Interlude: The Messenger.

Gorryl cursed as he tripped over a log, falling to the mud with a squelch. His budding training took hold though, the familiar experience guiding his legs as he cushioned the fall and leapt back on his feet despite the muck, vaulting over the next log wall with a grunt. The light rain was like a fine mist hanging in the air, doing its best to try and mess with his eyes and make him fall again.

Now came the hardest part, as well as the last… at least officially. The open aired course ended with twelve of the day's worst crossbowmen, those who had 'won' the lowest score of this morning's shooting practice. Gorryl could see them as they shouted at each other and stood over the earthen rampart to his left, aiming their blunt tipped bolts which were still powerful enough to break bone or even take an eye if you were really unlucky. Those bastards would be up there as a group for the rest of the day pelting Messengers... the only other way out of their predicament was to actually hit one.

Gorryl cursed as the bolts started slamming against the mud all around him, one of them almost hitting his foot. He started on a zigzag pattern as the crossbows sang from the left, changing his speed randomly with every diagonal turn and fooling their aim as he jumped with a roar towards the boxy wooden construction, right through the small opening.

He was now inside the Gauntlet, but the wooden blocky structure was barely illuminated as he looked around him. It was filled with felled tree trunks and logs, shrubs which had been cut and carried there that same day, and other objects of cover. Gorryl kept running as a bell tolled from the outside. "Messenger in! Open three!" shouted a voice.

Fuck, I hate three, he thought as a heavy clang resounded throughout the Gauntlet and a section of the wall gave out and fell towards the outside. It was suspended by chains as it slammed against the ground like some sort of draw bridge. The daylight almost blinded him, but he could still see well enough to curse once more as he saw the gallery of crossbowmen raising their weapons at him. Three ranks, all with clear lines of sight due to the stair-like construction of the stand.

"Loose!" shouted their Serjeant, and Gorryl jumped to the ground as a torrent of crossbow bolts rained all over the log he was now covering against. He crawled down the length of it, the eerie rain of bolts making the hair at the nape of his neck stand on edge as the deadly hail kept pouring from the other side of the collapsed wall. Those whose rate-of-release had been deemed insufficient were stationed here… with similar rules to the 'sharpshooters' he'd just cleared.

He crawled franticly as he tried not to lose his nerves to the hail of bolts raining everywhere, waiting for a small lull before dashing towards another log. Their rate of release was prized more than their accuracy, and so Gorryl thought this part of the Gauntlet had been designed to test the prospective Messenger's nerves more than his ability to crawl under enemy arrows.

Of course, that was on the specific messenger's part, the crossbowmen really were out to loose as fast as they could and maybe hit him in the process. There were extra rations in for them if they got him.

The Commander was like that, 'Training each other- Iron sharpening Iron-' he'd heard him intone once.

Gorryl preferred the wise words of his own Serjeant; 'why make each other miserable for free, when they can get paid for it?'

He cleared the section, still running as the same voice shouted again, "Open five and seven!"

Gorryl snarled at the injustice, Two gates at once?! He thought before two disparate gates opened up at awkward angles; a crossfire that reduced his covering options by half. He thought quickly before dashing for the leftmost side of the Gauntlet, preferring the safer log wall than the smallish piles of rocks to the right… even if it left his backside more exposed.

He somehow got through the Gauntlet and into the adjacent Maze, where the same voice called out. "Messenger in the Maze! Start the light show! Release Watchmen one to twelve!" it roared in quick succession.

Double the usual?! Do they want to kill me?! Gorryl roared in the privacy of his own mind as he immediately took off in a random direction, though always angling towards the far side.

The Maze was pretty dark, only illuminated by the occasionally opening trapdoors in the ceiling which the men had taken to calling the 'light show', letting the light of day shine through and illuminate random sections of the wooden labyrinth. Gorryl cursed yet again when he turned a corner and came face to face with a Watchman holding a wooden baton.

"Hold and kneel!" he roared as he tried to smack him in the arm.

Cheating bastard, thought Gorryl as he dodged the blow and fled. They were supposed to shout the warning first and then club you into submission. He dashed back whence he came, this part of the labyrinth already memorized from the short seconds he'd spent in it. They moved the inner walls around every day, same as the cover objects inside the Gauntlet, so cheeky Messengers had to think on their feet instead of merely memorizing the layout.

"Ah! Fuck you!" Gorryl snarled as a watchman appeared from the other side of the corridor he was running towards. He turned back and saw his pursuer turn the corner, dashing for him at a full sprint. "He's cornered! 'Round up on me!" he roared, his voice guiding the other watchman which were doubtlessly patrolling the other parts of the labyrinth with zeal.

Gorryl quickly assessed his surroundings as he'd been taught to, finding a few small indentations on the left wall just a few meters towards the first watchman. "Hold 'n neel!" shouted the watchman as Gorryl dashed towards him, faking a head on confrontation. Taking on a Watchman was not recommended; they were armored, had a superior strength regime than the Messengers were, and Gorryl had been stripped of his blunt shortsword during the morning anyway. Four out of five beat up and swollen Messengers agreed: Taking on a Watchman inside the Maze was a bad idea.

It was fortunate for Gorryl then that the Watchman took him for an idiot, stopping and bracing as he kept up his mad dash. The watchman grinned, ready to deliver a beating for his boldness when Gorryl turned and climbed up the indentations on the wall instead, vaulting over the end of the wall and jumping down in a roll. He ran towards the general direction of the exit, making use of his ears to avoid the other pursuers. He only resorted to violence when he delivered a surprise uppercut on a watchman when they bumped after a corner. The veterans of the course were right; it was the corners that most often got you.

He slammed against one of the numerous exit doors which spanned the entire far wall, taking in a breath of fresh air as he rung the small bell hanging from a pole.

"Number?" asked the bored looking man sitting in a field chair beyond the pole. He scribbled over a piece of wood-backed parchment quickly as he waited, the small bronze token which hanged from his doublet glinting in the afternoon sun.

"One-One-Three," Gorryl said out loud.

"Message?" droned out the man. One could be forgiven for thinking him inattentive, but the men and women of the Logistics Arm took their jobs pretty damned seriously, jotting down every single word to come out of a Messenger's mouth and comparing them meticulously to the records of the actual orders that had been given to them that morning.

"For the Commander's Eyes only," Gorryl announced.

"Ah... One of the elite eh?" the man mused out loud as he finally lifted his gaze from the parchment, gazing at him in appreciation.

Gorryl grunted as he walked to the other table, taking a long sip from one of the waterskins and biting a huge chunk out of the beef jerky which had been waiting for him…

Hm, looks pretty stocked. I must be one of the first ones today… he thought as he ate, gazing at the supplies on the table which were reserved for starving and thirsting Messengers fresh out of the hell that was 'The Run'.

Either that or all the ones before him had fallen… and personally, he was leaning on the latter. Their trainers had really gone overboard today, he'd known that since they were ambushed in the Thicket. When the screaming Raiders emerged from the trees and the leaves, their horses galloping wildly over uneven terrain as they swung long wooden rods to strike at backs and heads… well, Gorryl had almost pissed himself. The Raiders were crazy, almost as crazy as the Commander, everyone knew that! Well… everyone not a fool. There were rumors that back in King's Landing people thought the Raiders were a gaggle of smallfolk friends 'the Prince' liked to race horses with… Gorryl had laughed for a straight minute when Jepp had told him that.

He stretched his neck slowly as he breathed, catching up his breath. He had to get going soon, or else he might miss the Commander. Finding him was half of the difficult task he'd been entrusted with, as he liked to traverse the camp almost randomly, supervising whatever caught his fancy. Now began what the Commander had called 'Advanced Training' when he'd personally briefed him and two score other candidates a month ago. The Serjeants had pulled them from their regular training to serve as 'the elite of the Messenger Arm', and Gorryl had never looked back since then.

More than the extra food and pay, Gorryl had come to love the feeling of pushing his body to the limit; not in the wasting attrition that had been life in Fleabottom, but in the exalting way that had been his training in the Messenger Arm and then in the elite of it. They were worked to the bone every day, even harder than the Battle Arm. He was fed a hearty meal two times a day, and collapsed in exhaustion the following night… but after the grueling first few months, now every time he woke up he did so stronger and faster than the day before, his mind sharpened under the lighting sessions of the morning classes before they were released for 'Skill and Endurance Training'… Which was most often The Run.

The Messenger Arm was widely believed to be the Commander's favored component of the Royal Guard, mostly because of the amount of time he'd spent perfecting its training methods… which was bound to make Gorryl's task even more difficult than it already was.

Gorryl stretched his legs as he'd been taught, preparing for the real run when the Bronze spoke up again, "The Commander has been supervising Shock & Charge since midmorning, you might want to check the Drill yard," he said.

Gorryl looked at the man in surprise before nodding. He didn't have to tell him that. "Thank you," he said gratefully.

"Don't thank me yet, combat maneuvers for the Third Cohort were cancelled today... The Camp's full of milling Line Infantry," he said with an apologetic smile.

"Aw shit…" Gorryl muttered, "Thanks for the tip anyway, you Bronzes aren't that bad," he told him.

"Despite the Commander's efforts, people who can read and write keep being in short supply… or at least for the amounts he needs. The resulting overwork tends to make us grumpy as a general rule," he explained with a small chuckle.

"I'll keep that in mind," said Gorryl with a smile, before jogging down the road towards the Camp. It was more than twenty minutes later when he reached the outer perimeter, patrolled by squads of line infantry. Gorryl waited as they marched in lockstep past his position, dashed from the bit of shrubbery he'd been hiding in, and made for the wooden palisade. He jumped past the stakes and climbed up, avoiding the sharpened top before carefully climbing down. He made his way past tents and warehouses, ditches and cleared out roads, sneaking through the veritable small town which hosted more than two thousand souls... and climbing.

He made as if he was busy moving a crate when a couple of watchmen passed by his side, patrolling the inside of the Camp itself. These one carried steel maces and iron cudgels instead of wooden batons, and were not afraid to crack bones if whoever disrupted the peace did not stop the moment they called out 'stop and kneel'.

He was almost to the Drill Yard when a group of halberdiers from the Third Cohort, which had been laughing at something near a supply tent, stopped and turned to look at him.

"Oi! There he is! Hey Ferd!" shouted one of them.

"Who the fuck is Ferl?!" Gorryl shouted back as he quickly strode past them, trying not to break out into a sprint. His arm itched where the blue ribbon of the Messengers's elite had been tied.

"Oh, sorry about that," said the man as he shook his head and the group returned to their business… only for one of them to keep staring at him.

"Isn't that one of 'em blue runners?" he asked one of his friends.

"He is!" shouted another one, "Get him!"

Fuck, cursed Gorryl as he broke into a sprint, turning towards an alleyway created by a couple of tents. He could hear a ruckus behind him as the halberdiers sprinted behind him, splitting off into several directions.

"Go 'round the big tent! Stop him!" shouted someone, and Gorryl turned to find one of the halberdiers blocking his path. "Give it up blue boy! I fuckin' need that extra day!" shouted the soldier, but Gorryl ignored him as he climbed up the tent, almost bringing it down as he reached the top of the surprisingly durable fabric.

The Commander had decreed that anyone who caught a blue messenger inside the Camp (though more or less unharmed) would be rewarded with an extra day in Reston. A hefty prize to make the 'Advanced Training' even more interesting.

Fuckin' Commander, thought Gorryl as he jumped from the tent to another next to it. He screamed when the tent's ceiling ripped open as he landed, making him fall atop a small wooden table.

"What the-" Gorryl cut off the startled Serjeant when he pushed him away and leapt up from the table, running for the tent flap and shoulder smashing aside the halberdier which had been opening it.

He lost his pursuers when he sneaked below a cart carrying foodstuffs, crawling beneath another one as he rounded towards the north of the camp and entered the Drill Yard, a large clearing which faced a great wall of piled up logs, filled with bolts.

The light rain had turned into a steady drizzle, but he could see whole centuries marching in lockstep towards clusters of wooden targets, complete with fake swords nailed to 'arms' and wooden shields, getting hollered at by serjeants and centurions. Gorryl spied for the Commander, but only found one of the Legates.

"Formation! Shock Charge!" shouted Legate Snow from the side of the troops, his accompanying horn blower repeating the order musically.

"Centuryyy, halt! Crossbows, quick arrows!" shouted their centurion. The standard century of line infantry slammed to a halt with a collective, guttural grunt, halberds held at the ready as crossbows emerged from the gaps and loosed against the wooden targets. They quickly disappeared into the formation, only for another, fresh set of crossbows to emerge and shoot the targets once more.

"Halberds! Double Charge!" roared the centurion, and the halberdiers roared after him as they charged, weapons held aloft over their heads with the tips pointing towards the enemy. The second rank of halberdiers in the charge ran behind their comrades, their own halberds held low and forwards, protruding from the gaps in between the first line. They slammed against the wooden targets in a burst of controlled violence, stabbing and using hammer or axe heads to mangle the training dummies.

Gorryl made use of the ruckus to dash past them, finally spotting the Commander. He was walking slowly, hands held behind his back as he watched the halberdiers which were drilling all around him in single combat. They were currently practicing trips, and Gorryl winced when one of the soldiers pulled too hard and his partner landed harshly on his back.

"Good technique, too much strength," the Commander observed as he gazed at the suddenly uneasy soldier. "Be careful with the pull or you might injure the man behind you when in battle," he lectured the soldier gently before turning and holding a hand towards the downed one. "Up and at 'em Guardsman, no rest for the Fists," he said with a slight, approving smile.

Gorryl unconsciously straightened as he approached the future King of the Seven Kingdoms. He was decked in armor, wearing an ensemble similar to the chainmail and halfplate the line infantry used. However, while the regular white tabard that went over the plate depicted the silver Fist of the King, the Commander's was also framed by a rising sun, and his pauldrons were enameled with crisscrossing lines of green, unprocessed copper.

The Commander turned to look at him before he was fully there, turning in an eerily smooth half step to look at him. He seemed larger than life as he gazed at him, his eyes oddly still even as Gorryl felt them analyzing every inch of his body despite the fact that he was actually taller. He swallowed dryly as he kept jogging until he was in front of him, standing at attention. He'd once thought the effect would eventually go away, when he'd spoken with him for the first time a month ago.

He was beginning to reconsider that notion.

"Commander!" Gorryl saluted as he slammed his right fist over his gambeson, straight as a beam of steel, "One-One-Three with Message," he said. Calling the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms 'Commander' was both an obligation and the exclusive privilege of the Royal Guard.

"Proceed," said the Commander, his steely green eyes still boring into him.

"From Legate Tyrek to Commander Joffrey, verbal, with written decoy," he recited as he gave him the small scroll case.

The Commander skimmed through the small document before nodding, "What's the real message?" he asked.

"'He who only reacts courts the death of a hundred blades, he who only acts courts the death of the single spear. Keep to the balance and flow like water between the stones, die the death of old age'," Gorryl recited.

The Commander nodded, a glimmer of pride in his eyes, "Excellent work… Gorryl right?" he asked him, continuing after the messenger nodded, "Anything else?"

Gorryl shuffled, remembering the exact wording. He had to say it all and perfectly at that, else the test would be void, "Yes Commander, Legate Tyrek also said: 'Cousin, when did you find the time to think up a book on warcraft again? And more importantly, why did you have to lace it with bad poetry?'" he said dutifully.

The Commander smirked, chuckling lowly for a second before nodding at him. "You even got the intonation right. Tell me Gorryl, what do you think about that quote?" he asked him unexpectedly.

Gorryl blinked, startled as he rushed to come up with a response that would see him out of this one with his rank and privilege intact.

"No, no, what do you really think?" he asked before Gorryl even finished opening his mouth.

He shuffled nervously, "Ah, ehm, I mean, Commander-" he stammered.

"Breathe, take your time," he said as he turned and gazed at another couple of practicing halberdiers, "You're taking too long on the hook! In, turn, out! Less than two seconds at a minimum or your opponent will react!" he called out to one of them.

Gorryl spent the next longest minutes of his life thinking frenziedly as the Commander called out corrections, before he gathered his courage and spoke. "By only reacting to an enemy army you open yourself up to defeat because they can dictate the battles, many times, hence the death of a hundred blades… And, well… on the other hand, if you only act then you leave yourself at the mercy of the enemy's plan," he said.

"Interesting. And if you could only choose one, which would it be?" asked the Commander, still looking at the sparring halberdiers, not giving a hint about what he thought of the answer.

"Act," Gorryl said instantly. It had been one of the most painful, early lessons Fleabottom had taught him.

The Commander said nothing, still gazing at the sparring men as he tapped his chin in thought… before he suddenly turned, "What happened?" he asked as his hand went to his hammer, his voice dangerous.

Gorryl took a step back reflexively, bumping against someone. He turned and saw Legate Rykker, the burly chief of the Logistics Arm shoving him aside lightly before leaning on the Prince's shoulder.

"What?" said the Commander slowly, a budding, raw anger lacing his voice tight.

Legate Rykker whispered some more, his own expression thunderous… which was ominous in and of itself. He was not known for being easy to rouse.

"Messenger!" snapped the Commander.

"Ser!" shouted Gorryl as he saluted reflexively.

"Message to the Camp Prefect: End all activities for the day. Full Regiment recalled to the Marching Grounds. And take off that blue ribbon, no one is to stop you," he said, a staccato of orders which Gorryl took a second to process.

"Aye Ser!" He saluted again before dashing off, feeling the burning gaze of the Commander on his back as he ran.

What the hells is going on?

-: PD :-

Spoiler: Music

The whole (currently) understrength First Regiment of the Royal Guard, which at the moment composed the entirety of said Guard, stood in formation on the Marching Ground. The 'Grounds' as they were often called, were a stretch of fallow land ten minutes away from the Camp, where the Regiment's greenest recruits practiced marching for hours on end. There was no one marching now though…

As the sun set and the full moon arose, Gorryl concentrated on the five roughed up men that had been tied to a set of wooden posts directly ahead. They were all guardsmen who've had their armor and weapons removed, as soaked as the rest of the assembled soldiers under the pouring rain.

The Commander was the only other man near the posts. He'd been there since Gorryl had arrived with the rest of his squad, half an hour ago, their Serjeant cajoling them into formation with the rest of their nominal century. The Guardsman immediately to his right was Hyte, a halberdier from First Cohort, Second Century, and they'd taken to conversing quietly a while ago. According to him, the Commander had stomped off from the medical tent in the Camp an hour ago, and had just stared at the five tied up men until now, slowly fisting and relaxing his hands as if he were debating with himself whether to personally strangle them or not, water pouring down his chest and arms.

The entirety of the Regiment had been assembled; all but the most essential guards. Gorryl could see lines upon lines of halberds held uneasily, crossbowmen shuffling sore muscles after a grinding day at the Gauntlet or the Drill Yard, Messengers looking at each other nervously and whispering. The men and women of the Logistics Arm stood grimly to the right of the Grounds, grim faced and fingering the shortswords strapped to their belts. They knew how to use those just as well as the messengers, maybe even better, and they did not look happy.

The six legates were just to Gorryl's right, standing in silence as they waited for the last of the Regiment to assemble. The Hound was there as well, making sure the last of the troops were in place.

He was about to ask Hyte if he knew what this was all about when the Commander suddenly turned and walked towards the assembled soldiers. "Stand!" roared Legate Snow, and the whole Regiment stamped their right foot as they straightened, the Drill Yard descending into silence in an instant. Even the greenest of recruits, those who had been inducted a mere two weeks ago, knew that much at least.

The Commander walked along the length of the assembled soldiers, his hands still locked in fists even as he hid them behind his back. He strode all the way to the end of the line as the rain kept falling from above, before returning to the other end, almost as if he was daring someone to talk.

Gorryl held a snort, there was no one that stupid.

When the Commander returned to the center, night had fallen completely, the glare of the full moon sketching strange shadows over his face.

"Guardsmen," he addressed them somberly, "When I called you by that name, I used to feel nothing but pride," he said almost thoughtfully, pacing once more. "A group of people joined in arms and purpose, for the greater good of us all," he enunciated clearly and slowly.

"When you accepted my coin, you did so out of necessity or pride, out of ambition or honor… but those were not the only things that pushed you into accepting, weren't they?" he asked almost quietly, the men straining to hear him.

"You all know what is at stake, even if you can't put a name on it. That feeling, that itch between the shoulder blades…" he said as he walked, seemingly looking at every Guardsmen in the eye.

"The way old crones gaze at their grandchildren… those sudden moments of stillness in the city inns that almost everyone rushes to fill… the rumors of peasant folk harvesting early… they know what is coming," he said as he paused, the rain pattering against his plate.

"War," he said abruptly, strongly.

His voice rose in intensity as he kept walking, boots sinking lightly in the mud as he strode, "I called you up, armed and armored you, fed and cared for you, made you Guardsmen," he said the last word as if it pained him. Gorryl could only look on, entranced as the Commander kept talking, "So that when the time comes and the next King-to-be dreams of glory… when the next proud lord thinks the time is right… when the next pretender from across the sea puts forth his righteous claim," he said fiercely, "When the time comes and they rise up in banners-and-chivalry-and-honor-and-courage"- he roared as he paced faster, the rain plastering his long hair to his scalp –"When they come with blade in hand to cut down our people, when they come to burn our barns and our harvests, when they come to rape our wives and our daughters, when they come to burn down this continent in the name of their ambition..!" he spat the last words in near rage, spittle flying from his mouth and meeting the steady downpour of water raining from the heavens. The commander took a moment to breathe, nodding slowly to himself.

"I made you Guardsmen so that when that when the time came and the scourge of war were released, a legion of cold steel would be there to bring back the peace. One gravestone at a time if necessary," he said lowly, the sound still carrying itself over even though he was currently at the other end of the formation.

Silence. Then…

"Today, that purpose was sullied," said the Commander, and Gorryl could hear the disdain and disappointment in his voice.

No Guardsman dared move, not a single breath could be heard as the Commander resumed his pacing, back towards the center, "Johana was a Guardsmen in the service of the Logistics Arm. She joined up in part to escape the misery of Fleabottom, like many of you," he said grimly, "Unlike many of you however, her father had been a merchant before the loss of his last ship brought him to suicide, and before his death he'd taught her how to read and write," said the Commander as he stopped in front of the five men, still looking at the assembled Guardsmen. "And so she was inducted into the Bronze, to make sure your food rations and your pay and your weapons reached your hands the moment there was a need for them," he said.

He isn't… surely they… Gorryl thought in dawning comprehension before the Commander spoke again, "Johana trained with shortsword and quill, Johanna helped organize the bucket chain that saved a quarter of the Camp during the 'big fire'. Today, Johana of Fleabottom was repeatedly raped and then murdered by this bunch of animals who call themselves Guardsmen!" He snarled as he aimed a careless wave of his hand at the tied up men. "Scum who could not hold it in their breeches before the end of the month," he said almost quietly, breathing slowly, "They broke the sacred trust that will be the difference between life and death on the battlefield, they murdered a fellow soldier, they-"

"Baah! Fuckin' wench should have known not to 'strut like that. Moving her ass all over the fuckin' place," sneered one of the accused tied to the posts, a tall one with a scar running from lip to chin.

The silence was painful, almost too much to bear. Gorryl could not endure the temptation and he looked. Hyte too. It seemed everyone had turned their heads to look at the man.

The Commander seemed to be breathing deeply, still not responding as he blinked-

"Come on pretty boy! Your act don't impress me!" shouted the man.

The Commander's hands, which had been fisted in tension since he'd started talking, suddenly seemed to relax. He tilted his head backwards, slowly, "Excuse me, am I boring you?" he asked causally.

"Just get this over with, we all know how it's gonna' end!" said the man.

"I know you are no noble, but would you perhaps prefer a Trial-By-Combat instead of judgment?" he asked the man as he turned completely and walked towards him.

"A combat trial?" mused the man, who had clearly been drinking, "Why not? Better than listening to this shite eh Darlan?" he asked one of the other prisoners. Darlan seemed to ignore him though, doing his best to look away.

"Fuckin' cowards," spat the man, blinking quickly when the Commander drew his sword and cut his bindings. He threw the sword at the man's feet before taking a few steps back, waiting.

The man took up the sword gingerly, looking at him with a smirk, "Me against you? The Prince?!" he said, his smile growing shaky when the Commander didn't answer.

"Fuckin' hell, wait till the boys at Gorthos' hear 'bout this one," he mumbled as he looked backwards before suddenly springing at the Commander with a precise stab Gorryl had seen a hundred times before back in Fleabottom.

The Commander stepped lightly to the right, dodging the stab and slamming a one handed mace against the man's sword hand. He grunted in pain as he dropped it and stumbled back, but the Commander closed the distance in a second and delivered a brutal uppercut with the mace right through his jaw, smashing it asunder in a fountain of blood.

The man collapsed on the floor, screaming. He crawled towards the line of Guardsmen, gurgling for help, but the Commander's quick strides caught up to him in seconds. He grabbed the man by the shoulder, turning him belly up before crouching and smashing the hammer against his chest.

Gorryl felt like he was in some sort of dream or nightmare, unable to react as the Commander kept slamming the mace against the man's chest with almost mechanical efficiency again and again as the screams gradually became quieter. The rain somehow made the sound of the mace striking flesh worse, dampening the noise from beyond and leaving Gorryl no choice but to focus on the horrifying squelch that resounded through the Marching Grounds every time the mace connected and retreated, drawing squirts of blood and gore.

The man was not even moaning now, but the Commander kept hammering, eventually turning his head into red mush. When he stood up, Gorrly was unsurprised to find him covered in blood from the chest up. He seemed to breathe then for a moment, absentmindedly sheathing the hammer as he looked up at the sky, letting the rain clean him.

"Does anyone else want a Trial-By-Combat?" he asked quietly after a long moment, still gazing at the clouds and the moon.

The four remaining prisoners shook their heads wildly, and one of them pissed himself.

"Does anyone have anything else they want to say?" he asked in the same tone.

The men shook their heads once more.

"Good," said the Commander, walking once more as if nothing had happened, "We have been betrayed," he intoned as if he were reading prophecy, "To murder a comrade in arms is the greatest sin beyond hells and heavens. It is an act that goes against everything we now stand for…" he said, sounding disappointed with himself, with them.

Gorryl fought the anger and the sudden uncertainty in his belly, slowly shaking his head.

"Your purpose has been sullied. Your achievements have been sullied," he hammered it in, and Gorryl could see Hyte tapping his hands furiously, moving his jaw slowly.

"The blood of Johana stains us all. A monument giving lie to all we've tried to accomplish here," he intoned, and Gorryl felt as if his father had slapped him, his face burning hot as he shook his head in denial. Surely not, surely not…

The six Legates were as still as statues, but the rest of the men were shuffling greatly, looking down in shame when the Commander fixed his pale gaze on them.

Gorryl tried not to move, but his hands were shaking all the same. The early mornings running until he was on the verge of puking, the furious training with the shortsword, the endless runs through the Thicket and the Gauntlet, the hours upon hours he'd spent marching around the Crownlands with the rest of the halberdiers… dread uncertainty concentrated in his stomach like a loadstone. What was happening? Was the great project he'd let himself be swept up tittering on the edge of collapse? Would he have to return to Fleabottom?! Because of these animals?!

The Commander stopped walking, gazing at them all with his burning gaze… before tilting his head lightly in grudging acknowledgment.

"Though… there is a way," he said almost doubtfully, and Gorryl hanged on to that thread of hope like a blind man lost in the forest, following the sound of a human voice in the distance.

"There is a way to wipe the shame," said the Commander, more certain this time.

"There is a way not to forget, but to acknowledge," he said as he raised an arm and signaled.

Several Watchmen entered the Marching Grounds then, pushing wheelbarrows and dispersing all over the front of the formation.

"There is a way to wipe the stain off our purpose, a way to acknowledge not to King and Lord, but to ourselves, that our cause is still righteous," said the booming voice of the Commander, the heavy rain buffeting them around as the Watchmen tilted their wheelbarrows and emptied their loads all over the front of the formation.

Gorryl gazed at the sprawling stones in a daze… most of them could fit in his hand.

"You all know the punishment for slaying a fellow Guardsmen," said the Commander as he returned to the front row of soldiers, spinning and gazing at the accused, his back ramrod straight. "We are not Southern Lords, to hand the task to the paid executioner. We are no Northern Lords, to give the task to the head of us all. WE. ARE. GUARDSMEN!" He roared suddenly, "Dantis! Harald! Niclas of Duskendale! Darlan of Fleabottom! You are accused of the rape and murder of a fellow soldier. The Royal Guard will now deliver its judgment," he proclaimed.

Gorryl couldn't move, the freezing rain and the otherworldly paleness of the moon holding him in trance, strange and brutal shadows hiding the faces of his fellow Guardsmen. The Marching Grounds were silent, not a soul moving from its position. The silence was deafening, nauseating. He could barely hear the pulsing of his blood and water drops slammed against his face.

His body would not move, and to his horror, neither would his comrades. Gorryl would no longer be a member of the Messenger Elite, a soldier in the service of the Commander ready to bring Cold Steel to those who would burn his city in the name of ambition. He would be Gorryl, petty thief and starving wretch, scum of Fleabottom.

He blinked away a bit of water that had snaked down from his forehead into his eye, and followed the discarded water drops as he gazed down. He realized he was holding a stone in his hand.

He felt hypnotized as he took a step forward and coiled his arm, releasing the stone with a grunt of effort which seemed to stab the silence like Valyrian Steel. The stone flew high in a long arc, slowly, rising and then falling swiftly as if the world regained its rhythm, slamming into the nose of one of the accused.

The man moaned in pain, blood flowing freely from his mouth, and Gorryl nodded.

Their blood would cleanse Johanas'.

Hyte roared in pure rage as he dashed three steps ahead of him, throwing a stone and hitting one of the men in the cheek. It was like a floodgate had been opened, Guardsmen grabbing stones and throwing them with roars of anger and fury, the rain turning red as a tide of stones smashed against the accused, against the those who would seek to undo everything they now lived for.

He grabbed another rock and threw, missing the man he had attacked first. Hundreds more missed, but just as many struck true as the accused screamed and pleaded, their cries for mercy drowned under the hail of rocks that did not stop, could not stop.

Gorryl felt like he'd spent days there, grabbing and throwing stones, each hit a denial of the Commander's words, each scream another step in their long climb back to the purpose that ebbed and flowed through the Camp each night and morning, each roar of anger a pledge to never accept their dissolution.

Gradually, the rain of stone began to ebb. Gorryl was breathing harshly, exhausted like never before. He felt purged. Purified.

But a lone moan threatened to undo it all, as one of the animals, for they were no Guardsmen, spat a glob of blood to the ground. He raised his head shakily, his swollen and broken face almost hiding his eyes.

"Legate Rykker," the Commander said, turning precisely to his left, still as straight as steel as he gazed at the leader of the Bronze.

The Legate looked at him, before his gaze went downwards, considering the big stone in the Commander's hand.

The Legate seemed to gaze at it for a long moment, or perhaps just a second, before grabbing it. He strode towards the last living animal, his gaze fixed as the bloodied man looked up.

"Please… mercy…" moaned Darlan of Fleabottom.

Legate Rykker held his hand high, and then smashed the rock against the man's head. Twice. Three times as the rain cleaned the blood pouring from his skull. Four times until a crunch resounded throughout the clearing. When it had once sounded sickening, to Gorryl it now felt as if the world had clicked back to its rightful place.

The Legate walked, no, marched back to the line, different from the man that had walked in the opposite direction but thirty seconds ago. He returned to his place by the Commander's side, placing his hands at his back and standing still.

"Guardsmen of the First Regiment!" suddenly roared the Commander, "Marching Formation! Back to Camp!" he ordered, the command carried down by Centurions with burning eyes and Serjeants with sure motions.

"11th Auxiliary! Marching Formation!" roared Gorryl's Serjeant. He didn't look back when the Regiment marched away, his motions sure and his steps synchronized with that of his comrades, the crows already circling overhead despite the rain as they closed in on the now abandoned bodies.

-: PD :-

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 45: Sons and Fathers. New

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Jul 17, 2018

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Surprise! Let's get this back on track shall we?

-: PD :-

Chapter 45: Sons and Fathers.

Sansa had discovered that there were simply not enough hours in the day to do everything she needed to do, and had come to the horrifying conclusion that waking up before the sun was the least bad option… even if it tended to leave her quite irritated.

She was reading the latest reports from their trading expedition to Braavos by the candlelight when a sudden noise made her freeze. She silently drew her dagger from her hidden sleeve, standing up so as to not make a sound as she approached the window and raised her arm-

And saw Joffrey slowly vaulting the last of the window.

What is he thinking?! If Jory heard the noise-

She shook her head when he saw his state; soaked to the bones and with bits of blood peppered around his cloak.

"Joffrey… what happened?" She asked him as he gazed at her with a look she knew all too well.

"It's okay… It's okay…" she whispered when he silently embraced him. He must have been riding through the night… must have been something over at the Camp.

He just hugged her tightly, offering no explanation other than a deep sigh. Sansa slowly removed the soaked cloak as they sat on the couch, grabbing a towel she'd kept on the cabinet to at least dry his head.

He tried to stand up, "I should go, Jory could hear us and I doubt Ned will be lenient again if-"

"Joffrey, quiet," she said as she pushed him down. Dealing with him when he was like this was much like dealing with a startled, nervous kitten… or lion, she supposed.

"What happened?" she asked him gently.

"Caved a Guardsmen's chest with my hammer, in front of the entire Regiment… then smashed his head open…" he said, his eyes heavy.

"Did you want to do it?" She asked him.

"Yes. No. I-" Joffrey stopped, taking another big breath, "I wanted him to be stoned with the rest of his accomplices, but when the piece of shit opened his mouth… the red…" he trailed off, shame in his eyes at what Sansa could already guess. He'd enjoyed it. He still enjoyed the memory of it.

"What did he do?" She said.

"Raped another Guardsmen, a woman with the Logistics Arm," he explained.

Sansa narrowed her eyes, "You should have started between his legs," she said harshly.

Joffrey seemed startled. Sansa suspected he'd come to her for forgiveness… He had a long history with his rages, he'd explained to her throughout their last life. A piece of himself that he'd never truly be free of, a memento of his past self he loathed… and loved, when in the throes of it.

She knew no argument would truly make him easy with that part of himself, and so she stayed quiet. She scratched his head slowly as his breathing became regular, her silent companionship slowly easing Joffrey into peace… Tonight, it was her turn to be strong.

She hoped he left their bodies to the crows.

-: PD :-

The 'Prince's House', as it had come to be called, was one of Baelish's former unofficial safe houses. A sort of manse on Rhaenys' Hill with wide gardens and private walls that blocked onlookers. It had been the perfect location for their center of operations inside the city, away from the tunnels of the Red Keep and the suspicious eyes of Cercei and Ned.

The feast itself was in full swing, young crownlander heirs, squires, knights and maidens laughing and talking alongside the long tables of the main dining room. It had an altogether cozy feel with its colorful hunting tapestries and pretty bookcases, and Sansa was proud of the effort she'd put in to make the place more informal and intimate than the Red Keep.

