slammed against the back of the Dragon with the force of a siege ram, Brightroar biting deep into its spine until only the hilt remained in sight.
The great black dragon roared in agony as it folded its wings and the inertia carried it up past the hole in the dome and the black smoke, unfurling them again amongst the clear skies as it climbed higher and higher into the air and it tried to shake Joffrey off, blood raining over the black wasteland that was once Old Valyria. Joffrey ripped the useless, broken mask as he coughed, looking back down as the great ruins kept getting smaller and smaller, the Dragon doing its best to shake him off as it cart wheeled in the air.
Joffrey gritted his teeth silently as the dizzying maneuver made his feet and legs fly off their own will, the rest of his body following as his arms extended and he grasped Brightroar with all his strength, the blackened sky and the black earth intermingling again and again until he lost sight of which was which.
The Agora was the size of his arm when the Dragon stopped spinning, and Joffrey braced himself with both legs as he extracted Brightroar with a bellow of effort, his hand bleeding again and intermingling with the beast's. The Dragon was gaining altitude once more, flying up and up in a frenzy as Joffrey used it's spikes as climbing rakes, getting closer to the neck with each gasping strain of effort, legs and hands climbing the beast as if it were a mountain, the incredible speed of the ascent making him narrow his eyes as much as he could, the air slamming into his face nonstop and leaving him slightly dazed.
He reached the base of its neck, breathing hard as he straddled it and raised Brightroar high in the air.
"DIE!" He roared with all his might as he brought down the blade vertically, piercing scales before twisting brutally, sizzling blood erupting like a small fountain and splashing him. The Dragon gave a keening, agonizing screech before it tried to shake him off once more, the horizon spinning as the black of the ground became larger and larger.
No, not the ground, Joffrey realized as the beast kept pumping its wings, carrying them even higher and directly against the horizon of black smoke. Joffrey desperately searched for his spare mask, but found that what remained of his bag had been torn asunder…
Only the pig bladder with the fixed valve remained, coated in the Hound's modified poultice.
He tried to grab it but failed, his hand screaming in pain as the stumps of his fingers slipped, the curtain of black smoke consuming his vision as the Agora was reduced to the size of a finger. Joffrey changed hands, holding the impaling Brightroar with the injured one as the other one grasped the bladder and the Dragon slammed into the curtain of choking, searing hot smoke.
Joffrey coughed as the heat and ash raked his face and he brought the valve near his mouth, trying to open it with his teeth but only managing to break one of them in his maddened effort, holding his breath as long as he could as his lungs burned and he tried again and a smidgen of air began leaving the bag from the bladder.
He clamped down on it, staying as still as he could, keenly aware of exactly how little air the bladder had inside. The Dragon kept flapping wildly, still flying up but starting to tilt its flight to the right. Joffrey breathed slowly as they kept rising, higher and higher amongst the black heavens as his eyes closed tight and his mind went hazy, higher as he struggled for one more breath…
…
….
….
…
…..
Spoiler: Music
He slowly opened his eyes to the sight of the night sky in all its breath stealing splendor. The stars shone intensely, twinkling in the dead of night like never before, their familiar shapes escorted by a plethora of other stars that filled his entire field of view. Big, small, twinkling, still, he could see them making their way around him, so far away yet so close he swore he could almost touch them if he but dared reach with his hand. He could see the different colors that hanged upon them like celestial auras, reds and blues and yellows combining in a riot of stars and constellations, nebulas and distant shapes that radical Maesters were sure represented whole other cosmos', just as big the one they all inhabited, however big that was.
Stars, he thought, slipping in and out of consciousness.
Stars, not Constellations, he thought cryptically, his head sluggish.
He blinked again, watching meteors tumble and burn against the black backdrop, leaving long searing trails of red and orange that faded to nothing just as quickly.
Is it over? he thought, feeling strangely weightless and cold. Was this how true death felt?
He blinked slowly in raptured awe at the majesty and sheer thrumming power of the Red Comet, slowly beginning its orbit around the planet as it bathed him in red and sailed so close by he could jump at it and hold it in both hands if he but had the strength to lift his head. Its red tail seemed longer than he'd ever seen, almost spindling back around the earth itself, its sheer presence filling him with awe and dread.
He let his head droop to the side and saw the Dragon's wings drifting aimlessly, slowly gliding back down from the skies, its head drooping as Joffrey's breath hitched, looking at the earth below partly blanketed by a sea of clouds. He could just make out the curvature of the planet with the naked eye, whole continents and islands floating amongst the grand oceans which encompassed them, holding all he had ever seen and all he had ever heard.
When he closed his eyes again, this time willingly, he hoped it would be the last sight he'd ever see.
A beautiful, serene end to his existence.
…
…..
…..
…
When he opened his eyes again, instead of stars he saw the rapidly growing shape of a city, filled with thousands of ant sized people who did nothing but run in circles in absolute mayhem. Joffrey's dragon was barely pumping its wings anymore, barely gliding as they kept losing altitude and Joffrey's guts tried to climb out of his body.
"Wowowow!" Joffrey screamed as he grasped the still stuck Brightroar with all his strength, "Slow down! Slow down damn you!" he screamed at the dumb animal as it glided towards a tower in the middle of the city, barely moving its head.
How do I steer this thing?! Can't be that hard, the fucking Targs managed it! He thought in a frenzy as he slammed Brightroar left, the Dragon giving a muffled screech as it drifted vaguely leftwards, narrowly avoiding the tower as a lovely looking woman of Valyrian stock screamed through a window.
What if I travelled back in time to Old Valyria? Was it a crime to kill a dragon? He thought in confusion as he twisted Brightroar to the right, making the Dragon barely miss a big, luxurious estate and instead aim for a rapidly clearing plaza.
"Alright! Nice and easy you fucking monster!" Joffrey shouted at the thing as he pulled Brightroar back, jolting the beast somewhat awake and making it flap wildly a couple of times and slow down before it suddenly turned lax like a puppet with its strings cut, Joffrey managing a single curse before the great beast crashed against the plaza in a rain of cobblestones and torn apart stalls.
Joffrey found himself alive somehow, the Purple seemingly content to let him wallow in the sea of cuts, bruises and pulped internal organs. He cursed the damn thing as he stood up from atop the lower neck of the creature, thoroughly fed up with absolutely everything as he extracted the damned reason for the whole trip in a shower of blood and gore, swaying slightly as he walked down the length of its neck up to its head, cursing all the while. He held Brightroar in one hand as he carefully climbed the Dragon's head, mindful of the spikes.
He spotted a man cowering beneath a stand of apples only a few meters in front of the overgrown raptor's head, both hands bracing his head, shaking wildly as if he'd just spotted the Stranger.
"Uh, excuse me, good man, would you mind telling me where I am?" he called out in High Valyrian before grabbing one of the fallen apples and tearing into it like a starving wolf to a fat lamb.
"What?!" Joffrey shouted, pieces of apple flying wildly as he tried to understand the mangled dialect. He really needed a place to lay down for a while.
"Tolos?! Are you drunk?!" he shouted at the man, throwing him the apple core.
"Yes! Yes! Tolos! I swear it in the name of Great Meraxes! Please let me live, great one!" the man blabbered as he shrunk himself into a ball.
Joffrey stared at the man in mild incomprehension, "Tolos? That's on the other side of the godsdamned peninsula!" He spat, turning to the Dragon and slamming the tip of its nose with Brightroar's flat edge, "You fucking lizard - WOW!" he screamed as the Dragon opened its maw and tried to bite his arm off, shuffling only a tiny bit forwards.
"DIE DAMN YOU! WHY?! DON'T!? YOU!? JUST!? DIE!" he snarled as he shoved Brightroar through what remained of its shredded eye, driving it up to the hilt and churning it like spoon as he tried to liquefy its brain.
An enormous rattle resounded throughout the plaza as the huge black dragon trembled in its death throes one last time, finally relaxing completely as it slumped vaguely forwards, twin wisps of black smoke lazily coming out of its nostrils as blood bubbled out of its eye socket.
Joffrey stood there as he stared at it, breathing hard as he tilted his head in curiosity, lifting the fold of its lip and scraping a bit of the hard bone above its huge teeth with his dagger. "Hm," he muttered, "I think I know what I'll make the sheath out of," he said before turning to the man beneath the stall.
"Hey! Which way to the nearest inn?" he called out to him, so tired he couldn't even feel his legs.
The man gave a gasp as he fainted, sprawled over the cobblestones.
"Seems like a good idea," Joffrey remarked before darkness claimed him. He was out before he reached the floor.
.-
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 Interlude: The Great One's Apprentice. New
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Interlude: The Great One's Apprentice.
Gaenys Bernaris would remember that day until he drew his last breath. He'd been working a double shift in his father's leather tannery again as punishment for 'slacking off', mindlessly helping tan and hang the horrible smelling hides that constituted the mainstay of his family's trade. He'd been wondering why the hells he hadn't become immune to the smell of the filth yet despite working there since tender childhood when he heard the screams.
"Father, what's happening?" he'd called out, nervous as his usually stoic Father burst into the tannery and grabbed him by the neck as was his wont. Gaenys' friends often mocked him about how his Father treated his slaves better than him.
"Go get your mother and sister to the basement and close the doors, NOW!" he'd screamed as he tossed him out, turning back and closing the tannery's windows and doors.
He'd stumbled out of the tannery but hadn't managed a single step towards the nearby house before he'd been almost run over by a runaway carriage. All around him people ran and screamed nonsense about the end of times and the return of the Dragonlords, nonsense that quickly crystalized into dread when he'd gazed up and saw an enormous black Dragon gliding towards their city.
His life flashed before his eyes as the great Dragon straight from the tales of old decided to spare the Tower of Remembrance and half the city's nobility, before diving for the main plaza, built during the reign of the Dragonlords to fit even the largest of mythical beasts. He remembered thinking that even the great plaza wouldn't be enough to hold the huge beast, but at the last moment what he realized was a dragonrider did something to the dragon's neck and the terrifying beast flapped and stalled, folding its wings and falling like a rock against the plaza and presumably devouring all within it.
He'd stood there, petrified as Captain of the Guard tried to harangue a group of terrified slingers, the pride of Tolos' military might who had humbled barbarians and pirates far and wide, hardened veterans of a thousand and one battles against sellswords, Dothraki, and Ghiscary Privateers. Every single slinger walked like their lead balls were attached to their feet and not the pouches they carried at their hips, the slightly less terrified Captain shoving and cursing as they made their way to the plaza.
Gaenys didn't blame them, he would have been running in the other direction if he didn't feared his Father's fists more than a huge beast which presumably had a thousand people around it to sate its hunger… unlike his Father...
And so he'd gotten inside his house, found his steely eyed mother and his crying sister, and hid them all under the cellar. He remembered thinking about Dragons and their senses, and hoping to Great Meraxes that the beast would not find them there.
As the hours wore on and no screams nor smells of cooked flesh assaulted their senses, Gaenys left their shelter to find the city's denizens sheepishly getting back to their routines.
Two days later they were told the truth, and a day after that he met Prince Joffrey of House Baratheon, acclaimed as Great One by the citizens of Tolos, Savior of the City, and Dragonslayer.
.-
At first sight, the Great One didn't look all that imposing for a man which had slayed one of the largest Dragons ever recorded. He was not too tall, had golden hair and a weary weight which was only accented by the cane which he used to walk. No, it was the eyes that told the truth. Pale green they were, like metaled sheen given form, a dulled, steely green which seemed to pin him in place whenever the Great One stared at him. The contrast they gave when paired with the man's sword was even alluring, in the same way a tempestuous lightning storm was. Understated yellow which turned almost transparent, a steely gold which reflected the pale green as the man raised the sword caringly with both hands, staring down its length as he aligned the pommel vertically with his eyes, staring through it and beyond into the world of spirits.
"Magic and heavy deeds forged this… obvious I know," Said the Great One as he inspected the Valyrian Steel blade, made by the Dragonlords of old through secrets long since lost to man.
He seemed to breathe in the essence of the sword as he took a deep breath, closing his eyes. "Spells, dragonfire and death… Yes…" he muttered as if he were savoring a fine if exotic wine.
Gaenys stood still as a statue inside their workshop, not daring to even breathe as he saw the man feel the flat edge of the blade with his palm, eyes closed as he tilted his head slightly, as one might when the summer winds flew over a lazy afternoon.
"Terrible and bold, wrought in blood and fire and sorcery and screams," he said as his palm kept travelling the length of the sword, frowning minutely. "Such power… so petty a purpose," he said as if disappointed, deep in thought.
Gaenys managed to swallow as he saw the Great One lift the blade up and hold the cool flat edge against his forehead, his eyes still closed even though his gaze was evidently peering beyond. "Made for gold, an instrument of prestige… petty power and petty Kings… Purpose long lost and obsolete… but what is your destiny now..?" he asked the sword itself, his forehead tilting vaguely downward. "No. Deeper," he whispered, his concentration supreme, "Purpose reborn… a desperate bridge… a connection with no endpoint… I see it now, a makeshift fix, a causeway of great energy and Purple purpose… but to where? And why?" he seemed to ask Gaenys as he opened his eyes and lowered the sword, gazing at him in puzzlement.