The atmosphere around her was merry and relaxed, and Sansa smiled before she was engaged in conversation by Letya Mallery. The knights at the table raised their tankards high as they toasted for the King and the Prince, praising each other again for their actions during the previous hunt. Gossiping maidens eyed knights and squires across the dancing floor, nodding swiftly between themselves before going out in groups of two or three towards their targets and dragging them to a dance as the bards played.

Sansa had started that particular trend when she and her handmaidens had assaulted Joffrey and his stern faced band of Legates during one of the early feasts. Joffrey had taken it cheerfully enough, leading the way into a slightly inappropriate dance that would have seen them back under the oversight of the Septa if Father had heard about it. The others had dutifully followed through, and poor Jon had been nearly tongue tied as Meera giggled and pulled him towards the dance floor. After that the practice had been set, and the obstacle of propriety had been neatly removed… making her job in stitching this disparate realm just a tiny bit easier.

One dance at a time.

"You really think so?" asked Letya as she eyed the smiling boy chatting with a couple of friends by the corner.

"Of course I do, he was so drunk half the servants heard it," Sansa confirmed.

"Oh…" Letya murmured as she blushed lightly, "Did he really say that about me?" she asked Sansa with wide, hopeful eyes.

Sansa nodded confidently, angling their walk so Letya could have a clear line of sight in between the dancers and the band of bards. "He did, he's just too timid to take the first step," she said with complete security.

Letya seemed nervous, "But Lady Sansa, what if he-"

"But nothing," she cut her off gently, "Go in there and be confident! Stand your ground. Look him in the eyes like you really mean it, and extend your hand. You don't even have to talk if you don't want to. Offer him a dance and he'll take it and never let go," she whispered confidently.

Letya took a long breathe, steeled herself as if to face execution, and marched off towards the boy. The conversation between them stopped abruptly, and they all stared as Letya marched towards Rossel Langward.

She stopped, looked him in the eye, and extended her hand imperiously. Rossel seemed petrified, until one of his friends elbowed him and he stood up in a hurry, awkwardly grabbing her hand.

Sansa walked towards the bards, smiling and exchanging a few words with guests before reaching the wooden stand. "Master Blue," she called out quickly.

"My Lady?" he asked quickly, turning from the other four bards and making it seem as if he were briefly joining the dancing, though Sansa knew he was waiting for her orders.

"Something lively and simple to follow, good rhythm," she rattled of before continuing towards the Redwyne twins and inquiring about the quality of the food. They seemed cheerful enough, talking animatedly with a couple of girls from House Cressy, but they took the time to thank her again for the invitation. She used the conversation as cover to keep an eye on the stiff looking couple as they entered the dance floor and Master Blue switched the band into a simple dancing jig.

Spoiler: Music

It started with lute and flute, but soon enough the melody was accompanied by the steady beating of small drums, keeping the base simple as the strings flourished and Master Blue sang about a young couple and the laughable antics they got into during a town's summer festival. The rhythm was simple, but the man with the big drum was soon pounding as well as the song increased in intensity and volume, always held within the steady beat of the percussions. Before long, Rossel Langward and Letya Mallery were jumping and laughing, their hands together as they and everyone else on the floor tried to copy the simple but rhythmical jig Master Blue was carrying out as he sang.

And if loved bloomed, bringing House Mallory close to the loyalist Langwards and strengthening the Crowns hold in the southeastern Crownlands… then all the better for them all.

Sansa smiled as she left the dining hall and the house altogether, walking out an opened doorway to the sigh of the backyard. Oil lamps hanged from wooden poles and servants regularly entered the area through a backdoor, carrying simple dishes to be held with a single hand, as well as cups of light wine.

Most of the guests outside were clustered around a small wooden pen, laughing and cheering. She made her way through the crowd until she was leaning on the fence, smiling when she saw the contestants. A sort of impromptu competition had been held, that much at least was apparent; Downed tankards and discarded throwing knives were laid atop the tables, and someone had even trotted out Joffrey's training dummy.

Inside the pen itself though was Joffrey, fighting against his cousin Lancel with their halberds. The people were cheering or jeering as the cousins slowly circled around each other, sporting focused, long grins as they waited…

Suddenly, Lancel leapt with a roar as he tried to pull Joffrey's ankle, but the Prince avoided the attack and forced Lancel back with a couple of thrusts. It was clear neither was going all out against his opponent, but rather putting up a good show for the audience.

Sansa's enjoyment of the show turned slightly awkward when she realized she was right beside her half-brother. Jon must have been waiting for her sudden stiffening, because as soon as she saw him Jon bowed lightly.

"Lady Sansa," he said politely before making to leave.

"Jon, wait," she said lamely as she grabbed his arm. He seemed surprise as she let go of him, looking strangely at her.

"Do you think they've enjoyed the show?" she asked him, gazing at the other guests.

"I would think so," Jon told her, vaguely still as he nodded slowly.

Sansa sighed. Her relationship with her half-brother had not been all that great. She'd taken a sort of wariness towards him since an early age... Following the footsteps of her mother, as she had later realized. That wariness was still somehow inside her, lesser but present all the same… and she supposed her own likeness to her mother must play a part on Jon's side of the divide as well.

"The boars at least seem to be cooking nicely… I thought Joffrey didn't know how to hunt though…" she mused out loud.

"Oh, he does not," Jon said emphatically, a twinge of a smile showing on his lips for the first time. "When the hounds found the second boar some sort of primal instinct took over him," he said as he shook his head in bewildered admiration.

"What did he do?" Sansa asked him in long sufferance.

Jon actually smirked, "He and a few of the older boys had the first boar pinned with the spears, but when the hounds started barking like mad and another boar charged from the thicket to our right…" he trailed off as Joffrey parried a blow from Lancel and laid him on his back with the haft, the crowd cheering as he helped his cousin back up.

"What did he do?" Sansa asked again as she smiled as well.

"He actually dropped the spear, took out his arming sword and charged at the thing," Jon told her with an incredulous smile as he turned back to look at her. "We could scarcely believe it, but there he was. The prince of the realm butchering a raging boar with a tiny arming sword as he kept dancing around it, bleeding it out like an unruly pig," he said.

"That must be why the kitchen staff were butchering it into slices instead of roasting it above the pit like the other one…" Sansa mused as Joffrey called out.

"Any new challengers? Any challengers at all!? Come on people, free chance to beat on your future liege lord!" he called out, only to be jeered down by the audience of drunken knights and squires.

"More like a chance to sleep with a sore back and a cracked rib!" shouted someone, prompting good natured chuckling as Joffrey shook his head in bemusement and walked towards her.

"What do you say Sansa? Want to give them a show?" he asked with a smirk.

"I'd last all of ten seconds, not much of a show there," she said dryly as Joffrey scoffed.

"Come on Sansa, you know you're better than that! Besides, Lyra's been teaching you a few new moves right?" he asked innocently.

"Shush you," she scolded him, "I spent more than an hour plying Lord Gaunt with wine, food, and flattery so he plays nice when the time comes. The least you can do is appreciate the effort," she said lowly.

"Thanks Sansa," he said sincerely, "I think I would have just smashed his fingers again after ten minutes… at least he seemed pretty impressed with the boar hunt," he told her.

She was about to retort something witty and slightly unkind when there was a commotion behind her. She turned around to see the great bulk of King Robert Baratheon shoving aside guests and servants, making his way towards the pen like a runaway elephant, his face red as half the members of the Small Council followed him and the guests started to kneel.

"You went out on a boar hunt in the middle of the woods boy?!" bellowed Robert as he reached him.

Joffrey stared as the guests silenced themselves in a hush. Robert seemed to be staring at him with crossed eyes, his face red in perhaps anger or fury.

"Yes," Joffrey said in the midst of the sudden, surprised silence.

Robert stared at him in intensely, but Joffrey didn't back down. Finally, the King spoke again.

"And you didn't invite me…" he whispered in furious disappointment before bellowing a laugh fit to wake the gods themselves. Joffrey stared in incomprehension before one of Robert's meaty paws grabbed him. Sansa swore she could hear him squeak as he was bodily moved out of the melee pen.

"Come here son!" roared Robert as he lifted Joffrey across the wooden fence and gave him a sort of shaking one handed hug. "Is it true you decided to screw the cooks and slice the boar yourself with a sword?!" he all but shouted the question.

Sansa hid her mouth with one hand, trying not to giggle as she saw Joffrey's completely lost expression. "I was trying to bleed it to death rather than preparing the meal right there," he defended himself with a slightly aggravated tone of voice, which only served to make Robert laugh again.

"Bleed it he says!" he proclaimed, "Taking on a boar with an arming sword!" he roared as many new lords and knights entered the great backyard carrying wine cups and looking around in bemusement.

"It was pretty slow, couldn't turn around for shit," Joffrey tried to downplay it as he looked strangely at Robert, only to make him laugh once more.

Sansa could only snort as the sheer honesty in Joffrey's voice lifted the King's good cheer and made the rest of the assembled guests look at each other in thought.

"What did I tell you, you bloody Imp!" roared the King as he turned them both to the sight of Tyrion leading groups of servants which carried huge casks of wine. "A hell of a hunt and a celebration to outdo even you! Best of Baratheons and just the right parts of Lannister!" said Robert before turning to the still kneeling guests.

"What are you young fools kneeling for?!" he berated them, "I brought down half the Red Keep's ale stocks and they're not going to drink themselves!" he roared.

The guests stood up in a wild cheer as Ned Stark gave out a long sigh and gave Sansa an apologetic look. "We were in the middle of a feast when he insisted in coming down here himself to 'check the wild rumors'," he explained by way of apology. He might have not been made for life in the Capital, but even he understood the importance of his daughter's work here.

"Let him be happy, Father," Sansa told him as she looked at the wildly gesticulating King, showing off Joffrey to lords and knights as if he were a fine Myrish tapestry, laughing and bellowing for the 'young'ones' to get in line with their tankards. Tyrion was all too happy to serve, opening up one of the big barrel's valves and serving tankard after tankard of foaming ale.

Father seemed tired, pale under the eyes and just about fed up with the King's latest antics, but he didn't move to stop what he knew was to come. "I hope you stocked enough ale and food, Robert has been wanting to 'carouse' with his son for quite a while now. He'd forgotten about it until some bright fool back in the Red Keep asked whether it was true the Prince had taken down a boar with a sword… and was planning to eat it tonight," he said with grudging chuckle, "There was no stopping him once he learned there was a parallel feats going on at the other side of the city," he told her.

It seemed the King had learned of his son's feast and decided to combine both. When she spoke with Tyrion later he told her that they must have lost half of their own guests during the merry carousing between the Red Keep and the Prince's House… not that the King seemed overly bothered about it.

Father just shook his head again, before extending a hand a seizing a wine cup from a passing servant. "Tomorrow will be a mess," he moaned before downing it in one gulp.

-: PD :-

"Come on boy! You're not a man before you've chugged down one with your Father!" Robert roared as he slammed a tankard of ale into Joffrey. They were surrounded by cheering nobles, and Robert had to hold a monstrous chuckle when he saw Ned's exasperated head in between the sea of people. It seemed their lost guests were starting to catch up. Deciding to combine both their feasts had really been the second best idea he'd ever had.

"Drink! For the Seven Kingdoms you seem to give more of a piss than I do!" he roared, and Joffrey finally gave in. He shook his head with a slight smile before clashing the tankard against his.

"For the Seven Headaches! May they torment some other poor sod someday," Joffrey agreed, gulping deeply as Robert laughed and did the same.

"That's the spirit! More! Come on you damned Imp!" Robert shouted over the din, only to stagger back when something emerged from the crowd at waist level and crashed against his belly.

"You called?" said the Imp with a smirk, holding a keg of ale bigger than himself with both hands.

Third best idea of my rule, Robert thought as he slapped the little man's back and relieved him of the keg. "The Master of Coin everyone!" he roared as he lifted his arm with one hand and the barrel with the other. The crowd roared back as he showed them off, Joffrey laughing hysterically as Tyrion swung above the ground freely, downing a big cup of ale with his free hand as he was held up by Robert above the crowd.

Really, my son is responsible for all three of them… he thought with a wry chuckle as he left Tyrion on the ground and punched a hole between the rim and the side planks of the keg, the expert hit leaving a hole just small enough to pour accurately.

He sloshed ale all over the outstretched hands holding cups and tankards, but they seemed to multiply by the second as drunk lords, knights, and even maidens crowded around him, all holding out their cups and tankards.

"One moment you wretches!" he roared as he climbed the table next to him, using his now superior reach to pour over tankards and heads in equal measure all around him. "Joffrey! My aim is shit, come help your lord Father!" he ordered his son. Joffrey climbed up with a smile, shoved up by the loyal Master of Coin. His son was soon grabbing tankards by the dozen from the assembling, cheering crowd and holding them out so he could pour more quickly.

"There! Now drink!" he shouted, before he noticed something horrible.

I dropped my tankard…

"Eh fuck it! I've got big hands anyway!" he said as he raised the keg and poured into his mouth directly, the crowd cheering him on as squadrons of servants emerged from the house, carrying trays filled with roasted boar, directed by the keen eyes of his son's betrothed.

He broke off the torrent of ale to regale the crowd with a colossal burp, cutting off Joffrey's chuckle as he slammed the keg into his mouth. "Your turn boy!" he roared, the audience agreeing wholeheartedly as they cheered him on.

Joffrey drank deep, lowering the keg with a roar. "That's all you've got you fat oaf!?" he shouted as he tumbled lightly over the table.

The crowd went silent as all eyes moved to Robert… and he smiled.

"Finally a proper Baratheon to trade cups with!" he roared before downing another huge gulp and passing it back. Unfortunately, it seemed Renly had already left the party.

Joffrey accepted it, fire in his eyes as he drunk deep once more and passed it back. It went around a few times, the crowd dividing itself in its celebration. The youngest cheered and whopped and Joffrey shook his head wildly after a heavy swallow, while the older lords and knights banged cups against tables or stamped their feet and shouted as Robert slammed the keg down after a powerful gulp.

He passed the keg into his tipsy son, but Joffrey frowned as he tilted the keg upside down and shook it, not a single drop coming within.

"Victory! The last one was mine!" Robert declared victoriously, only for the equally drunk public to burst out into cheers and angry shouts.

"Nonsense!" Joffrey shouted as he swayed lightly atop the table, "The contest keeps! I'm not defeated!" he declared.

"Give it up son! You need a belly and another couple of years if you want to take a crack at me!" He said triumphantly.

"A crack huh? Well, we've got a few tourney weapons lying around here…" Joffrey trailed off when he saw Robert actually considering the idea.

"Why the hells not?! Let's see if you're truly ready to feel the Fury!" he roared, and Robert swore he could have jumped over the crowd and they would have carried him right into the training yard. Fortunately, even in this state of mind Robert was aware of the whole royal dignity claptrap.

Joffrey seemed to be eyeing him in shock, before the Master of Coin –bless his soul- shoved another tankard at him, pushed him towards the wooden fence, and cheered as loud as he could.

"Ten gold dragons for the Prince!" he shouted, and then the crowd went wild.

The betting was still going on as Joffrey and Robert threw some padded armor over themselves, aided by helpful nobles. Robert was hefting a tourney warhammer with both hands, starting to reconsider the notion of possibly ending up cracking his daredevil heir's skull.

Joffrey however was looking at him with a huge grin, as if he couldn't believe what was happening. He seemed to have given up control of the situation, perhaps leaving it in the capable hands of Sansa so he could just have some fun.

As it should be, emerged the sudden thought, regret and pride and something else buttering through his belly before he hefted the warhammer up in the air. He could see Sansa taking out the excellent band of bards out into the backyard, making them stand up over another table. They started a lively tune as he turned to his son.

"I'll try to go easy on you, look out for those delicate bones of yours," he called out as he walked towards him, the crowd pressing into the wooden fence and making so much noise it just kind of turned into a drone, though the music could be heard over it somehow.

"I'll do the same Robert! Can't hammer that belly too hard or I'll just fly back!" called out the cheeky brat as he swung both sword and hammer.

Robert scoffed, turning to the huge audience, "Seems I've got some manners to teach!" he called out. The crowd cheered him on, and for the first time in a long time he thought he could hear something else but false flattery. "Should have taken a two handed one! No proper strength behind the blow!" he said as he eyed his son's one handed hammer, "Leave the dual wielding for the maiden's tales!" he goaded him as more people pressed into the sturdy wooden fence

Had there been so many people in both feasts? He asked himself as he laughed.

"We'll see about that old man!" Joffrey shouted back, but Robert was interrupted before he could respond.

"Wait!" someone shouted. They both turned to see Tyrion climbing on to their old table, which had somehow been dragged to the side of the fence. "You'll need a judge for this! Impartial! Serious!" He slurred before downing his tankard.

They stared at him as they waited for his proposed judge to show himself.

Tyrion nodded, took in a lungful of air, and then roared as hard as he could, "BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF EACH OTHER!" he said as the crowd carried the cry.

Robert chuckled as he prepared to take a small lunge at Joffrey, to ease him in so as to not break his skull by accident.

He was promptly fighting for his life.

His son was a damned whirlwind as he struck from left and right, sword and hammer synchronized as he spun and delivered a flurry of slashes and lunges which immediately put Robert on the backfoot. He parried wildly with the haft of the hammer, not having the range nor the time to stop the sudden onslaught with a blow of his own until he tripped and fell on the mud, his son's sword almost by his throat.

"Victory for the Prince!" Roared the Imp, "Give me the gold you damned rats!" he continued as several guests ran for it.

Robert could hardly believe it. He knew his son was good, he'd won the damned melee after all… but to be defeated like this? Him? The Demon of the Trident?!

Joffrey was standing back, bouncing on his knees as kept swinging his weapons, grinning like a fool. "Good enough I suppose, for an old man," the brat told him with a shit eating grin.

It was not the first time he'd realized how much of a shell of his former self he'd become, but this was the first time he felt some sort of fiery determination immediately after instead of a pitch black void.

"BEST OF THREE! BEST OUT OF THREE!" He roared as he stood up with a huff, using the warhammer as a pole, "I'll beat that smirk out of your insolent face!" he called out to his son, though he was unable to hide the proud smile as he said it.

"But what doth the crowd sayeth?!" Tyrion called out, and Robert was unsure if he was that drunk or if he was trying to imitate a crier.

The crowd roared assent universally, and Tyrion nodded seriously, "Insolent brat ready?!" he asked as Joffrey raised his arm, "Old man ready?!" he asked as Robert pumped his warhammer into the air.

"Then fight damn you! Thirty gold dragons for Prince Joffrey!" he shouted.

Robert roared as he bull rushed his son, who clearly had not been expecting that. He swung his warhammer horizontally, Joffrey bending below the arc and springing back up to close the range and bang him with his hammer.

Robert laughed as he swung the other way and took a big step back, catching Joffrey in the foot and bringing him unto the ground before the sword reached him. "This old devil still has a few tricks!" he roared as he lifted the hammer and struck only mud.

Joffrey had rolled away from the blow, standing up in some sort of twisting leap that saw him close the distance and strike in seconds. Robert parried the strike with the haft and slammed into him with his shoulder, shoving him back brutally and lunging with his warhammer as if it were a spear. Joffrey avoided the blow precisely, but was caught by surprise when instead of repositioning, Robert swung the extended warhammer sideways as he shifted his grip to the end of haft. It caught him in the chest and sent him flying back.

Joffrey rolled through the mud, turning his fall into a flip and standing back up again. Robert laughed as he turned around, holding his warhammer high as the crowd returned his voice a hundred times louder only for Joffrey to dash at him with a roar of his own. Robert parried the hammer but the sword slammed against his shoulder. He grunted as he retreated a few steps, trying to widen the distance. Joffrey would have none of that though, keeping close and hitting Robert's thigh with the hammer.

Old instincts were returning to him faster and faster now, his motions becoming more confident by the second. He bulled through the pain and Joffrey, slamming him aside before he could doge him. He tried to circle left but Robert predicted the movement, slamming the warhammer like a spear against his chest and pushing him back.

They circled each other wearily, opening the distance as they feinted lightly and switched their grips, each waiting for the other to commit.

Robert hesitated when he saw Ned shove his way to the edge of the training yard. He pushed aside the last noble in his way and slammed against the wooden fence, both hands supporting his weight as he turned to stare at him, red faced, "Robert! What is the matter with you?!" he shouted as if he could not believe what he was seeing.

Deep inside, Robert had known this sudden, godly moment of fun and something else had been too good to last. Ned gazed sternly at his best friend for a second before he climbed the first rung of the fence, cupped his hands, and shouted again like a man possessed.

"Robert! Pull yourself together!" shouted his dutiful friend, "BREAK HIS SHAMELESS PAWS!" He roared as loud as he could, slurring lightly as Tyrion handed him another tankard.

Wait what?

Robert felt as if he'd been slapped and transported to another world. He could only stare at Ned as the man downed the tankard, wiping the foam off his mouth before giving him that stereotypical Ned Stark frown. "Whatr' re' you waiting for?!" he shouted.

"BWAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Robert bellowed as he jumped at his son, the hammer light in his hands as he lunged and swept, twisted and slammed, the fast paced music propelling him on as he struck. He felt as if he were twenty years younger, a smile on his face and a hammer in his hands, no worries and no regrets as he all but danced around Joffrey. Granted, it had more in common with an elephant's stomping than any sort of real dancing, but he felt unstoppable as Joffrey dodged and twisted franticly, avoiding his sweeps barely and parrying his lungs with huffs of strength. Joffrey's hammer flew away as Robert carried out the same disarm maneuver he'd used to torment Ned during their training in the Eerie, feinting low only to viciously hammer away the weak parry with a powerful overarm strike.

His son tried to close the range again, and Robert smiled. Let him, he thought in vicious satisfaction as the boy came at him with a low guard. He simply bull rushed him, angling himself so the sword clanged against the training armor instead of his flesh, absorbing the blow and lifting his hammer to shoulder height. He brought it down, quick as a viper as he struck Joffrey's upper chest, the force behind the blow making him stumble back as Robert stayed back, already swinging as he swept his feet and spun with the warhammer's momentum, the move a familiar one he'd repeated a million times in the dreams that used to haunt him. He brought the warhammer down brutally before Joffrey could react, slamming the earth and splattering mud all over his son's face. It would not do to cave in his son's chest after all.

"And point for the King!" shouted Tyrion, frowning when several nobles kept staring at him and he realized he was quite indebted right now, "Wait! There's still one more! Double or nothing!" he said as he tried to save his hide.

"Don't be upset son, it was that move that named me the Demon of the Trident!" he called out triumphantly as the crowd roared with him.

"And gave the Ruby Ford its name!" Ned roared as the handful of northern knights and armsmen banged their tankards against whatever hard surface they could find, veteran storm and riverlanders joining in.

Joffrey was gazing at him appreciably as he recovered his weapons, caked in mud and sweat. Robert chuckled, again feeling something warm and calm inside him as he took in the rare look of approval.

They didn't even wait for Tyrion's call, they were already at it. There was something playful during their third and final spar, slower and altogether more elaborate than the last two. They weren't fighting to win, but to have a good time. They struck and parried, spun in elaborate twists and even fought with tankards in hand, each blow forcing the other to drink.

Robert was sweating like a pig. His lungs burned with every breath and his back was protesting loudly after each swing of his warhammer, but he didn't care. With his best friend shouting encouragement and the occasional calls for the bloody murder of his son, said son leering back and promptly chuckling when he caught a hammer to the leg and a mouthful of mud, knights and lords and squires and maidens cheering and laughing all around them in complete and utter drunken sincerity…

Robert realized his eyes felt a bit watery as they walked back to the table. Joffrey was supporting his weight as they staggered towards the long bench alongside it, completely and utterly exhausted as they all but crashed down on the bench. People laughed and clapped their backs, the music from the bards switching to something still lively but not as fast paced.

He leaned back after their latest trade of insults gave way to another round of ale, one hand still over Joffrey's shoulders as his son was now scolded by Sansa, her blue eyes boring into his in mixed worry and mirth, a small smile growing on her lips as Joffrey came up with excuse after drunken excuse. Robert took a moment to gaze around, chuckling lowly as he saw his Master of Coin upside down over a table, trying to walk with his hands as young squires slammed their tankards against the table in a rising crescendo. He saw Lancel and Olyvar Frey take over the training yard, demonstrating their unique halberd drill as they sparred intensely, not wanting to be shown unworthy after his own bout with his son. Not all of Joffrey's 'Legates' were there though. Jon Snow was leaning on the fence, seemingly content to leave the showing off to his peers.

I think this is the first time I've seen him laugh, Robert thought with a slight smile, a smile which turned into a chuckle as he saw one of Sansa's young handmaidens by the boy's side.

Howland Reed's daughter, he finally recognized her face. He seemed to be laughing hysterically at something the little girl had shouted at the dueling legates, trying to cover her mouth with his hand as she kept jeering despite the poor lad's efforts. Robert chuckled again when the Reed girl stayed mum under Snow's hand, the boy retrieving it quickly as if it'd been burned. The Reed girl caught it before it fled completely though, holding it tight between them as she kept looking at the training bout as if nothing had happened. Snow's face turned from greyish to red in seconds as he smiled slowly, his hand still.

He had a good smile, a spitting image of her mother's that made Robert smile at the memory.

What a beauty she'd been, he sighed in recollection, remembering the hilarious expression on Ned's face as instead of following all precedent and trying to win her heart himself, he shoved his best friend at the second most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms…

And so another circle closed as the daughter of the man who killed Arthur Dayne clasped hands with his nephew, stories closing and long awaited dues fulfilled as time moved on.

Robert chuckled as Ned slapped his back, emerging from the flood of guests to say something which Robert couldn't quite comprehend but seemed to have him quite amused. He slapped him back, laughing as Ned almost lost his footing. It was funny to see him drunk again, after all these years. Memories of old seemed intent on flooding him today as he remembered two young idiots sneaking through Jon Arryn's wine cellar, a result of youthful exploration which ended with Ned puking his guts while trying to stall the Old Falcon, buying time for Robert to hide a comely wench under his bed.

Joffrey sniggered as he looked at Jon and Sansa swatted his head. His son turned to him and said something indistinct, which Robert nodded away with a chuckle of his own. He had grown so much in so little time, his son, as if fate had called in its debts from the wrongs of Robert's own life to set the balance straight once more. As it should have been. As it should be. He gazed at the servings of roasted boar the maids were leaving everywhere atop the tables, avoiding the ones that had been turned over in the midst of the revelry. This particular feast had gone out of control a while ago, and it didn't seem to be stopping any time soon… truly one for the records.

My son killed this, Robert thought as he took a bite out of the boar, flavor flooding his mouth as he sighed deeply.

He wondered why it tasted better than any boar he had ever killed.

He realized the sappy, sticky feeling in his throat was satisfaction. A happy, calm thing that settled to the core of his bones. He took another gulp of ale to swallow the mellow, sticky sensation that had crept up his throat, that deep feeling which made him realize he was content with his life, perhaps for the first time ever. He'd done good, he hadn't screwed everything up.

He winced slightly as the dull headache that had been plaguing him since the middle of the bout intensified. Fortunately, another gulp of ale seemed to drown that particular woe. He felt so tired, so exhausted… spent even. As if tonight he'd pooled all of his strength and vitality to return to the old days of yore, a nearly forgotten youth as he briefly became who he had been, who he was.

He wiped a lone tear off his cheek before he downed another tankard, taking a deep breath. The numb pain in his forehead was spreading slowly, but he felt it was no worse than any wound he'd taken in his youth or even thirty minutes ago as he'd sparred with his son for that matter.

He'd screwed up, more times than he could count… But his son would not. With the backing of a whopping five kingdoms through blood and marriage, his son would be secure in his rule. With a loving and smart wife by his side to prod him and make him excel, a loyal and competent Hand to handle the transition, a capable mind with a penchant for copper counting, and arms strong enough to wrestle a bull or smash in a pretender's head if the need ever arose, he realized he was no longer worried about his son's future.

Robert Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, could take that legacy.

"Don't let them rule you, do what you feel is right and bollocks for the consequences," he told his son the advice he'd liked to have received when they crowned him, almost twenty years ago.

He seemed startled by the sudden piece of advice, nodding thoughtfully despite the alcohol before saying some sort of gibberish Robert couldn't comprehend. It had the tone of a question though, his hand rising hesitantly to touch Robert's right cheek.

He waved his son away as he stood up and walked towards Ned. He embraced his surprised friend, who seemed green enough to vomit as if they were all fifteen year olds again. Ned gibbered something that made the men around him laugh, and Robert laughed with them, with his best friend. "I'm glad you came south," he told him with a smile. The swaying Ned nodded heartily at that, slapping him in the shoulder and gibbering something back which sounded nice, thoughtful, and slightly melancholic.

Pure, typical Ned.

Robert chuckled as he walked away, his field of vision dimming from the right as he searched around with one eye.

Ah, there it is, he thought as he reached his discarded warhammer. He'd forgotten why he was searching for it, but he knew it was very important he had it in his hand right now. The entire right side of his face felt oddly lax as he sat down away from the party at the other side of the training yard, leaning his back on the wooden fence and letting his head rest against it.

He crossed his arms around his warhammer, smashed Rhaegar Targeryen's chest once more in the privacy of his own mind, and realized the memory no longer gave him such a vicious feeling of satisfaction anymore… Rhaegar Targeryen died unmourned, his legacy in ashes… but what did he care? So many opened things had been closed, so much time had passed him by, new youths and new faces and new dreams and new regrets. The old gave way to the new, and the reigns of life passed from the old to the young, who had the dreams and the strength to impose their will on this harsh world of them all.

He drank from his tankard one more time, savoring the strong, proper flavor of a good stout, and smiled.

Who was he fucking kidding? Smashing in Rhaegar Targeryen's fancy chest plate and adorning his guts with fistfuls of rubies would never get old. He chuckled lowly at that, something about that thought brought a smile to his face.

The chuckle died off as he blinked with one eye, confused. What was he doing here again? And why did he have his arms wrapped around his warhammer?

Ah, right. Father always said Baratheons should greet the Stranger with a weapon in hand, he remembered. His dimming vision was replaced by the sight of the Windproud leaning sideways in the midst of the storm, the scene framed by two of Storm's End's crenellations as guards roared and little Stannis pleaded for the Gods to spare Father and Mother. He'd always liked to think the wild, big figure atop the main mast slamming an axe against the ruined mainsail had been Father, big and strong and proud to the end as Shipbreaker Bay swallowed him whole.

Robert wondered if Old Steffon had also felt proud of his son as he died, gazing at his ancestral keep and the two figures perched over the crenellations. He mused about that as his grip on the tankard went lax, forehead resting on his warhammer as he let out a long breath and went still.

-: PD :-

AN: Decided to get this out in the interest of getting this train on the move again. This was supposed to be in part a chapter about Joffrey's coronation, but then Robert kind of hijacked the update. He's not sorry.

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

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Jul 23, 2018

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Chapter 46: Raiders.

Their wedding was a rushed affair. The High Septon had barely finished the rites when two crowns had been brought forward, the wedding turning into a coronation about twenty minutes after Ned had solemnly removed the Stark cloak from Sansa's shoulders.

That whole day seemed to pass in a rush to Joffrey. Sansa's hidden anxiety had been as clear as daylight to him as the High Septon placed a crown on her head, even if no one else had been able to detect it. Her impish smile as he broke through the enthusiasm of the incoming bedding ceremony, shoving aside nobles before he picked her up with his own arms and carried her to their new bedroom himself...

Joffrey and Sansa had been of one voice and one will, commanding the dual ceremony to be carried out within the fortnight as they worked themselves ragged trying to keep the Seven Kingdoms from splintering into a greater civil war. Watching Ned's face shortly after he found his best friend sitting quietly near the training grounds had been heartbreaking, all the more so for the fact that Robert had apparently died happy, or perhaps merely content, a stark contrast to all the lives Joffrey had seen him die on.

To think that he'd somehow managed to make him happy during the last year of his life, through no conscious effort of his own, had been a humbling and wretched thing. He'd made sure Pycell had stopped the weekly doses of coagulant almost immediately after waking up in this life, but the damage done had already been too severe, the intense training bout merely accelerating the inevitable.

Ned had taken a day to mourn before returning to his duties with single minded dedication. When he'd entered the throne room the day after Robert's death he'd kneeled and called Joffrey King, smiling grimly at the sight of Sansa sitting in a secondary throne beside him. When he'd heard of Renly proclaiming himself the rightful King of Westeros, he'd called the banners of the North to fight in the south once more. When Joffrey had asked him to continue his service under the crown, he'd merely nodded and carried on.

A great many schemes and plans were in flux now. Sansa was tightening the noose of spies around Varys' neck, trying to glean more information about the way he operated Westeros' biggest spy network. Tyrion was swamped with work, given practically free reign and coin to boost the Blackworks around the Blackwater, and preparing Joffrey's plans for the founding of a maritime trading company.

A stiff breeze of wind shook Joffrey out of his head, the banners buffeting around the courtyard.

"Joffrey, is this really necessary? Ser Jaime will bring you Renly's head if you but ask," pleaded Cercei, deploying all her charm and her worry as the flags and banners swirled with the wind. "The King's place is at the Capital, ruling," she told him almost desperately.

He didn't respond, merely hugging her abruptly and interrupting any further arguments, his plate making the movement awkward. She took a deep breath, nodding halfheartedly as her last attempt to stop her son from going to war failed.

He took a step back to regard the rest of the assembled audience standing around the courtyard of the Red Keep, nodding when Ned took a step forward. "We'll make sure there's a realm to come back to, Your Grace," he said solemnly. It clearly pained him to let him go, but he understood the reasons behind it all… at least the ones Joffrey had told him about.

"I'll be sure to keep the wheel spinning, though this little rebellion will slow down your projections," Tyrion spoke next, carrying himself with an air of authority which Joffrey was glad to see.

"Thank you uncle," Joffrey smiled, his eyes turning to his Queen.

Sansa looked regal in her green and red dress, lines of gold and silver tying the whole ensemble together. Her red hair had been tamed by the crown she wore, a golden circlet with three sapphires in a triangular position, right above her blue, worried eyes.

She embraced him tightly, a hug Joffrey returned in full as he breathed deeply and closed his eyes, sealing the memory in fire.

"At least take Ser Barristan," she whispered.

"We talked about this. He stays here, with you. I want you surrounded by loyal swords at all times," Joffrey whispered back.

He opened his eyes as Sansa leaned back, the smell of roses and Dure House still in his mind as she shuffled one of his pauldrons, settling it in place. She seemed to stare at his eyes then, unwilling to let him go.

"Slay him, slay all the chivalry of the South and come back to me," she ordered him.

He answered with a deep kiss, the moment all too fleeting as they separated and she handed him a blue ribbon.

"A favor from m'lady?" he asked with a smile.

"You better return it, or you'll regret the next time you see me," she said with a smile that mirrored his own.

"Be careful with Varys, and Mother too," he whispered before Sansa shushed him.

"I'll handle them, you concentrate on the Baratheons," she said seriously, "Then, we'll get these Kingdoms to where they should be," she ended.