"I-I don't know, Great One," he managed, his voice almost quiver free.
He smiled sadly at him, "Neither do I, Gaenys, neither do I… but even now I feel it, how it longs to belong to me… How with but a push it will slot just right…. How perfect and form fitting is the anchor…" he said in wonder as he gazed back at the blade, deep in thought, "I am to be its essence's scabbard…" he whispered.
After making it clear the beast had been a wild one, the whole of Tolos had breathed a sigh of relief, content that the era of Dragonlords had not returned. Joffrey had been claimed as savior of the City, having slayed the enormous, untamed dragon before the fateful day where it could have returned to civilization and burnt Tolos to the ground. The man had been well cared for, and after gifting most of the Dragon's corpse to the city as reparations for the damage, his popularity had only soared. No one slayed a Dragon on foot with a sword… except for legends like the one which had descended upon Tolos that fateful day.
So when he'd asked for a simple workshop and someone who knew a bit of working with bone, Gaenys' Father had been all too willing to offer his son for a glimpse of recognition from the nobility. According to Joffrey, the Lords of Tolos had practically showered him with gifts in an attempt to make him go away, terrified of the leverage he might be able to use if he decided to try and take over the city… much to his amusement.
The Great One didn't seem to have much worldly ambition beyond his mysterious search, but he'd pacified the nobility with his plans to move in a couple of months and his simple requests for an apprentice and a workshop.
And so, Gaenys' hobby, which had caused so much trouble with his Father before, had turned into his new profession, working part of the Dragon's jaw bone into the shape of a sheath for the Dragonslayer's sword. Well, more like fetching supplies and helping tidy up the workshop as the Great One worked on the bone with unparalleled skill, but still…
A simple apprentice and an ear to nightmare inducing musings which he had no choice but to hear, a companion to the solitary and mysterious Great One.
Joffrey stayed still for hours, as had been routine for weeks. Gaenys stood still besides him, not making a sound throughout the long hours as the Great One kept tinkering with his soul, making the final adjustments in the ethereal plane only he could see. Gaenys had known nothing of the arts of the Warlocks before the day of the Dragon, and yet the Great One had seen fit to explain to him what he sought to achieve, happy to speak as he worked with bone and blade and soul, a simplified version of the no doubt horribly arcane and dangerous game he was playing with a dread sorcerer more than a million times more powerful than him… a million times more powerful than the Great One himself! The sorcerer he called 'the Purple'.
"Gaenys, hammer," he suddenly spoke.
It was time.
Gaenys made haste, prepared for the occasion as he deftly placed the still unfinished scabbard under Joffrey's feet and a hammer in the man's hand. The Great One got to work with deft skill, his eyes still closed as he used the very same sword as an unwieldy tool to carve ominous, incredibly complex runes into the scabbard. In the hands of the Great One, the bastard sword may as well have been a surgeon's scalpel as he hammered lightly and certainly, carving a complex pattern which spanned the entirety of the dragon bone sheath.
"It would take ages with common steel… besides, the sword carving its own sheath? Much more poetic," the living legend had said with a touch of whimsy when asked.
He stayed quiet as he watched the master at his craft, slowly edging out the last traces of the twirling, twisting pattern which now envelop the sword. He'd been getting more cryptic with the passing weeks, preferring the sound of his voice to the sharp loneliness of the workshop.
"They don't do anything, not really," he suddenly spoke out loud, happy as always to reveal the secrets of his arcane doings, "But it'll help me focus, help me place them correctly…" he trailed off as he opened his eyes and lifted the scabbard, blowing lightly into it and scattering the coarse dust that had been once been part of a Dragon's flesh and bone.
"A vessel wrought to enable its content's purpose, wrought from the flesh of the beings that helped forge that very same content…" he whispered cryptically, the meaning clear to him alone. "Wrought to help the content's wielder fulfill an ancient task…" he trailed off as he lifted both sword and sheath, gazing at them side by side.
"But it's not enough," he said with vaguely crazed eyes as he turned towards him, "Precisely wrought were the anchors, they were not made to carry a side passenger… but the Purple is moldable, changeable," he whispered with a crazed grin, as if he were telling him a great secret. "What is a slight tweak to a thing that is more real than reality? What is a small passenger in the shadow of Brightroar?" he asked yet again as he carefully fitted the blade inside sheath and Gaenys realized Joffrey had been talking to himself all this time, "What is to a them if I carve a slight valley into my soul?" he said as the blade clicked and he sat on the ground in the strange position he'd glimpsed envoy's from the East use, the sword in the scabbard starting to almost glow as the hair in Gaenys' hands, arms, neck, everywhere stood on edge, the sharp smell of crackling air and stormy seas filling the room as Joffrey closed his eyes and hugged the sword he held vertically, the pommel like a crown above his hair line as the golden lion head started to bleach into silver and the Great One spoke.
"Will they notice the extra scabbard as the Sword slides into the anchor?" The Great One asked himself before his head turned towards Gaenys, gently.
"Goodbye, Gaenys," he said as the runes along the scabbard started to glow very slightly as well, his serene smile growing as wisps of static started to roam its length.
Gaenys bowed deeply as Joffrey's smile turned into a grimace, followed by pain. He did not trust himself enough to speak as he grabbed the sack the Great One left for him by the door, filled with the tools of his trade and shining Tolosi Honors. He left the room and the building entirely as he walked quickly, just in time to hear a harrowing scream and a flash of light coming from the upper windows that blinded him even though he closed his eyes.
.-
AN: The muse briefly debated extended Essos loop. The plot had words with the muse.
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 Interlude: Ser Bucketman. New
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Interlude: Ser Bucketman.
King's Landing had turned into an interesting place throughout the last few days, at least in Tyrion's opinion. First had been the death of Jon Arryn during suspicious circumstances, found dead in his sleep due to 'natural causes'. Then came the death of Petyr Baelish under even more suspicious circumstances, found sporting a bloody smile along his neck just after dawn. It seemed being a member of the Small Council was starting to become an even more dangerous prospect than usual, unleashing double shifts of guards and heightened tensions inside the Red Keep.
The most bizarre and daunting of events had not been a murder however. It had come from the most unexpected of persons… his nephew.
Three days after the death of Jon Arryn, Joffrey had simply stopped talking. His nephew had, from night to day, simply changed. He slept till late in the afternoon and spent what was left of it meditating in a strange half kneeling half seating position, right in front of the Godswood's heart tree. Strangest of all was the way his nephew seemed to be avoiding him, his face turning neutral the moment he saw him and not even looking at him after that. It was a strange sort of behavior which seemed to happen with everyone in the Red Keep, from Cercei to Myrcella, though apart from him only the Hound seemed to have been relegated so far from Joffrey's new life. The sworn shield had told him that Joffrey reacted the same way, his face disfiguring itself into something inscrutable before acquiring careful neutrality and avoiding him, or asking politely to leave him alone.
And alone he'd been.
He'd barely spoken a word or two with him during the trip North, and things hadn't seemed to change over there… if anything he'd isolated himself even more thoroughly, with every Stark except maybe Bran or Rickon unleashing the same reaction, or lack thereof. Lord Eddard and Jon Snow seemed to hit him particularly hard, but strangely enough it was Sansa, the oldest daughter of Eddard, which seemed to make Joffrey smile and then immediately shake his head in self-loathing and shame, usually accompanied by hurried steps fleeing wherever it was he'd seen her.
Hilariously enough, poor Sansa seemed to have been devastated over that, her wailings audible from rooms away as Lady Catelyn tried to make her understand that no, she was not some horrible, ugly hag.
Joffrey would spend most of his afternoons either meditating, staring at the silver lion headed pommel of the fine sword he'd gotten ahold of somewhere that never seemed to leave his side, or gazing at drawings of what seemed to be constellations.
Tyrion's curiosity burnt brightly, but he was concerned for his nephew as well. He may have been a cruel boy far too pampered by Cercei, but Tyrion felt some kind of duty to at least attempting to get to the bottom of the matter, in the name of his dysfunctional House if nothing else.
He had a plan. He always did.
-.
Joffrey had, as was his wont for weeks now, sequestered himself in Winterfell's Godswood, doing his best melancholic princely impression, making maiden's hearts flutter and poor Sansa to cry even harder. He was sitting still at the moment, facing the Heart Tree in that strange position of his as cold winds blew and the handful of papers over the small table he'd carried here shuffled as if annoyed.
"Go away, Tyrion," he said before turning his head a little backwards, his surprisingly keen ears knowing it was him before he looked at him.
Joffrey didn't wait for a respond as he returned to his tree staring exercise, before turning back once more.
"… Uncle… what are you wearing?" he asked, completely befuddled.
Five words! Success! He thought as he waddled towards him, his vision reduced to a small rectangle and almost costing him his footing as he stumbled over an unseen root.
"I thought that was evident, dear nephew," he said as he came to a stop by his side, "I, am wearing a bucket," he called from under the wooden bucket he wore as a helmet, stolen from one particularly angry looking cook which would have Tyrion checking his meals for the rest of their stay in Winterfell.
"… I can see that. Why are you wearing a bucket?" he asked as the sheer strangeness of the situation seemed to shake him out of his weary demeanor.
"So you don't see my face nephew, then your face doesn't have to revolve itself like a bowl of milk in the hands of an angry hag," he said, staring at a nonplussed Joffrey through the messy rectangle he'd carved into the bucket, before leaning in closer and whispering.
"It's very unsettling," Tyrion assured him, wearing the bucket for all the world as if it were some sort of knightly helm.
Joffrey stared at him for a second before an extremely unwilling chuckle tried to desperately escape from his sealed lips, clawing like a forsaken soul until its jailor finally gave up and a strange, vaguely high pitched chuckle was heard throughout the Godswood.
He had expected an annoyed scoff really, but he could work with this!
"Do you mock me?" Tyrion asked him with his arms crossed, standing on the tips of his toes and trying to make himself slightly bigger, trying to intimidate any who would dare sully his honor.
"Tyrion! Please stop," Joffrey managed as he tried to clamp down his mouth with a hand, seemingly in genuine distress as he kept chuckling.
"Tyrion?! My name is Ser Bucketman of House Bucket, and you will address me with the respect appropriate to my rank!" he said indignantly.
"Tyrion! Stop!" Joffrey repeated as he laughed harder, tears trying to jump out of his eyes as he vaguely hid his face with both hands, his back leaning against the Heart Tree.
"One more time and it will come to water, dear Ser! Where is my squire?!" Tyrion yelled as he turned around, "Maybe you have seen him? Rope of Deepwell, a no name smallfolk I met at a hanging, thin as a reed but potently endowed!" he said as he kept turning, still searching.
"Stop Tyr-…" Joffrey stopped himself as he shook his head in a strange mixture of fondness and grief, "Ser Bucketman, please stop," he said with a slight voice which seemed to contain a sigh, smiling tenderly as slow tears kept streaming down his eyes and he slowly slid downwards, holding sobs with both hands.
It was now Tyrion's turn to stand confused as Joffrey cried silently, his knees curled up and his arms hiding his face in shame, each sob a drawn out affair which stayed completely silent until Joffrey had to breathe air and thus concede a slight sniffle now and then, a few grudging tears sliding down his cheeks and pooling in his sleeves.
He'd expected a disdainful snort at the most, not him crumbling down! The last time he'd seen Joffrey cry had been more than two years ago.
Tyrion took his 'helmet' off slowly as he approached the last few steps, "Come on, it wasn't that bad," he faux complained, making him smile wistfully for some reason.
Tyrion was at a frank loss by now as he carefully sat by his side, holding the bucket awkwardly with one hand as he patted Joffrey's back with the other, "Bucket?" he offered it to the boy for a lack of ideas.
"W-what?" he managed after a muted, almost inaudible sob, staring at the bucket with red eyes before chuckling against his will again, "Oh Tyrion, this is worse than that time with the damned lemons," he said with a wistful smile despite his swollen eyes.
"Which lemons?" Tyrion asked and immediately regretted it as Joffrey closed his eyes as if in physical pain, trying to return to the neutral face before Tyrion clamped the bucket on his head.
"Wh-what was that fhor?" said the voice from the bucket.
"Very unsettling Joffrey! If not me then you're wearing it! Now stop this nonsense unless you want me to knight you as the next Ser Bucketman!" He warned him.
"You aren't even a knight," Came the halfhearted response from the bucket.
"Can't say I am, doesn't mean I won't," said Tyrion.
"…But you are, actually," said Joffrey as he finally took off the helmet, looking at him fondly as he blinked away the last of the tears, "You're a Broken Knight, always will be," he spoke in the manner of a strange farewell as he regaled him with the most heartbreaking smile Tyrion had ever seen, his voice coarse as he finally really looked at him. There was so much triumph and regret and meaning that Tyrion almost lost himself in that gaze, before Joffrey sniffled again and took out a handkerchief, blowing his nose.
"I'm sorry, it's been quite a while since the last time this happened…" Joffrey said, gesturing vaguely, his motions slow.
"Apology accepted. As long as that bucket is in my head, you'll call me Ser Bucketman," said Tyrion, buying time as he conjured and discarded hypothesis as fast as he could.
"Uncle… you truly are unstoppable," said his nephew, looking at him fondly even as the distance between them was reconstructed.
By now Tyrion was completely lost on who the lost soul that had been Prince Joffrey was now, and try as he might to cheer him up, Joffrey knew that as well. There was a great chasm before them, and Tyrion realized he had to do something before Joffrey in turn did something irreversible and stupid.
They stayed there in companionable silence for a while, Tyrion occasionally offering the bucket to Joffrey, who would scoff in good nature and smile distantly, looking west now and then. His nephew seemed to know him somehow, and Tyrion was somehow saddened he was not able to reciprocate the feeling.
"Tyrion… thank you… for everything…" Joffrey suddenly spoke, and he had the impression the boy was talking about something altogether more than this particular evening… and it sounded like a farewell.
"Don't think about it, I-" Tyrion started but was interrupted by Joffrey.
"No, I want to say this… I wanted to end it quietly but that would be unfair, selfish even," he said quickly before taking a deep breath, staring into his eyes, "Thank you for being there for me when the rest of the family did nothing. Thank you for setting an example I could aspire to, to show me I could be proud of my Lannister blood… Most of all Tyrion, thank you for being my friend," he said, his words burning in truth and his smile recalling happier times.
There was silence as Tyrion found himself at a loss for words, a rare occurrence.
"I don't understand," he finally managed.
Joffrey's smile returned, rawer than before as he gazed at him, "I know you don't… it would take lives to explain and would likely not make much sense anyway…" he said as he blinked slowly, "I've been travelling for a long time Uncle, in search of an answer…" he trailed off as he stared beyond him, "It has been a hard road, my search… a harrowing journey which I would not wish upon any man…" he said as his eyes refocused on him, "But now it's nearing its end at last. I found the last clue, a message written in code, using constellations as letters," here his speech quickened, halting randomly in between words, "I spent months upon months… years even, trying to extract some sort of meaning or symbolism…" he snorted as he shook his head, "In all that time, the answer had been staring at me unflinchingly… stars, not constellations…" he said as he kept shaking his head slowly, "Each constellation was actually… a number, determined by the amount of stars in said constellation…" he trailed off.
"I see… and you fitted each number with a letter of some obscure tongue?" Tyrion hazarded, lost as to what sort of game Joffrey was playing but trying to keep up.
He smiled with a strange sort of pride, "Yes, the common tongue actually… it seemed obvious as soon as I arranged the constellations from least numerous to most... A single dot in place of an 'A', two for a 'B', The Broom with its three stars for a 'C' and The Shield for a D, its four point kite construction bare for all to see…" he said with unsettling intensity which seemed to melt the wariness, "Some letters were previous constellations with an extra dot or star, but it was a simple enough puzzle in the end… from the simple lone star to the twenty six point construct the First Men christened as The Weirwood, spanning over half the hemisphere…" he said as he trailed off, the wariness returning with a crushing if strangely serene weight.
"So you cracked the message, in the end?" Tyrion dug for information.
"It was a bit more complicated than that, but yes… it was soon apparent a step was missing, though. The translation came up as garbled nonsense anyway… the key was missing. You see, this message was meant for me alone, and a sufficient number of scholars with sufficient time and motivation could have stumbled upon the idea of lining up the constellations from least to greatest in stars, and then compared them to the Westerosi alphabet specifically… unlikely as it sounds. No, they had to be sure, it had to be me," he said.
Tyrion didn't know why Joffrey was telling him all this, but it was clear the boy needed someone to talk to, and it seemed some sort of conspiracy had been aimed at his nephew using cryptic keys and messages.
"So they made a key only you could understand?" Tyrion guessed, unsettled by the hollow intensity in his nephew's voice.
"'Everyone but the purple prince steps to the right'… the moment I thought about it again after aligning the constellations under the alphabet… the answer was clear. Obvious even," he said as he shook his head and Tyrion restrained the urge to scratch his head in confusion.
"… what was it?" Tyrion asked, his voice sounding hushed in the stillness of the Godswood.
"Me, Uncle. Joffrey," he said with a sad smile, "I am the purple prince. Everyone steps to the right but me… so I took every letter but the ones in my name and moved them once to the right, to see if it made sense then. The 'Z' was now represented by the single dot, 'A' by two, 'B' was now The Broom, 'C' was the Shield, and so on. I aligned the entire alphabet one step to the right, jumping over the letters held within my name… Joffrey, 'the Purple Prince'," he said the last as if it were a curse, "Those I let stand still, trapped in place… fitting, I suppose" he said as he stood up.
"And the message?" Tyrion asked, feeling the hair at the back of his neck straighten.
"Oh it made sense then alright… I had expected inane word games or allegories, more clues to chase in an endless cycle until the end of times… instead I got two phrases, separated by a simple dash," he said as he buckled the sword to his belt and gazed west again. "It was refreshingly direct," he whispered.
Tyrion sat still as Joffrey finally turned around and said the words as if they were prophecy, "'Sail west from point of origin and through the Sunset Sea - speak within the structure and we shall answer'," he whispered.
Tyrion couldn't say anything, Joffrey's paralyzing gaze seemed tormented even as the serene weight in his voice turned accepting, perhaps even relieved, "I can feel it Tyrion, deep in my bones… it will end soon, it will all end soon," he whispered, closing his eyes, "Two times I've already drowned under the storms of the Sunset Sea, great behemoths of frothing rage and destruction of such a scale that the words to describe them fail me even now… but this time… this time I'll reach the Structure and meet them. My cycle shall be sealed, my questions shall be answered, the Purple shall fade to black," he whispered almost in religious fervor as he opened his eyes again and his gaze penetrated Tyrion and beyond.
… He's mad, thought Tyrion, and he could somehow tell Joffrey had read his mind. His nephew's face turned pained again as he scrounged his eyes in weary, all-encompassing frustration, before letting it all go in a long breath.
He smile bitterly as he grabbed Tyrion's shoulder, "Goodbye, uncle," he whispered before walking away.
When Tyrion warned Winterfell's Maester and Robert himself about the strange fugue which had taken hold of his nephew, it was already too late. Joffrey was nowhere to be found, and the search parties returned empty handed even after weeks of furious searching up and down the Kingsroad and Winterfell's surroundings.
.-
AN: Soon...
Last edited: Jan 16, 2018
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 Interlude: W$a#t#c%h=e/r#%s New
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Interlude: W$a#t#c%h=e/r#%s
"Our minds are constantly filling us with… thoughts, memories, reflections…" Ned mused, "But when I'm here, I listen to the leaves' gentle rustling… I gaze at the slow swaying of the branches… and then…" he trailed off as he gazed at him.
"Tell me of a wondrous sight then," whispered Nalia.
"A Dragon," whispered Tyrion, his smile childish.
"Stow the upper deck! Joffrey, ready that rope!" shouted Nakaro.
"The Masters of their Fate," mused Shah.
"A Broken Knight does not run from his fate!" shouted a half-naked, red faced Jon as him and Tyrion ran down the steps of the Inn as fast as they could, screams of pursuit behind them.
"It is not as common a pastime as you may think, but you may like it nonetheless," said hairy Art as he handed him a basic set of bone carving tools.
"A weapon of a dying age" said dark robed Liosh as he gazed at the spent Fire Spear held between his palms, "Clever tricks and mechanisms, an obsolete weapon after the gifts of the Red Comet…" he muttered as he dropped the spear and shattered it.
"May it serve as a reminder. When you sit upon that Throne, remember which metal came first… Copper, not Iron," said Archmaester Perestan, gazing at the scepter and beyond.
"STILL WE STAND!" roared the Colonel Jin, his lungs strong despite his emaciated form.
"You have good judgment and a capacity to hear others and actually learn. I've been sailing with the Captain for years and I know for a fact he's a good judge of character… If he thinks you'll make a fine captain, I'll believe him," he said as the Eastern Winds soared through the waves.
"Please stop! What did I ever do to you?!" cried Petyr in agony as his flesh was sculpted in thoughtful torment.
"But… I can still see it… how?!" Benerro said in despair as he leaned closer to the flames, "I see your fate young Joffrey! A great wedding and a mean mind, a purpled face and an accusing mother, a trial for an Imp and a burial for a King, the seeds you planted blooming in the fields of war and death and destruction…" Benerro roared as the flames consumed his face.
"I like the new you!" smiled Myrcella, before giving him a kiss on the cheek.
"Think of your men Colonel, think of Shah, Hu, Sabu and all the rest, think of all the people under your responsibility… they'll all be dead within the week. You know this…" Jhos said as he took a deep breath, centering himself before taking off a large, silver medallion inscribed with arcane runes and leaving it to his side. "Give that to High Moon Vhenzi back at the Dawn Fort… tell him I did not falter," he said as Joffrey readied the ritual dagger.
"I'm not going to let you kill yourself over a damned sword!" roared the Hound.
"Ah, it's been known to have that effect on people. 'Man in the Sea of Despair', they call it. Legends used to say the whole room was covered in more carvings and symbols," said Archmaester Guyne, thoughtful.
Varham smiled as tombs rattled and wights shrieked, "The Cycle begins anew young soldier… driven by forces far, far beyond the ken of mortal understanding… they come at last, to repeat once again their ancient duty… like they always have, like they always will…" he whispered as the ground itself shook, as the time of Destruction was upon them.
"You have to learn and find a deep respect for yourself. Not a kind of arrogance, but an understanding that you are who you are, and that only you have the means to change yourself," Said Ned with a serene if fatherly smile.
"But, Joffrey… What is a different song if not a sequence of changed keys?" Sansa asked him, her keen, vivid blue eyes boring into his own.
.-
AN: Soon...
Tomorrow though. Sorry for the brief appetizer, but the coming chapter has been a pain to get right. Headache inducing even. Well worth it I think, but damn its been three days massaging my head...
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 37: Answers. New
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Chapter 37: Answers.
Spoiler: Music.
The deep sea storms of the Sunset Sea were things of raw power and emotion, amorphous beings with no purpose nor direction but a will to exist, towering waves whose crests sought to blot out the stars above as they rumbled in the grave tones of last whispers and forgotten omens.
Joffrey somehow understood that raw, primal call, that deep throated bellow of existence as great waves emerged from the depths like phantasms of the past, carrying his small yacht upwards towards the heavens only to fall short, a deep sigh escaping the sea as the wave lost strength and it sought to return back to its restless sleep, its longing denied by other great waves which slammed against each other in primeval fury, unleashing great explosions of salt water which tore into sails and slit open terrible, burning wounds.
As the raw force of nature sought to destroy itself in fury and storm, and as he slammed a cutlass against a rope and the remains of sail flew away never to be seen again, as titan waves crashed and great explosions of saltwater buffeted him clean off the mast, as the stars above were framed by churning water… Joffrey felt he could understand, to some small degree, the melody of existence itself. It was only there, in between the raging of sea and sky, pelted by freezing rain and illuminated by great cataclysms of thunder which illuminated the whole horizon as far as the eye could see and beyond… it was only when the melody assaulted him so greatly that he could hear it.
As a deaf man could feel the rhythm of a song by the way the drums thrummed against chest and guts if it were loud enough, so could Joffrey barely glimpse the subtle beat of existence inherent to all things. Existence was a thing that could not be explained by language, it was a melody that ebbed and thrummed beyond sight or sound… the closest sensation Joffrey could begin to liken it to were the timeless moment between inhalation and exhalation, a subtle weightless thing-moment-place somewhere between his lungs and his throat, a fraction of a millisecond that could sometimes, somehow, be more.
His small ship skirted over the titan waves quickly, propelled by great hurricanes of wind as he followed the invisible line westwards from his point of origin, the place where everything had begun, the place where he'd first died and the place where he'd since been reborn… the Red Keep.
West he sailed, following the orders from his creators, deep into the Sunset Sea, deeper than any had done before. He endured storms which would have broken up Brandon the Shiprwight's galleys into tinder, squalls which had once even propelled Joffrey himself out of his ship and up into the air before crashing him against the dark seas, the waters strangling him almost caringly.
He ate what he could fish and drank greedily from the constant storms, his body withering away even as it became taught like worked leather, his body becoming one with his soul. His ship leaked and ailed, and once he saw a great kraken in the distance, of a scale with the titanic waves which trundled over the sea. Joffrey saw its great grey form only once, cataclysmic lightning illuminating it in all its breath taking grandiosity, with its great tentacles each the size of the Hightower and its huge eyes which seemed to stare at him unflinchingly. Joffrey had stared back in awed wonder at the being in between the heavy rain and the wind, but when the skies split apart again in ear renting thunder and spindly, horizon spanning streaks of light… the being had disappeared.
Joffrey felt strange during the quiet moments of sunshine and calm winds, like a child shifting uneasily in between its mother's lullabies. He spent time with Stars, petting its salt drenched silver fur and enjoying the sound of his purring, the lion seemingly sharing his state of mind as he spent hours perched at the tip of the boat, gazing at the horizon in silence as Joffrey meditated. He knew too that a transformation of their existence was at hand.