Joffrey walked back to his horse, a handful of bodyguards plus Sandor and Ser Jaime already waiting for him as he clambered atop Moonlight. They didn't speak a word as they rode out of the Keep and then the City, war on the horizon.

-: PD :-

Renly had declared himself the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms once again, and it seemed the Tyrells had backed him this time as well. Joffrey didn't know if that spoke of desperation at their waning influence in the realm, or a mad power grab by Mace Tyrell… but he didn't really care. Both Ned and Cercei had pleaded with him to wait for reinforcements from the North and the Westerlands, or hells even just the Riverlands.

He'd declined. That was not the message he intended to send to Westeros and beyond… He wanted the peace to last, and if that meant personally going out there with a numerically inferior force and destroying the chivalry of the south with his bare fists, then that's what he would do. If he was to rule Westeros he would have to be respected.

He would be no Aegon the fifth, ground down under the sneers of the nobility. He would have to carve himself a reputation as a warrior king and a general, a breaker of armies and a terror of the battlefield, and the sooner he did that the faster his preparations for the coming Night would go. He had already made some progress with that since he'd woken up in this life, and it showed in the lackluster showing of the Stormlords in support of their Lord Paramount's claim. Strong, but still lesser than what Renly must have expected, lesser for sure than the many times Joffrey had seen him raise the banners of rebellion all over the Stormlands.

The five thousand strong First Regiment of the Royal Guard was already marching. His legates led the army at a ludicrous pace -at least for Westerosi standards- eating mile after mile as they went their way south, towards Bronze Gate.

Sansa had not been idle, as she'd made swift work of the scions of the Crownlands, most of whose had conveniently been in the Capital when Robert died. They were already joining the Guard's march, despoiled of their useless levies and only bringing much needed cavalry.

Still, even that sort of speed left him impatient, and so his army would reach him in the Stormlands itself.

"Raiders!" thundered Joffrey as Moonlight slammed to a halt in a cloud of dust, the people around the small camp rustling out of the way.

"Bugger me', the Prince is back," shouted one of them as he stood up, a scarred man with a dead eye.

"It's the King now you arsehole!" shouted another one as he ran out of a small tent while clutching fistfuls of coppers, a gaggle of protesting gamblers following him out and starting to brandish daggers at the opportunistic bastard. They sheathed them quickly and abruptly when they saw Joffrey though, and he found their faux-innocent expressions almost endearing.

"Listen up you wretches! We're going hunting!" Joffrey shouted with a twisted smile.

"Wha' for?!" shouted one of the rapidly assembling men and even a few women.

Ser Jaime frowned as his horse came to a stop next to Joffrey's and he gazed upon the slovenly camp, filled with hundreds of all manner of thugs and other scum that wouldn't have been out of place in the deepest recesses of Fleabottom.

"Traitors, wealthy traitors," Joffrey delivered with aplomb, his twisted smile growing rakish as the men hollered. Sansa's spies had done the legwork in the beginning, trawling through the taverns and alehouses of Fleabottom looking for the sort of men Joffrey needed all those months ago.

"Bout' time we shed a little blood!" called out one, "Yeah, clubbing messengers was getting rather dull," another one remarked drily as they started to pick up the camp. Westerosi nobles thought crime was a single, monolithic drive of men, all afflicted by the same drive to rape, kill and steal. He could see the same thoughts passing by his real father's face now, his eyes already ignoring a whole world of meaning to center on one or two thoughts: Brigands, cowards, and thieves… in short: Human trash.

"We're going to go shank a few lords down south, burn a bit here and there, put a little fear in those round Reacher bellies," Joffrey told them, bloodthirsty smirks peeking out amongst them. The disdain was mutual.

Where most Westerosi nobles saw trash, he'd learned long ago to peer deeper into the men and women that were relegated to the deepest recesses of society. Not all cut throats were unrepentant rapists or crazed scum devoid of positive emotions. There were those who followed their own code of honor, those that took pride in comradeship and companionship, those that had been led down by the world and driven to act in a way for so long that it had become habit… there was still value there, another group of people that could be driven to new heights with the promise of purpose…

Albeit purpose of a different sort…

He'd gone down to Fleabottom searching for a specific brand of person, months ago. They were thieves and murderers, true, as well as reckless, disdainful of authority, and without an ounce of the respect expected out of any smallfolk when meeting a noble scion. And yet they did have their honor of sorts. Hard bitten men and women who had not fallen to the lowest of the low even under harsh circumstances; escaped poachers and shady woodsmen, hardened prostitutes with a knack for slitting the throats of those who got too violent, petty gang members who'd managed to thread the line between necessity and needless destruction. With the help of Sansa's spies, he'd found them and slowly molded them into the name that would plague the nightmares of rebellious lords even as the pounding steps of the Royal Guard grew louder and louder.

"Raiders! Move out!" he called out, and his skirmishers did so. His father looked disbelieving as the men did as told, quickly stowing the small camp and getting ready for the ride south. They mounted up, checking the new sabers and the supplies of torches.

They may not be Long Scouts, but godsdamnit it feels good to ride again, Joffrey thought as he spurred Moonlight, Sandor and Ser Jaime struggled to catch up, his Raiders forming up behind as they rode southwards.

-: PD :-

Renly's hundred thousand man host made a sight to behold. Their camp was a veritable city, so big and vast it was. It sported tourney grounds and grand pavilions in a splendor of green and gold, lavish accommodations and grand main roads. It was filled with great storage barns and tents where the plentiful foodstuffs of the reach were stored and carefully maintained, held in safekeeping for when the host lumbered its way north in the morning; centralized for ease of accesses and a safeguard against looting deserters looking for a full meal before running to the woods.

For all its great length and splendor, the tent city was haphazardly organized the further one went from Renly's center of power, right in its middle where he held court and showered his bannermen and Reacher allies with gifts and speeches. Keeping order and camp discipline close to the King's center of power was one thing, ensuring the orderly construction of over a hundred thousand men's lodgings, most of which were untrained and undisciplined farmers, was a different proposition altogether. Alleyways bottled together, mustering grounds were filled with crates and junk, tents ate over firebreaks and marching streets, fusing together into one big shanty town.

What most caught Joffrey's attention though were the banners… he didn't really know why. There were so many of them, waving and slapping each other under the heavy gusts of wind that were the scourge of the Stormlands. Proud apples and oranges and all manner of foodstuffs, proud huntsmen and bared arms. In the morning they would march once more, towards Storm's End and then Bronze Gate and ultimately, towards King's Landing. Intent on bringing glory to their liege lord and King, intent on war and the spoils of battle and intrigue.

"M'Grace?" rattled Horwik.

"It's just Joffrey, or Ser if you prefer," he reminded him absentmindedly as he kept gazing at the banners through the dark and moonless night.

"Aye M'Grace," he said with a nod, "We're ready," he added.

Joffrey nodded lightly as he kept surveying the camp. "Get to the archers, mind your targets," he said before he turned and silently slid his way down from the little overhang, returning to the forest that hid over five hundred heavily armed and lightly armored Raiders, their faces and sabers obscured of glint and chivalry by mud and dirt, only their shifting eyes betraying their positions. Their horses lay behind them, prone on the ground and breathing slowly. Joffrey crept towards the three figures hunched by the edge of the forest, their eyes following the retinue of patrolling knights as it edged further away, clad in plate and mail, their night vision destroyed by the torches they carried. Renly felt safe here, in the middle of the Stormlands and with the Reach at his back, his host so big as to make lesser men quiver in fear at its sight.

"Add another four minutes to the raid, the camp is even worse guarded than we thought," Joffrey whispered, their slow nods acknowledging his orders. "Like we discussed last night: targets of opportunity, prioritize foodstuffs and stables. Two stage withdrawal, Horwick will be waiting with the archers. Remember to keep you exit routes clear," he said.

"Anything else, your majesty?" Pocket asked sardonically.

"Yes, keep your sticky hands to yourself and don't over encumber your horse," Joffrey admonished him seriously, though he couldn't hide the tiniest speck of a smirk on his lips.

"Plenty of loot to be had once they're all dead," agreed Daryl, checking his scabbard once more in a complicated ritual of confirmations and blinking which according to him was the only way of avoiding certain doom.

"Indeed. Daryl, take the right and wreak havoc amongst the footsoldiers, burn their tents and try to get them out into the streets, blinded and confused and hopefully in the way of the Reacher knights," said Joffrey.

"Aye Boss," he said before making his way to his men.

"Pocket, pierce through the center with me and Glyra, then slash left and burn those barns and foodstocks near the mustering grounds," he commanded.

"I've been looking forward to this for a long time," he whispered without a touch of his usual whimsy, creeping backwards until shadows consumed him.

"Glyra, we'll pierce right through the center, straight for the stables. Cut down as many horses as you can, and burn their hay," he told the slip of a girl.

"You?" she whispered, the scars all over her face contracting as she frowned.

"I'll split off there, head for the main pavilion…" he trailed off as the corner of his mouth ticked upwards.

"King's should be near the fighting, the ballads say so," he said with a wolfish smile.

She slipped away without another word, and Moonlight was already cantering towards him as the rest of the men and women mounted up.

Spoiler: Music

Soon they were riding slowly towards the camp, their path dry and heavy with dust, making the sound of the approaching hooves all but silent at this distance, the swirling dirt above them invisible under the moonless night.

"Go," Joffrey said loudly as Moonlight broke into a gallop, the indistinct mass of riders splitting in three without a roar or battlecry, horses speeding down on the great camp from multiple angles. There were no gates or walls surrounding the camp, only a few patrolling soldiers.

"Who goes there?!" called out a spearman who'd been watching over the 'main road' of the camp, the one that led directly to the camp's center. He raised his torch higher, trying to see what the fuss was all about and probably cursing the over excitable Reacher nobility.

He stumbled backwards as a mass of charging horses emerged from the night, sabres held point down.

"What the-?! We're under attagh-" he tried to scream before Joffrey's sabre ripped through his throat, the few other soldiers gambling or drinking nearby standing up in a daze only for them to be cut down to a man, sabres reaping a bloody harvest as the Raiders broke into the camp.

"No mercy! Show 'em the price of war!" roared Joffrey as he slowed down Moonlight slightly, his arm swinging back and forth and quickly settling into a familiar rhythm, almost like a lullaby from a long forgotten childhood. With each swing he reaped flesh, the panicking soldiers emerging from the tents only adding their blood to the swiftly growing river of it which now flowed through the camp. Backs and necks, throats and arms were severed as Raiders lit their torches and threw them to tents and granaries, the fires quickly growing out of control and further adding to the mayhem.

Joffrey realized they were making freakish progress, making their way to the stables almost five minutes ahead of schedule. With a start he realized Renly's army had not even a single contingency plan for this sort of situation, so content had they been in their assembled might and the blind knights they used for scouts, their postings another prize for Renly's bannermen to fight over. Men at Arms were rushing out of tents with whatever they had been sleeping with, brandishing dirks or arming swords before they were cut down. Smallfolk levies were simply panicking, screaming for mercy or running in circles as the fires spread and they spotted raiders everywhere, three men squads splitting off from the main thrusts and making their way through alleyways and spreading chaos and mayhem.

Glyra was already leading her own section towards the nearby stables. There were few horse archers within the Raiders, but lit torches would burn just as well as flaming arrows. Joffrey could already hear the horses neigh in desperation as the fires spread and he kept galloping straight ahead, the road so wide it seemed a parade ground. His arm was tireless, still cutting down confused or fleeing soldiers, no type of rapid response force trying to stop him and his personal retinue of raiders as they slashed and burned their way towards the center of Renly's folly.

Joffrey was almost nauseous, nearly in shock at the sheer incompetence, the sheer slaughter he was carrying out against such a numerically superior foe. It was clear they had achieved complete and utter surprise… Here and there he saw groups of men at arms converging, trying to sort out some kind of formation as they passed spears to each other… but it was late, far too late for the amount of damage they would get away with tonight. Joffrey had pitted his Raiders against the Royal Guard during countless exercises, imported and adapted raiding doctrine from the east, drilled small unit tactics into his Raiders until they dreamt of ambush.

And now they had been unleashed against an enemy which had been utterly unprepared for it.

Joffrey took in a gulp of air as he realized he was almost at Renly's tent, scores of banners flying from the fine pavilion, the triumphant stag the tallest of them all.

Can I end it all right here?! He asked himself in a daze as he ripped through an unarmored man's back, jumping down from his horse and taking out another torch, swiftly burning as his flint and steel rings clacked. The 'courtyard' in front of the pavilion was a mess, filled with the dead and dying as Raiders kept trickling through the lackluster defense, which was barely now stiffening, burly men at arms bellowing at their charges as soldiers mingled with Raiders and routed levies.

He dared believe he could, when he tossed a lit torch at the pavilion. It went up in flames magnificently, the finely oiled silk burning like pitch as a couple of armored knights emerged from within. He'd wanted to scare Renly, but never in a million years he'd have thought he'd get this close him.

"Renly!" Joffrey roared as he recognized the telltale colors of the vaunted Rainbow Guard, Renly's personal retinue and Kingsguard analogue, the Yellow and Purple ones specifically. They were surprised as they looked at him, both of them moving forward to make space behind them.

"Get him outta here! Move damn you!" shouted the Purple one at the tent flap, brandishing a longsword.

"Bandits dare attack the King himself!?" roared the Yellow one at the same time, jumping at Joffrey with a bastard sword and an outraged bellow.

Joffrey parried the blow sideways and took out his hammer, planting it on the Yellow Knight's visor. He extracted it in a shower of blood as Renly came out of the pavilion, surrounded by five knights of various sundry colors.

"Uncle! Fancy meeting you here tonight!" He smiled, striding towards him as the Purple knight brandished a two hander menacingly.

"Joffrey?" Renly mouthed, still in his night silks, the grip on his longsword lax as Ser Loras and the Blue knight dragged him sideways by the arms, away from Joffrey.

"Kill him!" Shouted Ser Loras.

The Purple and Green knights charged him at once, bellowing mighty battlecries. "Go!" shouted the Purple one as he tried to split Joffrey apart with his two hander. The Green one was ready when Joffrey dodged the blow, trying to smash his thigh with a hammer.

Joffrey retreated under the coordinated assault of the two Rainbow Guards, barely avoiding the blows on his lightly armored body. The men had clearly spent some time training together, and it showed in the coordinated rain of strikes Joffrey had to dodge or parry without stop. "Renly! Come back here and fight for your throne!" Joffrey roared, crouching and letting Purple's two hander sail over his head as he overextended slightly, leaving a window of opportunity. He jammed his sabre into Green's unarmored boot before the knight could coordinate his blow with Purple, making him bellow in pain before he jammed the sabre's pommel into his eye and he collapsed on the ground with a shriek.

He sprinted after Renly, ignoring Purple's warning cries as he quickly caught up with the fleeing retinue. "He's behind us! Keep going!" shouted Orange, but the heavy weight of his plate made him a millimeter too slow, Joffrey spearing him through the neck before he could turn completely within the tight confines of the 'alleyway' formed by Renly's burning Pavilion and the adjoining tent.

"Lord Bryce!" shouted Renly in shock as he gazed back over Ser Loras' unarmored shoulder, almost frozen as Joffrey took out his sabre from the limp body and parried a blow from the Blue knight, who'd jumped on him with a furious shriek.

"Didn't you want this Renly?! Come and reap your glory!" Joffrey roared as he parried another blow from the blue knight and pummeled his head with the hammer. He sensed someone behind him and turned just in time to avoid being skewered by Purple and his two hander.

Renly and his remaining knights kept fleeing, the Blue one blocking Joffrey's way as she took her dented helmet off, shaking her head before readying her bastard sword.

"Renly! Come back here damn you! COME BACK HERE!" Joffrey roared as he parried an overhead blow from Purple's two hander with the hammer, locking it with the arming sword and jamming it sideways and away from him. The two hander ripped through a piece of the burning pavilion as they struggled, Blue trying to skewer him from behind and barely failing.

Joffrey grunted in pain as he felt Blue's sword catching his back, a shallow cut by the feel of it. He locked his feet with Purple's own before rolling his weight sideways, making them both tumble into the burning pavilion. They rolled until Joffrey pinned had him down on the ground, slapping away Blue's stab with the hammer just as he slid his arming sword over Purple's neck, leaving him gurgling blood. Joffrey lowered his head and dodged Blue's second strike by a hair's breath, the blade making the air sing. He slammed his hammer on her arm as he tried to stand up from Purple's body, but she took the harsh blow with a nary a sound, trading it for a cut on his forearm.

Joffrey rolled away from her with a scowl, "RENLY! LET'S END THIS!" he roared, but the Blue one was good, and she kept pressuring him backwards inside the burning pavilion in a quick flurry of sweeping slashes and long stabs.

Joffrey gave a bellow of frustration as he left the tent through the same flap Renly had used, cursing as he saw the stiffening defense and the bodies of slain Raiders on the ground. He whistled as he ran away, jumping atop Moonlight as she galloped right by his side. He took his horn as he rode away between the steadily crowding streets and the fires, bellowing the signal to retreat.

"RAIDERS! WITHDRAW! WITHDRAW!" he roared in between the horn's call, slashing his way out as groups of Raiders converged on his position and he threw his remaining torches at whatever tent he happened to ride by. The quickly made their way outside, the last of the whole group apparently as a dozen mounted knights followed after them. They rode hard for the ambush point, the unarmored knight's fresh mounts almost catching up to them before a rain of arrows decimated them, suddenly materializing from the night as they appeared within torsos and horses, putting out eyes and piercing hands.

"Horwick! Good job! Mount your men up and ride for the staging grounds!" Joffrey ordered the man as he sped by. There was bound to be a more organized pursuit, though by that time Joffrey planned to be far away indeed.

-: PD :-

The Raider's camp looked deceptively disorganized, a mess of small tents and piled up rocks. Joffrey knew better though, eyeing the weapons and horses always within easy reach of their users. Instead of recreating the Dawn Scouts from zero, Joffrey had sought to make use of what Westeros had to offer, its strengths and advantages. Unlike the Scouts, the Raiders sported few mounted archers for example, though when dismounted the ex-poachers and woodsmen could hit a running target better than a castle trained archer. Instead of flaming arrows they used torches to spread fire and chaos, and their social backgrounds made them adept at personal initiative… as long as the Raider himself was minimally trustworthy.

After months of selection and more of training, Joffrey could confidently say they were. He joked a bit here and there, laughed and scolded in equal measure as he walked around the camp, nestled within a small outcrop shielded from the winds of the Stormlands. Bringing this disparate group of men and woman together had perhaps been his toughest endeavor this life. Striding a line between people unacceptable by Legion standards, but not so hopeless as to eventually commit something deserving of death or the Wall. They were unruly and ill disciplined by traditional standards, but they followed orders and would back him up in a fight to the death.

He found his 'bosses', for that was what the men called them, sitting around a small campfire. They were cooking quite the stew it seemed, its many ingredients no doubt looted from yesterday's raid.

"Joffman! Stew drew you in?" Pocket called out irreverently as he kept swirling the dubious brew with a long wooden spoon.

"Another family recipe I suppose?" he called back, forcefully sitting between him and Dalyn and making himself some space. With Pocket it was always a family recipe.

"Great grandma taught me, she was Reacher herself, a bastard girl from some knight with a vegetable on his banner. A cabbage I think," he mused as he kept shaking the brew with passion.

"It was a carrot the last time you said that," Dalyn remarked thoughtfully.

"I doubt he reckons the difference," the Hound said drily, munching on an apple. He'd been surly ever since Joffrey had forbidden him from partaking in the main raid on Renly's camp.

"And you do? Dogs don't eat no vegetables," Pocket defended himself, holding the big spoon out of the cooking pot and under his big nose, "Aaaahhh… smells of home," he declared. "Hey Gold, it may not be the Royal kitchens but it'll keep you alive!" he jeered when he saw Ser Jaime's face.

Jaime just shook his head, returning to his favorite pastime: sword sharpening. He'd been doing it nonstop for days now, a way to find something to do within the strange group he found himself in. Joffrey had taken him along mostly so Mother didn't have an accomplice to brew trouble in the Capital.

He was not sure whether the awkward silences on the road were worth it, to be honest.

"We're going to be splitting again," Joffrey said as he brought them back to task. They'd left Renly's host behind and gone wild on his supply train, giving Sandor and even Jaime some much needed distraction. The few caravan guards carrying the harvest of the Reach to the voracious host had been easy pickings for his Raiders. They'd practically cut off his host entirely before detachments of armored knights had started appearing around the caravans, diminishing his frontline strength for when the time came to do battle. The uncertain nature of his supplies had also delivered a few extra benefits, welcome side effects that would take just a bit more time to really start impacting his host's effectiveness.

"When?" asked Glyra, lifting her eyes from the dagger she'd been cleaning.

"After lunch. We'll be hitting the seaside roads before turning back for another go at Renly, keep him scared and slow," Joffrey told her.

"Close in work?" she asked.

"If the moon cooperates," Joffrey nodded.

Glyra gave him a twisted smile at that, before nodding and setting off to her men. The other two bosses quickly finished their meals with an air of long familiarity at gulping down meals, setting off to make their arrangements and leaving only Joffrey and his two 'bodyguards'.

"You sure like them tough," Jaime remarked idly at the uncomfortable silence, gazing at the retreating back of Glyra.

"They have to be," Joffrey said simply.

He hadn't even set out to recruit women for the Raiders at first. Unlike the Guard, he had no pressing need for literate officers who could handle logistics here… but he was not adverse to more warm bodies if they made the cut. He'd had no problems with discipline either, as the Raiders took care of that all on their own. Officially, he hadn't heard of any rapes, though he had found a few Raiders butchered in shallow ridges, missing certain body parts. Nobody had seen anything, least of all the few women in the group who all swore up and down the poor man must have tripped on a waist high knife.

"What's her story?" Jaime asked once more, returning his gaze to his sword.

"She worked in one of Fleabottom's brothels before a client got too bloodthirsty, left her those scars," Joffrey shrugged, "After she knifed him in an alleyway she found she had a knack for violent retribution, and the inn kept her on retainer to deal with any other overzealous costumers," he explained the story.

"A shame. She must have been beautiful before those scars," Jaime said drily.

Joffrey grunted as he filled his mouth with soup, drinking directly from his small bowl. The silence stretched for another painful moment before Jaime spoke again.

"I heard you almost gutted Renly," he remarked idly, "Back during the raid a week or so ago…"

"Almost ended this whole stupidity then and there, never thought I'd get that far…" Joffrey mused as he gulped down the last of the soup. The sun was directly ahead, and he let his eyes close as warmed up after the rather chilly morning.

"Ser Loras gave you trouble? I've been meaning to clash swords with him for a while," said Jaime.

Joffrey grunted, hiding a small guffaw, "You should be careful, he's been sparring with Renly quite a lot," he said innocently.

"Renly does have a lot of experience… I'll try not to cut myself when the time comes," he said with the same pensive tone.

Joffrey was surprised as he found himself chuckling along with his real father, even Sandor seeing it fit to add a grunt or two.

When it ended, the silence returned, though lesser in its awkward mist.

Joffrey could tell Jaime was warring with himself, debating whether or not to ask one of the hundreds of questions that were no doubt plaguing his head. In the end, he decided to return to the sword and the lodestone.

Chrrick.

Coward, Joffrey thought before standing up.

"See they don't leave anything, would you Sandor? This treasure burying has got to stop; if it's not going with us then we're burning it right here," he told the Hound, which had somehow ended up as a sort of company quartermaster during their little adventures throughout the Stormlands.

"I'll be sure to kick the dogs in order," he said with a weary sigh before standing up and getting to it.

Joffrey walked towards the ledge of the overhang and surveyed the rolling hills again, the brisk winds slowly chilling him as they rolled from Shipbreaker Bay.

There'll be a storm soon, he thought, breathing in the salty air… Here in the Stormlands there were more rainy days than sunny ones… They'd strike Renly's supply train a few more times before attacking his host directly once more, to further stretch his provisions and force him to forage through his own domain in force. Support for Renly's Rebellion within the Stormlands had been lukewarm the further one got from his center of power in Storm's End, in no small part due to the prestige Joffrey and Sansa had managed to drum up during the year before Robert's death. If Renly was forced to turn on his own lands to keep his humongous host fed, then more and more Stormlords would stay in their keeps with their heads down, instead of throwing his lot in with him. The more desperate his shortages became, the more weary and debilitated his soldiers would become.

Renly had no choice but to march on the Capital as fast as he could, before the North and the Westerlands could mobilize entirely. In raw numbers his host could slaughter the Crownland and Riverlander armies in a straight battle, and if he followed a great victory with the legitimacy that came from occupying King's Landing, the Crownlords would have little choice but to bend the knee. The more reluctant Stormlords would join him as well, and with those numbers the odds favored the Tyrell-Baratheons. With nothing but silence coming out of the Vale, Renly had reasonable odds of succeeding… As long as he moved fast and with a clean, uninterrupted supply chain enabling a fast marching rate… for Westerosi standards at least.

Of Stannis Joffrey had not heard a word beyond the usual proclamation, a fact that was leaving him more and more worried as the days passed. He had been supposed to show up at Storm's End to contest Renly's control of the Stormlands days ago, but it seemed fate had decreed otherwise…

He shook his head, there was nothing he could do there for now, not without a fleet of his own.

"Raiders! Move out!" he shouted as he returned to Moonlight.

-: PD :-

Spoiler: Music

Hokk had been selected for his keen eyesight and no-nonsense attitude. After the King's nephew had assaulted the great camp himself, the lords had been falling over themselves attributing blame to each other without stop, all while Lord Randyll Tarly took measures into his own hands. He'd flogged the guards that had been stationed that night, and replaced them with men who'd shown initiative during the raid. Hokk was one of them, formerly a serjeant serving under House Ashford. After he'd driven a spear through one of the pet cut throats Joffrey Baratheon himself had led during that fateful night, he'd been promoted to Watch Captain, a duty he'd taken seriously through the nerve wracking week that had followed the raid.

No following attack had materialized though, and as the enemy raids struck their supply lines further south the men had begun to grow complacent. The night watch had been tripled, and clear patrol lines and sentinels had been designated, trios of men moving together with decision, awaiting an attack whose possibility grew smaller the further south the raiders went.

Hokk still did his duty though, despite the heavy rain that had been plaguing them during the past day and now during the night. He walked past four guards standing uneasily under the rain, spears and lanterns out as they peered at the moonless darkness beyond the perimeter. A line of stakes now surrounded the camp, which would buy a few moments if the mounted raiders struck again. The groups of already awake, armed and armored spearmen would then help enforce the perimeter and ensure any attack was quickly pushed back.

"Whatta you' doin?! Eyes out there or you'll beg for Lord Tarly's mercy!" he snapped as he walked past two spearmen kneeling around a small campfire, barely alight as the rain splashed all around the crude cover the men had erected around it.

"But Serjeant-! We 'still looking, just warming up as we do," one of them explained as he stood up.

"Then you can do so standing," he muttered as he turned his head back, frowning. He blinked away the rain, shaking his head. "And keep an ear out for hooves, we'll barely have any time to react before the fucking bandits are upon us," he told them.

"Nothin' out there but those soggy heaps o' wheat, stupid farmers didn't even bring it in," muttered the other guard, the one with the wide back and strong arms.

"Seven know I'd run too if I saw an army this big marching down on us. Tough luck they were in the middle of a harvest," said the first one as he threw mud at the fire, shaking his head.

"Tough luck it was all rotted before we got here; we could have used the extra bread," muttered Hokk, peering at the darkness and the occasional bulges of shadow that dotted the long fields where the King's Host had settled in for the night.

"They would have just givin' it to the lords. To keep feasting while we eat nothing but jerky," said the big one, spitting on the mud.

"Watch your tongue," Hokk scolded him absentmindedly, peering at the heaps of rotting wheat in the distance, rain soaking him to the bone, "The Queen promised extra rations for the night guard," he reminded them, to keep them from whining. He tapped his hand on the lantern for a second before speaking again, "Come here, both of you. Do you see something out there by the leftmost heap?" he ordered as he frowned. He swore he'd seen something move.

"I said, did you see anyth-" the words died in his throat as he turned back and saw both guards struggling, their hands desperately trying to stave off the garrotes that were choking them to death, black hooded figures behind them.

Hokk took in a startled breath as he jumped back, but he wasn't able to scream before a strong arm locked his throat like a steel clamp from behind. A gloved hand covered his mouth as he struggled for air, his frenzied eyes cycling between the guard's purple faces and the silent, hooded figures choking them relentlessly. He tried to kick, scream, bite, but the world grew dimmer and dimmer as his assailant slowly lowered him to the ground, his grey, green eyes boring into his as the world melded into swirling rain and black and nothing.

-: PD :-

Joffrey stayed crouched, making sure the guard was dead before clicking his tongue twice. More raiders crept up through the hole in the perimeter, crawling all the way from the piles of rotten wheat out in the fields, through the stakes and then into the camp.

Over fifteen raiders were with him when he joined both his hands, fisting them and then showing three fingers pointed at an opened palm. He followed the gesture by taping them together two times and pointing in the general direction of the tents. The raiders nodded as they dispersed, two following him as he made his way through tents and muddy trails. Raiders followed the snores of sleeping soldiers as they entered into tents and then came out with bloodied daggers, a gradual silence descending over this section of the camp as they carried out their bloody work. Supply dumps had been distributed after the first raid, perhaps in order to avoid a few enemy torches from igniting a fifth of the Host's food in one go, but that played further into Joffrey's favor as he and the men infiltrated the small supply dumps around the local area, readying slow burning wickers surrounded by tinder, a delayed tactic which would see local stores igniting suddenly and without apparent cause. The rain which had so far been a boon would work against them here though, dousing the eventual fires and preventing them from spreading beyond individual tents.

They were quick and efficient, melting away into the night as the rain kept pouring and the roving patrol guards failed to complete their circuits, their bodies dumped around campfires or tents.

It was before dawn when the screams started, as soldiers woke up next to dead comrades, and guards found their reliefs strangled in their posts. The fires began soon after.

-: PD :-

Spoiler: AN

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 Turtle Lord. New

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Jul 31, 2018

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Interlude: The Turtle Lord.

Lord Eldon Estermont sighed, this was clearly leading nowhere…

The grand pavilion looked as fine as ever, beautifully decorated and supplied with mastercrafted chairs and tables… it was the current occupants that were rather souring the already rotten mood.

"This is chaos," said Lord Arstan Selmy as he shook his head. Many of the younger Stormlords had taken a liking to the Lord of Harvest Hall these past few weeks, being a man of calm demeanor who did not hide his anger if the affront was warranted. The Stormlords had needed such a figure after the string of defeats suffered by the whole host increased the scrutiny upon them… and Lord Estermont was sadly too old to fulfill that need.

"Queen Maergery was a stabilizing influence on the men, the King shouldn't have sent her away," Estermont told him as he wiped a bit of water off his doublet. It was raining lightly outside, and it seemed even Renly's luxurious, reserve pavilion has started to feel the strain of the past few weeks. It really was a shame the last one had been burnt…

"War is no place for women, less so a fight as hard as this one," Selmy said with a shrug.

"Hm, tell that to good Lady Brienne," said Estermont, hiding a smile as he gazed at the armored blue figure always standing near her liege, a hand always hovering over her sword's pommel.

"Ha!" Lord Selmy huffed, "Old Selwyn without a proper heir? Seven damn them all, he'll make his daughter into one!" he said with a chuckle.

"And one fit enough to pummel all our boys unconscious," Estermont chuckled as he gazed at Alrick, arguing about something with a couple of Reacher knights. No doubt trying to salve his wounded pride after the combined cavalry force spent the entire day chasing shadows. Alrick counted no more than nineteen namedays despite being his second son, an unexpected gift long after he'd thought his wife no longer capable of bearing children. His first born, Ser Aemon, had drawn the wrong lot and was now on guard duty along the camp's western side.

"What a fucking waste of time," grumbled Lord Lester Morrigen, who sat on Estermont's right.

"You talking about today's merry chase or this madness in particular," asked the young Lord Lonmouth who sat by Morrigen's side, pointing at the general chaos of arguing lords all over the pavilion.

"This, that, everything," grumbled Morrigen, "Whole fucking waste of time, bleeding men and food and for what? So a fucking Tyrell can be Queen," he said in disdain.

"Careful Lester, those words could be dangerous," Lord Selmy admonished him gently.

"But it's the truth ain't it?" he grumbled again as he shook his head, "All this marching and dying and eating all so we can replace a Stark Queen with a Tyrell one," he said.

"The Stormlands have always rallied to the Stag," reasoned Lord Estermont, "No reason to-"

"A Stag is already sitting on the Iron Throne so don't even try!" Lord Lonmouth mumbled angrily, "More than a Stag, fucking Robert Baratheon reborn. He may look Lannister alright, but if his blood were any more Baratheon he'd be growing' antlers," he said before shaking his head, "You've all seen him. Only reason he doesn't use a warhammer is so he can use both hands to kill twice as fast," he said in restrained frustration.

"I don't like the course of this conversation," Estermont told him flatly.

"Then I shall recuse myself," said Lonmouth as he downed his tankard and slammed it on the table. He stood up and left the tent, grumbling all the way.

"A Stag's a Stag," Lord Selmy said over the ensuing pause in the conversation, sounding as if he were trying to convince himself. They all tried not to look at their King over by the main table, trying and failing to make his voice heard over the shouting and the arguing of over a hundred lords and knights.

"Any other transcendental wisdoms for us, Arstan?" asked Lord Morrigen with a tired grin.

"Not for you," Selmy quipped.

"Damned Selmy's, been all full of themselves ever since Ser Barristan," he said with a snort, "Right Eldon?" he elbowed Lord Estermont as he served himself a bit more of the depressingly scarce sweet wine.

"Shush now, seems the King's just about fed up with the spectacle," said Eldon before stealing Morrigen's cup.

"Make quiet! Silence for the King!" shouted Ser Loras, turning the indistinct shouting into merely indignant grumbling.

"Thank you Ser Loras," said the King as he placed a hand on his shoulder and stood up, the lords and knights quieting down as their King regaled them with a wayward look.

"My lords, please, falling into this kind of disarray is exactly what my cut throat of a nephew wants of us. Let us remain calm and remind ourselves of our dignity and standing," he told them with a vaguely disappointed tone of voice. The men grumbled lightly at that, seeing reason in the King's voice even as they looked at each other with scowls or frowns.

"Now, I believe Lord Caswell was speaking just now?" he said as he sat down once more.

"Thank you, Your Grace," said the stocky lord, looking around the great pavilion in restrained anger. "Last night's so called battle was the last straw. The men could chin up after getting pounded by the Prince's pet bandits, even if it meant shitting themselves at every godsdamned owl or deer creaking in the night, but getting assaulted again and again by fucking regulars without a chance to react simply cannot stand-" he ranted apoplectically.

"Prince Joffrey and his so called Royal Guard"- Lord Crane sneered at the name as he picked up Lord Caswell's anger -"Know neither honor nor basic decency! They strike at the dead of night and force battle only to march away before the whole host can turn on them! And his crossbows shoot the horses out of our knights whenever they try to force an engagement between all those damned halberds! We're trading a knight for a fucking halberdier one to one! And that's on a good day!" he roared.