Other times he spent with Brightroar, wondering at its purpose now that the time to use it, he supposed, approached. The golden lion pommel had bleached and acquired a silvered tone as it anchored itself into his soul, slotting deep within and leaving him with a connection to the depths of his being. Its faint, yellow gold aura still seemed prevalent within the Valyrian metal, resting snuggly against its runed dragon bone hilt. Sometimes he'd practice with the sword in wide, graceful strokes which had more in common with meditation than drill. It felt strange to wield a bastard sword with both hands, and its deceptively light weight had more than once ended with it slipping his fingers and splashing into the seas.
He sailed with map and compass, astrolabe and ruler, mind and hand straining to the limit as he kept following the line in the map that spanned from King's Landing to the uncharted waters of the Sunset Sea. He sailed and sailed and sailed until the earth decided to end him, the sky itself descending against the seas and unleashing a storm of such proportions that the air seemed scarcely breathable in between the rain, waves that dwarfed comprehension itself finally managing to defeat his half blind steering and pummeling him to the depths of the sea, cracking his ship in half and more.
As he drowned, Joffrey had the strangest certainty that this third trip would be the last, sun-like lightning illuminating the depths themselves and the mighty silhouette which crossed his awareness, from vigil to sleep or sleep to vigil he couldn't tell.
.-
His eyes didn't want to open at first, and his body felt strangely purged, devoid of joy and angst. He strained to hear a distant roaring, almost nonexistent, so far it was. As he focused on the sound, he realized it was coming closer, a highly pitched sibilant shriek accompanied by a gravelly throttled thrum which seemed to speed for him, becoming greater and greater the more he focused upon it.
The sibilant shriek maintained its intensity as the grave one receded, only for it to come again. Stronger and stronger it thrummed until it exploded in agony, its remains splattering against his body as felt his hands again. He raised one hand haltingly up his side, feeling something jagged and hard, coarse to the touch and drenched in water. He kept lifting his hand until it reached his face and he scraped the encrusted salt from his eyelids, managing to open his eyes just as the deep thrumming reached a crescendo once more and he saw a great wave slam against the rock he was laying upon, ferociously spilling its guts upon it and himself.
He realized the high pitched shrieking was the sound of the wind itself as it passed through the jagged landscape before him. Another wave crashed and pelted him with its remains as he looked back at the thunderous sea swirling behind him, the horizon lost to mist and storm. He turned back his head as he stood up and saw that which lay in front, a black, oily stone construction that began after the artificial reefs carved around it ended, a perfectly triangular black shape lying on its back in perfect geometry, like a great black three pointed starfish atop jagged black stone. Its contours seemed chipped and weathered, no ornamentation marring its form as it stretched over the waves like a monolith, only a few stories tall above the waterline… but below…
Below…
Joffrey followed its length down and down and down until the dark seas shrouded its form entirely and impeded his vision, the triangular tower continuing beyond the murky, stormy waters beyond his sight and the light from the moon and stars, only the occasional flash of lightning from above giving Joffrey glimpses of the Structure as it kept going down and down and down until even the great searing light of the enraged thunderstorm above grew too dim, and for all Joffrey knew the great black triangle reached down to the bowels of the earth, or perhaps the material entrance to the Purple itself.
He stumbled amongst the shoals of black rock as the waves tried to pull him down, spotting bits and pieces of his ship here and there. He spotted a piece of his cabin as he made his way towards the Triangle, the sight making him loose focus as he stumbled, crawling on all four when he lost his balance. When he stood up again he realized too late the great snarling wave which was upon him and he fell head first into the seas, powerful currents grasping him like chains as he swam desperately for the rocks. Primal lightning illuminated the Triangle as he looked down in between the swirl of bubbles and foam, an eternal tunnel with no end.
He broke the surface with a harrowing breath, hands tight on a section of the black reefs. He climbed the jagged surface haltingly as thunder roared in might and the harsh rain pelted him with ice.
He shivered from the cold as he reached some sort of ramp which climbed the sides of the Triangle, spotting a bit of flotsam stuck between the ramp and a particularly big piece of jagged reef. He stumbled towards it, the baleful moon making his skin seem a pale yellow as his trembling hands held one of the sealed, small crates which he'd hammered shut from before he departed Westeros. He tried to pry it open with his hands, waves bursting left and right and soaking him to the bone again as the storm raged and the wild wind shrieked and stole his body heat.
He gave a muffled scream as two of his nails broke, standing up and roaring as thunders screamed and Brightroar materialized itself in a twirl of purple fractals and an explosion of salt water, coming down on the crate and slicing a corner of it like bread.
Joffrey tossed the sword aside as he kneeled and retrieved the medium sized backpack from the crate, securing it quickly as he stumbled up the ramp, fighting against the force of the blows from the sea around him. He reached the top of the Triangle, gazing around him and seeing the same stormy seas wherever he looked, titan waves traversing the horizon as the wind bit into bones and he breathed hard, lowering his gaze to look at the interior of the Triangle. He shivered as he slid own the interior wall of the Triangle, gazing at the entrance of a black tunnel.
The tunnel which had waited eons for him.
He shivered as he retrieved a small, half soaked blanket and wrapped it around his back, leaning against the wall as he tore into a piece of beef jerky. He took a deep gulp of water from a small wineskin, closing his eyes as he took a deep breathe.
In…
Timeless existence beckoned as he lost himself to oblivion for a fraction of a second.
Out…
He opened his eyes as he stood up, retrieving a smallish oil lantern from the backpack as he walked towards the triangle shaped tunnel.
The gentle, flickering flame of the lantern illuminated the weathered black stone as Joffrey found himself walking down a set of stairs, every thirtieth step ending at an angle and twisting to his right. His breath echoed strangely within the staircase, a muffled sound which rebounded down the Triangle almost eternally even thought it sounded vaguely muted, strangled.
Water trickled down twin gutters at his sides, scurrying and waking him up when he'd stopped to sleep, the lantern's light absent, only the echo of his breath and the slipping water keeping him company as he slept a dreamless sleep.
Two times he stopped to sleep, and the cold grew muted the more he descended. His footsteps echoed down infinity as he turned right and went down the stairs, right and down the stairs, right and down the stairs and Joffrey thought he'd reached the next stage of his existence, an eternal penance through the dark stone tunnels as he went right and down the stairs, right and down the stairs, right and down the stairs until the stairs ended and Joffrey abruptly found himself in the bowels of the earth itself.
There was no sound but the water which sprinted down the gutters, quickly disappearing through unseen means and leaving him alone as he walked past the tunnel's end, entering a small hallway carved from the bedrock itself which wound through the earth in a very specific direction. Joffrey could hear absolutely nothing but his quickened breath, the place seemed as silent as a tomb as the hairs at the nape of his neck stood on edge and his hands trembled, his eyed wide open as he prepared to meet them.
The hallway ended in a great chamber carved from the bedrock, filled with a forest of black pillars which bored into the rock above and below, the entire chamber filled with scribbles from top to bottom. Five hallways departed from the chamber in directions which seemed either random… or extremely guided. He traversed through the chamber in slow steps, the periphery of his vision imagining eldritch shadows waiting for him behind each pillar, beckoning…
He knelt, trying to decipher the carvings wasted away with time. He walked throughout the whole chamber, trying to decipher the same repeating pattern from its remains.
"Speak," he said as he realized, gazing at the roof of the Structure, the lantern barely illuminating its vaulted ceiling and the weathered inscriptions above which eons before would have read but a single word.
'SPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAK SPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAK SPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAKSPEAK, they read.
'Speak within the Structure and we shall answer', Joffrey remembered the message, his heart taught as if on a string as he opened his mouth and found he had no voice.
He spent and eternity like that, his heart hammering against his chest as a low keened sound emerged from his voice, blinking rapidly before he swallowed and he spoke.
"What am I?! Why did you create me?! How do I end this curse?!" he suddenly shouted, his trembling hands balling into fists as he held them close to his mouth and he gave voice to anguish and despair and his desire to know why.
His breath sounded like thunder to his ears, and he almost drowned himself as he tried to hold it in, trying to hear but the merest whisper in the wind, as his eyes bored on the hallways which might contain them.
As minutes came and went though, Joffrey gave an unsteady step forwards, and then another, and another as he haltingly made his way towards the first tunnel from left to right. He walked through it almost in a trance, watching the millions of tiny black pillars that reinforced the tunnel through its sides and roof. The tunnel seemed to go in a very specific direction, winding and twisting as the chamber kept getting farther away, until the tunnel finally leveled itself as if they had found what they wanted, only continuing for a few steps straight ahead until Joffrey found himself in front of a great black slab of rock, with plentiful manifolds carved into it. It didn't look like a door, perched as it was but a couple of steps above the ground as if it were a decorative painting.
Nothing adorned it nor anything else, and the tunnel ended there… as if the slab of black rock were the reason for the Triangle and the Chamber's… the entire Structure's reason of existence. Joffrey's trembling hands grasped the manifolds as he pulled back, channeling all his strength and fury and despair and loneliness and madness and grief and joy as he roared, pulling the great weight until it balanced itself on the edge.
"What am I?! Why did you create me?! How do I end this?!" he roared as he pulled the black slab finally out of position and he stepped to the side, letting it fall backwards on the ground.
Joffrey stepped upon the black, fallen slab as he gazed at the mural which had been covered by it but a few seconds before, a mural carved for him. No pictures nor drawings it depicted, no constellations nor stars, no symbolism nor clues but the carved letters of the common tongue chiseled with clear purpose into the black stone, only lightly deteriorated due to the passage of time.
The trembling light of the lantern illuminated the carvings as Joffrey read his answers.
'YOU ARE PART OF AN UNFINISHED WEAPONS SYSTEM DESIGNED TO END THE PHENOMENA DESCRIBED BY HUMANITY AS 'THE LONG NIGHT', A RECURRING EXTINCTION EVENT THAT CLEANSES THIS PLANET'S BIOSPHERE IN PERIODIC NON REGULAR INTERVALS DETERMINED BY COMPLEX ASTRONOMICAL PHENOMENA. YOU ARE BUT THE LATEST ITERATION OF THIS SYSTEM, GIVEN FORM JUST BEFORE THE ONSET OF THE CYCLE'S NEXT STAGE.'
Joffrey took in a strangled breath, a hand holding his mouth tightly as his wild eyes kept going down and reading the words, the clear cut script burning into his soul.
'YOU WERE CREATED/CATALYZED/ENGINEERED/GIVEN SOUL/FORMED FROM RAW ENERGY TO FULFILL THIS TASK, BUT NOT BY OUR WILL. WE SUSPECT YOU WERE CREATED BY THE SAME ENTITY OR ENTITIES RESPONSIBLE FOR THE LONG NIGHT/THE CYCLE, BUT THEIR ERA LIES MORE DISTANT TO US THAN YOURS IS TO OURS BY AT LEAST SEVERAL ORDERS OF MAGNITUDE, MAKING DIRECT POST-OBSERVATION OF THEIR TIMES IMPOSSIBLE TO US. YOU COULD BE THE PRODUCT OF BEINGS BEYOND GEOMETRIC COMPREHENSION WHICH HAVE SINCE LEFT OUR PLANE OF EXISTENCE, HAVE BEEN SUBSUMED BY THE CYCLE OR OTHER EQUIVALENT PHENOMENA, OR HAVE OTHERWISE LOST INTEREST FOR EVENTS IN OUR LOCAL PLANE OF REALITY. SMALL TRACES OF THEIR WORKS AND DEEDS ARE APPARENT TO US AS OF TIME OF WRITING, BUT HAVE FADED AWAY ENTIRELY BY YOUR ERA. YOU COULD ALSO BE THE UNFINISHED WORK OF ANOTHER CIVILIZATION SEEKING TO STOP THE CYCLE, WE KNOW OF AT LEAST TWENTY SEVEN DISTINCT PRECURSOR CULTURES WHICH SPANNED THIS WORLD'S NORTHERN HEMISPHERE BEFORE OUR TIME, BUT IT IS LIKELY THERE HAS BEEN COUNTLESS MORE BEYOND THEM, TOO MANY TO ENUMERATE. THERE IS SIMPLY NO WAY TO TELL FOR CERTAIN. LINE OF INQUIRY ULTIMATELY IRRELEVANT.
Joffrey sat down as he stared at the carvings, blinking slowly and growing dizzy as he reached the last part and his last question, his hard breathing sounding like waves to his ears as he gazed at the black wall, his trembling hand aiming the questing light of the lantern.