"The cavalry can hardly charge at a wall of halberds and crossbows if it's not supported by the infantry Lord Crane… something which was Lord Caswell's responsibility!" shouted Lord Mullendore as he stood up.

"Don't you dare pour your failures on the infantry! The foot can't keep up with the fucking Prince, they march away any time we try to force an unfavorable engagement on him!" said Lord Caswell, red faced. "A marching speed, I might add, that would be considerably reduced if the cavalry did its job and threatened the bastard's flanks instead of dancing around with the fucking Crownlanders!" he shouted as he stood up.

"My lords! For the love of the Seven, get ahold of yourselves!" shouted Eldon as he could no longer bear it. "This is clearly leading us nowhere, except further sullying our King's presence as we argue like frightened children," he shouted over the din, forcing some degree of sheepishness as the various lords sat down, mulling down their anger with their harrowingly scarce liquor reserves. Eldon didn't even want to think about what would happen when those finally ran dry.

"Your Grace, instead of further playing the blame game, I propose we review the general situation of the host, to further prepare a coherent response to the Prince's… unusual style of warfare," he asked his liege lord.

"Thank you Lord Estermont, please do so," said the King with a benevolent nod. He looked as fine and unworried as ever in his green enameled armor, but the deep pits under his eyes gave away the lie.

"Very well," said Eldon, squaring his shoulders. "While some stayed here discussing matters of blame, myself and Lord Tarly took the liberty to survey the entirety of the camp, the men, and the stocks," he said as he looked at the stern Lord of Horn Hill across the pavilion, who nodded slightly.

"What we found did not fill us with confidence. The situation has turned critical," said Lord Tarly, a curt statement that seemed to leave a chill in many a lord's spine.

Lord Mullendore looked disbelieving, "But, my lord, surely five thousand foot, a gaggle of Crownlander knights, and some pet bandits would never be enough to meaningfully endanger over a hundred thousand-"

"It can and it has… And we've far less than a hundred thousand men right now. If we don't react in an organized manner this army will fall to pieces, and our cause with it," said Lord Tarly without an ounce of emotion.

The silence was deafening.

Lord Estermont cleared his throat, "The crux of the matter seems to be Prince Joffrey's unheard of speed and mobility," he said. "Having him at the head of his so called 'Raiders' was bad enough, but when the Royal Guard joined up with him was when the situation started to truly unravel. He kills our scouts and strikes precisely and with no warning, sometimes during dawn, dusk, or even midnight. His men have been drilled superbly, and they are able to quickly withdraw in formation without losing cohesion, keeping the cavalry at arm's length while marching faster than footmen have any the right to be," he delivered the grim summary with aplomb. "He baits us with it, keeping enough distance so the host overextends itself like a snake during the chase. Then he performs a dog's leg, turning around in a circle and ripping through the section he appears to consider the weakest, inflicting disproportionate casualties. With that in mind, Lord Tarly and I are of the opinion that letting the massed cavalry remain under centralized control was a mistake; for all its admitted might, it makes our knights too unwieldy as a field formation to corner Joffrey's foot."

"What about the Star Camps?" called out a knight from beyond his sight, over by the section of the tent mostly occupied by Reachmen. The question sounded innocent, but Lord Estermont suspected it served as a needle to lower the esteem the King had in him. The King had been relying more and more on the Reachlords as of late, and Estermont himself was one of the few senior Stormlanders still in the King's full confidence, for all that he made a showing of taking the council of all his Bannermen. The Reachlords were playing the influence game even as the host creaked with the strain… Seven damn them, they couldn't stop scheming even if their lives depended on it.

"Regrettably, the King's strategy does not seem to have delivered the… expected results," he said carefully.

"Do not mince words Lord Estermont, my plan was a complete failure and I alone bear that blame," said King Renly over the ensuing silence.

Lord Estermont bowed politely in sincere thanks, "That it was, Your Grace. Far from supporting each other, all the Seven Pointed Camps did was provide men for Joffrey to defeat in detail. His drill puts a heavy emphasis on shock. That combined with the Royal Guard's superb mobility meant that by the time news of the battle had reached the nearby camps, the Crownlander cavalry was already slaughtering the routed infantry while Joffrey marched away," he said in a vaguely apologetic manner, "Far from supporting each other to pin Joffrey down, the men have started to regard the Camps as a death sentence."

The scores of lords remained quiet, only the cold, somewhat disappointed voice of Lord Randyll Tarly interrupting the delicate silence.

"Steps will have to be taken," he said curtly as he gazed at the King. "With Lord Estermont's assent, I've taken the liberty of drawing up a preliminary plan to rebuild our combat readiness. As a start, if the King is amenable"- he said the last as if it were a foregone conclusion -"command of the host's van, flanks, and rearguard will no longer be appointed each morning by the Crown, but granted indefinitely to commanders who have prior experience in the field of combat," he said, and it seemed even Lord Tarly's stern demeanor would not be enough to hold the lords any longer as they stood up and shouted, speaking over each other and gesticulating wildly. Those positions were highly coveted prizes for every lord in the host, driving them to greater heights in their search for recognition. Doing away with them would rip out what had become almost a ritual each morning, as King Renly presided over the clamors of lords and knights. The King was frowning right now, Ser Loras whispering quickly in his ear as a dozen lords around him tried to speak to him at the same time.

"Morale is hitting the bottom of the barrel," Lord Tarly struggled to make himself heard, frowning coldly at the undignified chaos. "Most of the foot was ill prepared for the rhythm the Prince has inflicted upon us," he said bluntly and with the tiniest smidgen of admiration, regaining the attention of most of the lords, "Desertions are at an all-time high and not even floggings seem to be slowing them down. Food shortages are now prevalent even amongst the Men at Arms, and we can't get enough arrows to supply all of our archers," he declared. "The levies are fainting under the constant marching and maneuvering, and are totally unprepared to stand their ground when Joffrey charges in for a melee. They do not have the constitution for this style of warfare, less so with our supply problems," he said cuttingly, trying to make them see reason.

"Can hardly expect the men to fight properly with an empty belly. Perhaps the situation would be different if the Stormlords backed their King with more than just words," said Lord Fossoway after downing a full tankard of mead.

Lord Arstan Selmy stood up to the thrown gauntlet, giving voice to many of the proud Stormlords who felt themselves the subject of repeated disrespect by the Reachlords, "And perhaps if the vaunted might of the Reach kept our rear clear of bandits then perhaps this host would not be drying every single field and barn dry from Harvest Hall to Storm's End!" he said.

"Food?! You worry about empty barns while a host a tenth our size thrashes us like unruly children?!" shouted a knight in House Ashford livery.

King Renly stood up as he often did when his lords quarreled, seeking to calm them down with the tone of a disappointed father, "My lords, our victory will be all the greater when-"

"Of course we worry about bloody food! At this rate the Stormlands will starve come winter!" Lord Morrigen roared over the words of his liege, standing up as well and throwing hands up in the air, "My lady wife wrote to me yesterday, the larders of Crow's Nest are nearly empty! And we aren't even in sight of Bronze Gate!" he said, furious.

"Brave words to the men that have been doing all the dying for you!" shouted one of the Green Apple Fossoways as Beesburys and Florents banged their tankards on the table, the insult cutting deep in all the assembled Stormlords.

"Perhaps things would be different-" Lord Selmy shouted the words mockingly over the din –"If Lord Fossoway had sent more of his witt-addled knights back to the rear instead of having them gallop uselessly over empty fields chasing Crownlanders!" said the red faced, normally soft spoken lord of Harvest Hall.

"My lords-" started the King again, but Lord Fossoway stood up before he could speak, his face disfigured with rage.

"And perhaps things would be different if more of you traitorous dogs supported your liege instead of hiding in your rain begotten hovels!" he roared as he tossed the tankard to the ground. Lord Fossoway's son and heir had perished last night during the fighting around Broad Arch. House Staedmon had refused to sally from their keep, just a few minutes away from the battle site, claiming that as long as one of Baratheon blood sat on the throne they would remain neutral. The number of Stormlords claiming something of the sort had risen exponentially as of late, further sullying the comparatively poor showing of the region in support of their supposed Lord Paramount.

Lord Selmy's face turned beet red as he drew his sword and the Stormlander section of the table stood up in outrage, calling for satisfaction right then and there as hands went to pommels. "The enemy would see us unworthy of the glory of a proper battlefield, surely we won't give them the pleasure?!" said the King, his face turning disbelieving when nobody heeded him as Lord Fossoway drew his own sword as well and shoved his way to Lord Selmy.

"You want bared steel?! I can give you fucking steel!" roared Lord Fossoway, completely out of his mind with rage, sorrow, and drink as the big Ashford knight hurried after him, hollering about being his second.

This is spinning out of control, Eldon thought in a hurry as he moved towards the two Reachmen.

"My lord of Cider Hall! Think about what you're doing!" shouted Lord Estermont as he tried to grab the Fossoway lord, only for the Ashford knight to forcefully shove him aside. He crashed against a table, cutting his hand on the cutlery as his son shoved Ashford back.

"Keep your hands off him you Reacher filth!" roared Alrick, only to be shoved in turn by Dickon Tarly.

"Everyone QUIET! Dickon! Get back here!" shouted Lord Tarly as he tried to restore order and get his son out of the scuffle at the same time.

"My lords! Stop this unseemly spectacle at once!" Renly shouted in growing despair, "My lords! Stop this! I- I command it!" he said as if he couldn't believe it, but his words were swallowed whole by the noise. The voices had grown too large, the lords and knights from the two Kingdoms pushing into each other as they roared the pent up aggression of sleepless nights, relentless marching, and scarce food. A sort of circle had formed around Lord Selmy and Lord Fossoway, both of them shouting at the other.

"Take back your words and honor shall be upheld!" hollered Lord Selmy as he looked to his sides, trying to think of a way to salvage the honor of the Stormlands and defuse the whole situation before it kept deteriorating.

"Piss on Stormlander honor! My son died waiting for it!" roared Fossoway as went for an over arm swing. Lord Selmy parried and twisted sideways, his heart hammering as he automatically followed the motions his great-uncle had taught him. One moment, Lord Fossoway's leering face was spitting insults as he tried to retrieve his sword for another swipe. The next he was stumbling back, five inches of steel boring out of his eye socket.

"Gewyn!" shouted Ser Tanton Fossoway as he emerged into the circle past the vaguely scuffling lords, just in time for Lord Selmy to retrieve his sword in a shower of blood.

"Gewyn! Gewyn!" shouted Ser Tanton as his brother collapsed backwards, bleeding out in the middle of the pavilion.

I've got to stop this madness, thought the Lord of Greenstone as he put himself between Lord Selmy and Ser Tanton, the shouting growing indistinct as he held his bleeding hand close. He could see King Renly climbing down from his table and trying to make way to the circle, his Rainbow Guard pummeling aside Lords and knights alike as they desperately tried to catch up.

"Let it go Ser Tanton!" Eldon said preemptively as the Fossoway knight breathed harshly, almost hysterically as he kept shaking the corpse of his brother. "The duel is over, let it-"

"You son of a whore!" Roared Ser Tanton as he dashed up with his brother's sword, right towards Lord Selmy.

"Ser Tantogh-" Lord Estermont spluttered as he moved to stop him, gazing down at the bastard sword now in his belly. Awareness flooded Ser Tanton's eyes as he realized what he had done, staring at the bloody sword in his hands.

"Eldon!" shouted Lord Morrigen in stunned outrage.

"Father!? Father no!" shouted his son, the harrowing despair in his voice almost making Eldon weep. His son's face was bruised and swollen after the scuffle with the Ashord knight, who was still struggling with him as the boy gazed at his gutted father.

"TREACHERY!" roared Lord Lester Morrigen as he split Ser Tanton's head with a brutal cut of his two hander. Lord Estermont fell to his knees as the sword in his belly tilted downwards with Ser Tanton's body, blood filling his mouth as a wordless roar emerged from the Stormlords around him, like a huge wave bearing against the jagged coast of Shipbreaker Bay.

"FATHER! Get off me!" screamed his son as he finally managed to shake off the Ashford knight by jamming an arming sword through his armpit. "GREENSTONE!" he roared shrilly as he took it out and finished him off with a clean thrust through the knight's throat.

"HORN HILL!" shouted Dickon Tarly as he jumped at his son with a bastard sword, both of them now fighting for their lives as Lord Estermont tried to make himself heard throughout the sudden roar of battle, lords and knights taking out their weapons as blood flowed through the ground and his mouth. Lester was trying to move him, and Lord Selmy was battling with a Green apple Fossoway right beside them when the King manage to make his way through.

"Lord Arstan! Ser Jon!" he shouted hysterically, but Estermont could barely hear him over the song of steel on steel. Lord Selmy drew a long cut from the King's forearm by accident as the young Baratheon tried to stand between the two combatants at the center of the budding battle.

"RENLY!" roared Ser Loras as he batted away Lord Selmy's sword and jammed his own through the man's armpit, past his plate.

"LORD SELMY!" shouted someone from the back as a tower of the Stormlands in these turbulent times stumbled. He took a step back in a daze, gazing at his liege with a stunned, perplexed expression that seared itself on Eldon's and every other Stormlord's eyes. Lester was dragging him away from where the fighting was the thickest when Lord Selmy fell, blood bubbling out of his mouth as he collapsed on his knees, the armored greaves jingling as Arstan used his sword as a momentary cane, swaying lightly and with the same expression of shocked betrayal that seemed to stare right into Renly's soul. Selmys had a strange, easy grace in everything they did, and even dying was one of them.

The Lord of Harvest Hall toppled forwards gently. He spun lightly, falling on his back and gazing up as the light faded from his eyes… Eldon thought the din of battle grew lesser then, if only for a single second.

And then Eldon despaired, for he could not speak and the second was then lost to time.

"Lord Selmy! Lord Selmy! We need to cut through to Lord Selmy! HARVEST HALL! HARVEST HALL TO ME!" roared a voice in the distance, and the din of battle slammed into the pavilion once again with the fury of a thousand storms, harsher than the thunders that could be heard in the distance, stronger by far than what it had been before. There had lacked a certainty in the skirmish up till now, the whole pavilion wrapped in a thick miasma of strange unreality.

Now that unreality had curdled into pure, mad violence.

"Call Ser Gollys! Bring the levies!" he heard a painfully familiar voice say. "FOR THE STORMLANDS!" he could hear over the steadily darkening room, "Treachery! Ware the Reachlords!" he thought he could hear as he blinked slowly, iron tearing through flesh somewhere near. "HIGHGARDEN! HIGHGARDEN! TO ME!" the battlecry sounded strange, twisted, mushy.

Lord Estermont realized he was lying on the ground now, the ceiling of the masterfully weaved, gold and silvered pavilion spinning above him. He tilted his head sideways, and the last he saw was his son standing over Dickon Tarly's corpse, desperately trying to fend off Lord Tarly's rage and the Valyrian flash of light that was Heartsbane.

-: PD :-

Last edited: Jul 31, 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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Aug 3, 2018

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Chapter 47: Storm.

Joffrey was laying on his belly as he surveyed the burning center of the great camp, the fires already spreading as indistinct shadows fought each other in a spreading conflagration of madness, fire, and death.

He moved the far eye towards the west. He estimated at least a thousand men making a run for it in the middle of the night, away from the safety of the camp and lugging all they could, mainly coffers and bales of wheat. Organization amongst the group seemed sparse, and Joffrey didn't know if there was some sort of leadership guiding it or if they were all just fleeing in the same direction.

Back to the east, he could see a bunch of men at arms cutting off stakes and dropping a burning tent over three score or so peasant levies, slaughtering them with maces and two handers as the screaming farmers struggled against the burning tarp. A few of the men at arms were falling to badly aimed crossbow bolts from somewhere further within the camp though…

"What the fuck is going on in there?" he muttered as he gazed at the madness. He blinked slowly as he lowered the far eye, scowling when a big drop of water fell on his head. It seemed the weather was once again being kind to Renly: the rumbling, coming storm would keep any spreading fires in check…

Of course, rainstorms were the rule rather than the exception in these lands. Westerosi were self-explanatory like that.

"You sure the Raiders are where they're supposed to be?" he asked Pocket after a moment of silence.

"Swear on my Great Grandmother my'grace. They're all quiet as hens waiting for the signal," he said quickly.

"Pocket, I swear, if you had something to do with this and you didn't tell me-" Joffrey warned him.

"Swear it on the blessed Mother m'grace! We-wer'-only-goin'-steal-a-bunch-o'-horses-from'-them-but-two-days-from-now-at-the-very-least!" he jabbered so quickly Joffrey had to pause to understand the words.

"Those are… Nightsong men at arms," said Jon as he surveyed the area with his own far eye, slowly focusing the device.

Joffrey shook his head slowly before returning to his own instrument, "And they're slaughtering the Ashford peasants because… they really needed the practice?" he asked out loud as he watched. They were really into it too, making sure they were dead as maces split skulls open and two handers cut men in half. "Those bolts are coming out of that makeshift barricade to the south, the one with the Fossoway banners draped over it," he pointed out after a moment.

"Maybe they tired of the nightly raids and decided to just do it themselves?" Lancel mused as he tried to climb over the prone form of Olyvar, "Come on man, let me see," he said impatiently.

"Lay off, not my fault you decided to gamble away yours," said the Frey as he shook him off, "Knights incoming, from the south. About… a dozen," he added.

"Bees bees bees… what house was that?" Joffrey asked out loud as he shifted minutely, leaning the far eye on his elbow.

"House Beesbury," said Lancel as he frowned and raised his head slightly, "Think they're going to finish the peasants off?" he asked out loud, though Olyvar was probably the one who felt addressed, given that Lancel was practically shoving his head away with his own.

"I don't know, maybe," mused Olyvar as he shuffled left and cradled the far eye from Lancel's thieving hands, "The Nightsong men don't look like they need any help though, they're really-" he interrupted himself as he drew in a breath of cringed pain. Jon and Joffrey did the same, Jon going so far as to bite his lips slowly and mechanically.

"What?! What happened!?" Lancel asked desperately as Jon took pity and gave him his own far eye.

"Beesbury knights tore the Nightsong men a new one. Gods be damned, wear some bloody chestplates!" Joffrey muttered in sympathetic pain.

"More knights, House Lonmouth I think," said Olyvar.

"Looks more like scouts to me, they seem to be scaring off the Beesbury knights though," Lancel noted. "More cavalry behind the Lonmouths, at least three different banners…" he said after a moment as he shifted his grip on the loaned far eye. He'd never bet against Glyra, never again... "Hm… they're splitting off, about a third going for the barricade at a gallop. The rest are scattering into the night," he said, slightly nonplussed. "Hey Jon, look at the reload speed of the Fossoway crossbows," he said as he handed the far eye to the other legate.

"Pathetic," Jon muttered as he peered through it, the scouting cavalry jumping the barricade and slaying the front rank of the now scattering crossbowmen… only to jump back out again as if something were chasing them. "Reach Houses seem to be fighting together against the Stormlords…" he said after a moment.

"It's been a long time since-… I've never seen anything like this," Joffrey muttered lowly in disbelief, "The whole host simply went mad," he said as he lowered the far eye, gazing at the destruction and the slaughter with the naked eye. "There's always something surreal with Renly's host…" he muttered lowly after a moment.

"Lack of Arbor Gold does funny' things te' Reacherfolk," Pocket said in his infinite wisdom.

The abrupt silence was almost as hilarious as the quip.

"Alright," said Joffrey with a restrained, nonplussed smile, "Sightseeing is over. We're ending this whole folly right now before someone manages to restore order… as improbable as that looks right now. Lancel, Olyvar, get back to the Regiment and strike from the Northeast, move the fighting away from the camp. Wall of Steel, regular marching pace… And get the men to shout 'Stormlanders for King Joffrey' or some drivel like that as they fight inside the camp, see if we can find a few sudden allies," he told them.

"Aye Commander," said Lancel as he leapt up from the ground quickly and ran back to his horse, quickly followed by Olyvar.

"Tyrek, go rouse the Crownlanders and take command. I want knights running down all Reachmen in sight of the camp who still have weapons in their hands," he said as he returned to the far eye.

"Yes Commander!" said his little cousin before jumping to it, who'd been quietly observing the battle with his own far eye until that moment.

"Pocket, we're moving up your horse stealing scheme. Get me as many stallions as you can from that madness. If it looks like the host will survive the night, butcher all those you can't steal," he told the willy thief.

"Right'away m'grace," he said as he shuffled backwards. Joffrey doubted he could have looked more untrustworthy if he'd tried.

He grunted in satisfaction as he moved the far eye horizontally, the pieces of the puzzle inside his mind already moving as he smiled slightly.

"What about me?" asked Jon.

"You'll take command of your cohort when the men get here. We're punching straight through to that bonfire," Joffrey told him, aiming a hand at Renly's flaming pavilion. They were surprisingly flammable, all things told.

"Blood and Mud?" asked his legate, a feral smile on his lips which would not have been out of place on his direwolf.

"Blood and Mud Jon," he muttered as he lowered the far eye and unconsciously placed his right forearm over the pommel of his sword. He'd have to trade it for another hammer tonight, he'd be seeing a lot more armor soon…

"Blood and Mud…" he mused.

-: PD :-

"First Cohort! By centuries-Advance!" roared Jon, and the men responded with a grunt of their own, lowering halberds and splitting off under the directions of the centurions. They swept their way towards Renly's pavilion, halberds red with the blood of men who did not surrender on sight, the banners of the King's Fist and the Baratheons of King's Landing flying proudly over the forest of halberds, whipped this way and that by the winds of the Stormlands, the distant thunders growing closer by the hour as the rain intensified and quenched part of the raging fires.

Joffrey nodded approvingly at Jon. His legates had performed admirably, each leading a cohort of a thousand or so men. Nominally that would be the job of the Tribune, as the Ghiscary called them. Legates were supposed to command legions of their own.

But because there was only a single legion for now, or regiment as Sansa had forced him to change the name to something more 'harmless', his legates had been learning the art of command on the field with their individual cohorts. After dozens of skirmishes all along the northern Stormlands and a quarter as many battles, the First Regiment of the Royal Guard had been thoroughly bloodied. Lesser through its sustained casualties, but greater by the glint in the men's eyes and the iron tight grasp on their weapons.

"King Joffrey and the Stormlands!" they roared as they marched, the rain that so often assaulted the region already pouring again, distant thunders on the horizon. Joffrey had taken a single century with him though, marching quickly past the multiple foci of furious if disorganized combat.

He led them at a quick pace, past burning tents and groups of neighing, riderless horses. The century came to an abrupt stop as they emerged into a budding battle right in front of them, illuminated by burning tents which were barely contained by the free falling rain.

A mixed group of Morrigen and Fell men at arms were battling it out with their Tyrell counterparts. Right in the middle of the furious skirmish was a fully plated man with a huge Tyrell rose painted over his shield, his sword a whirlwind of movement as he fought two Morrigen men at Arms plus their lord at the same time. He pivoted and extended, his sword clean through a soldier's throat as his shield bashed the battered figure who Joffrey presumed to be Lord Morrigen himself. The fighting was not going well for the Stormlanders, but the battling soldiers quickly gained a breather as both forces saw Joffrey's men and they disengaged abruptly.

"Guardsmen here?!" shouted the armored Tyrell, incredulous, "Morrigen! Fell! We can sort this out later when-"

"That won't be necessary… Ser Garlan Tyrell, I assume?" Joffrey called out with a strong voice, stepping beyond the line of uniform halberds held at the ready. He was not dressed like a Raider.

He was decked for battle, clad in full plate battered with a hundred cuts and dents, wearing a red and yellow tabard with the sigil of the Baratheons of King's Landing sewn on it. Two great antlers emerged from his helmet, angled forward and glinting sharply in the night, playing off the understated green of the raw copper enameled pauldrons. Two hammers were strapped to his waist, ready to be taken out at a moment's notice.

"Joffrey Baratheon!" Garlan spat the name as if it were a curse, taking off his helmet to gaze at the King of the Seven Kingdoms, "You. You did this. All of this," he roared as he swept the area with his sword, the roiling thunderstorm in the distance punctuating his words.

"Your so called King did this, Ser," Joffrey told him neutrally as he lifted his visor, projecting his voice to carry, "Is that you Lord Morrigen!?" he shouted as he proceeded to ignore Ser Garlan.

"It is!" came the reply from the huddling cluster of Stormlanders.

"I've come looking for traitors, have you seen any lately?" shouted Joffrey.

A look of dawning comprehension settled on Ser Garland as he whipped back, "Lester, don't you dare-"

"No traitors here but these Tyrell fucks, Your Grace!" came Morrigen's reply.

"A traitor by word as well as deed now Lester?! So easy you betray King Renly?!" shouted Ser Garland, enraged.

Lord Morrigen spat on the ground, "Renly had Lord Selmy killed! Renly brought the Stormlands to war against the son of Robert Baratheon! Piss on the usurping fuck!" he shouted back.

Ser Garlan looked stunned, looking at the Morrigen men and back to Joffrey's troops. He put his helmet back on, cursing as he shook his head and realized his escape route had been blocked by the guardsmen.

"Highgarden!" he roared quickly as he charged towards Joffrey, "Highgarden! Through to King Renly! Through to King Renly!" he roared at his men as they followed him. "Meet me you coward! Meet me!" he roared in despair as he ran, realizing that only slaying Joffrey right then and there would break the formation in front of him.

"Centurion," Joffrey called out calmly as he lowered his visor, standing alone as he looked at the charging Tyrell and the brave souls with him.

"Crossbows! Quick bolts!" roared Jelk of Fleabottom, now centurion of the Royal Guard. "LOOSE!" he commanded after crossbows emerged from the rank of halberds, unleashing a storm of bolts which whistled past Joffrey, cutting down the charging Tyrells brutally. "Second rank! Loose!" roared the Centurion but seconds later, new crossbows emerging from the formation and unleashing another storm of steel. Bolts pierced gambeson, plate, and flesh at point blank range, the flurry of clicks foretelling the dull thuds as the charging Tyrells fell down like threshed wheat, their battlecry turned into a collective gasp. Garlan's charge turned into a jog as a dozen bolts materialized over his chest, legs, and arms. He walked a few more meters before he dropped sword and shield, putting a knee on the ground before collapsing face up on the mud. Those who had followed him were a few steps behind, laid over mud and bleeding out under the rain.

Joffrey marched towards Garlan's fallen form, the man breathing painfully as Joffrey reached him, blood flowing from under his breastplate.

Joffrey sighed as he looked at him, "What a fucking waste," he muttered before taking out his hammer and putting him out of his misery. The Mother's Mercy was, like all things westerosi, a harsh and brutal thing.

"Your Grace," said Lord Morrigen as he walked towards him, subdued by what he'd just seen.

"Lord Morrigen," Joffrey acknowledged him as he turned, sheathing his bloodied hammer and looming over him as the rain pattered off his antlers. He'd gotten used to their weight by now, though sometimes he still had this dread certainty that everyone around him were about to burst into outright laughter at the things.

"My sword is yours to command," said the Lord, a bit of blood trickling from his plate as he planted his sword on the ground and knelt. The outrage directed at Renly -or at least at the thing he had presided over- had been all too real. Of course, part of Lord Morrigen's change of heart came from the prospect of saving his own skin.

"Rise, my lord of Crow's Nest," he said with a nod, doing something similar when Lord Fell emerged from the group as well. "I'll be returning this camp to the King's Peace now, rally as many Stormlanders as you can and follow me," he ordered him curtly.

Lord Morrigen quickly informed him of what he knew, and Joffrey nodded decisively as he returned to his century. He now had a rough idea where Renly could be…

-: PD :-

Spoiler: Music

The once mighty host of a hundred thousand swords was dying. Deserters and looters were streaming out of the camp in every direction, and many others were tossing down their weapons and offering ransom, if they had one to give. Right in the center was Renly and what was left of his Rainbow Guard, struggling to rally the men as a small core of Stormlanders and Reachmen surrounded him, a few of them fighting each other as the rest moved with Renly away from the camp. It was uncertain if they were really following him or just escaping in the same direction, but the point was moot in the end.

The Royal Guard slammed into them like the Fist of the Warrior, a double barrage of crossbow bolts followed by two charging line of halberds. Barely coherent levies and wavering men at arms screamed as they fell and died, blood mixing with rain and mud as they broke and ran.

Joffrey was at the forefront, carving a path almost singlehandedly with two one handed hammers. He was the tip of the spear puncturing Renly's force, opening up knights almost surgically, as if the hammers were steel pliers in the hands of a master smith. He teared and rent their armor apart, smashing aside flesh and metal as he lost patience and went deeper and deeper into the formation. He roared as he slammed both hammers against a knight's helmet from either side, crumpling it and leaving the man to fall backwards like a puppet with its strings cut. He stepped over the dead man and parried an axe blow, slamming the other hammer on the attacker's arm and then promptly twisting both his hammers in opposite directions. The man screamed as his arm crunched, quickly falling silent when Joffrey struck his helmet with both weapons one after the other in a rain of furious strikes that lasted less than two seconds but left a dozen jagged tears on it, blood pouring out of every hole. He slipped and tripped a man at arms that tried to jam a two hander through his middle, slamming a hammer into the man's chest and another on his neck as he fell on the ground. Levies tried to run away and ended up jumping him when they realized there was nowhere to go, the press of bodies too great. They were the ones that lasted the least, their motions slow and panicked and lacking the strength to pierce his armor.

Joffrey's rate of advance turned faster and faster as an ever growing proportion of his enemies turned out to be levies, his unstoppable search for Renly carrying him right through a whole cluster of Beesbury peasants; terrified farmers armed with fire hardened spears or even pitchforks, wearing nothing but leather or the odd chainmail. He waded through them as if they were nothing but part of the furious rain buffeting the battle site, butting aside spears and ripping jaws and hands, the wickedly sharp flanges cutting fingers and even hands sometimes, his breathing regular and steady. He was almost in a trance, his mind focused and quiet as he searched for Renly and an end to this all.

So much death, so much death… he thought distantly, the ebb of guilt caressing his mind. For had he not wanted this? Needed this? A strong showing to deter future rebellion, a way to show Westeros that they'd inherited a warrior king even stronger than Robert?

He realized he'd lost Jon along the way, his trusty halberd disappearing within the melee. Jaime and Sandor had even showed up one moment, but they too had been lost amongst the press of bodies.

He didn't care.

"RENLY!" He roared, knights and peasants stumbling back from him even as he didn't let them, striding quickly and forcing shields away only to rain blow after blow on exposed faces and plate joints. He turned in a semi-circle every two seconds, covering his own back and slaying any who dared approach from a blind spot. "REEEENLYYYY!" He roared as he went deeper into the enemy mob, jamming the hammer's tips through visors and striking like a whirlwind at any who dared to close.

He had to be around here somewhere!

"CIDER HALL!" roared a knight clad in Green Apple Fossoway livery, and Joffrey barely parried the perfect sword thrust, the blade biting the side of his helmet instead of going through his visor.

"DIE!" Joffrey roared in return, slamming aside the sword and almost planting a hammer on his head. The knight intercepted it with his shield though, trying to bash him away. Joffrey let the shield-encrusted hammer go as he pivoted like the lightning flashing above them all, spinning around the shield and planting his other hammer in the nape of the man's neck. He extracted it with a grunt, the fighting around him dying down as men kept stumbling backwards and other jumped at him.

He stepped sideways and let a farmer sprint by with his pitchfork, striking the back of his helmetless head before redirecting a spear thrust into a soldier that had been about to attack from his left, slamming the hammer on the next attacker's chest. There were so many enemies everywhere, as if they surrounded him from every side, every second a man dying even as his arm could not keep up with the press of bodies all around him. Someone managed to pry the hammer off his hand as the mob of people constricted him; two peasants holding down his left arm as another one tried to grab his right, one hand fumbling for the hand axe on his belt. A knight in full red livery roared, hefting a mighty battleaxe above to finish him off, but Joffrey pulled his right arm and let the battleaxe cut one of the levy's arms instead. He used his now free hand to slam an armored cuff on one of the peasants to his left, shaking him off before using the other as a meat shield for the sideways slash he knew would come. The peasant screamed as the Red Knight's battleaxe tore through him, Joffrey using the cover to close in with the Knight as he bellowed in fury. He belatedly realized he had no weapon in hand as he tore off the man's helmet, his hands already starting to choke the Red Knight of the Rainbow Guard when he concluded that it would take far too long to kill him.

"WHERE'S RENLY!?" He roared at Ser Robar Royce's purple face. He must have been near, the Rainbow Guard was never far from its liege. The thought gave him renewed strength as he kept squeezing, breathing harshly as the din of battle grew strangely muted around him.

A spear thrust left him breathless after he slammed a fist into the young knight's teeth, and he turned to wrench the spear out of the brave peasant that had attacked him. He roared as the peasant didn't let go and instead was carried right into Joffrey's other gauntleted fist. He left him breathing blood on the floor as the now unattended Royce tried to unsheathe an arming sword. Joffrey parried the predictable blow with a vambrace and pummeled him again with the other hand, bellowing wordlessly each time his fist struck the knight's face. Almost everyone was stumbling away now, and Joffrey let the knight have it with both hands, twin gauntlets striking one after the other in a quick flurry of relentless strikes that kept following the knight as he stumbled backwards. The individual roars turned into a singular one as the cadence of his strikes accelerated and he suddenly lifted the dazed, wrecked knight upwards, adrenaline and pure berserker fury fueling his strength as he roaring with all his might and jammed one his wickedly sharp antlers through the man's neck. Ser Robar gurgled as Joffrey wrenched the bloodied antler out of him, giving another bellow as he tossed him to the ground at his side. The armored knight bounced once on the mud, squirming lightly before laying still.

The rain was washing the blood off his armor, for once, but he still felt the sickly, sticky thing pouring down his plate as he gazed all around him, terrified lords and knights brandishing weapons as he finally found his prey.

"Renly!" he shouted good naturedly, pleasantly surprised at the sight of his supposed uncle, a slightly bleeding Brienne of Tarth and a helmetless Ser Loras Tyrell standing protectively by his sides. As it was all too common in Westerosi warfare, combatants from all sides were more looking than fighting, smelling a duel of champions near them.

They wanted theater? Joffrey could bloody well give them theater.

Bloody theater, whispered a red voice in his ear, drinking in the attention and the blood and the way his body seemed to move with a mind of its own, every single step calculated and harmonized with the whole.

"Well nephew, it seems you have found me," Renly called out with his suave voice, made for easing lordly worries and to make ladies blush, to lead the feasting hall and to persuade through soft words. It did not sound the least bit intimidated, but his face gave away the lie. "Lannister get seems all too common around the Kingdoms these days, would-"

"STORMLORDS!" roared Joffrey as he ignored him, turning to gaze at the staring lords and knights. "This is your vaunted King?! This is the man you chose to lead the Seven Kingdoms?!" he challenged them as he strode towards them, the damned weight of the antlers making him feel like a giant, "Clad in polish and chivalry?! Well dressed and well spoken?!" he roared at them as Brienne gave an outraged bellow and charged, half handing her bastard sword precisely and trying to gut him. Joffrey grunted as he moved aside, the sword scratching his plate as he moved to slam a fist on her visor. She ducked though, shouldering him aside.

Joffrey wrenched a halberd from a paralyzed man at arm's grip, twirling it into a low guard as Brienne charged again, not giving him a moment to breath. She screamed as she tried to split him in half from above, the halberd's head barely stopping the blow before she closed him from below and slammed an armored knee into his protected stomach.

"Kill him Brienne!" shouted Renly, moving backwards and forwards slightly as he repositioned the grip on his longsword again and again, Loras wanting to get in on the action but unwilling to leave Renly unprotected. She moved to comply, half swording a stab that almost punctured Joffrey's chestplate, leaving him huffing as he stumbled back. She was a natural…

But inexperienced. Incredibly inexperienced.

Joffrey feinted a perfect low thrust, and when she moved to stop it he jumped instead, trying to slam the halberd through her visor. She barely moved her head out of the way, but then Joffrey pulled with all his strength, jamming the halberd's hook into the nape of her neck and pulling her into the ground. He jumped atop her back and delivered the clean killing blow in a blur, slamming the halberd through the same place, the tip emerging from her throat.

Renly looked green, blinking rapidly as Loras breathed serenely by his side, sword and shield at the ready. "That is enough nephew! We yiel-"

He roared over it, drowning Renly's voice harsher than the screaming rain, "This is your King?! Who quips and japes as a circle of steel closes on his throat?!" he shouted at the face of a peasant levy, the man stumbling back and blinking rapidly. He strode around the two, gazing at his spectators. He had once done something similar, near the wheat fields of the Riverlands many years ago. Tonight there was a greater purpose to this spectacle though, a purpose to the theater for all that his rage was real.

"You who fought and bled with my father at the Trident, you who betrayed his memory while his body was still warm… this was the man you chose to replace his son with?!" he roared as he traversed along the line of soldiers but a hair's breath away from them, not a single one extending their weapon and ending his life then and there. Guilt, Sansa had whispered. Guilt and shame would choke the Stormlords into compliance, after they've been dutifully cowed. The fighting had died down by now, guardsmen emerging amongst the tired and dirty lords of the Reach and the Stormlands.

"Stand your ground!" he roared as he charged at Ser Loras all of a sudden, the halberd light in his hand as he sidestepped left and right in his charge towards him. He slammed the tip into his shoulder, the knight hollering in pain before his sword licked Joffrey's vambrace painfully. Guardsmen had already fought their way through it seemed, joining the sudden lull in the fighting as they clustered to one side of the circle. They had started to slam the butts of their halberds on the ground a few seconds ago, a crescendo of sound that made Joffrey's blood sing even as the relentless rain soaked him to the bone.

Loras retreated as he wrenched the halberd out of his shoulder, and Joffrey let him go as he took his helmet off. He tore the bronze-iron antlers off it, turning the mechanism that held them in place before tossing the helmet away.

"Stormlanders!" he called out, the spittle mixing with the rain as he attacked with an antler in each hand, both a blur of movement and he pounded the huffing Ser Loras one, two, three times with the antler's blunt sections, using them as hammers. He was unprepared for what Joffrey did next though, kicking him back before jumping at Renly with a high guard. His surprised uncle stumbled back under the rain of blows, parrying desperately.

For all his skill as an orator though, Renly had not been born a warrior. Two punctures now showed bleeding flesh past the armor, in his arm and chest.

"Renly! Stand back!" screamed Ser Loras as he discarded his shield and wielded his sword with both hands. He had a reputation as a skilled fighter, but that was nowhere in evidence as Joffrey's assault on Renly made him go berserk. The Knight of Flowers screamed as he charged like a madman, and Joffrey turned just in time to lock the sword with one of the antlers, redirecting it harmlessly.

He jammed the other antler's tip through Loras' eye socket, using the man's own momentum to jam it deep. The Tyrell knight stumbling past him and clipped Renly in the shoulder before collapsing on the ground, shaking wildly as another thunder crashed above the heavens.

Renly gave out a wordless moan as he dropped his sword and kneeled by his side, his trembling hands ripping the fine silks that peeked from under his green armor as he hopelessly tried to stem the bleeding. "Loras! Loras!" he screamed, the sound all but drowned by the thunderous rumble of the halberds slamming rhythmically against the earth. Joffrey felt surreal as he strode towards Renly, letting the other antler fall to the ground.

"STORMLANDERS! Sons of thunder and fury!" he roared as he grabbed Renly's shaking form, dragging him away from Loras' body as tears started to stream down his face, mixing with the rain. He dragged him by the nape of his neck, turning to stare at the ashen faced lords and knights clustered on one side of the abrupt clearing, their hands white as they gripped their weapons.

"This man! Who could not prevent his own army from falling into fratricide, will lead the Rhoynar, the Andals, and the First Men!?" he asked them as he tossed Renly at their feet, splattering mud everywhere.

They were speechless. Pale as they avoided his gaze...

Their silence said all Joffrey needed to know.

"Blood and Mud Renly," he breathed, "That's what the songs never tell you," he said lowly, his voice echoing strangely within the clearing.

He stared at the lords and knights, breathing slowly as he felt the wind on his face, the storm blowing the rain sideways, the pounding of thousands of halberds against the mud almost drowning the sound of thunder itself, flashes of light in the distance. He was unarmed and within spitting distance of lords who days ago had been trying their level best to kill him.

He kept breathing deeply as he stared, his back as straight as steel as his armor creaked with every inhalation. He challenged them with his eyes, dared them to come at him, pleading them to do so.

He felt mighty as he gazed at their eyes. A strange sensation he hadn't felt since he'd tossed a wight down the Dawn Fort's battlements. Old Gods forgive him, he felt like he could murder every single one of them with his bare hands in this very moment, if he so chose to.

"STORMKING!" suddenly roared one of the Stormlords, voice clear over the din of halberds and the streaking lighting.

"Stormking!" shouted another, half a second later. "Ours is the Fury!" bellowed yet another one. "Fury!" they screamed. "FURY!" they roared.

"Stormking! Stormking! Stormking! STORMKING! STORMKING! STORMKING!" they chanted, not in joy or glory, but in acknowledgment. It was an admission of guilt, a plea for mercy… but also an acknowledgement. Something primal seemed to be screaming with them, a call to times long gone by. Assent to the legacy of Orys Baratheon and the Durrandons, which had ruled them for so long, ages ago.

"STORMKING!" they roared, hefting their sword and maces above them in an oath which hadn't been heard since the Conquest, the Reachlords kneeling as they tried to avoid his gaze.

"STORMKING!" they proclaimed him as spider webs of lighting crawled above the heavens and thunder deafened the cry.

-: PD :-

Last edited: Aug 3, 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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Aug 11, 2018

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AN: Small update, but better to keep em coming right?

Chapter 48: Magnar.

"But that's just it Your Grace, she paid absolutely nothing!" the merchant blustered, thoroughly discontented as the seamstress shook her head harshly.

The woman shook her head again as she looked at Sansa, "If that cloth were any more rotten, mice would have jumped out of it! You said that-"

"Shut up you lying whore!" the man interrupted her abruptly, "I will see you flogged for this! Mark my wo-"

"SILENCE!" roared Ser Barristan after Sansa gave him a small look, settling the throne room into blessed silence so she could think.

Sansa took a deep breath as she leaned back on the damned pointy chair, accommodating herself over the red and yellow cloak she'd lain over it. "Master Tobias," she called out calmly, unhurried as she surveyed him from boots to head, "Only the Crown or its duly appointed Master of Laws has the authority to flog a resident of the city. And last I checked, the latter was in open rebellion and the former… well, are you proclaiming yourself a claimant to the Iron Throne, Master Tobias?" she asked lightly, as if she were asking him whether he'd like ham or cheese for his breakfast.

The man swallowed awkwardly, gazing around the Throne Room at the half century of Royal Guardsmen standing impassively in line, facing the rows of people awaiting their turn for a public audience. "Ah, no, Your Grace," he stammered.

"Good. Because both carry heavy penalties far, far worse than a mere flogging Master Tobias," she said as she stared at his eyes. "Now, I think I've heard just about enough about cloth quality without seeing it myself, do you have a sample?" she asked as her eyes shifted to the seamstress, who immediately looked flustered.

"I-I'm afraid not, my lady-"

"You shall address the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms as 'Your Grace' or 'my queen'," Ser Barristan interrupted her with a strong voice.

"Your Grace… If I may…" the merchant asked awkwardly over the resulting silence, shuffling his hands.

"Yes, Master Tobias?" she asked him.

"I could recognize it anywhere… that veil she's wearing right now was made from my cloth," he said deferentially.

Her eyes shifted to the seamstress, "Is that true, goodwoman?" she asked her.

"Of course n"- she stammered when Sansa kept gazing at her, swallowing something sour before nodding, "Yes it is," she nodded quickly.

"Ser Barristan," she asked the Kingsguard.

The white clad knight strode confidently to the seamstress, receiving the veil with surprising gentleness before returning and climbing the steps to the throne. People in the audience were murmuring as Sansa received the veil and examined it, putting it up against the daylight coming from the big windows.

"It looks a bit ragged, though not extremely so… subpar treatment post-harvest but nothing out of this world… " she said out loud as she returned it to Ser Barristan, "Hardly something that will last, but that would have been obvious by the low price you paid for it," she told her before nodding slightly. "You should have paid the price in full plus half its value again as restitution for the delay and wasting Master Tobias' time," she declared, turning to Master Tobias' grinning face before frowning, "Or you would have if the Master had not taken measures into his own hands and ruined your shop's door and lock in an attempt to retrieve the goods," she said with a frown, shaming the man into silence.

"As it is, we see no further need for restitution between both parties, both having induced unlawful loss on the other, of similar magnitude. In the future, we are of the hope that parties in a similar predicament will not waste the Crown's time and will instead seek the arbitration of the Royal Court of Commerce, or even better, consult the Royal Office of Weights and Measurements for quality references and their usual market prices… before jumping into a suspiciously good deal," she proclaimed.

The halberdier closest to her banged the butt of his weapon against the floor three times, the royal usher guiding the grieving parties back through the main doors after they had bowed or curtsied awkwardly.

Ser Barristan gazed at her, and Sansa shook her head almost imperceptibly. "Court is adjourned for today!" he called out, "All petitioners with red tablets will have priority tomorrow morning. If your tablet is not red then come during the afternoon," he said forcefully, a little bit of frustration peeking in his voice.

Sansa stood up when the hall was cleared, taking a deep breath and messing her hair a bit. She accommodated the small crown over her head as she descended the steps, waving away the sheepish royal usher.

"I'm sorry my queen, I don't know how they got past the door! I'll-"

"Calm down Kirt," she scolded him lightly as Ser Barristan returned to her side, "Just make sure it does not happen again. There are not enough hours in the day to see all legitimate complaints, so cluttering up that valuable time with stuff that could have been resolved by one of the lower courts defeats the whole purpose of establishing them in the first place," she explained gently.

"Of course my queen, it won't happen again," he said apologetically, bowing his head repeatedly.

"See that it doesn't," she said before walking out of the hall through one of the side doors, greeting Meera with a smile. "How long were you watching?" she asked her.

"Half an hour, I don't know how you can spend whole mornings at a time just sitting there," she said, perplexed as she walked with her, Ser Barristan half a step behind.

"Believe me, neither do I," Sansa told her with a sigh as all the exhaustion she'd been hiding from the audience suddenly manifested itself and she took a second to stop and lean on the corridor's wall.

"Maybe you need a bit of movement, stretch out a little," Meera said mischievously.

Sansa looked at her, smile growing as she turned to the kingsguard. "What do you say, Ser Barristan? Up for a little spar?" she asked him as she gave him her best young queenly look.

Ser Barristan shook his head with a halfhearted huff, "As you say, Your Grace," he said with a reluctant smile.

-: PD :-

The rhythmic taps of the spear against tourney steel were a godsend to Sansa's mind. After hours upon hours holding court, followed by relentless politics and juggling half a dozen different intrigues at the same time, the simple reality of a good spar had become a luxury to be treasured and savored to the last second.

Ser Barristan was a superb teacher, and she didn't know why Joffrey had never sought his instruction during his early lives. He adapted to a place just above her skill level, making him an infuriatingly good opponent who was always one step ahead, just close enough to extract every drop of sweat and skill from her body before trouncing her all the same, wrapping it all with a few pointers she would consult with her pillow.

She'd been keeping and increasing her strength whenever she could, mostly as a way to deal with the stress of rulership and worse, the stress of rulership without Joffrey by her side. She parried a sword strike and twirled below it, spinning the spear for a quick butt at Ser Barristan's calf, but he sidestepped it effortlessly as he closed the range and tapped her with the pommel of his sword.

"Keep the range, Your Grace. It is the motto of the breathing spearman," he chided her lightly as she retreated, rubbing the itchy training helmet that contained part of her long hair which even now struggled to erupt from within.

"I'm hardly breathing right now," she said in return as she dashed at him with a small bellow, jumping and going for a full strike on his chest. He managed to block it with his shield, trying to cut away at the spear with his sword before Sansa retrieved it for another stab. She was quicker, thrusting twice at his shield covered chest to distract him from the follow up thrust to the shin. He didn't buy the Ib-ke though, advancing on her as the sword twisted the spear away from its trajectory. She retreated, planting the spear on the ground and thus parrying the sword strike that came for her hip, before she used it as a pole to support her weight as she slammed into Ser Barristan's shield with both legs.

She sent him stumbling back as she landed half crouched, sprinting towards him and delivering a flurry of follow up strikes to keep him off his footing. "Sometimes I wonder where you learned those techniques my queen," he said after he'd warded her off with a coordinated strike of sword and shield.

"My husband is a man of many talents," she said cheekily in between huffs, but Ser Barristan was already on the attack again. This time he feinted perfectly, Sansa moving to cover the strike that never came and instead receiving a painful chastisement on her forearm.

"Point," she grumbled.

"You could still continue fighting with one hand and a stump! At least another ten seconds!" Meera called out from the fence.

"I once saw a man last around thirty," added Ser Barristan, a thoughtful frown of recollection adorning his features.

"Well, I won't," she grunted as she took off the training helmet and sat on a stool near the fence, turning around to see the rest of the main courtyard staring at the training yard, servants and guards looking at her discreetly. "Is it just me or has a sorcerer frozen time itself around here?" she asked out loud.

Just like that, the spectators returned to their duties, conversations and shuffling reviving as if by magic.

"Seems you scared off the sorcerer," said Meera as she came and leaned right next to her on the fence.

"I'll have a talk with the Centurion," Ser Barristan said somewhat apologetically, stashing the training gear with a frown.

"Don't bother, I don't mind the gossip," Sansa told him as Meera hummed.

"What about my turn?" asked the willy Reed.

"Yard's free," Sansa told her with a lifted hand.

"You know I hate the yard," she pouted.

"Fine," Sansa huffed, "Ser Barristan, go get yourself cleaned up, we'll be safe and sound in the Godswood," she told him.

"Aye Your Grace," he said with a perfect bow, pointing a familiar frown at Meera as she happily went for her trident.

-: PD :-

The spar with Meera was a much more lighthearted affair, indistinguishable from gossip and giggles even as she showed her some nifty tricks crannogmen could do with a pole weapon. This was the usual way they conversed, as Meera had little stamina to sit through the long court sessions like Wylla or Talia did, whispering in her ear about affairs of state or merely chatting to stave off the harrowing boredom that seemed to permeate many of the petty squabbles of the citizenry of King's Landing. The small but progressively growing courts she had established had been based on the Braavosi High Trade Council, the body that oversaw the litigation of the thousands of disputes that occurred every day at the City-in-the-Lagoon.

Westerosi legal culture was much less developed than Braavos', which was both a pain and a blessing. She'd more or less had a free hand in establishing its foundations, which had been a blessing for the serious legal burden on a system that had depended almost entirely on a handful of people. On the other hand, petitioning the Crown for an audience was an ancient prerogative and pride of the citizenry of King's Landing, and taking it away entirely was a nonstarter. She'd been threading a hellishly complicated middle ground of delegation, efficiency, and legitimacy which had honestly started to take its toll on her other schemes and her psyche. Father helped inmensly, but his recent duties had seen him socializing with the passing Riverlords away from the capital, on their march towards Bronze Gate.

Fortunately, Meera did her best to help. Mostly by trying her damnest to pierce her gut with a trident… which was a better prospect than Lyra's efforts now that she thought about it. At least Meera was not trying to bash her skull in.

"Uff-" Sansa grunted as the blunted trident slammed into her lightly armored belly, throwing her backwards. Lady barked from her nest by the Heart Tree's roots, as if disappointed by Sansa's lack of poise. She'd been prowling the Kingswood again, Sansa knew, though you couldn't have guessed that by the way her pristine coat of fur seemed to shine under the afternoon sun.

"You're distracted again," Meera said cheekily as she dodged her thrust and locked the spear with the trident, leaving her vulnerable to a swift kick.

Sansa sighed as she defended herself, "Legal stuff," she pouted, "I'll be having a meeting with Tyrion in about an hour or so. More work," she told her before giving Lady an accusing look. Her direwolf looked as innocent as freshly fallen snow, sprawling on her little nest with puppy eyes.

Considering the direwolf was by now bigger than any dog in the Crownlands itself the vision was at least mildly amusing… which Sansa reckoned must have been the point.

"At least you're not thinking about your beloved," Meera said the last words all mushy, almost mumbling them before grinning silly.

"Oh so that's how you want to play it?" Sansa arched her eyebrows as she struck and deflected, "Takes one to know one. And I understand it, truly. Jon may be my half-brother but I'm not blind," she said with a grin.

"I- wh- what?!" Meera complained wordlessly, parrying strike after strike with her trident.

"I get it Meera! There's something about the broody ones, you just want to give them a big sloppy kiss and suck the angst right out of them," she explained as she feinted.

"Wha- SANSA!" She screeched as she turned beet red and the spear sailed effortlessly through her parry, smacking her in the knee.

"Ouch!" Meera said as she limped back, "Unfair! Totally unfair!" she complained in between bouts of budding, hysterical laughter.

"So stoic but so soft! At the same time even!" said Sansa as she tried not to laugh and Meera held her mouth with both hands, dropping her trident, "Frowning as if they were constipated before finally deciding to lay down their duty"- she said the last with an exaggerated manly knight voice -"and deigning themselves to feel this strange and forbidden thing called happiness…" she said grandly before trailing off as Meera pleaded for her to stop, laughing like a madwoman. She continued, merciless, "Struggling with their conscience as they stop suffering for a second and deign to demean their all glorious purpose for…" Sansa trailed off once more as her handmaiden took in a much needed breath of fresh air.

"For a pathetic little kiss!" Meera harrumphed before blowing up in hilariously high squeaked giggles, Sansa laughing as well as they commiserated. They sat down together, against one of the Heart Tree's roots and leaning together as they weathered the occasional outburst of returning giggles.

They spent the rest of the hour there, chatting about everything and nothing, commiserating about 'the broody ones' and further plotting a certain match perfect for one Lyra Mormont.

The Hound would never know what hit him.

"It really is amazing," Meera said idly during the last pause in the conversation, giving Lady a bit of ham from the basket they had carried with them to the Godswood. The direwolf sniffed it delicately before slurping it in one go, scratching her head against Meera's hand almost as if it were a regal curtsy before settling back down.

"She is," Sansa agreed easily, giving her grey-white follower a smile.

"I mean, not only her. But the fact that all your brothers and sisters also got one," Meera told her, "And that they're all so obedient and similar to their masters," she added.

"Ghost, the only living being that can out brood Jon," Sansa said glibly.

Meera turned red again as she coughed, "Yeah… isn't it strange though? They're also on your House's sigil, so they must have meant a lot to the Starks of old…" she mused.

Sansa frowned lightly, picking up on the way Meera was trying to lead the conversation. It was a topic she seldom approached, but when she did it was always carefully, and very obliquely.

"… Meera, you've been dancing around this topic since the day I met you at Fort Cailin," she cut to the heart of the matter. "Why don't you just say what you want to say?" she asked of her.

Meera seemed paralyzed, like a startled deer. She seemed to be munching on something dry, struggling to speak.

"Come Meera, spit it out!" Sansa called her out lightly, secretly wary about what could have her in such a state for so long. She smiled, "Or I'll tell Jeyne all about the oh so painfully brief and chaste kiss my honor stuffed half-brother gave you before riding off into the sunset and war!" she said triumphantly, deciding to tack this from another direction.

"You wouldn't!" Meera squeaked despite herself.

"So painful! As if he were committing the greatest sin against the Old Gods and the New! I didn't hear what he told you but I'm sure I could come up with a brief approximation, something like 'Move on if I fall, don't wait for me'," Sansa savored the words as if they were a well-cooked steak, "Jeyne will positively melt through the courtyard's cobblestones! I'tll-"

"I think you're a warg!" Meera squeaked at last, cutting Sansa mid-sentence.

"I'll… wait, what?" she asked her with a colossal frown, Lady tilting her head as well as she gazed at Meera.

"A warg, a skinchanger, someone who can peer into the minds of other living beings and experience what they feel, even control them if he or she is strong enough," she explained painfully.

Sansa looked at her for a second before bursting out in laughter, shaking her head at the good joke. She trailed off when she realized Meera was serious.

"You can't be serious," she told her, nonplussed.

"But I am! Father had his suspicions, and your invitation was the perfect excuse to see for ourselves-"

"So you were spying on me?" Sansa asked her, stunned.

"Not like that! We serve the Starks, if there's one thing you can be sure of Sansa, is that we serve the Kings and Queens of Winter, always," she said suddenly, the abrupt, absolute certainty in her voice convincing Sansa more than a dozen apologies put together.

They stayed quiet for a moment, each thinking deeply before Sansa stood up. "That's old northern superstition Meera," she said as she walked to the chest close by to stash her spear. "I don't know what tales they told you in Greywater Watch but-" she stopped abruptly as she spun and blocked Meera's silent trident thrust with her spear, the bronze tip but a hair's breath away from her skin.

"How did you stop me?" Meera asked commandingly.

Sansa shook her head angrily as she stood back, "Meera! What were you th-"

"How did you stop me?!" she almost shouted again.

"I saw you! Now, why-"

"Nonsense Sansa! I struck from your blind spot, you couldn't have seen me even through the corner of your eye!" she said forcefully.

"I-, Meera-, I know what I saw, else how did I block your thrust in time?" she explained to her as if she were a simpleton, frowning at her own explanation.

"You did see me, just not through your eyes," Meera said calmly as she stood back and gazed to her side. Sansa looked as well, gazing at the alert form of Lady as she stared at them from her nest of roots, still as a statue.

"I- You're not-" Sansa shook her head, looking at Lady and back to Meera again and again.

"You're a natural Sansa, you have such an innate talent you hadn't even realized it! Has there been any time when you've felt strangely connected to Lady?" she said quickly.

"I, no, yes, but she's Lady! Of course we're connected!" Sansa tried to explain, mostly to herself.

"Almost as if you shared thoughts and emotions?" Meera asked piercingly, "Like you dreamt of being her?" she pierced deeper.

"I- n-" she stuttered as she gazed at Meera, her hands moving to where she knew Lady had just positioned herself, just by her side. She rubbed Lady's head gently, repeatedly as she tried to calm down her anxiety and Meera's eyes bore relentlessly into hers.

"Calm down, breathe Sansa," Meera told her as she gently lowered her to the floor, sitting by her side and opposite to Lady's. "There's nothing to be afraid of, the Starks of old had that direwolf on their banners for a reason. You're rediscovering a legacy of your family right now, something deeply yours as much as your House words or Winterfell itself," she explained slowly, possessed of that serene certainty again.

"No, I mean, yes…" Sansa muttered as she blinked, steadying her breathe, "You're right," she said as her eyes focused, turning from the ground back to Meera's face, "Joffrey had theorized about the magical powers of Westeros' oldest dynasties. The Red Comet's arrival must have somehow repowered them from dormancy, as it did with Daenerys' dragons and the Warlocks and the Cultists," she said quickly, her words tumbling over each other as Meera's expression of supporting acceptance turned bewildered.

"The Starks led the charge on the White Walkers during the First war for Dawn," Sansa said as she stood up, the hair at the back of her neck standing on edge as she paced to nowhere in particular, Meera trying to get a word in edgewise as she stood up after her. "My ancestors erected the Wall, they ruled over the Children of the Forests and the Giants, the legends say they rode their direwolves into battle," she muttered almost in a daze as she turned to gaze at Meera.

"Sansa I- I know it can seem intimidating," Meera said as she reached her, frowning as she followed a prepared speech that had clearly just become obsolete, "I mean, that, -" she seemed at a loss for words at Sansa's reaction.

"Intimidated?" Sansa asked in turn as she gazed at Meera's eyes, "Meera I was so stupid! Of course I should have the potential, sorcerous power is a legacy of House Stark! It practically must have been to defeat the Scout Walkers with bronze. But I never thought I… That my bond with Lady…" she trailed off as she turned to look at her Direwolf, "… could be the result of ancient bloodlines returning…" she was breathing deeply, gazing sharply at Lady as her direwolf stared back, feeling her without touching, sharpening her mind against the uncannily familiar sensation like never before, the one that had always been there. She immersed herself in it, jumping straight into it and feeling as if she'd just dived from the Red Keep, straight into Blackwater Bay as sge shivered.

"I never thought that our bond…" she trailed off once more as she frowned intensely, "Gods Meera it was so obvious…" she whispered as she kept staring at lady, her breath hitching when one of her eyes turned white.

Meera shivered in awe as Sansa and Lady both looked at her at the same time, one of Sansa's eyes a milky white as she blinked slowly and started to lose her balance.

"You can't do that yet! You need training!" she said urgently as she grabbed Sansa firmly before she fell to the ground. Sansa shook her head in a daze before she regained her footing, Meera still holding her arms tightly.

"Teach me," Sansa told her after she'd returned fully to herself.

"I don't know as much as my Father or even my brother Jojen! We all know but scraps that have survived-" Meera gibbered before Sansa squeezed her arms tightly, sternly but not painfully.

"Meera Reed, teach me," her Queen commanded, her blue eyes as deep as winter storms as they bore on her own, her direwolf sitting by her side like a grey marble statue who happened to blink, gazing at Meera serenely.

Meera Reed felt something deeply primal within her as she fell on her knees, the rusty words of the Old Tongue coarse to her ears.

"Yes, Magnar," she swore.

-: PD :-

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 49: Howl. New

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Aug 13, 2018

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Chapter 49: Howl.

Her little shadow war with Varys had been an incredible learning -and humbling- experience; which was one of the reasons the man was still alive. Other than serving as a sort of training dummy for Sansa though, the Master of Whispers was a very useful font of knowledge about their adversaries and even neutrals of the budding civil war. Though always taking his word with a hefty shipload of salt, Sansa had learned more about the Iron Islands in a month than what she would have known after a year of study and dedicated effort towards them… and that was only one example of the ways Varys helped the running of the realm as a whole.

Of course, the longer he lived the more dangerous he would become to her and Joffrey's efforts, but conversely, the more he would reveal about his secretive Essosi contacts in Pentos and other Free Cities. It was a waiting game to see who decided to end the mutually beneficial relationship first, and perhaps that was why Sansa was so stunned when the first serious fatality of the Game of Thrones seemed to be carried out by neither of them.

Sansa sighed, pushing away a well-meaning Ser Barristan as she kept looking at Tyrion's horrified expression of pain, forever frozen in place. The dwarf was still in his bed, the body of the wench that had poisoned him conveniently slumped over in the corner, white bubbles still foaming out of her mouth even if her body had expired hours ago by the Grandmaester's reckoning. Sansa had found an empty vial in the wench's pocket, and the smell of Foxglove had been clear as day at least according to the Grandmaester…

"Lady," Sansa whispered as the alert direwolf trotted to her side. Sansa closed her eyes as she lowered the vial, letting the direwolf sniff the residue. Pycell had shown her a full vial as a sample and…

Ahh… they match, she thought as she opened her eyes and wrinkled her nose, Lady peering up at her curiously.

So it was actually Foxglove, Pycell's not lying… but why would Cersei make it seem like Tyrion had a heart attack, and then go to the trouble of making sure the obvious assassin died in the same room? And of a much more obvious poison at that!? She asked herself.

"Ser Barristan," she called out.

"My Queen?" asked her stern protector.

"Lock down the Red Keep, rouse the northern contingent and relieve the Red Cloaks of their arms and posts around the outer walls and the gatehouse," she commanded.

He looked rebellious at the thought of leaving her right now, before looking at Ser Mandon Moore and Ser Preston Greenfield, both of them nodding. "Aye Your Grace," he said finally.

"Centurion Holt," Sansa called as she left Tyrion's room.

"Your Grace!" the man slammed the halberd against the floor as he straightened, the eight halberdiers behind straightening as well.

"Assemble your century inside Maegor's Holdfast and stand vigilant, no one is to go in or out," she ordered him.

"Aye Your Grace!" he said before turning to his men, delivering a flurry of orders as they split into two groups going in opposite directions. Sansa walked her own way, Ser Mandon and Ser Preston following her with their hands on their pommels. She entered the Sept at a quick pace, sighing in relief when she saw the familiar silhouettes of Wylla Manderly and Butter Fingers standing by the side of the Stranger's Altar, half hidden from view.

"Wait here," she ordered her escort, the two kingsguards covering the door as she walked towards the altar, "Wylla, Butter Fingers. It's nice to see you," she said quickly.

"Sansa," Wylla smiled nervously as Butter merely nodded, his big frame making the shadows dance.

"So, Cersei?" she asked them.

"Yes," Wylla said simply, "We knew she was jockeying for influence around the Royal Court of Commerce"-

"Rather ineffectually I might add," Butter cut in with a rumble.

-"Before Tyrion absolutely wrecked the small progress she'd made amongst a minority of the judges," Wylla finished, giving Butter the stink eye.

Sansa cursed, leaning on the statue of the Crone right in front of them, "I told you both to keep an eye on her, she was bound to react badly after that little failure of a scheme," she told them forcefully.

"We never thought she'd murder her brother! Maybe strike at him politically or get him out of the Capital, not kill him!" Wylla grumbled. She'd ended up being an invaluable help as Sansa's queenly duties overwhelmed her, serving as a sort of auxiliary Mistress of Whispers who could supervise on going schemes when Sansa was strapped for time. "Least of all like this," she added, shaking her head.

"And what did you find out?" Sansa asked the big brute with the lute on his back.

"The girl was in Cersei's employ. She and five others were plants Cersei placed at Chataya's," rumbled the bard, cracking the fingers which gave him his name. People just couldn't understand how Sansa would keep such an awful bard in her retinue… to that she'd often said that the man's voice made up for any less than stellar performance with his chosen instrument. Of course, his meaty fingers were also quite useful for breaking skulls in the middle of the night.

And no one would ever suspect the fumbling court singer to be a spy and the left hand of the Queen in the murky matters of intrigue, would they? Everyone who was not the Spider at least…

"Let me guess, they all pointed to Cersei, who bought them through a Lannisport Lannister of all people," she huffed.

"Not quite," said Butter, "But the trail was almost as obvious as that, a Red Cloak serjeant whom we know Cersei owns completely."

"I'm not that surprised now that I think about it," Sansa told them, "She looked absolutely thunderous after Tyrion baited her with that bit about sending her to Casterly Rock, away from her children… he should have known better than provoking such an impulsive woman," she trailed off, the hit of losing Tyrion pummeling her hard just now. The thought of all his help with the Trading Company and the Courts and the Blackworks and more no longer being available… the lack of his easy smile or the friendly jape after a horrible morning at court-

She shook it off, blinking away the budding tears before returning to the matter at hand. "Means, motive, and opportunity all stack up, but there's still something rotten inside it all. Why make sure the killer died in the same room? If she had just slit the wench's throat and tossed her down the blackwater she could have had plausible deniability," she reasoned.

"I'm afraid that will take more time than we have right now," said Wylla as she shook her head.

"Right, you two keep digging into this; I want answers," she told them before walking quickly out of the Sept.

Damnit, I miss Joffrey, she thought morosely as the knights followed her again, swiftly joined by Lyra, who had been waiting by the doors. "Skulls to crack?" she asked excitedly.

"Not every problem requires a hammer," Sansa told her with a fond half smile, swiftly arriving at Maegor's Holdfast and the assembled Guardsmen who had taken the draw bridge without a fight.

"Says the woman about to storm the palace," she said glibly, hammer and shield already in her hands.

"Shush you," said Sansa before nodding at the Centurion.

"Holt, the Red Cloaks are to be disarmed and the Royal Family to be placed under custody. The Queen Mother is to be placed under arrest," she said quickly, leaving the details up to him. "And please, minimum bloodshed," she told him.

"Aye your Grace," said the Centurion before turning to his three score or so of men. "Listen up men! We're marching in and disarming the Red Cloaks. The Queen Mother is to be arrested and the children placed under protective guard. Fin, Gawald, get your sections in order! Halberds at the front!" he bellowed.

Soon they were marching through Maegor's Holdfast, and though a few Red Cloaks tried to resist here and there, most were intimidated by the surprise of the situation and the veritable tide of steel taking over the heart of the Red Keep.

"What is the meaning of this!?" Cersei screeched as she retreated into a corner of her room, grasping Tommen and Myrcella tightly as the former cried and the latter put on a brave face.

"Auntie Sansa?! Wh-what's going on?!" she cried out from Cersei's grip as halberdiers fanned out along the room.

Sansa took a step forward, holding her hands aloft, "It's okay Myrcella, it'll all be over soon," she tried to calm her down.

Cersei looked outraged, "Over?! I should have known you would try something like this the moment my son was gone, you traitorous bitch!" she screeched, stumbling back again, dangerously close to the window.

Sansa closed her eyes, Lady sniffing the air and unerringly pointing her muzzle to Cersei. Her hands reeked of Foxglove.

She didn't even trust Pycell to carry this out, how thoughtful of her…

"Cersei Lannister, you are accused of poisoning and murder Tyrion Lannister, Master of Coin of the Seven Kingdoms," She told her, frowning as the woman stumbled closer to the window, an iron grasp on her children. She looked momentarily startled, but quickly smoothed her face back into all outrage.

"Lies and slander! A transparent excuse so the Starks can seize power!" she shouted before a net slipped through the window, tangling her and the children on the floor.

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief as the Guardsmen quickly charged in and untangled the Lannisters, smiling as Meera slipped in from the window.

"Must be the strangest catch of your life, huh?" she asked the Reed the girl, who seemed to be sporting a grin fit to make a guilty cat proud.

"Not even close, my queen. Not even close," she said ruefully, the smiles on both of them disappearing rapidly as the gravity of the situation returned.

-: PD :-

Father had returned swiftly after the news reached him; galloping across the Kingswood back to King's Landing. He'd been reviewing the Riverlander forces there, securing Bronze Gate like a cork and making sure Renly's Host could not cross into the Crownlands if they somehow shook off Joffrey. A decisive engagement of a sort would no doubt happen soon enough, but communications were patchy around the devastated Stormlands, so Sansa was still in the dark about that. She did know that Joffrey had been hitting their supply train hard, refusing to engage unless he had local superiority and making the great host bleed for every step they took… aid would have to be given to the Stormlands once it was all over, lest they starve after the war.