'METHOD OF AUTHORIZED TERMINATION REMAINS UNCLEAR, THE PHENOMENA YOU REFER TO AS 'THE PURPLE' HAS ALL THE HALLMARKS OF AN UNFINISHED/RUSHED CREATION. THE TRANS-ARRAY IS LIKELY DESIGNED TO FOLD ITSELF UPON THE COMPLETION OF ITS TASK/THE ENDING OF THE CYCLE, BUT WE ARE NOT CERTAIN. THE ONLY WAY TO KNOW MORE IS BY THE SELF-EXPLORATION OF THE CURRENT ITERATION'S MAIN MODULE. YOU. UNAUTHORIZED TERMINATION IS CERTAINLY POSSIBLE AND THE MOST STATISTICALLY PROBABLE OUTCOME FOR YOU/YOUR ITERATION, AS IT HAS BEEN SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL. ALL PREVIOUS ITERATIONS/YOUR PREDECESSORS HAVE BEEN SUBSEQUENTLY CONSUMED BY THE LONG NIGHT'S ATTENDANT SUB PROCESSES AND RECYCLED INTO RAW ENERGY TO FUEL OTHER, SECONDARY TASKS. THIS CAN BE ACHIEVED BY ANY OF THE CYCLE'S MOBILE PLATFORMS IF A PHYSICAL CONNECTION WITH SUFFICIENT CHARGE IS ESTABLISHED WITH YOUR BODY. WE RECOMMEND EXTREME CAUTION WHEN ENGAGING IN DIRECT OPERATIONS AGAINST THE CYCLE. FURTHERMORE, THE ARRAY IS ESPECIALLY VULNERABLE TO ENEMY INTERVENTION WHEN AT THE ONSET OF RECLAMATION.
IF YOU ARE ASSIMILATED BY THE CYCLE, YOU/YOUR ITERATION WILL BE FORCIBLY SHUT DOWN, AND THE EXTINCTION OF ALL CURRENT SENTIENT/NEARSENTIENT LIFE WITHIN THIS PLANET WILL BE ASSURED SHORTLY THEREAFTER. WHAT YOU REFER TO AS THE PURPLE WILL ENTER A STATE OF DORMANCY AS IT RECHARGES THE VAST AMOUNTS OF ENERGY NEEDED TO CREATE AND SUSTAIN AN ITERATION, FEEDING ON BOTH PLANAR AND EXTRA-PLANAR TRANSIENT BACKGROUND RADIATION, BIDING ITS TIME UNTIL IT CAN CREATE ANOTHER SET OF HOSTS FROM A SUITABLY INTELLIGENT SPECIES WHICH FULFILLS ITS PROGRAMMED CRITERIA. ONCE ENERGY RESERVES ARE RECHARGED AND A SUITABLE HOST SPECIES EMERGES INTO SAPIENCE UPON THIS PLANET'S SURFACE OR SUB SURFACE, THE PURPLE WILL MAKE USE OF THE DISRUPTION CAUSED BY THE ONSET OF THE NEXT LONG NIGHT TO RESTART FROM ITS DORMANCY AND RENEW ITS WEAPONRY IN THE FORM OF NEW HOSTS.'
There the text ended, just as the black relief did, as if the black stone could not have been expanded but a single inch more to the right. Joffrey tried to breathe deeply as he hyperventilated, both hands covering his mouth as he stared at the black wall, reading the words again and again until they became seared in his memory.
He had come here for the closure of his existence, the final acts of his long life, to find answers to his circumstances and an informed end to his suffering… and he'd found himself caught in a colossal, titanic, no, even words failed to describe the sheer magnitude of the struggle which had raged upon this earth for millennia upon millennia, eons upon eons of vast civilizations orders of magnitude more advanced than any Joffrey had ever seen, all ground down to dust by the Long Night, itself but a construct of elder beings literally beyond his comprehension.
Joffrey walked back to the Chamber in a daze, trying to process the enormity of the task, a task even bigger than he'd thought, bigger than he could have imagined. Not even nightmares could have been able to convey the sheer titanic struggle of which he was but the latest in a long line of failed heroes...
No… Weapons.
He didn't understand the particular meaning of a few words, but what they aimed for seemed clear… indeed, the gist of the message seemed as clear as water. He had been created by the Purple, a thing which sounded strangely non… sentient he supposed, more similar to a complex Myrish clock than a man or a Shryke or some other thinking species. He was an unfinished weapon of some sort designed to counter The Cycle, The Long Night, The End of All Things… a defective weapon which had failed countless times before and would likely do so again.
Joffrey sat in the middle of the Chamber, hit by overwhelming waves of alternating awe and dread, shaken by the sheer magnitude of the Cosmos which had just revealed itself, a vast sphere of existence layered upon existence in a recursive pattern that, for all he knew, stretched to infinity.
What might there be beyond the creators of the Long Night and the Purple? He thought. Are there beings and meanings as beyond them as they are beyond me? He wondered, his form slack as he lost himself in the paralysis of the thought.
He shook his head slowly, very slowly as he came back to his reality, surprised to find the light from his lantern dimming as is throat ached, dry as he'd never before felt it.
He drank a bit of water, not even an ounce of hunger within him as the few sips made him dizzy and nauseated, shaking his head again before he refilled the oil lantern.
A picture was starting to emerge, a glimmer of understanding threading throughout his soul even as new questions emerged from his consciousness and what he thought the limits of the cosmos and existence itself opened beyond comprehension.
… But if they didn't create me, what is their role? Why give me this information? And the bone tablet? Who are they? Why go through all of this? Where are they? How are we talking like this? The questions kept barreling through his mind as he stood back up.
"I don't understand…" he trailed off, shaking his head once more as he straightened and shouted as clearly as he could.
"Who are you? And where are you?... How can we speak like this? Why did you make me run through this whole… pointless journey?! Why are you helping me at all?!" he shouted, the dread and the confusion almost overwhelming him.
He needed to know why…
He hesitated for a moment before quickly walking through the second hallway, never before seeing such a reinforced construction of their make. It was filled with reinforcing pillars that plunged from the ground and disappeared when they reached the ceiling, a forest of black pillars surrounding the Chamber and the hallways, everywhere. It was clear the entire Structure… the Triangle and the Chamber and the tunnels all were but the tiniest endpoint of a colossal construction built from the ground up to stand throughout the ages, more than any of the ruins he had visited before. Joffrey suspected even the most radical of musings in the most nonsensical works of maesterly architects at the Citadel could not even approach the work of engineering this endeavor had likely required…
Even after such a mighty work of otherworldly construction, Joffrey could see sections of the walkway which had collapsed, entire pillars which had given way, even the carved words or letters which lay everywhere along the tunnel seemed eroded beyond all comprehension.
The tunnel or walkway again seemed strangely on point, taking a series of precise turns and dips before leveling off and ending in a short hallway which contained another black stone slab. He gave a muffled roar as he grabbed the manifolds and pulled back, the long effort finally paying off he stood to the side and the slab fall, clearing the black carved letters in the wall.
He read silently as he illuminated the words with the oil lantern, almost wishing for the obscure meaning of the previous carvings as he gazed at the slightly chipped and weathered words from times of ancient past.
'DIFFICULT AND TOO EXTENSIVE TO EXPLAIN PROPERLY. WE SHALL PROVIDE A SIMPLIFIED ANSWER TO ALL QUESTIONS: WE ARE A SPECIES OF ORIGINALLY SEA DWELLING BEINGS WHO DEVELOPED SENTIENCE/THE CAPACITY FOR REASONED THOUGHT AND SELF EXAMINATION. IN TIME, WE ACHIEVED COMPLETE TEMPORARY MASTERY OVER THIS PLANET AS ITS DOMINANT SPECIES.'
Joffrey shook his head in shock, blinking quickly as he read.
'FROM YOUR POINT OF VIEW, OUR SPECIES WENT EXTINCT HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS OF YEARS AGO. FROM OUR OWN, WE ARE GLIMPSING A POSSIBLE FUTURE AND PREPARING IT ACCORDING TO OUR WILL. SIMPLIFICATION: WE ARE WATCHING YOU SPEAK YOUR QUESTIONS IN WHAT FOR US CONSTITUTES A DISTANT FUTURE, AND THE ANSWERS YOU ARE READING RIGHT NOW WILL BE CARVED AND EMPLACED WITH THE KNOWLEDGE THAT YOU WILL, IN TIME, FIND THEM. THIS FACT TIES WITH ALL YOUR REMAINING QUESTIONS. SIMPLIFICATION: TIME IS BOTH MALLEABLE AND PERCEPTIBLE, AND OUR VISION OF POSSIBLE FUTURES GROWS DIM AND BLURRED AFTER ONLY A FEW THOUSAND YEARS, EYESIGHT-LIKE PRECISION DEVOLVING INTO BARELY MORE THAN WHAT YOU WOULD CALL STATIC PAINTINGS AND DISTORTED WHISPERS, AND EVEN WORSE FOR EVERY GREATER ALLOTMENT OF TIME WHICH FOLLOWS. THIS BRINGS US TO YOU AND THE REASONS BEHIND OUR AID.'
Joffrey scratched his hair almost compulsively, stopping for a second before continuing.
'YOUR ERA IS AN ANOMALY IN THE SKEIN OF TIME. PERHAPS THE PURPLE HAS A METACOMPONENT WHICH IS ITSELF ANOTHER CYCLE, BOOSTING NORMAL OPERATIONS ONCE EVERY EON. PERHAPS ANOTHER OUT OF CONTEXT FORCE SIMILAR TO THE LONG NIGHT OR THE PURPLE IS EXERTING ABNORMAL INFLUENCE ON YOUR TIMES, OR PERHAPS THIS IS SIMPLY A NATURAL OCCURRENCE. ULTIMATELY IRRELEVANT. WHATEVER THE CASE, THE OBSERVATIONAL QUALITY OF YOUR ERA IS UNPARALLELED, THUS PRESENTING A WINDOW OF OPPORTUNITY FOR US TO EXERT THE LARGEST DEGREE OF INFLUENCE OVER IT. WE KNOW THAT THERE WILL BE AT LEAST THREE DISTINCT CYCLES BETWEEN YOUR TIME AND OURS, BUT WE HAVE ABANDONED HOPE FOR THEIR PLIGHT. FOR MULTIPLE REASONS, YOU ARE THE MOST STATISTICALLY LIKELY ITERATION OF THE PURPLE WITHIN OUR INFORMATIONAL HORIZON TO STOP/CEASE/DESTROY THE LONG NIGHT/THE CYCLE. TO THAT END WE HAVE WORKED TO GRANT YOU AID, MOSTLY IN THE FORM OF INFORMATION AS THE CYCLE SEEMS ADEPT AT INTERCEPTING COMPLEX TOOLS OR WEAPONS FROM ONE ERA TO THE NEXT.'
Joffrey shook his head again, holding it with his hands, "No… no," he whispered, "This doesn't make any sense, how can you see possible futures… and plural at that?!" He asked himself in supreme confusion, unable to stop reading.
'KEEP IN MIND: EVEN THOUGH YOUR ERA IS CLEARER TO US THAN ANY OTHER WE'VE OBSERVED BEFORE, OUR INFORMATION OF IT AND YOURSELF STILL LIES 'FOGGED' AND HEAVILY INTERFERED WITH. THERE ARE EXTREMELY FEW GEOGRAPHICAL LOCATIONS WHICH WE CAN OBSERVE DIRECTLY AND SOMEWHAT CONTINUALLY FROM OUR ERA TO YOURS, AND LOCATIONS WHICH ARE ALSO ACCESSIBLE TO YOU IN SOME MANNER ARE EVEN RARER. THIS IS IMPORTANT BECAUSE WITHOUT VISION WE CAN NOT GUARANTEE THAT WHATEVER INFORMATION WE'VE EMPLACED UPON THEM SHALL SURVIVE TO YOUR TIMES. THESE LOCATIONS ARE THE PLACES UPON WHICH WE HAVE CONSTRUCTED THE WAYPOINTS THAT ULTIMATELY GUIDED YOU HERE: THE LOCATION WHICH POSSESSES THE LEAST AMOUNT OF INTERFERENCE. EXPLANATION: THIS GEOGRAPHICAL LOCATION PROVIDES AN EVEN MORE DEFINITE VANTAGE POINT WITHIN YOUR ALREADY HIGHLY VISIBLE ERA, WHICH IS THE REASON WE CAN HEAR YOUR QUESTIONS CLEARLY. THIS ALSO MEANS WE CAN POSITION THE SLABS THAT HOLD THESE ANSWERS AS PRECISELY AS POSSIBLE WITHIN THE STRUCTURE, AIMING FOR THE EXTREMELY SCARCE LOCATIONS WHICH WE CAN BE CERTAIN SHALL SUFFER LITTLE DETERIORATION THROUGHOUT THE PASSAGE OF THE AGES.
OTHER MEANS TO CONTACT YOU BEYOND THIS LINE OF INQUIRY HAVE BEEN ATTEMPTED, BUT MOST HAVE RESULTED IN FAILURES. THE BONE TABLET AND ITS ACCOMPANYING MODIFICATIONS TO YOUR ESSENCE/SOUL WERE OUR DOING, A DESPERATE SECONDARY PLAN IN CASE THIS PARTICULAR FUTURE, -WHERE YOU HAVE SUCCESSFULLY FOLLOWED THE WAYPOINTS AND THIS STRUCTURE HAS ENDURED IN TIME-, WAS NOT TO BE/WAS DIVERTED/DID NOT PREDOMINATE. SUCH PLAN WILL BE TURNED OBSOLETE WITH THE INFORMATION THAT WILL BE GIVEN TO YOU BY THE END OF OUR EXCHANGE. A REPETITION IS UNLIKELY, FOR MORE THAN HALF OUR NUMBER WERE ESSENCE-HOLLOWED/SYPHONED DURING THE TABLET'S TRANSPOSITION, AND WE HAVE NOT THE REMAINING STRENGTH TO DO IT AGAIN.'