Father had been overseeing the investigation surrounding Tyrion's death, and while the case seemed clear enough, Sansa still couldn't find the missing link in it. The cook that had fed the assassin and thus poisoned her ahead of time was dead, his throats slit in his very house. It was almost a certainty that Cersei had poisoned Tyrion, given their history and the way tensions between the both of them had escalated around the Royal Court of Commerce, but her catspaw's death had been planned by a third party… the obvious candidate for that was -of course- Varys… but her agents had not been able to prove it one way or the other. As the days passed, she had a slow creeping certainty that her game with the Spider would soon be over, one way or the other…

Cersei had been jailed within one of the Red Keep's towers, kept in a room befitting the station of the King's mother, for all that her bouts of screaming could sometimes be heard throughout the whole keep.

Tyrion's death had hit her schemes hard, flooding her already stretched days and delaying a dozen different projects. Father had been a huge help of course, shouldering many of the typical legal and courtly matters that were expected to be delegated to a Hand, but she still felt the strain…

Even with the strain her training with Meera had continued at an accelerated pace, and Sansa thought the girl was honestly surprised at her progress. Joffrey had often talked about his experiences exploring his 'inner self' and the infinite conduits he saw the Purple as, all leading to the center of his soul. Having meditated with him many times before, she had soon realized that her training as a… warg, had been halfway complete before she'd even started it. The mere possibility of it had been enough for her to consciously deepen the connection she'd always knew had been there… with immediate results. The possibilities of magic had her dizzy, and she felt there was so much more she could do if she had but the time and the knowledge…

She was enjoying the early morning sun in a rare moment of relaxation when she heard the bells. It was only one at first, but as more and more of its brethren joined in the mad tolling, Sansa knew something was amiss.

She left the painfully empty room she and Joffrey had made theirs, walking down from Maegor's holdfast until she reached the lower bailey and then the outer courtyard. The sight of a frantic messenger still atop his horse and her Father's face as he talked with him sent shivers down her spine.

Father was walking back when she reached him, her heart hammering wildly as she grabbed his arms. "Father, what is it?! Has something h-happened to Joffrey?" she asked him with a tight voice.

Father looked pale as he regarded her, shaking his head slowly. "No, no," he said, lifting the leaden weight in Sansa's belly before placing another one in its stead. "It's Stannis… he's sailing for the capital with a whole fleet at his back… and I don't think he's coming to kneel," he told her before shaking his head once more and striding towards a couple of Stark men nearby, hollering at them to mount up and ride for the Riverlander host by Bronze Gate as fast as they could.

"How much time do we have?" she asked urgently as she caught up to him.

"A fisherman spotted the ships past Driftmark, so we should have until dusk or maybe next morning if we're lucky," he said quickly, Stark and other armsmen from the northern contingent already pouring out of the towers around the courtyard.

Not enough time for the Riverlords and their levies to get here, not even close, Sansa thought as she turned and started hollering at servants of her own.

There was a war council to attend to.

-: PD :-

The small council chambers seemed to be permeated by an aura of dread, fidgeting hands and creased foreheads almost a requirement for every current occupant. The creaking of armor was the most prevalent sound, knights and commanders conferring with each other before Father called for order. What few preparations that could be carried out had already been done so, and all that was left was the battle to come… the vanguard of Stannis' fleet had already been sighted nearing the mouth of the Blackwater, the sun hiding from the ships of the Royal Fleet and the lords of the Narrow Sea. Sansa turned from the balcony as Father spoke, her attempts at trying to spot the fleet failing miserably.

"Ser Jacelyn, is the City Watch ready?" asked her Father, his figure stern and imposing when fully clad in northern plate, Ice resting in its sheath and against the side of the table.

"As much we can hope for with so little time, my lord Hand," said the tall, lantern jawed Commander of the City Watch. Sansa had sent Slynt to the Wall for both his corruption and incompetence, and the subsequent purge of corrupt goldcloak soldiers and officers had left scars which were still healing… just in time for Stannis to hit them like a warhammer. "They're already manning the walls and the gatehouses, though the north western sections will be undermanned…" he said before trailing off, "Lord Stark I… many of the better soldiers already joined the Royal Guard, and after the post-Slynt reforms… I can't guarantee they'll hold if disaster strikes," he finally said it, cringing as if they were about to demand his head right then and there.

Honesty, that was one of the reasons Tyrion recommended him… Sansa thought idly, the small pain at his death stinging her belly before she put it away in its box. She'd been doing that more and more often as of late.

"No one can doubt either the strength or the conviction behind your work, Ser Jacelyn. We can only ask the men to hold to their ground as long as they are able to, nothing more," she soothed him, placing a hand on his armored shoulder.

"I- thank you, Your Grace," he said, slightly relieved. Father had immediately taken control of the city's defense, but that didn't mean Sansa couldn't do what she could to help.

Father nodded slowly, gazing at Patrek Mallister. He was the most prominent of the young heirs and knights that had volunteered to escort Father back to the capital after word of the troubles in the Red Keep had reached Bronze Gate, a few days ago. "That brings us to around fifteen hundred spears, as well as your forces Master Patrek," he said.

"Indeed my lord. We've a hundred Riverlander knights and squires ready to put a sword through the traitor's belly as soon as he shows his face," he said bravely, the young boy standing tall and proud in his polished breastplate. Sansa could smell his fear as if it were a cloudy day, windy and flighty and scared. She shook her head slightly, scratching Lady's head almost compulsively.

"The honor and courage of the Riverlands shall not be forgotten tonight. Tribune Vince?" he asked the grim faced man, or rather boy at the other side of the table. Centurion Holt sat by his side, and they stopped whispering when Father addressed him.

Tribune Vince was, like most of Joffrey's officers, almost painfully young. He'd been one of Joffrey's first recruits though, and he looked both exhausted and confident. "Men are still arriving through the Gate of the Gods, a bit more than one thousand men all told between trainers and recruits. They're all but half trained though my lord," he said, grim faced, "And tired after the forced march from the Camp and Reston. I wouldn't rely on them to do anything but hold their ground in a basic box formation," he said almost apologetically.

Father nodded at that, leaning his chin on one hand as the other tapped the table. "That leaves us with about three thousand men, most of them unsuited for nothing else but standing still and holding their ground…" he mused as he gazed at the map of King's Landing by the table's center.

"That's all they need to do my lord, stand their ground. The walls will do the rest," Ser Barristan murmured with an air of long held experience.

"Between my retinue and the Red Cloaks who have been deemed reliable you can add another two hundred swords on that, Father," Sansa told him.

Eddard nodded once more before he looked at Varys, his brow furrowed in confusion, "How did we not know this?" he asked coldly.

"Lord Stannis has kept careful watch around his keep and island, my lord. Not even my little birds can reliably communicate with me… all signs seemed to point to the King's prediction; a quick expedition to the Stormlands as a way to garner further support amongst the Stormlords," he said innocently.

"What about Lord Stannis' strength?" asked Father.

"Anywhere between four and seven thousand men my lord hand, depending on how many more mercenaries he's managed to buy," Varys murmured.

"No amount of mercenaries will take over the capital, on that you can count on us Lord Stark!" said Patrek.

"Decent odds… as long as the men don't break. If they burst through the gates or the wall the odds will flip and our forces could be surrounded and destroyed…" Father murmured. Sansa had never seen him like this, clad as a warrior and commander, a true veteran of Robert's Rebellion.

"Why would he try this? The Riverlords are too close for him to flip enough Crownlander houses to make a difference after he takes the city…" Sansa asked herself, frowning.

"He must have thought the Riverlords busy in the Stormlands, fighting with King Joffrey against his younger brother. I doubt he foresaw the King's… unique plan," mused Varys.

"The legitimacy of holding the capital is not to be underestimated," Grand Master Pycell counseled, who was looking rather green at the rapid pace of events, "If he were to hold it, he could gain substantial support from the Crownlords and those further afield who dislike both Good King Joffrey and the usurper Renly," he said slowly.

"He'd still be in a bad position afterwards," said Sansa.

"It would be better than where he is right now," Father said in turn, "I still can't understand him. How could Stannis fall for such a blatant lie. He must believe it, there's no way he'd jump the chain of succession like this if he were not certain of his outlandish accusations," Father said as he shook his head.

The silence was broken by Ser Barristan after a moment, "I've seen my fair share of good men die for the wrong cause, my lord," he said before squaring his shoulders, "Lord Stannis won't be the first, and he certainly won't be the last," he said grimly.

"Well said Ser Barristan," Father told him before he stood up, holding Ice against his shoulder as the various men around the table did likewise.

They all streamed out of the keep, the outer courtyard filled with messengers and grim faced goldcloaks, as well as Stark guardsmen awaiting their liege. People were still sharpening arrows and desperately moving ballistas from the Red Keep to the Mud Gate as the sun hid almost completely beyond the horizon, the different commanders mounting up or quick walking towards their forces. The Riverlanders were making a brave showing as the young men boasted and slapped each other's shoulders, trying to hide their fear.

"Please… be careful Father," Sansa pleaded as they walked across the courtyard, his helmet already on as he turned to look at her.

"If Stannis does breach the wall, you'll have to hold the Red Keep until Edmund and your great uncle Brynden get here," he said, ignoring her words.

"Eddard please," Sansa insisted as she grabbed his arm and he stopped walking, an eerie shiver startling her before she shook her head.

"War is the most terrible scourge on this land Sansa," he said with uncharacteristic passion, the icy façade that had dominated his face during the meeting all but melting for a few seconds, "I'd hoped you'd never see it, but I was blind to that as I've been to many things in my life. If anything were to happen to me, you must take care of your brother and sister. Can you do that Sansa?" he asked urgently.

"I- I will Father," she whispered, swallowing something bitter. She wanted nothing but to charge after him, not even let him off her sight… but she knew better than to get in his way.

"Good," he said with a proud smile before the icy façade returned, the men forming up in the courtyard nearby as they finished putting on their arms and armor.

Sansa took a deep breath as Father walked to his horse, and she walked back to the Red Keep. There'd be the wounded to supervise, and surviving lords to turn to her side when it was over…

She stopped abruptly as the hair at the back of her neck tingled, and she frowned.

"AAAAAAAWHUUUUUUUuuuuuuuuuuuuuu….." warned Lady from the Godswood, Nymeria and Summer joining in quickly.

"Something's wrong!" she half shouted as she turned back to the courtyard, startling Ser Mandon by her side and the various goldcloaks still lifting crates and supplies.

The shivering tingle intensified as she looked all around her, before turning to Father. "Father! I, there's something wrong!" she shouted at him.

He turned to look at her, startled, when she saw a shadow flying just above the crenellations like a crossbow bolt, a formless black thing that went straight for Father's back.

"BEHIND YOU!" she screamed at him, and Father turned quickly as he unsheathed Ice, parrying a swift stab from the shadow by reflex before he stopped, frozen in place by the visage of Stannis Baratheon silently screaming in horror and fury; a twisted, coiling shadow that merged with the darkening evening.

"Stannis-?" Father asked in shock, his voice sounding abnormally loud for a second as if the rest of the courtyard had grown muted. The name had barely left his lips when the shadow tore through his heart with a dark coil, a tiny squirt of blood emerging from his back as he grunted in surprise.

Sansa screamed before the Shadow dissipated, everyone in the courtyard shouting or bellowing as weapons came out and Ser Barristan charged bravely forwards, but it was late, far too late as Father fell on his knees, blood bubbling from his chest before he collapsed on the ground, listless.

"No. Please. Please don't," Sansa sobbed as she ran to him, kneeling by his side seconds after Ser Barristan, "Father please," she begged as she shook him, his face still bearing the same surprised look, frozen in place and searing itself on Sansa's mind.

Jory Cassel gave a shrilly scream as he unsheathed his sword and ran to his fallen lord, "Alyn! Harwyn! Get the maester here!" he roared with broken desperation as his dash ended with him on his knees, holding Father by the shoulders and trying to hopelessly stem the bleeding even as the last of the light left Father's eyes completely.

Sansa moaned wordlessly as chaos reigned the courtyard, people panicking and fleeing through the gatehouse, others aiming weapons all around them as if expecting a flood of murdering shadows to engulf them any second now. "The Hand is dead!" screamed a goldcloak in the distance as Ser Jacelyn struggled to maintain order. "The shadows rise up for Stannis!" another screamed hysterically as the volume of noise in the courtyard rose exponentially, horses neighing in fear as goldcloaks dropped their spears and Ser Barristan turned in circles around her, as if trying to dispel the night itself with bared steel, his expression one of confusion and stunned disbelief.

"My queen, we must get you out of here!" he said forcefully, shaking her lightly as Sansa rocked her father's body, Stark guardsmen surrounding them and forming a calm bubble of bared steel amidst the chaos of the courtyard .

"Where's that maester! Alyn!" Jory screamed as Father's blood seeped through his palms sluggishly. He turned back to the men, as if he could not believe what his eyes were seeing; the abrupt murder a full bodied shock to his mind and soul.

"Your Grace, we need to get away from whatever… that thing was!" Ser Barristan said again, Ser Mandon and Ser Boros at last reaching his side and surrounding her with white within the circle of arms and steel.

"No," Sansa whispered, still looking at the endless lack of life beyond her Father's pupils.

Spoiler: Music

Ser Barristan shook her again, "Your Grace, we need to-"

"NO!" she said forcefully, turning to glare at him. "He did this. Him and his pet sorceress," she whispered harshly, fury boiling in her blood like she'd never felt before.

She slipped past Ser Barristan and the rest before he could say anything, lifting her muddied dress so she could walk faster towards the gatehouse and the sheer panic that had turned the men into scared animals, only Holt's century and the Stark armsmen seemingly withstanding the insidious power of the chained rout.

"Silence!" she screamed, but she was not her husband, to command the attention of men with but a word, be it in the field of battle or over a dinner conversation. She snarled when nobody heeded her, one goldcloak even running past her and almost smashed her. "Stand your ground!" she screamed, but another five goldcloaks ran past her, one of them even shouldering her aside. It was chaos, the men in the Red Keep were routing and so would the city once news reached the other garrisons.

I have to stop this, she despaired.

NOW! She screamed within her own mind.

"Stand your ground!" she bellowed after she'd picked up a discarded spear, her heart hammering as Lady finally reached her side and snarled.

The next goldcloak running for the gatehouse didn't stop. She rammed the spear into his throat with a perfect thrust, twisting before wrenching it out and splattering her dress with blood. The man gurgled as he collapsed on the ground and Sansa stepped over his chest, stabbing him through the mouth. The red, gleaming spear tip emerged from the back of his head as she bit down a gut wrenching scream.

Sansa bottled the nausea and the horror deep inside her as she widened her connection to Lady, letting the horror at what she'd done dissipate within the storm of fury her direwolf felt for the cowardly murder of the leader of the pack. It was an affront without name -for direwolves knew no language- but they understood the gravity of the atrocity all the same.

Sansa narrowed her eyes as she lifted her gaze to the rest of the courtyard, Lady springing by her side and howling at the steadily brightening moon around the gentle arrival of the stars above. She'd grown throughout the months since this life started, and her howl was neither mournful nor quiet. It was rage, it was violence, it was the call of the hunt that had led the packs of bloodthirsty, horse sized canines through the screaming blizzards of the northern winters since time immemorial, hunting man and stag and giant and mammoth and even what that which was Other.

Summer and Nymeria joined in almost immediately as they congregated around Father, Bran and Arya having just arrived at the courtyard, their wooden practice swords discarded. The other direwolves gave Lady's shivering howl a sort of background hum, a full bodied reverb that thrummed off bellies and chests, cutting through the chaos like Valyran Steel and drowning all sound but Bran and Arya's sobs. The hair rising howl turned eerie, on and on as its pitch rose and men were paralyzed in place, looking at her.

"MEN OF WESTEROS!" Sansa shouted in the midst of the ensuing silence, extracting the spear with a grunt. "You call yourselves men!? Warriors and Soldiers!?" she asked of them as she gazed at their eyes, stalking towards the middle of the courtyard. She felt tears streaming down her cheeks as she berated them harshly, the snarl almost fixed in her mouth as she looked at them, "All the chivalry, the boasting, the proud arms and the steel have come to this?!" she screamed, outraged.

She poured out her outrage as she looked at them, stunned goldcloaks frozen in place and young riverlanders fidgeting with their horses as she strode with the spear, feeling the weight in her hand before planting it firmly on the ground, Lady snarling lightly by her side. "Fine! I'll go there myself! Magic or not, I'm going to kill Stannis for what's he done!" she declared, meaning every word even if she had to try and defend the entire wall herself.

"I'll go get your armor my queen! Seems the men all but dropped off their balls to run faster!" hollered the lightly armored form of Meera Reed as she hefted her trident, her words setting out disgruntled murmurs of budding anger that started to replace the panic amongst the men.

"Bring it to me!" she ordered as she turned to the ashen faced Stark guardsmen and the dribs and drabs of her handmaiden's retinues. "And what of you men of the North?!" she challenged them as she walked towards them, bloodied spear in hand, "Will you drop your swords too, after your liege lord was murdered!?" she demanded of them, "Before your very eyes?!" she screamed at them, Lady's snarl feeding off her rage and almost drowning her voice as the direwolf eyed the northeners as well, saliva dripping from her dagger-sharp fangs.

"Magnar!" bellowed Lyra Mormont as she emerged from the men at arms, banging her mace against her shield wildly.

"WINTER IS COMING!" roared a red faced Jory Cassel as he somehow came out of the shock, standing up and hefting Ice up to the skies, budding moonlight reflecting milky white over the gloss of the Valyrian Steel. The men roared with a delayed fury that seemed perhaps even greater than Sansas', the Queen managing to turn fear into rage of a matching intensity. The men of the north picked up the cry, bellowing 'Winter!' and 'Magnar!' so loudly Sansa thought Stannis would hear them.

She turned to the guardsmen to rally them as well, but they were already banging the butt of their halberds against the ground, a crescendo of sound that made the earth rumble, no voice joining the choir of voices but the deep rumble of steel on dust.

"Check those bolts!" Centurion Holt roared as he strode behind the back line, shaking his crossbowmen's quivers and making sure not a bolt flew out because of the sudden movement. "Prepare for quick march!" He shouted as the halberdiers faces' turned from stunned to disciplined.

They need courage. They need anger, she thought wildly as she moved on, a snarling Lady by her side. She didn't have her husband's voice nor his skill at war, but she did have the words to exalt her people, the poor souls who would face the might of the Long Night one day.

"And what of you, scions of the Riverlands!?" she bellowed as she turned and strode to the knights and the squires, many of them shaking with fear, "What of you Patrek Mallister?! What will you do?!" she screamed as she addressed him directly, his eyes cycling wildly between Father's corpse and the gatehouse as she barreled unto him. "What will the bards sing of?! What will the songs say was the due of the Riverlords?!" she asked of him.

He seemed to fill out his armor as she approached him, breathing harshly as she stared defiantly into his eyes. "DEATH!" he bellowed as Sansa tapped into something drilled into every son of nobility from an early age, a legacy, a dream and a folly all into one. "DEAAAAAATH!" he roared again as he gained more confidence, the smoky battlehaze that Joffrey had so often spoke about taking root in his eyes, gratitude filling his form before that too was taken over by the bloodlust. The Riverlanders took up the cry, taking out their swords and lifting them up in a chorus of drawn steel that seemed without stop.

Sansa turned to her hardest task yet, the terrified goldcloaks even now eyeing the gatehouse and stumbling in near panic, one surprise away from routing again as they looked at her in mixed shock and wariness. She immediately knew no usual sentiment would move them, for who sang for the peasants dying for the ambitions of Kings and Queens? Revenge for treachery and murder… what did they care for restitution? Hands came and went, but the smallfolk remained and toiled.

"And what of you?" she said almost quietly, startling them. It was a trick she'd learned from Joffrey, forcing them to strain to hear her words. "Why should you care?" she almost whispered. Whatever they were expecting, it hadn't been this. Sansa walked right up to them, focusing in no one in particular as she shoved past the first rank of the unorganized mob. "You won't fight for glory, for no one will sing for you. You won't fight for revenge, for you will toil under the weight of whoever sits on the throne," she told them as they stumbled away from her, a circle forming around her as they gave her and Lady a wide berth.

"So why should we fight?!" someone called out from the mob, panicked and resentful, and Sansa blinked a second more slowly than usual than usual as she strode unerringly to the man that had said that, Lady's ears guiding her. "Because Stannis will take EVERYTHNG FROM YOU!" she roared in his face. The goldcloak spearman stumbled back, but Sansa took a step forward and didn't let go. "Your wives and daughters working with the new looms, your uncles and nephews logging and turning the Kingswood into industry, the courts expanding and meeting your pleas for justice! He'll take ALL OF IT!" she snarled before turning and gazing at them all. "He'll return things to the old order, to the stern fatherly justice of a single man with no time, to the proper order of things where no work and no food is the birthright of the smallfolk!" she bellowed. "For three hundred years have the citizens of this city moldered in slums and neglect, and for another three hundred years they shall remain so if Stannis and his Essosi bitch take this city!" she told them, and a wordless grumbling underscored her words, indistinct growling eroding away the fear if only for a few seconds.

"Will you let him?!" she asked of them as she turned in a circle, and the men grumbled louder.

"Will you worship his Red God of chains?!" she asked of them, louder.

Cries of 'No!' came from here and there, some of the goldcloaks holding their spears more tightly as others spat in disgust.

"Will you be his slaves?!" she asked of them, and they bellowed harder.

"Will you go back to the begging bowl?!" she asked of them, touching a tender nerve of the smallfolk as they roared suddenly, faces twisting in anger and spear butts stabbing the ground in real defiance.

"Will you let him rape your wives?! Sack your homes?!" she snarled as the bells of King's Landing started tolling again, signaling the arrival of Stannis' vanguard, red and black sails on the horizon.

"No!" they snarled, and Sansa raised her spear.

"MEN OF KING'S LANDING! WILL YOU SCURRY BACK TO THE SLUMS?!" she roared, and the goldcloaks roared with her. They roared harder than the knights and the armsmen, harder than the squires and men at arms. They screamed their denial as the great bells of Baelor's Sept added their sound to the cacophony, the rhythmical crash of the great monuments of bronze echoing throughout the city as the men gave voice to a deeply buried injustice they wouldn't let anyone drag them back to, not now that they'd tasted it so clearly for the first time.

-: PD :-

When the deserting soldiers and the first looters ran head first into the descending column from the Red Keep, they were shocked into silence. The goldcloaks and the armsmen, the knights and the royal guardsmen, they all marched at a quick step, barreling down the streets with sudden, bloodthirsty battlecries that seemed to be set off at the slightest prodding. They marched straight for the Mud Gate, led by a glimmering figure atop a white horse, a white-grey direwolf howling retribution through the night sky.

"DEATH!" they screamed, and Sansa raised her spear with them as her horse cantered at the head of the column. She wore the armor she and Joffrey had commissioned from Master Tobho Mott; steel plate with a serene looking direwolf carved into its chest piece, twin sapphires for eyes. Sansa rode helmetless, her crown her only headwear as she rallied the flagging defenders, catching those fleeing and carrying them with her towards the fury that sailed for their homes.

The lackluster return fire from the walls of King's Landing suddenly intensified; meek volleys of arrows turning into crossbow and ballista bolts that rained from above. Ships were set ablaze; burning figures jumping from the hellish decks as vessels drifted and crashed even as more and more galleys flooded the Blackwater and bombarded the city, bows and catapults singing as arrow and boulder slammed against bastions and houses. Stannis' men seemed fearless as their rowboats reached the shore, the great boats turning upside down as the men carried them forwards from the shore to the walls, giant turtles of wood that hid archers and javelins.

Sansa delegated command to Ser Barristan, the old veteran spreading his troops where they would be of most use during the frantic defense. The halberdiers of the Royal Guard stood their ground and paid in blood for it, converted knights of the Red God crashing a battering ram through the Mud Gate and bringing fire and steel for their King and their Red God. Essosi sellsails from Lys and the Stepstones disembarked and dashed through holes in the defense with climbing ropes, trying to scale through undermanned sections. Siege ladders slammed against the walls, grim faced armsmen from Dragonstone hacking into the fray with axes and shields, the levies of the Lords of the Narrow Sea behind them. The river was soon set ablaze as unmanned fishing boats filled with dry hay were set adrift, their fires licking the hulls of sellsail and lordly galleys alike, ship crews trading arrows with the walls as the night darkened and the fires leapt higher.

Sansa let the far more experienced Lord Commander of the King's Guard command the troops in truth, using herself as a figurehead and trying to rally the men into standing their ground. She slammed her spear into soldier after soldier as they tried to scale the walls, making them fall to their death or piercing their heads and hands until they did. She led a counter charge past the decimated, wavering recruits of the Royal Guard as knights and zealots tore through the wall of halberds and crossbows like a storm. She bottled the horror and the fear and the sights she would never forget deep within, her armor running red with blood and gore.

She was nowhere near the skill of Joffrey in personal combat, but her presence seemed to lift the fighting spirit of her men as she neared them and bellowed encouragement, stories and snippets of her speech having already reached them long before the first siege ladder had touched the walls. They would not, could not be shown up by a woman, and so the men died proving themselves.

They cut her. Axes bit deep into the plate and drew blood, spears pierced her shallowly, arrows pelted her full of bruises. She thought she could understand a glimmer of Joffrey's harrowing stories then, as her body was torn and she watched her friends die. Jory Cassel bled out from a score of holes as he charged at the distant figure of Stannis in the middle of a wall section taken by the enemy, half a dozen Dragonstone armsmen dying with him as he went berserk with Ice, chopping through plate and arms in equal measure.

Lyra was by her side during the thick of it, her hammer and her shield bashing through armor like a ship through waves, a smile on her lips at having proven herself a real Mormont before her sisters could. The Onion Knight did not boast or sneer when he gutted her through the armpit, only moving on to Sansa with grim decision and relentless drive. She jammed her spear through his eye when Meera threw a net from beyond, the man managing to cut Sansa's cheek before she ended him with a spear thrust.

There was a certain, simplifying principle to battle, Sansa thought. A narrowing of the senses, a dissolution -at least in part- of the self. Time seemed both slower and faster, life seemed somehow even more real, colorful in a way.

Ser Meryn Trant fell taking a blow for her, the same man who in a distant, now forgotten past had beat her into obedience at her beloved's orders. Ser Boros Blount and Ser Preston Greenfield died like lions when they were all cut off; northmen, goldcloaks, and a few squires led by Patrek Mallister at her side as they tried to cut their way through a relentless tide of Velaryon levies. Aurene Waters, The Bastard of Driftmark, leered with lust before her thrust sent him over the wall, impaling him through a piece of wrecked timber. Lord Velaryon himself was a far greater match, and Lady would pay the price for the man's life before they could cut through to Stannis.

The would be King had led his men himself, haranguing them as they climbed the walls, killing goldcloaks one after the other with sword and board. He seemed surprised when he found Sansa; they'd clashed but once before, when the Onion Knight made sure he'd get away.

Sansa tried. She spun her spear unpredictably, feinting wildly before delivering heavy Ibbenese blows that saw him stagger back. She parried and deflected, dodged and cut, slammed and pierced, but Stannis was as unyielding as iron and with a patience to boot, tiring her out beyond exhaustion as he blocked and riposted, wounding her for every overextension like a cruel teacher.

It was Ser Barristan who truly tilted the fight. He burst into the battle like a white hurricane, slaughtering everyone in his path and wounding Stannis once in the arm and another through his knee... But even that single burst of speed and slaughter was too much for the old veteran. Like a hurricane entering land, he quickly lost strength and speed as his age caught up to him. He was still just as skilled, but his failing endurance quickly gave way to small errors that finally ended with Stannis slamming his red sword through the man's elbow joint, and then through the mouth when his shield arm failed.

Sansa couldn't even talk as the press of bodies carried her back to Stannis again, so great was her exhaustion. If their fight before had been worthy of songs, then this one was just a violent brawl; a sluggish exchange of steel and howls of exertion. They stumbled as they fought, flaming boulders slamming around the battlements and wiping smallfolk spearmen from the face of the earth. The bells of King's Landing tolled through the night as the fires spread and King and Queen battled, a harrowing fight which ended when Sansa managed to close in and shove one of her daggers through Stannis' eye, the man scowling as he pulled her arm and grabbed her throat for a second, sudden steel choking her before the grasping royal realized he was dead, his remaining eye widening slightly as he swayed. His armored form fell to the side, leaning on a crenellation for a second as if to orient himself before sliding on his side and leaving a trail of blood on the stones, legs still trying to get him up again somehow before he blinked once and moved no more.

She spent a while thinking about how foolish she'd been once, as a maiden dreaming of gallant knights who would duel for her honor. There was nothing gallant about war, only broken dreams and dead friends.

She'd been hugging Meera when she finally lost consciousness, the ashen faced girl whispering sweet nothings as they sat together against a broken crenellation. Sansa blinked at the morning sun which now bathed the blood stained walls, a sea of corpses around her as the banner of the Starks still flew from the nearby battlements alongside that of the Baratheons of King's Landing. It seemed as if not a soul had lived through the ordeal, so deep was the silence and the lack of movement. Sansa wept when she imagined how it must have felt for Joffrey to suffer through this, a million different times, a thousand different lives. Truly was the Purple beyond mortal ken, to subject her husband to such horror.

She snuggled closer to her friend, sighing as her eyes closed against her will. Meera's tight voice kept fading as she rested for a moment, until she heard nothing and she knew peace.

-: PD :-

Last edited: Aug 13, 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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Aug 16, 2018

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Chapter 50: Curses and Spiders.

She smiled like a lazy cat as she stretched, making her best impression of a jealous limpet as she cuddled even closer to Joffrey, savoring his athletic form with her hands.

"Someone woke up in a good mood," he said with a fond smile as he hugged her back with one hand, the other gently stroking her face.

"Now we can do this every night and no one in the kingdoms can bat an eyelash," she said in infinite contentment.

"I don't know, the forbidden aspect did give it a certain charm," Joffrey mused, gazing at the discarded crowns near the bed.

"I don't care, this bed was worth it," said Sansa, "Tiny rooms and abandoned closets are uncomfortable," she added before she smiled lightly, nearing Joffrey's lips. "Wait, do I have to call you husband now?" she asked.

Joffrey snorted, the air lifting a lock of Sansa's hair and hiding one of her eyes. "I recall you had no such problems doing so in Braavos," he reminded her.

"Hm. But now it's really legal. Husband," she said slowly, savoring the word.

"One night in bed and you're already submitting, wife," said Joffrey with a restrained smile.

"Oh, submitting am I?" she asked him as she climbed over him. "I think we'll have to do something about it, dear," she said with relish.

Joffrey's smile disappeared as he gazed at something behind her, "Sansa-" he was interrupted by a shadowed tendril emerging from his chest, and Sansa screamed as she turned and an enormous shadow consumed the room, a hundred tendril spearing her with axes and spears and arrows as the Purple stood idly by, doing nothing as she died in truth-

Sansa blinked, startled. She quickly relaxed when she saw Joffrey though, his ashen form already kneeling by the side of the bed and holding her hand tightly.

"Hey, husband," she whispered, having trouble with the words. Her throat felt so dry, or was that her head? She felt all buzzy, her mind sluggish and resentful.

"Hey, wife," he said, slightly choked as he stroke her arm gently. He looked like hadn't slept in a week.

Sansa felt strange, light and heavy at the same time. She could barely move her head, and her body hurt so much it kind of didn't anymore.

"We… won?" she asked him as memories emerged into her conscious mind, slowly.

"Yes Sansa," he said gently, "You won, the city is ours and the other 'Kings' are dead. It's over," he told her.

Sansa blinked slowly, the world turning dark again as she smelled something sick and sweet.

Milk of the poppy, she thought in a daze, trying to concentrate as the world grew dim.

No… there's so much to do… she thought with a sort of sluggish anger, Joffrey's face disappearing as she closed her eyes.

-: PD :-

Coming back to the land of the living was a bothersome affair, Sansa thought. It appeared she had been slipping in and out of consciousness for weeks now, battling a severe infection as the city slowly recovered from the battle.

The final butcher's bill had been insane, almost unheard of in terms of proportions since the Dance of Dragons. Neither side had broken completely, at least not before Stannis himself died. The slaughter had been hidden from each side by the nature of the wall, and it was said the piles of bodies had burnt well into the third day after the battle.

A whole night it had raged; the Night of the Wolf as the denizens of the city had taken to calling it. More than half the goldcloaks were dead or crippled, and the guardsmen recruits and trainers were even worse off.

The Lords of the Narrow Sea were simply… gone. Dealing with Joffrey during the first few weeks of her recovery made her want to wring his neck, as he hid what he'd done like a shameful cat trying to halfheartedly bury the slain pet bird. It seemed her near grasp with death and the horror of the battlefield had left him… determined.

He'd sought to bribe the Redwynes with half the Tyrell's holdings if they sailed their fleet to King's Landing 'right now damnit!' in the words of Sandor. Else he would send them one of the Redwyne twins -locked in the Red Keep since Renly's Folly- in pieces as an incentive.

The Redwynes complied, and with two hundred war galleys to play with Joffrey went berserk on the Narrow Sea. He knighted Mark Piper for his valiant showing during the Night of the Wolf, and then promptly told him to gather as many heavy infantry and knights as he could in less than three days. The nearby Riverlander host that had swept the city's immediate environs of bandits and deserters, as well as former Stannis stragglers, had been more than willing to accommodate. The gaggle of Stormords and knights that followed him everywhere like beaten dogs had been a huge help as well…

Tywin's belated cavalry arrived just in time for Joffrey to fold them into his force, and he had a quiet word with the Lord of the Westerlands regarding his mother. He then proceeded to storm every single keep and hovel that had supported Stannis, burning them to the ground if he deemed the possible losses not worth it. It was reported fishermen were still finding spiked heads all over Blackwater Bay's shores…

Thus Sansa awoke to a strange new world of shining new Houses like the 'Piper's of Driftmark', the 'Mootons of Cracklaw Point' and the 'Brackens of Sharp Point'. He even went the extra mile and appointed the 'Blackwoods of Stonedance' in symmetry so the eternal feud could continue but with ship combat instead of the endless old boring Riverland quarrel.

Sansa really didn't know what he'd been thinking with the last one.

In short, it was a mess. The Narrow Sea was devastated and the smallfolk grumbling lowly about 'foreigners', while the Reach had been devolving into a soft war of intrigue and positioning as Joffrey's half completed terms were exactly that, uncompleted. While Joffrey's punitive terms for House Tyrell had been known and clear since the morning after he was declared 'Stormking' –The Tyrell's now ruled less than a fourth of what they'd owned before, which were composed of Highgarden and a few bits of land around it- he had not staked out terms for the other houses or even the Paramountcy of the Reach itself; he'd been too concerned about getting to the capital as fast as he could and then butchering the Lords of the Narrow Sea to a man. Uncertainty had been the purest of poisons as far as the situation was concerned, and thus the Reach had fallen into a silent and not so silent war of violent intrigue, with lesser vassals jockeying desperately for someone they'd consider above Royal displeasure as the greater houses figured out who to join or backstab.

Sansa would have liked to give the Paramountcy of the Reach to the Florents, as their adequately strong holdings plus the former Tyrell lands would have balanced their lack of dynastic marriages amongst the other Reachlords, leaving them strong enough to rule in a way but still beholden to the Crown… but the time for that had long since passed as she lay bedridden and barely conscious. The Florents had been the most disadvantageous option for the Reachlords as a whole, so the surviving lords from Renly's Folly and the Night of the Antlers had promptly butchered them after Joffrey had left for the capital… or to put it in lordly speak; the brave Lord Florent and his heirs had been slain by vile smallfolk deserters. The previous marriage alliances forged by House Tyrell had seen them survive as lesser partner in a coalition of sorts between the Hightowers and the Redwynes. The Hightowers had emerged quite well from the war of intrigues, what with their intact influence and manpower; thus Sansa had seen no choice but to give them officially what had been by that point already theirs: The foremost position within the Reach. By giving them the Paramountcy, Sansa had at least extracted some concessions, including taking some chunks of the Reach -almost a fifth of its area all told- and giving it to the Stormlands and the Crownlands, which would be enough to help contain Westeros' breadbasket as she doubted the internal struggles unleashed by the fall of the Tyrell's would abate any time soon… the harbinger of poisons and intrigue would most likely plague the Reach for a few years.

She'd tried to smooth over the transition, but there were still a lot of vassal houses that had to be replaced, to the grumbling of the petty nobility and the smallfolk. She was fairly confident the Reach would not rebel or even fall into outright civil war –the plentiful hostages in the Red Keep would certainly help with that- but that didn't mean that they'd support the Crown in its time of need, or that their aid would be strong and coherent enough to matter.

There was a long line between rebellion and cooperation, and Westerosi knew that better than most.

"I'm sorry alright?" Joffrey said half-jokingly again as he grew tired of her silence.

Sansa shook her head lightly, emerging from her thoughts and cringing in pain when a stitch somewhere in her belly pulled.

Joffrey stood up quickly, but Sansa waved him down. The sight of his immediate worry did a lot to sooth her anger at him… some of it at least.

"It's a complete mess Joffrey. I know you wanted bloody retribution against the Narrow Sea but couldn't you at least work out a decent settlement with the Reach before you stormed away? We had even talked about it!" she asked him plaintively, leaning forward on the table.

"Sorry," he said again, and the fact that it sounded genuine almost made Sansa madder. "Not everything's bad though. The Riverlords are in love with you, for one," he said with raised eyebrows.

No wonder, given the fact that several of their number had risen to legend after the Howling of Wolves.

Damned Westerosi and their penchant for naming. It's ridiculous, she thought with a huff. It was uncertain whether the 'Night of the Wolf' or 'The Howling of Wolves' would prevail… though that didn't stop the bards.

Of course, there was also the little fact that half the Riverlands now had kin ruling over the Narrow Sea. They would have followed Joffrey into the hells just for that.

She sighed, smiling teasingly, "And the Stormlords with you. The 'Stormking!' bit is getting tiring though. Do they have to shout it so loudly every time they see you?" she asked as before forking a piece of lettuce.

She still had trouble with meat -or any food truth be told- after…

She left the fork, surreptitiously pushing the plate away.

"You're one to talk," Joffrey said from his side of the small table, "This whole Magnar thing has a certain sexy flare though," he mused cheekily.

Sansa snorted halfheartedly. "All for the price of a little carnage…" she mused lowly, frowning when Joffrey managed to hear her.

His face crumbled as he frowned, "Sansa I'm sorry-"

"No, no, it's okay," she waved him away, looking through the window.

Let it go. Let it go please, she thought desperately as she blinked slowly.

"… Sansa…" he muttered after a moment of painful silence, "You need to talk about it. You of all people should know that," he said, the harrowing honesty too much for her to bear.

She breathed slowly, fisting her hands lightly under the table so Joffrey couldn't see them.

It's okay. I'll just train a bit with Ser Barr- With Joffrey, just need to move about and vent, she thought franticly as the pressure in her throat kept increasing, but her thoughts could not ward away the steadily creeping miasma of discomfort flooding her chest.

She tried with all her strength to hold it in, but she couldn't let a lone, traitorous sob escape her lips.

"I'm okay, I'm okay!" she said as she stood up from the table and shuffled away from Joffrey, but he was relentless as he gave a few quick steps and hugged her tightly, dooming her. It was as if a faucet had been torn open, Sansa thought as she found herself sobbing incoherently, crying into Joffrey's shoulder in deep gasps that left her without air.

"I-I-I'm-m o-o-ok-kay," she sobbed as she felt her knees go weak, Joffrey supporting her weight as he carried her across the deserted, small dining room to the nearby couch.

"We can take turns being the strongest," he whispered gently as they sat on the couch, Sansa taking in a harrowing breath of fresh air as she tried to cuddle closer to him, feeling cold even as the early evening sun glowed from the nearby window.

"Oh Joffrey… it was so terrible," she whispered the word even as she knew it would never even approach the magnitude of what she truly meant, "The screams…" she managed, holding on to him so tightly she feared she'd rip the back of his doublet.

"I know," Joffrey whispered back gently, rocking her slightly. There was truth in his voice, a calm and serene certainty that Sansa latched on to as she cried.

"The f-fires a-and the s-s-smell," she tried to explain, failing miserably as the sobs took control of her. Joffrey seemed to know exactly what she was trying to say though, what she had to explain even if it didn't make any sort of sense.

He whispered sweet nothings as they spent the rest of the evening there, holding tightly into each other as the rest of the world faded for a while.

-: PD :-

The weeks following Sansa's recovery were characterized by tying loose ends, something which Joffrey could approve of. Renly was one of them, and had made a pest of himself even in death when he found the man dead inside his luxurious cell. Joffrey had been intending on the Night's Watch for the bastard, a suitable punishment in his mind for the pompous prick…

Alas, it seemed that the violent loss of his lover and the crumbling of all his dreams had been too much to bear for Renly. The sight of his supposed uncle hanging from a rope tied to one of the chandeliers had shaken him more than he was willing to admit –more than quite a few of the strange and twisted things he had witnessed during his long life- and he didn't quite know why. Perhaps it'd been the eerie sensations and similarities that the scene had brought to mind, carrying along memories of despair and relentless suicides when the Purple had finally broken him, many many years ago. Regardless, the man had done no favors by dying inside the Red Keep, unleashing rumors of kinslaying amongst some of the courtiers that had been unhappy with his reign anyway, as well as those more devout to the damned Seven. Joffrey doubted they'd take his explanation -not being a kinslayer anyway because he was actually a bastard- very well…

He'd captured Melissandre -Stannis' pet sorceress and magical killer- when he'd stormed Dragonstone though. She'd been fairly incoherent when he'd brought her to the Black Cells, but after he'd started- well…

The screaming grew old weeks ago, Joffrey thought as he sighed.

Melissandre tried to squish herself against the wall as he entered the room, shrieking desperately as she averted her eyes and her chains rattled.

"By the Seven! Joffrey, what did you do to her?!" Sansa asked, dumbfounded as the sorceress kept shrieking like a madwoman, pulling on her chains as much as she could as she tried to hide in the corner of the black cell.

"Nothing!" Joffrey blurted, his hands in the air, "She just gets like that whenever she sees me," he defended himself.

"Nothing?" Sansa asked skeptically, gazing at the unlit braziers around the chained murderess.

"Well…" Joffrey tilted his head a bit, reticent.

"Joffrey…" Sansa sighed.

"Sometimes I come here and light the braziers… it seems to…" he hesitated, finally shrugging when Sansa kept looking at him, "Well, make her loose her mind faster," he said guiltily. "She was not coherent enough to interrogate, so I thought I might as well…" he trailed off with a considering hand, vaguely aiming at the crazed sorceress.

"And why didn't you just kill her then?" Sansa asked plaintively.

"Well, I thought you'd want the pleasure after what the bitch did to Ned," he said with an awkward smile.

Sansa just stared at him, shaking her head slowly. "Just kill her, Joffrey. The screeching is going to leave me deaf," she told him.

"Oh, alright," he said with a self-conscious shrug, walking up to Melissandre and scowling when her screeching increased in intensity. "By the Old Gods woman, what the hells is wrong with you?!" Joffrey grunted as he materialized Brightroar and slit her throat. The screams stopped just half a second before Joffrey did the deed.

"No… it can't…" she gurgled, wide eyed as she stared at the bloody form of Brightroar. She bled out, stunned surprise warring with horror in her face before she tilted forward and moved no longer.

"Why would a shadowbinder work with Stannis anyway?" Sansa asked the question that had been plaguing her for a while as she looked at the corpse uneasily. She allowed herself a slight breath of relief at the death of Ned's assassin, before larger concerns took over.

"She spouted some drivel about Stannis being the chosen one of the Red God when we captured her," Joffrey told her as he returned towards the door, "Dragonstone barely put up a fight when we showed up; the garrison all but begged us to storm the castle when we landed," he said while shaking his head, as if he could barely believe his own words, "The mad bitch had really gone insane when she returned to the island with the dregs of her zealots and coverts after the battle here, her chosen one dead by your hand. She'd been burning innocents like firewood conjuring who knows what before we stopped her," he said lowly.

"I knew she'd burnt Selyse and Shireen," Sansa mused, shaken by the tale, "But I didn't know it had been that bad," she whispered.

"Let's just say the shadows were getting pretty strange before I clubbed her head, though nothing outright magical seemed to happen before we stopped the ritual or whatever the fuck she was doing," he said.

"Fucking magic," he spat with feeling, "Always tries to pull one on me," he grumbled with the air of someone airing a stubborn grievance.

Sansa shook her head, "The Red God's chosen one…" she mused. "Azor Ahai? You must admit, the similarities between that legend and… well, us…" she trailed off as they ascended through the dimly illuminated staircase that connected the Black Cells to the rest of the keep.

"I've often wondered about that myself," Joffrey agreed, "It's steeped in R'hllorite mysticism, but the similarities at the core of the story seem too significant for it to be a coincidence. He must be who the East remembered as my predecessor, our 'Last Hero' here in Westeors," he mused, "The iteration of the Purple that managed to hold back the Cycle's scouts," he said in a lower tone of voice, frowning.

"Hm… perhaps an avenue to work on in the future? Having her working for us instead of Stannis could be a boon," said Sansa.

Joffrey was surprised by her willingness to make use of Ned's killer, to say the least. He often forgot that she, too, had grown from the trials and tribulations served up by the Purple and all it entailed.

"Maybe," Joffrey told her after a moment, before tilting his head a little. "You think we won't succeed during this life?" he asked her, the light tone of the question betraying its gravity.

Sansa remained silent as they left the Black Cells entirely, arising to the surface and returning to the realm of those who had not yet lost all hope.

"I don't know…" she said finally, "With Father and Tyrion gone there's a lot we won't be able to do, or at least a lot that will be delayed…" she said slowly.

"We can only do our best," Joffrey said it with the air of long experience, and Sansa sighed as she smiled and grabbed his arm.

"Let's hope it's enough," she said after a deep breath.

-: PD :-

The other loose end to be tied was none other than Varys himself. Joffrey had wanted to murder the eunuch ever since he'd learned of the young pretender across the sea, but Sansa had cautioned against it, claiming quite a few reasonable arguments that made him more useful to them alive…

Times had changed.

Sansa's spies had finally succeeded in tracing the other end of the plot that had killed Tyrion. His mother had been an unwitting pawn of the Spider, as Sansa had learned. Between her directions, Butter Fingers' talents, and the aid of Wylla Manderly, they had managed to learn that the cooks who had fed the assassin had been under the directions of Varys himself. The cooks had mixed a rare poison with the flour that had seen the girl die in the very room she'd killed Tyrion, though it was unlikely the dosage had been so perfectly calculated; most likely the Spider would have preferred she'd died a few hours after the morn –perhaps in one of Red Keep's corridors - so as to keep his involvement under plausible deniability.

The cooks themselves -two men working at Chataya's- had been found with their throats slit, but intensive canvassing and investigative work had left Butter Fingers with a most auspicious lead; the physical details of two orphans which had somehow managed to beg around the prestigious whorehouse for a whole hour despite the persistent attempt by the private guards to kick them away from the street. From there it had been a matter of cross examination and endless reviewing of reports from spies around the city, but the answer had been obvious since the discovery of the orphans… or 'little birds' as Varys –the sick fuck- liked to call them.

And now the time had come.

Joffrey looked at Sansa as they crouched behind the boulder, only a few steps away from the waves of Blackwater Bay, roaring as they crashed against the beach.

"You sure he'll come out here?" he asked her.

"Almost certainly. We have all his other escape routes mapped out including the second decoy, it has to be this one," she murmured.

Joffrey nodded, staying still and letting his mind wander as he listened to the sea. It was not long before Varys appeared on the little beach below the Red Keep, huffing as he walked quickly from a hidden passageway. He carried a small backpack as he made for the boat, no doubt spooked after Joffrey had sent a few Royal Guardsmen to arrest him. Varys had been too well prepared to fall to such a brute move, as he had a dozen contingencies in place to both learn about any arrest attempts and to make use of said heads-up to flee before he was caught.

Unfortunately for him, Sansa had not been idle as Joffrey had been painting the Stormlands with the blood of chivalry.

"What is-?" Varys said lowly as he stumbled back, two Raiders standing up from the getaway skiff which had been tied nearby.

"I'm afraid it won't be nearly as easy, my dear Master of Whispers," Joffrey said as he walked from behind the rock, cutting Varys' escape route back to the Red Keep.

"Your Grace," he said as he immediately went still, his eyes shifting to him, Sansa, and the Raiders by the boat. Joffrey could see the dozens of responses being created and discarded by the second as Varys took stock of the situation, before he accepted his fate and sighed. "I would have dearly loved to see it," he whispered almost too lowly for Joffrey to hear him as he took out a small vial from somewhere within his sleeve and opened the tiny cork.

"We'll be having none of that you fat fuck," said Sandor as he emerged from the boulder right by his side and smacked the eunuch in the head with the pommel of his dagger.

The Spider collapsed on the sand with a dull thump.

-: PD :-

"I'll handle it Sansa," Joffrey said once again.

"I need to be here and ask questions as well," Sansa said the same again.

Joffrey took a deep breath, the moldy air of the Black Cells filling his nostrils with half remembered horrors and glees.

"I work better alone with this," he said again, the excuse sounding frayed to his ears as the Spider began to wake up, weakly struggling against the chains that held him against the torture table.

"You'll need a sounding board to make sure he's not lying," she countered, crossing her arms. It was only the three of them in the room, and only Sandor and the two Raiders from before even knew the Spider was here right now and not carrying out his dastardly escape across the Narrow Sea.

After all, it would not do for the King to torture his prisoners himself… especially not after what happened to Renly…

"I need space to…" he trailed off, taking another deep breath. "Sansa I… I really, really rather you don't watch this," he finally admitted, gazing away from her and the wide array of torture implements by the nearby tray. It had been a long, long while since he'd done this… and the prospect of it still made his blood sing in anticipation.

"We swore we'd be in this together, I swore I'd be with you during the good and the bad," she said defiantly, "I'm not a hypocrite. I didn't swear to stand by your side only to leave it when things turn… harsh," she said with grim determination, pursing her lips.

"Sansa I… please don't," he begged her.

"Don't you remember, Joffrey?" she aksed him lightly. "If I am but part of a weapon, then so be it… but I'll be where I belong. By your side…" she quoted softly, looking at his eyes.

He swallowed drily, forcefully as he stared at her deep blue eyes, struggling with them until Varys coughed, blinking slowly as he gazed around the room and it was time.

Time to start.

-: PD :-

He enjoyed it. He couldn't help it. He couldn't repress a smile as he tore Varys open, slowly and expertly as the intricacies of prolonging a man's suffering came back to him as if he'd never forgotten them. He was soon lost within himself as Varys screamed and he cut away, twisting and breaking. Sansa never lost her composure as she saw this cursed part of himself with her own eyes, in detail like never before. A small part of himself could feel her burning gaze as he worked on Varys, reveling in the blood as he screamed internally and Sansa worked with him, calmly trying to extract every single drip of knowledge from the Spider as Joffrey's hands went slippery with blood. He couldn't stop, not even to scream.

They ended up with nothing.

Varys withstood the breaking and destruction of his body like Joffrey had never seen before. When Baelish had already began to scream for mercy, Varys had kept breathing slowly and stoically, screaming and bellowing his pain and his despair but not giving a single coherent word, so strong had been his force of will and the strange conviction that guided him. Joffrey worked on him for the whole night, until finally, at dawn, the Spider expired. He'd known the eunuch was no ordinary man, but he'd expected something from him, anything. Who was Aegon Targeryean in truth? Where would his ships resupply after Lys? Where would they land? How did he communicate with him? Who else was in on the plot? Why did he do this?!

He snarled with red rage as Varys died, seeking to prologue the suffering just a bit more as he breathed his last. He bellowed in fury as he hacked away at the body with an arming sword, tearing and raging as Sansa ceased her questions and turned from the dead body to STARE AT HIM.

He came back to himself as he breathed harshly, struggling for air as he leaned on the blood soaked table, swaying as his chest tightened like a snake and he thought he'd die, one step away from clawing at his throat for air as he realized he was soaked in Varys' remains.

He was halfway convinced he was dying; the Purple coming for him as he stumbled away from the table and leaned against the wall, his eyes moving by a will of their own and focusing on Sansa, fearing her.

Her gown was splattered with Varys' blood, her face streaked with the lines of red that Joffrey had spread around the room as he hacked at Varys like an animal. She stared at him, her expression neutral as Joffrey despaired.

She hugged him wordlessly, not minding the blood as she tried to calm him down. Joffrey stood like a plank as she squeezed tightly, holding him no matter what, resisting his feeble attempts to shove her away.

He broke.

It'd been years since he'd last shed tears, but somehow they came; slowly, painfully, rolling down his cheeks as he bared his cursed insides to Sansa's eyes and she didn't say a word, her strong hug anchoring him and warding away the Purple.

-: PD :-

Last edited: Aug 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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Aug 19, 2018

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Chapter 51: Gold.

The days and weeks passed quickly to Sansa; settling in the hostages from the Reach and overseeing the various effects of the war.

Things had been not as bad as she'd first thought; the horror of the battle and Father's, Jory's, Lyra's and many other's harrowing funerals had tilted her perception of the world during the first months of her recovery.

Mother and Robb came south, and she was glad the latter could serve the role of strong older brother to Bran and Arya. The tearful reunion almost ended with Mother bringing all her children back North, though Arya and even Bran would have none of it. After Father's death he'd badgered Joffrey day and night for a place in the Royal Guard, and her husband had relented in the end. Both him and Arya now bore the bulk of Meera's training time too, the Reed girl and veteran of the Howling of Wolves convinced that they were potential wargs as well.

Her own training continued as well, but differently. Lady's death had not affected the strength of her budding abilities, but it did change how easy it was to use them. She practiced with birds and hummingbirds partly as an internal joke with Joffrey, but also because they were much more mindless beasts than her fearless direwolf. Even thought they were of a much weaker will, Sansa still found it hard to even approach the strength of the connection she'd shared with Lady, and she could barely distinguish different colors when she saw through their eyes.

Meera admitted there was not much more she could teach her beyond a few tips and book copies from Greywater Watch. The lore the Reeds had saved through the ages was patched and incomplete, and beyond the surprising revelation that her brother Jojen could somehow commune with Heart Trees himself, there was not much else in mystical matters she could teach her.

Robb had looked like a caged Grey Wind when he'd reached the capital, long after the fighting had ended. He quickly perked up when Joffrey had a quiet word with him though, warning him of the Wildling Host. The full strength of the North would receive Mance Rayder this time, as well as half of the constantly expanding Royal Guard. The Riverlands would send their armies as well, their pride and honor basically demanding it after Joffrey's gifts and the way they had been powerless to defend King's Landing from Stannis.

The Blackworks and the trading companies continued their operations, expanding and employing the smallfolk left with nothing after the war, bringing some much needed coin to the nearly depleted coffers of the Kingdoms and the enormous debt beyond them. Their plans for a Royal Bank of Westeros had to be postponed indefinitely, the loss of gold and the lack of competent administrators being an obstacle which perhaps could have been delegated to Tyrion, if he had still been alive. While Lord Manderly was a capable and loyal Master of Coin, he lacked that spark of innovation and creativity that had seen Tyrion integrating so smoothly into both her and Joffrey's vision of Westeros.

Joffrey himself had been unusually quiet after she'd told him about his mother. Tywin had sent her off to Casterly Rock with nary a word, content with being reinstated as Hand of the King. Joffrey had nodded slightly at that, before closing his eyes and saying that it might be for the best if they did something of the sort after their coronation, assuming they couldn't stop the Long Night this time. Cercei was just too unpredictable, with just enough competence to muck things up but not enough to fix them or carry them through beyond her initial gains.

She's a liability, Joffrey had told her with a defeated look… and it was better to send her to Casterly Rock than to have to do something… more extreme. He'd been vulnerable during those days, thinking about the slaughter he'd unleashed upon the Narrow Sea after the anger caused by Stannis' actions faded away, as well as the way he'd lost control during Varys' interrogation. The 'cursed' side of him -as he called it- found it easier to emerge when blood and endless war surrounded his life. He used it as a weapon on the battlefield, directing it against his enemies and being praised all the higher by the lords of the realm for it. The deeper he channeled it though, the easier it was for it to go out of control… and thus he'd returned to his daily meditations under the Heart Tree, considering the corresponding time away from ruling a worthy exchange for some peace of mind and a return of the iron control he'd taken pride of before.

The world kept moving.

Ballads and songs sprung up and spread throughout the kingdoms, surprising even her with their popularity and strength. 'To Skin an Iron Turtle' had been a favorite of the Stormlands; a raunchy, picaresque tavern song about the 'proud Lord Hunter' doing his level best to hunt and skin a certain, stubborn Turtle that has 'the teme-rity to-take-a-hit and-keep-a go-in'. The song –of course- referenced Alrick Estermont and the incredible feat of stubbornness and resilience he'd undergone during the final night of Renly's Folly. The confusion of the sudden battle inside Renly's pavilion had seen the youngest Estermont fighting for his life, surrounded by hostile Reachlords as he tried to cut his way towards his gutted father. Dickon Tarly –who had been by all accounts the jewel in his father's eye- had tried to stop him… and been promptly skewered for his trouble.

If Randyll Tarly had been trying to stop the fighting before, he certainly hadn't been trying too hard after that. The death of the Lord's son and heir had seen the man explode into a berserker rage that had narrowed his sense of the world to a single target: Alrick himself. Lord Tarly had -by all accounts- been terrifying, a steady harbinger of death that saw the veteran swordsman tearthrough people and even tables apart as he sought to split Alrick in half with the monstrous two hander that was Heartsbane. The young man had prevailed though, and after a ludicrously long while -whether it had been minutes or hours nobody could agree on- Randyll had been tired enough to commit a mistake that gave Alrick the opportunity to kill him.

Joffrey had knighted the young Estermont the following day, and the 'Iron Turtle' as he had been known ever since had turned into one of her husband's most rabid supporters amongst the Stormlords, being a common focal group for the bloodied young men settling into lordships and knighthoods all over the lands. His brother Lord Aemon had been named Warden of the South, since the Tyrell's had been stripped of the title; the Estermonts would keep watch in the Stormlands, but they would not keep them. Joffrey had decreed the Stormlands themselves a possession of House Baratheon of King's Landing -in perpetuity- to be handed down to their heir in time, as Dragonstone had been to the Targaryens.

'Antlers of Bronze and Iron' was much more grim and ominous, a song to listen to while drinking peacefully to the memory of dead friends or as a reminder about why it was a bad idea to rebel against House Baratheon of King's Landing… or for playing a really bad practical joke on a Reacher. 'The King's Fist' and 'Blood and Mud' were particularly popular amongst Guardsmen; the first had become something of an unofficial marching song for the First Regiment (itself something new to Westeros), while the second was sure to pop out whenever enough drunk Guardsmen converged on any given point in time and space.

The sheer artistic creativity of her countrymen surprised her husband even more than herself. In time, he'd come to regard Westeros as nothing but a lost cause when it came to anything related to art or culture, at least when compared to the Free Cities or the Far East. Some of those notions had rubbed off on her, but she'd swiftly recanted after seeing the sheer display and artistic variety of not only bards and singers, but common smallfolk who converged on taverns during the afternoon and, finding themselves with nothing better to do, decided to create true art. The 'The Mourning She-Wolf' was melancholic, the 'Last Dance of the Stag' somehow brought forth both tears and laughter in equal measure, and 'Renly's Rope' was sad and incredibly dark, as well as having parts that were not really all that complimentary to King and Queen, or royalty in general.

Joffrey had not had the heart to ban that one, even if he'd possessed the means of doing it without the whole thing backfiring.

The songs had been all over the place, but Sansa was starting to understand that they could be directed, molded in a way not only to create fear like Tywin had done with the 'Rains of Castamere', but also to inspire loyalty, a sense of belonging, or even further enhance a soldier's prowess on the battlefield. It was an interesting development, and several ideas had been swirling her mind as of late about how to use those in the future…

Time waited for no one but the Purple though, and the world moved on. The start of their reign had been crowned in blood, but its foundation had been solid enough. They ruled side by side, together as they tried to prepare for what was to come; regiments founded and the industry of the Crownlands expanding as smallfolk picked axed and shovel, saw and loom and halberd and crossbow. Prices decreased and demand rose as more and more silver began reaching the smallfolk of the Crownlands, their lot improved slowly as shops and trades opened all over the capital. The Riverlands as well; the banks of the Trident being served by a veritable trading fleet of river galleys as town charters were handed out like knighthoods. Westeros had enormous untapped potential, sporting a variety of important resources and a great amount of population… but there was only so much time to create wealth before that very same prosperity had be used to transform the economy of the continent into a machine to fight the Others.

The treasury's balance was precarious though, and more than one time they had to go to the Iron Bank for loans… fortunately, their previous life in Braavos proved profitable, as they knew exactly what to say and what to do to generate a good impression on the bank's representative. Lord Tywin's support had been altogether more expensive… but at least the man had been near the top of their list for the Handship anyway.

They worked themselves to the bone as the storm peeked over the horizon, and the first tidings of war reached the capital…

-: PD :-

Almost three and a half years after Joffrey woke in Westeros, the Wildlings attacked. They were met by the imposing might of a plentifully manned and stocked Wall. It was said Lord Commander Thorne almost wept when he saw the supply trains making their way up the Kingsroad, northmen, guardsmen, and riverlanders arriving in force to ready the defenses. Five new castles were restored. Trebuchets and catapults were constructed and manned. Arrows fletched and armor shipped.

Both Joffrey and Sansa knew that every dead body north of the wall would be an enemy soldier come the Long Night, but the destruction brought on by the war and its myriad complications swamped their time irrevocably. Joffrey had never before ruled for such a long time, and Sansa didn't even have that experience altogether.

They were inexperienced and it showed. Dealing with a hundred plots, a thousand complications, a million little projects in need of oversight. They simply had no time for it all, no time to leave the capital at such a juncture for extended negotiations and war in the North… and so it was that Joffrey sent Lancel and Olyvar to negotiate with the Wildlings, along with the entirety of the First and Second Regiments of the Guard.

Without the King or the Queen present to negotiate in person, the outcome was predictable in hindsight. Terms were bandied back and forth, but the wildlings would have none of what Lord Robb would find acceptable, and vice versa. The wildings attacked, and the wildlings were slaughtered and subsequently routed by the knights of the Riverlands.

News from the North were far away from Joffrey and Sansa's minds though, as another development-to-be had followed neither time nor location. Ravens had come from the Vale, bearing grim news; Targeryen banners flew from Gulltown's battlements.

-: PD :-

"I can't believe this…" Sansa muttered as she flicked through the letters, almost all of them reports from their spy network or from lords around the Vale. "How could we miss this? Varys… he…" she trailed off, reading one of the letters again, "And our spies in Lys…"

Joffrey sighed deeply, pacing around the deserted small council chambers, "He must have had an uncompromised communications channel across the Narrow Sea… and with agents in the Vale itself as well," he muttered. "Leaving him alive after the coronation may have been a mistake," he grumbled.

"He must have been ready to subvert at least part of Littlefinger's assets in the Vale; there was a big window of opportunity between Baelish's 'disappearance' and our own spy network taking meaningful action," Sansa sighed.

Joffrey breathed slowly as he leaned over the table, gazing at the map of the Vale of Arryn. "They have no hope of taking Westeros," he said slowly, tracing his finger through the mountain roads. "They'll seek to take and lock down the Vale before winter; with the mountain passes frozen with snow they'll have a chance at securing it entirely, each month in rebellion adding a tiny sliver to Aegon's legitimacy," he mused.

"How many men are we looking at?" he asked her.

"Ten thousand Golden Company regulars, around three thousand other sellswords of various stripes, and at least a dozen elephants," she said grimly. "They won't be able to secure the mountain passes before our forces get there though," she said as she shook her head slightly, "Their plan has already failed."

"That makes sense with the contradictory letters we've been receiving throughout the day," Joffrey agreed, "Whatever your aunt Lysa was trying to do clearly didn't work, seeing as the Eyrie declared for us yesterday… a letter which was pointedly signed by Lord Nestor Royce and not Lady Lysa…" he thought out loud.

Sansa nodded, "Varys must have manipulated her somehow before we"- there was only a slight pause between the words -"killed him. She must have thought the whole Vale would rise up in rebellion at her word, and Varys was dead before he could turn that into anything approaching reality," she said.

Joffrey grunted in a sort of guilty satisfaction, "The whole bloodshed these past few years has served its purpose at least… the Vale lords are not stupid, despite what the songs might suggest… " he said, the satisfaction vanishing as he remembered the cost, "At least most of them aren't. That fucker Aegon must have expected the whole Vale to receive him with open arms instead of the quagmire he's trying to get himself out of… what's the latest count again?" he asked Sansa.

"The Graftons had Gulltown locked tight, and they're sure to buy mercenaries now that the deception is over. Of the major families supporting the 'restoration' there's the Melcolms and the Waynwoods, as well as most of the Houses bordering the northern end of the Bay of Crabs… though that's more likely out of fear of the ten thousand regulars marching west than any sort of loyalty for Targeryen princes…" she said.

Joffrey grunted again as his eyes followed the map, "Barely a quarter of the Vale's strength then... With Iron Oaks and Old Anchor they've got a solid lock around the bay though, especially if the news about Runestone falling by surprise are true… that would complicate any attempted landings through the south," he muttered, his eyes returning to Sansa's.

"What are you going to do?" she asked him, grim.

"We have to stop them cold. There's no time to bleed them, and the terrain around the Vale would make that tricky anyway… no," he said as he squared his shoulders, "I'll have to hack my way through, it'll be costly but there's simply no time to waste now that autumn is upon us…"

"The Guard all but drained the Crownland's manpower, and they're fighting up north anyway along with half the riverlords… and we can't move the Stormlords lest the Dornish make their move…" she mused before frowning. "So who are you going to take?" Sansa asked him, already knowing the answer as she finished the sentence… though she didn't like it.

Joffrey nodded slowly, "It'll have to be Grandfather. It's time the Westerlands fight for their King," he declared.

Sansa gazed at him for a while, biting her lip before he grabbed his head almost forcefully, staring at his eyes. "Don't let it control you," she told him.

"What, Tywin?" he asked half-jokingly, only for Sansa to shake her head slowly.

"Joffrey…" she muttered, worried.

He took one of her hands, squeezing it gently. He bit down the denial before it could leave his throat, and he scowled, "It's all this fighting, Sansa, all these wars and rebellions one after the other…" he whispered, "The fury, the madness of the battlefield…" he trailed off, but Sansa's gaze was relentless, and for all that Joffrey could fool himself, he couldn't do the same to her. "…It brings old shades back, like a sickly grasping hand…" he muttered as he squeezed his eyes shut.

"You vanquished it before, brought it under your own will. You can do it again," she said with absolute certainty.

Joffrey breathed slowly as he looked at her again, the certainty in her voice anchoring him once again. "I won't let it control me, not again," he promised her.

I've fought kings and sorcerers, dragons and monsters. I won't be defeated by this curse, not again… By the Old Gods I swear this, he promised in the privacy of his own mind.

-: PD :-

The stench of the battlefield was an old smell to Lord Tywin Lannister.

He strode with confidence around the dead bodies, quickly so but not so much as to seem hurried. Lord Marbrand nodded deeply as Tywin passed him by, the lord directing a couple of serjeants as they moved bodies out of the way for the coming wagons.

His banners had marched well enough, their entrance into the Vale uncontested. Lord Nestor Royce –the Keeper of the Gates of the Moon- had swiftly arrested Lysa Arryn's beffudled attempt at rebellion, securing the Eyrie with barely any bloodshed and with it the rest of the Vale to the north and east.

Tywin almost smiled as he gazed at the broken bodies of the Melcolm and Waynwood armsmen, sprawled over the small field where battle had been joined this morning. The lords of the Westerlands had given a strong showing, smashing right through the paltry banners of this 'Aegon' pretender. He was honestly surprised the transparent ploy had worked as well as it did for the supposed Targeryen; the deception was obvious to anyone who'd been inside the Red Keep that day, years ago…

Elia Martell wouldn't have cried like that for some tanner's boy, he mused as he kept walking.

Unlike what previous behavior would indicate, Joffrey had agreed with Tywin's own assessment. There was simply no time to brook the insolence of open rebellion in exchange for lesser casualties. If this rebellion was quashed quickly and without mercy then there was no doubt in Tywin's mind that his grandson's reign would be secured until the day he died.

Joffrey himself was sitting on a stool, still armored as he gazed at the road beyond and the distant call of the sea. He reminded Tywin of himself, when he was around that age… Decisive, brooking no squeamishness when dealing with traitors such as the Reynes and the Castameres.

These last few years had been eventful for House Lannister. One… son had died, and a daughter had been shamed and rejected from the capital. A King of Lannister blood sat on the Iron Throne, displaying the best qualities of both Baratheon and Lannister, along with the support of most of the Seven Kingdoms at this point in time.

For all the flaws his daughter had –and they were legion- she'd accomplished the most important task her house had bestowed upon her, and that had been well worth a dwarf. He'd been satisfied with the final outcome of the seed he'd planted all those years ago, the moment he knew of Lyanna Stark's death. So satisfied that he'd… almost relented on his daughter's pleas.

Almost. A widowed Lannister still capable of having children was too important an asset in the game of thrones to simply let be, after all.

"Grandfather," Joffrey said courteously, an edge of steel in his voice as he tilted his head slightly, looking at him through the corner of his eye.

An excellent outcome indeed… even if the boy was a little unsettling at times… to the lesser nobility.

"You Grace," he said gravely as he bowed in the way appropriate to someone of his station, Joffrey tilting his head to follow him with both eyes.

"The Westerlands took to the field with courage," the King commented idly.