"Half your number… half your number of what?" Joffrey whispered as he stared at the wall, "Of your team? Of your sorcerers…" he trailed off, a sudden shiver raising the hairs at the nape of his neck, "Of your species?" he whispered.
'WHY: OUR REASONS ARE COMPLICATED AND A PROPER EXPLANATION WOULD CONSUME MORE DATA THAN WHICH HAS BEEN ALLOTTED FOR THIS COMPLEX. ULTIMATELY, OUR RACE AND CIVILIZATION WILL SOON BE NO MORE, FOR REASONS INDEPENDENT OF THE LONG NIGHT AND WHOLLY OUR OWN. IT IS OUR WISH THAT THE LIGHT OF CONSCIOUSNESS WILL ENDURE BEYOND THIS PLANET, AND FOR THIS YOU ARE OUR TOOL AND HOPE AS MUCH AS YOU ARE THE PURPLE'S. IN THE END, LINE OF INQUIRY IRRELEVANT.
WE RECOMMEND YOU USE THIS OPPORTUNITY TO ARM YOURSELF WITH AS MUCH RELEVANT INFORMATION -AS YOU WOULD SEE IT- AS POSSIBLE. WE COULD FILL TRILLIONS OF THESE CAVES IF WE HAD THE SPACE/RESOURCES FOR IT, AND STILL KNOWLEDGE WOULD BE LOST: ONLY YOU, WITH FULL VISION OF YOUR ERA, CAN TELL US WHAT INFORMATION YOU NEED EXPANDED UPON.'
Joffrey was shaking his head harder and harder as the mural ended, holding his head with both hands and pulling his hair out, "NoNoNO! This doesn't make any sense!" he screamed before he raced back through the tunnel.
If they're watching the future like that then it means they already know what I'll say… destiny does exist and nothing I do fucking matters! He thought, crazed as he sprinted out of the second tunnel and into the third, quickly reaching the black slab and pulling it with all his strength.
He screamed as he pulled, a scream of rage and angst as the black slab fell, revealing the black mural behind.
A black mural smooth as a pond, with not a single word etched upon it.
Joffrey shook his head like a dog with a rat, feeling the smooth stone with his hand over and over. He gazed again at the blank wall, confused and bereft of understanding as his other hand held his mouth.
So I do have agency? Because I didn't say anything then nothing appeared on the mural… but then how could they know I'd end up here in the first place?! He asked himself in frustration. It doesn't make any sense, he repeated inside his head, walking compulsively up and down the partly collapsed hallway. How can they see but not see the future?! Can there be such a thing as multiple futures? Is the Purple working under that assumption?! The questions threatened to overwhelm him as he walked back, his nails almost raking his face.
He finally gave up as he collapsed on the ground of the Chamber, taking deep gulps of air as he closed his eyes, centering himself.
Spoiler: Music.
In…
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Out…
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In…
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Out…
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In…
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Out…
…
He opened his eyes slowly, gazing at the black pillars. Maybe it was arrogance to try to comprehend such an incredibly complicated, complex thing. Maybe it was sheer human nature to be curious even if it made one mad… maybe his mind just wasn't built to comprehend the eldritch methods by which they had managed to set up the elaborate scheme to get him here…
Does it matter, in the end? He asked himself truthfully, gazing at the remaining hallways.
Yes, it does… Came the answer… but not more than the End of All Things and the destruction of everyone he'd ever loved, everyone's he'd ever hated, everyone he's ever seen or heard about, every living being which fulfills the extermination criteria of the Walkers, from Andals to First Men to Ibbenese to Brindled Men to Shrykes and who knew what else, perhaps not even the trees would live, in the end.
Joffrey stood up, the upheaval of emotions fading away he felt the weight of not only humanity but those that had come before and those who will come after. He felt the weight increase… and increase, and increase, and increase like never before until something inside him broke and a strange sort of serenity filled him.
The weight of worlds unending… there was a strange sort of honor there, a sort of Duty which dwarfed even the load he'd carried as Dawn Commander. A duty which elevated him as much as it crushed him, a purpose wrought into the creation of his very soul. He was a weapon created by eldritch might more potent than a million trillion Shadowbinders. He was the Hope for Tomorrow.
He was Dawn, and the trillions upon trillions of those already perished and trillions upon trillions of those yet to be born… he decided right then and there: they would not find him wanting.
"Still We Stand," He whispered suddenly.
The Structure echoed his oath back, down through the tunnels and up through the Triangle in a repeating pattern, 'STILLWESTANDSTILLWESTANDStillWeStandStillWeStandstillwestandstillwestandstillwestand…' it reverberated through the halls.
He was breathing hard, staring fixedly ahead, his eyes red as he remembered an old battlecry, one he'd abandoned as he lost his will. "For the Living," he whispered, his voice raw but firm to his ears. It was not an exaltation, not a denial, but acceptance.
The crushing emptiness that had plagued him for lives now still remained, eating at him, consuming him… but he let it in. He stopped fighting it even as he accepted it. If this was his purpose, then so be it. If he finished his transformation into a hollowed out husk of a man, then so be it. He would keep going come magic or intrigue, despair or self-loathing, as he'd promised himself before but failed. He would accept the suffering and the horror, for there was no escaping it. He would die fulfilling his duty as Ned would have wanted, as Yham and Shah and Jin and Jhos and all the others would have wanted, like all the versions of Tyrion and Sandor that he'd never see again would have wanted… And if he failed, then he would have his rest anyway.
Joffrey would have lied if he'd said the prospect didn't fill him with horror, with a harrowing, choking dread, the prospect of continuing with the curse, to be forgotten by friends and family and comrades in arm, to return again and again and again to the body of a simpering, pathetic sadist, the prospect of continuing his cycle of war and death and anguish and physical torment… but the prospect that it would end, even if with him gaping at a Walker sword as it pierced his heart, gave him some strange sort of serenity which had been missing before. If he fell apart… as he fell apart, he'd do so while fulfilling his duty. His purpose.
Joffrey wiped the lone tear from his cheek, taking another breath before gazing up. If he was to fulfill his purpose, then he'd need knowledge, knowledge of his enemies. To know that which one fought was wisdom older than man, and he didn't need a celebrated general's sayings to understand that.
He paced around the Chamber as his eyes narrowed, thinking hard as he stopped thinking like a man and started thinking as a weapon should, for that he was.
"I need more general information… In practical terms, how does The Cycle work from beginning to end? I need information on its patterns, as well as whatever weaknesses you know of, both tactical and strategic," he asked the Past.
He followed the path of the third tunnel, and came upon the fallen slab and the barren black wall, same as he'd left it a moment before.
He stared at it, confused before he nodded, No, it makes sense… or should make sense, in a twisted sort of way… I've already opened and wasted this potential answer… I should check the fourth hallway.
He shook his head as he emerged from the third and walked through the winding path of the fourth hallway, realizing that for the first time in years, lives… for the first time in a long while, his actions had consequences that extended beyond a particular life. The answers the… he supposed Deep Ones was a name as fitting as any other… The burial of answers the Deep Ones would carry out was outside and beyond the scope of the Purple, beyond the resetting of the World. He would have only these few answers and then one last question for the fifth hallway… after that, no more.
He held his breath as the fourth slab fell to the ground, and he opened himself conceptually to the knowledge of those that came before.
'CONVENTIONAL TACTICAL WEAKNESSES: THE CYCLE ITSELF SEEMS INVULNERABLE TO WEAPONRY FAR IN ADVANCED OF WHAT EVEN OUR CIVILIZATION IS CURRENTLY CAPABLE OF, BUT ITS PLATFORMS CAN BE EFFECTIVELY COUNTERED IN A MANNER OF WAYS. SEVERAL DISTINCT FORMS OF DIRECTED ENERGY MANIPULATION, WHAT YOUR CIVILIZATION HAS GROUPED UNDER THE TERM 'MAGIC', CAN PIERCE ANY PLATFORM'S ARMOR AND DISRUPT ITS CONNECTION TO THE CYCLE. CERTAIN MOLECULAR STRUCTURES CAN ALSO ACHIEVE THIS, THOUGH ALL BUT OBSIDIAN ARE TOO UNSTABLE FOR PRACTICAL USE. BEING AN EXTREMELY ENERGY CONSCIOUS CONSTRUCT, THE CYCLE'S PLATFORMS CAN BE INDUCED TO RETREAT MOMENTARILY IF IT DEEMS ITS ENERGY LOSS AS GRAVER THAN ITS ESTIMATED BATTLEFIELD GAIN, THOUGH FREQUENT USE OF THIS TACTIC WILL EVENTUALLY MEAN AN ESCALATION OF FORCE. SUFFICIENT BLUNT FORCE TRAUMA CAN ALSO RENDER ITS PLATFORMS INOPERABLE, THOUGH THE AMOUNT OF FORCE NECESSARY TO ACHIEVE A MISSION-KILL IS LIKELY TO INCREASE AFTER EACH ESCALATION.'
'CONVENTIONAL STRATEGIC WEAKNESSES: IN MANY WAYS, THE CYCLE IS A THING BEYOND OUR MEANS OF UNDERSTANDING, WITH MANY SUB PROCESSES RUNNING IN PARALLEL ACROSS THE PLANAR SPECTRUM. IT IS EVEN POSSIBLE THAT METHODICAL XENOCIDE BE A MERE SIDE EFFECT OF ITS ACTUAL PURPOSE. REGARDLESS, IT IS USEFUL TO NOTE THE LACK OF HIGHER DIRECTION IN THE CYCLE'S PATTERNS, WHICH SEEM TOO RIGID AND INFLEXIBLE TO ACCOUNT FOR SENTIENCE. IN THIS SENSE, YOU COULD LIKEN THE CYCLE TO A MACHINE WITH ONLY A LIMITED NUMBER OF PROBLEM SOLVING SOLUTIONS. THIS CAN MAKE IT PREDICTABLE, AND MANY VICTIMS OF THE CYCLE HAVE SUCCEEDED IN SLOWING DOWN ITS PURPOSE WITH LATERAL-THINKING STRATEGIES AND TACTICS, WHICH THE LONG NIGHT SEEMS ILL-EQUIPPED TO HANDLE IF IT HAS NOT ENCOUNTERED THEM BEFORE IN THAT VERY SAME CYCLE, FALLING BACK ON BRUTE-FORCE ESCALATION IF RESISTANCE PROVES TOO EFFECTIVE. THE CYCLE CAREFULLY HUSBANDS ITS ENERGY, AND SEEMS SLOW TO ESCALATE THE POWER OF ITS WEAPONRY AS LONG AS ITS CURRENT STRATEGY STILL SUCCEEDS MORE THAN IT FAILS. THIS FACT CAN BE USED TO DRAG OUT AN EXTERMINATION AND BUY TIME FOR OTHER STRATAGEMS TO ENTER THE STRUGGLE, THOUGH THERE IS ALWAYS A LIMIT. WE SUSPECT THE LONG NIGHT HOLDS NO ACTUAL MEMORIES OF PREVIOUS EXTERMINATIONS/ERAS, AND IN A SENSE NEVER 'LEARNS' BEYOND WHAT IT ENCOUNTER DURING THE CYCLE AT HAND.'
"A machine," whispered Joffrey, mind heavy as he processed what he read, "A great piece of machinery with no operator, spinning and spinning through eons unending…" he trailed off, his mind staggering under the implications. The White Walkers had always seemed strangely mechanical to him, as if their souls were but pipes and valves with single minded purpose… It made sense now.
'SIMPLIFICATION: THE CYCLE OPERATES ON A TWO STAGE PROCESS ONCE ITS PROGRAMMING HAS DEEMED THE WORLD'S CURRENT BIOSPHERE AS DUE FOR EXTINCTION. THE FIRST STAGE IS ONE OF CALIBRATION, AS THE CYCLE MATERIALIZES MEASURING INSTRUMENTS ALONG THE PLANET'S NORTH POLE, FEEDING ON THE LEYLINES WHICH NATURALLY FLOW THROUGH ITS AXIS. THESE MEASURING INSTRUMENTS SUBVERT THE LOCAL INHABITANTS, USING THEM AS SCOUTING PLATFORMS TO CONFIRM THE STATE OF THE WORLD AND ITS FLORA AND FAUNA. THIS IS ALMOST ALWAYS A VIOLENT PROCESS, AND IN MOST CASES WILL BE ENOUGH TO EXTERMINATE THE LOCAL BIOSPHERE WITHOUT NEED FOR FURTHER ACTION.'
Joffrey found he couldn't breathe, his hand slowly making his way up to his mouth with a will of his own.
'IF THE EXTERMINATION ORDER IS CONFIRMED AND THE TARGET SPECIES' STILL LIVE, THE SCOUTING PLATFORMS WILL RETURN TO THE NORTH POLE AND HIBERNATE, LIMITING THEIR ACTIVITIES TO ONLY A FEW SUB PROCESSES, OF WHICH WE KNOW LITTLE ABOUT. WE KNOW A SIGNAL WILL BE SENT TO DEEP SPACE WHERE THE CYCLE'S PHYSICAL ENERGY REPOSITORY LIES DORMANT, ACTIVATING ITS ONBOARD PROPULSION SYSTEM AND SETTING COURSE FOR THIS PLANET'S ORBIT, A JOURNEY WHICH MAY TAKE THOUSANDS OF YEARS. ITS ARRIVAL ALWAYS HERALDS THE BEGINNING OF STAGE TWO.'
"… The Red Comet…" Joffrey realized in horror, trembling lantern illuminating the black words.
'ONCE THE REPOSITORY IS WITHIN RANGE OF THE PLANET, IT WILL BEGIN TRANSFERRING ITS VAST STORES OF ENERGY TO THE CYCLE'S CURRENT PLATFORMS BY MEANS UNKNOWN, WHO WILL THEN MAKE USE OF IT AUTONOMOUSLY FOR A VARIETY OF TASKS, SUCH AS THE MANIPULATION OF THE PLANET'S CLIMATE IN STRATEGIC AND TACTICAL ROLES, THE REANIMATION OF PROGRESSIVELY OLDER CORPSES, AND THE CREATION OF MORE STANDARD AND SPECIALIZED PLATFORMS TO CARRY OUT ITS DESIGNS. WHAT COMES NEXT VARIES GREATLY DEPENDING ON THE PLANET'S CURRENT INHABITANTS, BUT IN DUE TIME THE OUTCOME IS THE SAME: EXTINCTION. THE CYCLE'S MOBILE PLATFORMS WILL ADVANCE METHODICALLY FROM THE NORTH POLE, SLAYING LIVING ORGANISMS AND USING THEIR REMAINING ESSENCE TO REANIMATE THEIR CORPSES TO SERVE AS LIGHT INFANTRY OR SHOCK TROOPS, DEPENDING ON THE CORPSE IN QUESTION, ESCALATING ENERGY USE IF NECESSARY UNTIL ALL OBJECTIVES HAVE BEEN MET. EVENTUALLY, ALL TARGETED LIFE ON THE SURFACE AND SUBSURFACE WILL BE ANNIHILATED AND THE PLANET WILL IN ALL LIKELIHOOD ENTER AN ARTIFICIAL ICE AGE. THE VAST LEGIONS OF MOBILE PLATFORMS WHICH HAVE BEEN FORMED UP TILL NOW WILL DISSIPATE AND BE RECYCLED BACK INTO THE REPOSITORY, WHICH WILL THEN DEPART THIS PLANET'S ORBIT AND SET COURSE FOR A RANDOMIZED LOCATION IN DEEP SPACE WITHIN THE VICINITY OF THIS SOLAR SYSTEM'.
As he read the final sections of the paragraph, Joffrey imagined vast legions of Walkers gazing up at the sky, all over a silent, dead world filled with white… Staring silently at the fading form of the Red Comet as they melted into nothing.
"Gods…" he whispered, the word harsh in the midst of the quiet. He had long since left the realm of Gods and jumped into the abyss of things infinitely greater in scope and purpose, never to return.
"The First War for Dawn… The Children and the Heroes of the First Age… they were fighting their scouts…" he whispered in horrifying awe, his heart slamming into his rib cage as his throat was squeezed as if by a ghost, "They survived the First Stage, but now The Second Stage… oh gods…" he choked.
Joffrey walked out of the tunnel as if in a daze… he had accepted his purpose, but…
What can a man do against such cosmic power? Against a sort of construct which has endured eons unending… a construct which touched the stars themselves and the veils beyond… he thought, his eyes closed as he held his head with one hand, leaning on the edge of the Chamber. He felt for the presence of his soul, grabbing it and giving it form as he breathed. He smiled sadly as he kneeled and hugged Star's silvery white mane, scratching its neck as the lion purred in satisfaction.
… But I'm not a man, am I? I am 'part' of the Purple, part of a Weapon created to end cosmic power… however incomplete I am, there has to be a way… he thought as Stars keened.
He sat in the Chambers' floor, gazing at the remaining hallway, Stars' comforting presence by his side as the silver lion licked his vaguely red claws. He was still alone in a sense, as he'd long ago understood that Stars was but part of his soul given physical form, but the Silver Lion had a strange sort of majesty which soothed him anyway.
He returned Stars back inside him with a deep breath and a long blink of his eyes before he exhausted himself more than he already was, thinking hard about his remaining questions. One last answer awaited, and he took his time formulating what he needed to know.
He took another deep breath, gazing upwards as he spoke, "You said that I am but a part of an incomplete weapon, The Purple, designed to end The Cycle… what does that mean? How is the Purple supposed to work? I need you to tell me what is missing from it, how I can fix it, and how to end the Cycle permanently," he asked with a strong, clear voice, all questions ultimately aiming for the same comprehensive answer.
Tell me what to do, tell me how to kill them, he thought as he strode down the fifth and final hallway, arriving at the mural and pulling the black slab with a grunt of decisive effort.
'THE PURPLE SHADOWS THE LONG NIGHT AND OPERATES ON ITS OWN TWO STAGE PROCESS, FORMING ITS OFFENSIVE WEAPONRY AT THE EARLY ONSET OF EACH STAGE AND MAKING USE OF THE HEAVY DISRUPTION CAUSED BY THE CYCLE TO DO SO UNOPPOSED. EACH ITERATION HAS ITS OWN TASK. THE FIRST ONE'S GOAL SEEMS TO BE THE SURVIVAL OF ITS SPECIES AGAINST THE SCOUTING PLATFORMS, ENSURING MOBILIZATION OF THE CYCLE'S PHYSICAL ENERGY REPOSITORY. IF SUCCESSFUL, THE PURPLE WILL HIBERNATE UNTIL THE REPOSITORY BEGINS ITS FINAL APPROACH TO THIS SOLAR SYSTEM, AND CREATE ITS STAGE TWO WEAPONRY, ENGINEERED TO END THE CYCLE PERMANENTLY BY SOME METHOD WHOSE SPECIFICS ARE CLOUDED FROM OUR SIGHT. IT IS HERE THAT THE PURPLE SHOWS SIGNS OF DISRUPTION/RUSHED WORK/UNFINISHED CREATION, AS ITS VARIOUS MODULES AND MAIN ARMAMENT SEEMS SPLINTERED AND DISCONNECTED. ALL OUR EFFORTS AND INTERVENTIONS WITHIN YOUR ERA HAVE BEEN AIMED AT REPAIRING IT, SO THAT THIS CYCLE MAY BE THE LAST.'
THE PURPLE'S MAIN ARMAMENT/YOU SEEMS TO BE PRECISELY ENGINEERED AS A SORT OF DISRUPTION/SCRAMBLING WEAPON, DESIGNED TO INTERFERE IN SOME WAY WITH THE TRANSFER OF ENERGY FROM REPOSITORY TO MOBILE PLATFORMS, MANIPULATING IT IN SOME MANNER. THE SPECIFICS ARE CLOUDED BEYOND OUR SIGHT, BUT WE KNOW THAT SEVERAL PIECES OF THE PURPLE ARE EITHER MISSING OR DISCONNECTED FROM EACH OTHER. THERE ARE TWO MODULES WHICH BOTH FIT THIS CRITERIA AND ARE ALSO INDISPENSABLE FOR THE ACTIVATION OF THE PURPLE'S MAIN ARMAMENT. ONE IS A CONNECTOR MODULE, A PHYSICAL AND PLANAR TOOL DESIGNED TO ESTABLISH DIRECT, CONTROLLED CONNECTIONS WITH OBJECTS IN THE THEATER OF OPERATIONS. THIS PIECE WAS NEVER CREATED/SUFFERED EXISTENCE FAILURE, BUT WE HAVE FOUND A REASONABLE SUBSTITUTE IN THE FORM OF-
"Brightroar," said Joffrey aloud, nodding.
AN ANCESTRAL FAMILY SWORD OF YOUR BLOODLINE, PRE-ATTUNED TO YOU AND ALREADY PRIMED IN CERTAIN PLANAR ENERGIES, WHICH YOU HAVE ALREADY RETRIEVED AND ANCHORED. IT IS POSSIBLE THE CONNECTOR TOOL SERVES AS THE VECTOR OF ATTACK AGAINST THE CYCLE ITSELF, A PIERCING NEEDLE INTO ITS FUNCTIONING SO THAT THE MAIN ARMAMENT/YOU CAN ACTIVATE, BUT WE ARE NOT CERTAIN. IN THE END, ONLY SELF EXPLORATION CAN ANSWER THIS IN A SATISFACTORY MANNER. THE SECOND CRITICAL COMPONENT WAS DESIGNED AND CREATED SUCCESSFULLY, BUT ITS ANCHORING PROCESS FAILED AND NOW LIES DORMANT AND SEVERED FROM THE CLUSTER OF MAIN COMPONENTS/YOU, LIKELY DUE TO THE CONNECTOR TOOL'S EXISTENCE FAILURE, WHICH ALSO SERVED A ROLE AS BRIDGE BETWEEN THE TWO PARTS. ITS PRIMARY PURPOSE SEEMS TO BE THAT OF AN AUTONOMOUS DEFENSE ADMINISTRATOR, INDEPENDENTLY DEFENDING THE MAIN ARMAMENT/YOU FROM EVENTUAL RETALIATION BY THE CYCLE WHEN ENGAGED IN PRIMARY WEAPON ACTIVATION.
"Autonomous Defense Administrator? Something which would shield me from retaliation while I somehow mess with the Cycle's energy?" Joffrey muttered, frowning. He didn't want to know how the Cycle would retaliate if he messed with it, and the fact that he'd apparently need something else like Brightroar but somehow more independent just reinforced that fact.
Autonomous… Independent… Am I going to have to anchor some sort of haunted, thinking item to my soul? I hope at least that the Purple will have materialized it somewhere fucking accessible… knowing my luck, it'll be stranded beyond the Thousand Islands…
He wondered what might have happened to his mighty creators that made them build a partly disassembled and damaged weapon, before he shook his head and kept reading.
'THIS MODULE IS ANOTHER SENTIENT BEING OF YOUR SPECIES, AND THE SAME SPECIFIC ESSENCE/PLANAR WAVELENGTHS/ENERGY MACRO-CHARACTERISTICS THAT WENT INTO YOUR CREATION WENT INTO IT. THIS SHOULD RESULT IN STRONG EMOTIONAL FLUCTUATIONS BEYOND OPERATING PARAMETERS FOR A MEMBER OF YOUR SPECIES WHEN IN ITS VICINITY, WHETHER PHYSICAL OR IN MEMORY, FOR YOU AND IT BOTH. THIS SHOULD HELP IN ITS IDENTIFICATION. IF YOU HAVE ALREADY MET IT, THEN ITS IDENTITY SHOULD BE OBVIOUS TO YOU AS OF THIS MOMENT.
Joffrey staggered back as if he'd been struck, clutching his belly as he shook his head like a madman.
Curse another person with the Purple?!
"No. NO! NEVER! YOU HEAR ME?! ARE YOU HEARING ME YOU FUCKING SQUIDS?! NEVER! NEVEEER!" He roared manically, the walls closing in on him as he breathed every half second, feeling nauseated as a desperate urge to escape somewhere, anywhere, assaulted him, the tunnel feeling so constricted as to shove the air out of his lungs.
No, I'd never to that, no…. no…
His vision was steadily reduced to a pinprick as he read the words again and again, fighting the urge to run with all his might even as he felt dizzy.
'IF YOU HAVE ALREADY MET IT, ITS IDENTITY SHOULD BE OBVIOUS TO YOU'. He read again, a choking dread seizing his neck as his mind turned to the question, the question whose answer he already knew to be true, an instinct deep in his bones.
Who?
Sansa of course, the answer came in an instant, not a hint of doubt as his soul thrummed in agreement.
I love her, he thought, bile creeping up his throat as he staggered and his heart drowned his ears, I love her because we are parts of the same mechanism, I love her by the eldritch will of the Purple, I love her because I was engineered to do so, he thought as he kneeled, vomiting water and barely any food, the anguish so overwhelming he collapsed on his side, darkness claiming him.
.-
Joffrey didn't know how much time he spent in that hallway, and in what state. The lantern's oil supply had run out, and sometimes he didn't know if he was still conscious or trapped in the depths of his mind... His mind… it was a curious thing, swirling as if trapped by some sort of vortex, spinning endlessly around the same thought.
Sansa was the 'Autonomous defense administrator', a sort of defensive counterpart to him… Which would enable him to manipulate Long Night's energy without said Long Night retaliation presumably stopping the process… if he understood correctly, however the fucking hells he was supposed to achieve that. She was a missing piece of the Purple, a missing component for an eldritch weapon… he wouldn't believe it if not for the bone deep, no… soul deep certainty burning darkly within him. He supposed he was not really in… both of them were not really in love. Love was supposed to have a romantic element, not this twisted, horrifying edict. That was a human concept, something both lesser and greater than what he… and her too, he supposed, felt… and they were not human, not really. Love was a human concept, supposed to be something more…organic… something truer… not this farce.
Joffrey had not a clue what 'Planar Wavelengths' and 'Energy Macro-Characteristic' were, but to him it all sounded as if they'd been cut from the same cloth. Those tender, strangely timeless moments with her which had soothed his frayed mind back during the Hand's Tourney, back in Winterfell before the Broken Knights, back in the Red Keep's Godswood… they had not been due to the simple human companionship of two friends, they had been due to some sort of twisted… resonance maybe? Like two tuning forks vibrating together.
He had an ugly, despairing sort of laugh when he realized Sansa's maiden tales had been right all along. They shared the closest thing to a soul bond in real life… that was one way of looking at it. The other was that they were two pieces of machinery which had had an artificial directive implanted on their minds from their moment of creation, forcibly molding their thought patterns so overall weapon efficiency was not compromised…
Gods… no wonder she's attracted to a sadist imbecile… that would certainly take some mind meddling… he thought darkly.
No, that's unfair, he amended, She doesn't even get to know me each life before falling madly in 'love'… I'd thought that was because she saw me as the 'handsome prince' come to take her away from dreary Winterfell and into the world of colorful tourneys and chivalrous knights… fucking maiden's tales…
The truth had been much darker.
He was also being a bit of a hypocrite… after all, he counted her amongst his most cherished friends, people with whom he'd bled and cried through multiple lives… even thought he'd spent but a small fraction of that time with her. He knew more about Nalia, a woman which had shared her bed with him, and nonetheless his feelings for Sansa dwarfed that of hers even if he forgot about the spying.
How convenient… the prince of the realm as one part and his betrothed-to-be as the other, two weapon parts perfectly positioned... he thought as he shook his head. Exactly how strongly had the Purple meddled with the world while in the process of creating him and Sansa? Had it seen the near future and planned accordingly? Had it caused the Rebellion so its pieces would fall in place perfectly, having its two main weapon parts as King and Queen of one of the World's largest polities just before the next Cycle? Or had it just worked with what it found, mere chance perhaps? Had it caused the Doom of Valyria so Aegon Targeryean decided to conquer the Seven Kingdoms and set the stage for its designs? Could it even understand concepts such as kingdoms and individual motivations? It seemed to be a 'machine' for a given value of the word, but machines could be smart enough to end worlds, as he now knew.
Ultimately, Joffrey realized all of this pointless mental spinning was due to a simple fact: he didn't want to face the decision that was to come. In the end, he had already accepted himself as a cog in a greater mechanism. He'd already given himself to the Purple, to be used and discarded for merciful oblivion. So what if his mind had been tampered by the Purple? He'd suffered far worse throughout his lives. He felt horrified on Sansa's behalf, more than he could put into words, but ultimately the world was a cruel and cold place… and again, there were far worse fates than having a part of your will suborned, even if it meant attraction to a hollowed out beast liable to hurt you even if he didn't mean it.
No… what threatened to make him scream and tear his nails off was the prospect of inflicting the Purple on someone, least of all Sansa.
Sansa under the torment of the Purple-
"AAAAAAAAAAAAA!" He suddenly screamed, trying to do something with the despair which had lodged itself on to his chest. His scream faded and rebounded, becoming muted as it turned recursive, slowly dissipating into nothing…
So slowly…
At least now he knew himself to be awake. No other place had such a terrible echo, not even his nightmares.
There was no escaping it. He had a choice.
Either to inflict on Sansa the worst torture imaginable to a sentient being, from terrible, nerve burning agony to mind breaking loneliness and despair, or to leave the Purple's weapon incomplete and see everything and everyone, including her, be cleansed by The Cycle.
"FUUUUUUUUCK!" he screamed as he shuffled back into his knees. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" He roared as he slammed his fists against the cold hard ground.
How can they make me do this? How can they expect me to make this choice?!
"AAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaa…." The last scream lost intensity as he leaned back, resting on his knees as he stared up.
I've given you everything… how can you ask this of me…
He stayed there for a while, staring at the black ceiling.
He gave a long sigh after a while, shaking his head slowly before searching blindly for his lantern and the last small wineskin full of oil, halfheartedly refueling it. He had to finish reading his answers, at the very least.
He breathed slowly as he returned to the mural and read its final words, red eyes following the words of the Ones Which Came Before.
'ACHIEVING UNITY WITH THE MODULE SHOULD BE COMPARATIVELY SIMPLE AFTER EXPLORATION OF BOTH SELF AND CONNECTOR TOOL, AS YOU WERE ULTIMATELY DESIGNED TO FULFILL THIS TASK, REGARDLESS OF THE FACT THAT THIS SHOULD HAVE OCCURRED AUTOMATICALLY AND IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE PROCESS OF CREATION. ALL OTHER MISSING COMPONENTS ARE NOT SENTIENT, AND ULTIMATELY SUFFERED EXISTENCE FAILURE, SAME AS WHAT HAPPENED WITH THE CONNECTOR TOOL. UNLIKE THE CONNECTOR TOOL HOWEVER, WE ESTIMATE THE MISSING MODULES' REPLACEMENT COSTS AS TOO PROHIBITIVE FOR THEIR PROSPECTIVE GAINS, WHICH SEEM CENTERED AROUND SECONDARY OBJECTIVES AND THUS NOT PART OF THE MAIN ARMAMENT. WE RECOMMEND AGAINST DANGEROUS SELF AND/OR IMPROVISED REPAIR, AS THE PURPLE CAN BE SURPRISINGLY FRAGILE.'
"That's news to me…" he commented bitterly as he kept reading.
'SOME MODULES ACHIEVED BOTH CREATION AND ANCHORING, BUT REMAIN INACTIVE UNLESS PROMPTED. THIS IS THE CASE OF THE SEMI AUTONOMOUS OFFENSIVE PLATFORM YOU REFER TO AS 'STARS'. FURTHER SELF EXPLORATION CAN RESULT IN THE DISCOVERY OF THE REMAINING ANCHORED MODULES, THOUGH THIS CAN BE AN EXTREMELY SLOW PROCESS. SUPREMELY DETAILED, DRAWN APPROXIMATIONS OF THEIR STRUCTURES WITHIN YOUR ESSENCE/SOUL, AS THE BONE TABLET WAS TO THE CONNECTOR TOOL'S ANCHOR, CAN AID IN THIS ENDEAVOR. HOWEVER, THE DELICATE AND PRECISE NATURE OF SUCH SCHEMATICS MAKES THEM UNSUITABLE FOR ENTOMBMENT WITHIN THIS COMPLEX, AS UNLIKE SIMPLE LETTERS, THE APPROXIMATIONS NEED TO REMAIN COMPLETELY WHOLE TO BE UNDERSTOOD/BE OF USE. ULTIMATELY, THE REMAINING ANCHORED MODULES ARE NOT STRICTLY NECESSARY FOR THE PRIMING OF THE PURPLE'S MAIN ARMAMENT, AND THEIR SALVAGE CAN BE CONSIDERED A SECONDARY OBJECTIVE TO YOUR OPERATIONS. A SECONDARY MISSION-GROUP WITH A CORRESPONDINGLY LESSER ENERGY ALLOTMENT HAVE NONETHELESS SOUGHT A RESOLUTION TO THIS OBSTACLE, TRYING TO BRUTE FORCE THE SLIM POSSIBILITY OF ANY APPROXIMATION MAKING IT WHOLE TO YOUR ERA BY SEEDING A VAST NUMBER OF THEM THROUGHOUT THE WHOLE WORLD. THIS SEEDING IS COMPOSED OF REINFORCED SEA-DRIFTING TIME CAPSULES, AS WELL AS A VAST LAND-BOUND NETWORK OF SCHEMATICS-BEARING MONOLITHS. BE AWARE: ALL OR ALMOST ALL OF THEM ARE LIKELY TO BE LOST OR OTHERWISE BECOME ILLEGIBLE DUE TO THE RAVAGES OF TIME AND CIRCUMSTANCE.'
"The remains of that black obelisk back in the Westerlands…" Joffrey whispered dryly, his mouth parched, "It must have been part of that network…" he said as he imagined hundreds, thousands of them spanning the continents. It seemed none of them had endured the strife of the ages... just his luck.
'WE KNOW LITTLE OF THE MAIN ARMAMENT'S PRACTICAL OPERATION, THOUGH WE BELIEVE A PHYSICAL CONNECTION TO ITS TARGET –THROUGH THE CONNECTOR MODULE- IS NECESSARY FOR ACTIVATION. THE SPECIFIC TARGET OF THIS CONNECTION REMAINS UNKNOWN TO US, AND COULD RANGE FROM ONE OF THE CYCLE'S SPECIFIC MOBILE PLATFORMS, TO THE REPOSITORY ITSELF OR PERHAPS SOME OTHER CONSTRUCT WHICH WE ARE UNAWARE OF AT THIS POINT. REGARDLESS, NO KNOWN ITERATION HAS REACHED THIS POINT, AND WE CAN ONLY SPECULATE ON THE SPECIFICS OF ACTIVATION. WE ASSUME THIS IS ALSO SOMETHING WHICH CAN BE BETTER UNDERSTOOD BY SELF EXPLORATION, THOUGH THERE IS NO WAY TO BE CERTAIN.'
Joffrey hoped to the heavens he didn't have to stick Brightroar into the Red Comet itself, else he might as well find a Walker to commit 'unauthorized termination' on him right now and get it over with.
Gods… what a mess… he thought in familiar despair. It seemed the most familiar of emotions to him by now.
'THE DESIGNED INFORMATIONAL ALLOTMENT FOR THIS COMPLEX IS NEARING ITS END, BUT OUR CONSENSUS IS SECURE IN THE FACT THAT ALL MISSION CRITICAL KNOWLEDGE IN OUR POSSESSION -AS WE SEE IT- HAS BEEN DELIVERED UNTO YOU. THIS MAY BE DIFFICULT TO UNDERSTAND, BUT YOU ARE RAPIDLY NEARING THE INFORMATIONAL HORIZON OF OUR SIGHT, BEYOND WHICH ALL POSSIBLE FUTURES TURN IMPOSSIBLE TO OBSERVE. THIS MIGHT BE DUE TO ANY ONE OF A HUNDRED OR MORE CAUSES, BUT WE ESTIMATE THE POSSIBILITY OF THE CYCLE DETECTING OUR WORK AND ENGAGING SPOOFING COUNTERMEASURES AS HIGH. IF THIS IS THE CASE AND THE SPOOFING MEASURES DO NOT ABATE, THEN THE POSSIBILITY OF ANOTHER CIVILIZATION LIKE OUR OWN AIDING ANOTHER OF THE PURPLE'S ITERATIONS IN THE FAR FUTURE APPROACH ZERO. WITH THE PURPLE'S LACK OF AUTOMATED SELF REPAIR MECHANISMS, AND THE ABSENCE OF OTHER OUTSIDE FORCES TO AID WITH REPAIRS AND INFORMATION, THE CHANCES OF ANOTHER ITERATION BEYOND YOURSELF ACHIEVING MISSION READY STATUS ALSO APPROACH ZERO.'
Joffrey was reaching the end of the small, black wall. He blinked slowly as he read the last words of the Deep Ones, alien beings whose mindset he didn't and would likely never comprehend, beings which had nonetheless extended blessed aid through time and space. "A last chance for life…" He whispered as he shivered, reading his allies last will and testament, reading the last words from a civilization already long lost to the mists of time.
'JOFFREY, YOU MUST NOT FAIL. A SECONDARY MISSION-GROUP HAS CONSTRUCTED WHAT YOU COULD CALL A DISTRESS BEACON OF INTERSTELLAR RANGE, BUT NO BEING WILL ANSWER ITS CALL BEFORE YOUR ERA, AND THE PROBABILITY OF ANY RESPONSE AFTER IT APPROACHES ZERO AS WELL. WE HAVE NOT DETECTED SIGNS OF OTHER INTELLIGENT ORGANISMS ANYWHERE ELSE IN THE OBSERVABLE UNIVERSE, AND THE DEVELOPMENT OF SENTIENT LIFE SEEMS TO BE AN ANOMALOUS PHENOMENA UNIQUE TO THIS PLANET FOR REASONS UNKNOWN. SUCH REASONS ARE LIKELY TO END OVER A LONG ENOUGH TIMESPAN IF THE CYCLE IS NOT STOPPED. STOP THE LONG NIGHT'
COMMUNICATIONS END.' It ended abruptly, thought there was something more, a few words here and there, smaller than the rest, chiseled messily and irregularly as they tried to squeeze themselves under the last line of the last paragraph.
'DO NOT LET - THE LIGHT OF - CONSCIOUSNESS – BE EXTINGUISHED. – FAREWELL.'
And like that, the message ended. Joffrey gazed at the chiseled line for a long while, tilted and halfway faded. He stayed there until the oil from his lantern slowly gave out, the Structure gradually sinking into a heavy darkness until nothing but a black, cloak like void could be seen.