"They were eager to demonstrate the might of the Westerlands, Your Grace… especially since they missed most of the fighting down south," Tywin said smoothly, unable to repress a slight tinge of disapproval from his voice.

He was still irritated with that. Half his strength had spent the war camping near the Ocean Road and threatening the Reach through the north, while the other half had barely reached the capital in time to take a pathetic slice of land from a few Narrow Sea lords. Their near absence from the Dance of Stags had been humiliating… fortunately though, he was here today to rectify that mistake.

He and twenty five thousand swords, the best of the Westerlands. Tywin gazed at the column of Belmore and Corbray armsmen marching by them, and noticed that they seemed just as determined as the westerlanders. The lords of the Vale had been even more eager to prove their loyalty, being the first to smash against the forces of the rebel lords last week.

Joffrey nodded easily. It was always an odd mix of courtesy and aloofness that greeted him every time he interacted with his grandson, even when discharging his duties as Hand in the capital. "The true slaughter is yet to come, my lord," said the boy, his eyes shifting back to the road that would take them out of the hills and bring them all the way to Gulltown. A secondary host had split off under the command of Lord Crakehall with orders to take all rebelling castles north of the bay, while the rest of the men marched on to Gulltown and the bulk of the enemy's forces arrayed to meet them.

Joffrey stood up, seizing Tywin once again with hardened eyes before nodding and setting off, putting on the antlered helmet the lesser lords seemed to love so much.

Perhaps offering Cersei to Oberyn Martell was too much, given the scale of her success. Maybe a marriage within the Westerlands would be in order, a reward to the vassal that proved himself the most dependable during the current campaign…

-: PD :-

"The center is buckling," Jon said urgently as he gazed through the far eye, Joffrey swinging his own as well as he focused on the line of Valemen being steadily ground back by Golden Company armsmen.

"Fuck. Archers!" Joffrey bellowed, "Concentrate on the center!" he roared, swinging his hand as serjeants picked up the orders and volleys were redirected towards the center of the battlefield. 'Aegon' or whoever the hells he actually was had decided to force a battle after learning of his disastrous loss a few days ago. His whole campaign had been partially fucked the moment less than a quarter of the Vale had actually raised their banners in rebellion, and the situation had only deteriorated after the Battle of the High Hills. The Waynwood, Wydman, Ruthermont, and Melcolm men had apparently been tasked with holding and fortifying the passes into the bay as long as they could, buying time for the Golden Company to whip the plentiful levies of Gulltown into a vaguely respectable force so they would have a better chance of defeating him… and perhaps march upon the Bloody Gate before reinforcements from the rest of Westeros could arrive.

Joffrey had just pushed through, painting the passes with the blood of friends and foes alike. He'd abused his numerical superiority until the rebel lords had broken, and then Aegon had had to choose whether to try and hold up inside Gulltown or take to the field against him. Between the prospect of being blockaded by the reconstructed Royal Fleet, and losing even more sellswords and lords to defection, the outnumbered boy-king had apparently decided to throw it all for a small chance at victory.

Joffrey had maneuvered the lumbering host as best as he could, with adequate if not impressive results…

At least I haven't smashed any fingers off my vassals yet… he thought ruefully for a second, considering the buckling line. The Golden Company was a superior fighting force to any single household formation of professional men at arms. They had taken the best of westerosi warfare and used Essos as a grindstone to sharpen it until every single soldier and officer knew their role to perfection, optimized for carnage.

He waited, assessing the lines. The right was holding magnificently under the command of Lord Banefort, and Joffrey's lips curdled in resigned disgust as he saw the Mountain tearing a gaping hole through a mixture of Golden Company armsmen and various other Essosi mercenaries. The man was using a gigantic longsword with one hand, and a wooden shield that wouldn't have been out of place protecting a Camel Ballista, wading through a sea of lesser men and splattering blood everywhere.

"Seems Lord Banefort has a tight hold there," Jon commented idly.

"I hope he reigns in the Mountain though, they're to hold, not advance," Joffrey muttered.

Jon snorted, returning his gaze at the center. The line had stabilized but the Valemen seemed ragged.

"Not yet," Joffrey answered the unspoken question, "They haven't shown their little trump card yet," he mused.

"Little? That's a funny word," Jon huffed back, making sure his helmet was locked tight.

Joffrey waited, tapping his fingers impatiently. He wanted to be there, helping to end this whole waste of time and making the enemy bleed…

"That's a nice ribbon you've got there," he said instead.

Jon turned red, shuffling like the worst liar in the world, "I like green," he clipped.

"Of course," Joffrey agreed easily. "It's a nice color… it reminds me of a certain House though… something to do with bogs and lizards," he mused with a frown.

"We haven't done anything improper," he said quickly, his voice oddly tight.

Joffrey snorted, "Relax Jon," he said after a small chuckle, amused at the veteran legate being more nervous about a maid than the battlefield in front of them… though granted, Meera could be pretty scary with a net and a trident. Joffrey tapped his leg plate as he kept gazing at the battle, breathing slowly.

Not yet, he thought.

"I've…" Jon trailed off, sighing before giving Joffrey a rueful smile, "We've already decided. I'll draft a letter to Lord Reed when we get back," he said, oddly serious now.

Joffrey smiled as he turned and slapped him on the shoulder, the plate creaking. "I'll send a letter as well, as your proud sovereign," he said with a rakish smile. "Though I doubt it'll be needed…" he trailed off, amused at Jon's expression.

"Do you know something?" he asked urgently.

"Sansa seems oddly wistful whenever I bring up the subject, so I think she's already spoken to Lord Reed… with successful results I presume," Joffrey confided.

"That's-" Jon's smile vanished as he looked at the center again. "They're not going to hold," he sentenced before turning back to Joffrey.

"It's too soon…" Joffrey muttered before squaring his shoulders. "So be it," he sentenced gravely as he put on his antlered helmet.

"Blood and Mud Joffrey. I'll signal the regiment," Jon told him as walked quickly to the side, shouting at the waiting formation of halberdiers standing some distance behind the carnage.

"Blood and Mud," Joffrey muttered, studying the battlefield for a second longer before turning.

"Lord Brax," he called out calmly.

"Your Grace," said Lord Andros Brax, who had been standing slightly behind his King, respectfully. The Westerlanders which had shown even a modicum of flexibility had risen high indeed in Joffrey's council.

"Take the horse and push through the last knights by the left flank," Joffrey said quickly as he aimed beyond the left flank of the battlefield, where the decimated remnants of the Golden Company knights were fighting a delaying action against a group of bloodied Arryn and Runestone knights. "Then smash their infantry and rout the Grafton contingent," he commanded.

"It will be done, Your Grace!" said Lord Brax as he smirked slightly and mounted up. The man had been chomping to be left off the leash…

Half of westerosi warfare was all about picking the right man for the job, Joffrey was beginning to understand. Simple in theory, but 'right man' could carry a wide variety of meanings from the economical to the political to the prestigious…

"Messenger!" barked the King as Lord Brax rallied the waiting half of the Westerlands' cavalry.

"Commander!" said the Messenger as he ran here steps and saluted by his side.

"Tell Lord Tywin to redouble the assault on the left. Once the Grafton and Gulltown men break he is to envelop the center," he said rapidly, studying the battlefield. The first few Valemen in the center were beginning to rout already, running from the golden slaughter that was the disciplined core of the Golden Company. Steel Plate, hammers, poleaxes, and longswords ran with blood as the Targeryen banners peeked over the sea of gold, and Joffrey smiled.

There he is… he thought in anticipation.

"Aye Commander!" said the messenger as he ran for the left flank. The Guard made up a tiny percent of his overall force, but Joffrey had been relentless in his use of Messengers to communicate with all his forces.

"Commander! At your word!" Jon called out loudly, closing the visor on his helmet as the single, reinforced cohort at his back roared once. They were the skeleton of what the Third Regiment was supposed to be, but the early nature of Aegon's landing during this life had caught the Guard with only a thousand men, the First and Second Regiments far away and fighting in the North.

"Go!" Joffrey bellowed as he took both hammer and arming sword, joining Jon as the Legate turned to his men.

"First Cohort! Loose formation!" he roared, "March!" he commanded, and the men responded by lumbering forward with decision, halberds held at sixty degrees as they neared the almost broken line of Valemen right in the center of the battlefield. The waves of the bay crashed in the distance as the slightly steep, wide plains of wheat were trampled into mud, valemen retreating behind the wall of steel and adding their momentum as the first rank reached the Golden Company armsmen.

Spoiler: Music

"Cold Steel!" roared the soldiers as they charged the last few steps, slamming halberds and crossbow bolts against the enemy. Tolosi slingers rained lead from above just before the clash, one ball tearing the jaw out of a guardsman right next to Joffrey as men screamed and steel found flesh. The pretender's Essosi backers had ample coin for mercenaries, and it showed on the battlefield.

"Fire and Blood!" roared the armsmen as they fought back with longsword and mace, poleaxes covering their comrades as bolts pierced through eyes and chests. Guardsmen and Valemen were torn apart by the rhythmical, enduring advance of the Golden Company as javelins moved almost sluggishly through the air, coming down with deceptive force and piercing armor and flesh.

"Blood and Mud!" roared Joffrey as his men picked up the cry and he lifted his hammer, the antlers on his helmet glinting as he tore into the enemy in turn, his mace and sword disarming defenses and killing all who stood in his way. Jon was right by his side, his halberd a methodical instrument of death as he covered Joffrey from the sides, Ghost guarding Jon in turn as the wall of steel advanced, pouring bolts and steel and death.

They formed the tip of the spear puncturing into the armsmen, trying to reach the Targeryen banners. Joffrey could see through the corner of his eye as the left flank collapsed under the charge of the Westerlands, the Gulltown levies breaking at the seams as the Grafton armsmen tried to retreat to the center. Grandfather was already carrying out the envelopment, more than seven thousand men grinding the survivors against the center of the enemy army. It wouldn't be long now…

"The horn!" Jon roared as he slammed the halberd against an armsmen's chest, the tip puncturing the plate and bathing the man's golden bracers with red.

"What horn-" Joffrey trailed off as the Golden Company started to march back, leaving gaps in their defense as they formed columns.

Fuck, Joffrey thought as the horns of the Guard bellowed again, signaling for his contingencies to snap into effect. He could barely see his Raiders and skirmishers riding out from the flanks, pelting the approaching stampede of flesh going for the center. Arrows and javelins peppered the approaching elephants, but their hardy skin and their golden gambesons blunted the worst of it as only two or three collapsed.

The remaining score or so of the beats kept charging right towards Joffrey and the center.

"Brace! Prepare to receive cavalry!" Jon bellowed desperately as Ghost howled. More elephants trumpeted their angst as ballista bolts leapt from behind the line, piercing flesh and taking out a few more elephants as Joffrey's half assed attempt to create a field artillery formation did their best. The lack of time showed though, and over fourteen of the beats reached the columns formed by the Golden Company, funneling the long tusked killing machines as Guardsmen roared shaken defiance and crossbows sang, halberds at the ready.

The things hit them like the Smith's Hammer, long white tusks adorned with golden chains and iron tips devastating the line of halberds as the tusks swept Joffrey's men like grain, dying to bolts and halberds even as they went berserk and stampeded all over the shredded line.

Jon and Joffrey were bellowing their defiance with a score of valemen and guardsmen as the elephant due to hit them trumpeted to the heavens, its lumbering bulk pouring shadows over the shaking halberds. Ghost leapt in front of the line before the beast reached them though, snarling like a raging Devil and eliciting some sort of primal fear within the trained war machine. The elephant reared back in shock, its riders and archers tumbling to the sides as Jon took the opportunity to dash forward like a madman. He slammed the halberd through the elephant's guts like a butcher, opening its belly as the beast trumpeted again and fell sideways, smashing the charging men of the Golden Company.

Joffrey was busy bellowing orders, cursing as the valemen broke and the halberdiers seemed to do the same; stumbling back after the harrowing losses inflicted by the elephants and the devastating charge of the Golden Company's armsmen right after…

The men around Joffrey had been spared that though, its corresponding elephant screeching despair as Jon climbed upon its fallen form and planted his halberd through the thing's neck, half of the charging golden armsmen smashed under the bulk of the beast.

"My White Fists!" Joffrey roared as he hefted his sword, "WITH ME!" he bellowed as he charged through the gap, surprising the second line of armsmen. He deflected a poelaxe just before he reached them, planting his hammer on the man's jaw before spinning past the second poleaxe and diving into the formation, sword slicing through necks and elbows. The charging halberdiers reached them a second later, roaring with their King as a sudden mass of steel pushed through the disorganized formation of enemy soldiers.

"There they are!" Jon shouted as he pointed with one hand, the Targeryen Three Headed Dragon intermingling with both the White Fist and the Stag and Lion of Joffrey's house. The battlefield was reduced to a single fight, a single struggle as Joffrey, Ghost, Jon and over two score of halberdiers and valemen slammed against the elite of the Golden Company, banners intermingling.

"Finally we can get this over with!" Joffrey muttered in satisfaction as he sliced the back of a grizzled veteran's knee, making him fall on one leg before he planted the hammer on the side of his helmet. He leapt forward past the body, jumping right against a silver haired young boy in fine golden armor, wearing a bejeweled crown for a helmet and sporting an engraved three headed dragon on his chestplate. The boy buckled down grimly, retreating a few steps and blocking Joffrey's strikes with a shield. Joffrey saw the glint of Valyrian Steel right before he dodged, the sword sailing above and cutting off his antlers.

"Fire and Blood!" the boy-king screamed in between strikes as Joffrey feinted wildly and hammered Aegon whenever he let his guard down. With him dead the Company would break, and the whole host with them. He could hear fighting all around him, the chaos caused by the elephants and the encirclement turning the battlefield into a madhouse.

"Blackfyre eh? I think I'll put it on the Throne!" Joffrey laughed, stepping aside and letting the predictable vertical slash sail harmlessly by… though a bit closer than he'd calculated. Valyrian Steel made for fast blades. "What do you say, Waters?" he tried to rattle him as he hammered the boy's arm and Aegon retreated, his expression a mixture of outrage and fear before Jon struck low from Joffrey's side, his halberd licking the boy's leg piece.

"Connington! Protect your King damnit!" roared a young knight in understated panic, a tabard of ducks upon a field filling Joffrey's vision as the knight struck. Joffrey parried the longsword, trying to close in with his new adversary as Aegon kept retreating.

A knight wearing the tabard of the Conningtons emerged from the roiling mass of steel and death all around them, forcing Jon back. The legate reacted magnificently, jamming the tip of his halberd against Connington's sword, tearing it sideways and repeating the first disarming move Joffrey had taught him, years ago.

Connigton barely had the time to draw his dagger before Jon tore the man's head apart with the axe head, advancing unto Aegon as Guardsmen and gold clad soldiers fought and died all around them. Ghost made sure to keep Jon's back cleared, snarling and mauling any who dared to close from behind.

"Jon!" screeched the boy king as the Connigton knight fell, bellowing in fury before meeting Legate Snow halfway, clashing brutally.

Joffrey raised his eyebrows as the Duck knight feinted expertly, moving sideways before going for a thrust. The halfswording technique worked perfectly and punctured a hole in Joffrey's chest plate, piercing shallowly before the King hammered the knight's hand and retreated.

This one is good, he thought as he bit down the pain, reassessing his opponent. He feinted and probed, getting a feel for the man as Jon and Aegon fought by his side, Jon shuffling backwards as Blackfyre mangled his vambrace.

"Watch that blade! It's lighter and faster than it looks!" Joffrey bellowed with a tinge of apprehension as he parried the slash from the duck knight and he kicked him back.

Best to end this quickly, he thought as he closed the distance with the knight. He tried to ward him off with the longsword but Joffrey locked the blade between sword and hammer, reaching the man's face and headbutting him.

Fucking Aegon cut off my antlers, he grumbled as the bruised knight stumbled back and he parried the sloppy slice from the longsword. Ghost gave a harrowing howl as Joffrey closed in and jammed the arming sword through the stunned knight's elbow, and the hair at the back of his neck tingled as he turned to Aegon.

Jon was looking at a deep gash that ran from his shoulder to his throat, his plate mangled and twisted as he held two distinct pieces of halberd. "For Jon Connington!" roared Aegon as he ran him over with Blackfyre, the black-silvered blade emerging from the back of Jon's torso.

Joffrey's face twisted as the red haze slammed into him, a wordless, shrill roar crawling from his throat as he slapped aside the duck knight's longsword with a gauntlet and he planted a mace on the man's face.

"Today the Three Headed Dragon rises again!" Aegon roared in triumph as he realized he'd just killed an officer of the enemy force, turning to Joffrey as the ragged men of the golden company cheered him on, victory and anger warring in his face as he realized the duck knight was dead.

"The Blade of Kings!" roared the nearby armsmen in victory, the guardsmen snarling back and gazing at each other and their King as they fought, shaken at the loss of the legate.

"Fancy this is a song?" Joffrey asked darkly as he walked quickly towards the son of a whore, striding over the dark red haze as he discarded both hammer and sword.

Aegon snorted at that, "So this is how it ends," he said with a surprised smirk, "This one's for Duck," he said angrily, like a rightful knight from a tale, slicing down with Blackfyre and angling for a sweeping cut through Joffrey's plate.

Joffrey didn't change his stride. Instead, he brought his hands together and materialized Brightroar through a swirl of Purple fractals, the golden blade emerging into reality and stopping Blackfyre in its tracks.

The strange, dissonant clash of Valyrian Steel rang through the battlefield, knights and levies and soldiers turning to watch the cascade of distorted light that illuminated the battlefield for a brief second.

"What?!" Aegon stammered, eyes wide before Joffrey slammed a gauntleted fist on his face. The brutal blow made him stumble back, and Joffrey stalked forward with a contained snarl. Aegon kept shuffling back, returning Blackfyre to a low guard as he eyed Brightroar in incomprehension. "Kill him! Kill him now!" he bellowed in near panic.

Two grizzled veterans of the company jumped at him, but Joffrey slipped past their strikes and sliced one's leg in half, leaving him screaming on the ground before ducking below the second one's strike. He jammed the blade backwards, piercing the second man's spine cleanly through the back plate, his stride towards Aegon relentless.

"True Songs are a dark and terrible thing," Joffrey told him as he stepped left and right quickly, disorienting Aegon before slamming Brightroar sideways in a brutal cut. The parry screeched throughout the battlefield, Joffrey twisting in a circle and cutting the top part of Aegon's shield.

"Kill him! Kill him right now!" screeched Aegon, but the men of the Golden Company were breaking, running as the banners of the Westerlands flew nearby, Lannister Lions shaking wildly under the winds as lances tore through plate and flesh, an armored Tywin riding tall at the head of a wedge of knights slaughtering their way to Joffrey.

"Thought they'd just hand you the Kingdoms?" Joffrey growled, moving minutely to his left and letting the blade whisk through. "They all think the same," he said lowly, fury and resignation coloring his voice as he sliced Aegon's hand cleanly with a quick uppercut, the shield falling to the ground with a torrent of blood.

The boy king screamed as the stump kept squirting blood, his crazed slash barely phasing Joffrey as he preempted it entirely, grabbing the boy's sword hand and twisting it sideways; baring it like butcher working with a pig. He slammed Brightroar through it, the brutal cut parting plate and flesh. Blackfyre fell on the mud, Aegon's hand still grasping it tightly as his scream redoubled in intensity.

"Die," Joffrey whispered in the boy's screeching face, aiming Brightroar for a thrust through the neck before a growl stopped him. The men were fleeing all around him, some of the Golden Company armsmen dropping their blades as they looked at him, agape as their liege kept screaming and Ghost turned from the body of his fallen partner, red eyes gazing at Aegon the Sixth.

"He's all yours," Joffrey told the direwolf as he threw the crying pretender to the ground. Ghost tore through the boy's throat like scythe, ending him swiftly and brutally with a snap.

Joffrey breathed shallowly, and a tiny part within him screamed in despair as he realized he was not yet satisfied.

Jon was worth a score of them put together, he thought as he turned towards the scrambling and surrendering soldiers of the Golden Comapany, smiling darkly as he advanced upon them. Brightroar felt as light as a feather in his hands, and he struggled to breathe as he hefted the golden blade.

Don't let it control you, whispered a voice deep within, and he was paralyzed as he gazed at the shaking, surrendered armsmen. The blade trembled in his hand before he took another deep breath, war and blood and death calling to the thing he wanted nothing but to bury forever.

Jon was worth a hundred of them, he thought, his snarl growing twisted before he heard Ghost moving away from Aegon's corpse. The direwolf was now by Jon's side, licking the boy's face halfheartedly.

He breathed deeply one more time, and turned away from the trembling men, walking towards Jon and kneeling right beside him.

What would he think, to see me like this? He wondered, and it was that thought that carried him the rest of the way past the red haze.

He spent a moment staring at him, trying to understand how he could see his friend die so many times and not go mad every time he saw him again. So many times he'd seen him die… By his own hand, by those of his enemies, by his side, fighting for his life, for revenge, for his friends, for his family…

He cradled Jon's head between his arms, wondering if he'd ever see him grow old and have grandchildren, or if the sick cycle of the Purple would deny him even that. He wondered if he'd ever knight his brave friend's sons after the Cycle was vanquished and his curse over.

The men gave him a wide berth, watching him in awe or terror depending on the color of their banners. The might of the Westerlands ran down the routing infantry as guardsmen and armsmen secured the surrender of the rest.

Just another day in Westeros, Joffrey thought darkly, turning his eyes to Aegon's body. He took a few minutes to memorize the boy's features before he stood up again, the duties of kingship already calling as lords and officers came to him for orders.

Next time we meet, your end will be far less glorious, he promised, letting the mantle of the warrior king envelop him again as Messengers and Lords arrived in search of orders.

Westeros needed its King.

-: PD :-

Spoiler: AN

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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Aug 27, 2018

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Surprise!

Chapter 52: Undying.

Joffrey's knights swept throughout the northern ends of the Bay of Crabs, taking out deserters and holdouts as they marched on Gulltown. They quickly realized there would be no siege though; the city had already been set ablaze. Aegon's sellswords had been the first to flee the battlefield, and thus the ones which had suffered the least amount of casualties. They had turned on their masters pretty quickly after news of the defeat had reached them, pillaging the city and trying to get a hold of anything which could float, trying to escape back to Essos and away from Joffrey's reputation.

It reminded him of the chaos he'd seen when he'd arrived at the Dawn Fort, marching at the head of a column of soldiers and finding absolute madness of a wholly human nature. Much as he'd done before, Joffrey led the slaughter of the panicked sellswords as he entered through the opened city gates, the Royal Navy intercepting the ships that managed to leave the harbor.

He'd learned from his mistakes in the Reach, taking the time to settle the issues surrounding the rebel lords. Hostages were taken, keeps and lands exchanged and the King's Peace restored even if part of the Vale had been devastated by the fighting.

Lord Royce was made Warden of the East until young Robyn Arryn was of age. The Royces of Runestone had been put to the sword after the Golden Company's surprise attack, and the lord of the only surviving branch had been Joffrey's stoic supporter ever since… The Vale would do well under his guidance.

The stories about how Brightroar had come to his aid in his time of need grew more exaggerated by the telling, and Joffrey was deeply amused by the reaction of his countrymen at the blatant show of magic. He hadn't cared much for it during the heat of the moment, when an awe struck soldier asked him how he'd done that. 'I needed a sword to even the fight against the usurper' had been a particularly lazy answer, but his troops had bought it whole, hook line and sinker.

Magic hadn't even entered the discussion. Of course Good King Joffrey, warrior and scholar, had nothing to do with the likes of Bloodraven, accursed and feared sorcerer. Every Westerosi knew that someone in shiny plate who led from the front was incapable of otherworldly horrors… No, Good King Joffrey's Valyrian Steel sword was but a sign of the heavens themselves favoring his cause and lineage.

Joffrey supposed he painted a distinct image quite at odds with that of a sorcerer. Goring his enemies to death with a set of bronze antlers might have had something to do with it… After all, who would ever think the son of Robert Baratheon sorcerer material?

He didn't know if that reaction was because by now he was undisputed as King of Westeros, or if it was because the people truly thought the whole farce to be true…

Then again, Sansa's quiet visit to the Sept of Baelor and the High Septon's subsequent confirmation of the 'miracle' must have helped a bit.

Joffrey himself was received like a hero back in the capital, though all the flower petals and the cheering smallfolk couldn't quite take the edge off the wound Meera left in his psyche, her hollow expression seared in his mind as she gazed at Jon's casket and the mourning Ghost, who had not left his side ever since.

Sansa had been strangely stunned by the news. She'd never gotten along with Jon before this life, for reasons she had trouble putting into words. To learn that he'd died fighting to protect her husband had left her slightly dazed, thinking about memories of her early childhood in Winterfell and Jon's presence in them, Catelyn's glare a constant specter feeding into her own uncritical disdain of the brave boy.

Lancel and Olyvar wrote that Robb's great victory in the North had been overshadowed by the death of his half-brother, and he'd cut off the celebrations so he could return to Winterfell and bury him in the Stark's own crypt. Mance Rayder and most of the wildling leadership was dead, the host's constituent tribes splitting apart. Those few who survived kneeled to the Lord of Winterfell and were finally granted passage south, to the southernmost North and away from old grudges. Rumors about the White Walkers were pretty much ignored by the northern lords, and Joffrey knew the time to reveal the truth of their ultimate enemy was fast approaching. The invasion itself was bound to occur around six to seven years after he'd woken up, given the presence of Frey wights in the midst of the Dawn Fort's siege and some haphazard calculations…

He was fast approaching the fifth year of this life.

Their preparations would soon require everyone in Westeros to know the truth, and Joffrey dreaded the panic and disbelief that was to come. Kingsguards were replaced, Ser Jaime taking the mantle of Ser Barristan and all the more uncomfortable for it. The Small Council was filled with lords from the coalition that had supported the royals from the beginning; riverlanders, northmen, and westerlanders forming the bedrock of it while the Vale and the Stormlands filled secondary positions around them. The Reach had nothing but hostages, and Dorne was as silent and surly as ever, a constant concern on Sansa's side… The Iron Islands were similarly quiet, their lords dispersing after having carried out some sort of meeting on Pike, the more radical elements choosing to raid Essos instead.

The last potential problem before the Long Night that Joffrey could think of was Daenerys, but the scattered rumors coming from the east pretty much all agreed on her being hopelessly bogged down in Slaver's Bay, even crowning herself the Queen of all three slaver cities and vowing on their conquest. There had been constant battles near Yunkai and Mereen as a coalition of slavers marched their armies against her, war ravaging the land and showing no sign of ending within the next five years.

By then the world would have other concerns… if anyone was left alive to have them, that is.

The banners of war in the west were being stored, at least for the moment. Now it would be a waiting game, harvesting as much grain as they could as the roads were expanded and the Wall reinforced…

-: PD :-

"I still feel her sometimes. Lady," Sansa said absently as they cuddled in their bed, the concerns of state over for the night.

"How so?" Joffrey asked from behind, one hand gently stroking her hair.

"Like… as if she were right there, by my side. But then I realize she's not and it physically pains me," she said thoughtfully.

Joffrey kept scratching her head as he thought, eyes cloudy. "It makes me remember how it felt when I lost my arm, back in the Beyond," he said after a while.

Sansa turned to face him, grabbing his hand gently and tracing the contours of his arm. "Did it… burn?" she asked.

Joffrey tilted his head slightly before resting it completely on the pillow, "Yeah, that would be a way of describing it," he said.

"A warg," she mused idly, "I suppose a warg without her companion would be akin to losing a limb," she mused as she felt Joffrey's forearm, looking at his scars.

"I still can't get over that," Joffrey said with a gentle smile, "My very own sorceress," he quipped.

"I wish. Still, looking through the eyes of eagles or owls or something should be worth more than a thousand soldiers right? To a competent commander at least," she asked him.

"More like hummingbirds," he said cheekily; Sansa was convinced he'd never tire of that joke. She pressured his arm until she wiped that grin off his face, "Ow. Yeah, very useful. A million soldiers," he grunted.

"Ow! I'm serious Sansa!" he said with a small huff as she pressured him some more. "If you could get a mouse or something into the enemy's command tent…" he said longingly, as if he were about to devour a smoked roll after a session in the yard.

"I was thinking more about putting a big chainmail over Lady and riding her into battle by your side," she said instead.

Joffrey laughed, but the glint in Sansa's eyes made him wary, "Sansa, the battlefield-"

"What Joffrey? Is no place for a woman? Really?" she dared him.

He huffed instead, looking away before trying again, "My strength is on the battlefield and its environs, yours is on the court. Someone has to man the political front while I'm out there breaking skulls," he reasoned.

"What a fine, neat division of labor you have there dear," she said drily, "It's not as if that theory lasted less than a single life before it was torn to shreds," she told him. "Westeros isn't nice like that. Nor is the rest of the world. Circumstances change and plans crumble, and I will end up in some sort of battlefield sooner or later… so you better get used to the idea," she said defiantly.

Joffrey sighed as he blinked lazily, looking at her deep blue eyes, "I know," he muttered.

They spent a while there, gazing at each other as they remembered the colossal task on their shoulders. It was easy to forget about it when in the middle of things, and the gravity of it seemed all the greater when they remembered.

"Does it get any easier?" Sansa asked suddenly, remembering Lyra's face as she squirmed in surprise and Ser Davos' sword tore through her.

"Yes," Joffrey whispered after a long moment, "I'm afraid it does," he said.

"Good," she murmured in turn, holding his hands close. "Together," she whispered.

"Together," he swore.

-: PD :-

"I understand your point very well, Your Grace, but I still fail to understand the necessity of it," Tywin said drily, gazing at his sovereigns.

"Rest assured Lord Tywin, the gravity of the affair cannot be understated," Sansa rebuked her Hand gently.

"A gravity which needs to be resolved by a Grand Council? I hope you understand the implications of calling one at this juncture, after all the rebellions have been quashed," Tywin said sternly, still standing up in the Small Council chambers. The other members had long since left, and Joffrey sighted as he looked at his grandfather.

"We'll inform you when we have the evidence to back the claim in our hands, which shouldn't be long now. Until then, we require patience," Joffrey told him seriously.

"Very well then," Tywin finally sighed in defeat, standing up reluctantly and bowing. He was hallway towards the door when he suddenly stopped, turning to stare at Sansa like some sort of mechanism. "If I may be so bold, is this matter related to the realm's lack of an heir?" he asked gravely, almost woodenly as he stared at her.

Sansa placed a hand on Joffrey's shoulder before he could take a step forward, and she spoke before he could get an angry word in edgewise. "Of course not, you can lay those concerns to rest my lord," she said.

Tywin bowed again, oozing curdled relief and suspicion before leaving the room altogether.

"I swear, dealing with him is like trying to get juice out of a Grey Cacti," Joffrey muttered angrily, "And the juice is freaking poisonous," he added with a grunt.

Sansa patted him on the shoulder again, "Now now, no insulting the Hand of the Realm lest his pride prickles again," she said with a wayward grin.

"It's just- the sheer gall of the man, from this to stuff as petty as being the last to start on his dish when the rest of the council is dining together," Joffrey huffed as they walked out of the room and along one of the Red Keep's long corridors. "I gave him Blackfyre so he could stop hemming about Brightroar, but that just rechanneled his damned pride," he grumbled before taking a deep breath. "How was your morning anyway? Couldn't ask before Lord Manderly was all over the table tossing parchment like coppers," he asked her.

"Quiet, actually," she said, smoothing the small coronet over her head. "Had an early lunch with Maergery; all smiles and compliments," she said.

"That bad huh?" he said.

"Talk about cacti, this one's as thorny as they come," she said, resigned.

"Told you. That apple didn't fall far from the tree… or the pollen didn't fly far from the rose… though Olenna is a Redwyne by birth so I guess a ship carried the pollen?" he mused out loud.

"You're not making any sense Joffrey, bard thou are not," she said, amused.

"I was getting somewhere with it," he complained.

They crossed the threshold into the next hallway, a few servants bowing respectfully as they carried dirty laundry and food. "Stormking!" clipped an armsmen from the Stormlands as he straightened even more –somehow- standing guard over the next door.

Joffrey nodded at the man as they passed him by, and Sansa looked at him until he had the decency to smile a bit. "Tell them to stop, I can't handle it any longer," she told him, unable to repress a chuckle as they neared the next corridor, this one deserted as it guided them to the outer courtyard.

Joffrey didn't deign that with a respond, except to frown as he pushed out his chest. "In a coat of gold or a coat of black," he said gruffly, quickly as he tumbled over the words before Sansa could stop him, "A stag still has antlers and-mine-are-long-and-sharp-my-lord-as-long-and-sharp as-" he was interrupted as a yellow finch flew from the nearby window like a javelin, striking Joffrey in the center of his forehead with a clipped beak.

"Ow!" Joffrey grumbled, trying to catch the finch as Sansa chuckled again, directing it towards Joffrey's hair.

"He's not finding any antlers," she said innocently, still walking as Joffrey struggled to catch up, trying to ward off the bird as it tried to rummage through his hair.

"Come on Sansa! It's a good song!" he complained as he reached her, the finch flying to her extended index finger.

"No its not. It's a blatant copy with zero originality," she huffed, taking a few small seeds from the discreet pouch by her waist. "Not antlers yet hm?" she asked the cute yellow bird, smiling as it gobbled down the seeds.

"Anyway, any progress with her yet?" Joffrey asked, regaling the finch with a glare.

"I'm getting a handle on the woman's character alright. She's pretty good at this… though not as good as she thinks she is, I'd hazard. She lacks a certain bite," she said as the finch leapt off, flying away through the next window in the hallway.

"Maybe I should see her myself, it's been a long time…" Joffrey mused, looking at Sansa through the corner of his eye.

"No, it's not necessary. I've got her under control," she said quickly.

Too quickly.

There was a pregnant pause before Joffrey gave her a rakish grin, and Sansa groaned internally.

"Sansa…" he said slowly, tasting the word. "Are you worried?" he asked as his eyebrows rose higher and higher.

She knew her husband enough by now to not even try to deny it, "I'm not worried, not exactly," she almost grunted.

Joffrey kept staring at her, and Sansa grumbled before speaking again. "She's pretty," she admitted after a moment.

Joffrey kept staring at her with that damnable smirk.

"She's gorgeous Joffrey, I'm not blind!" she finally let it out. "All composed and dressed up like a peacock, and strutting like one as well!" she grumbled.

"Afraid she'll woe me like the errant kitty I am?" he asked suggestively.

"I know it's idiotic," she mumbled self-consciously, avoiding his gaze.

"Hm, she does have ample… qualities," he mused as he walked closer to her.

"That finch is still out there," Sansa warned him.

"Don't worry Sansa, she's got nothing on your butt," he quipped as he discreetly bumped his waist against hers.

"You would know hm?" Sansa said as she bumped him back, cornering him against the wall as she pressed against him. "You're certain you died before consummating that particular marriage?" she asked with a gimlet eye.

"Never did the deed!" he swore as Sansa stared, suspicious. The damnable finch flew from the window again, coming to a stop atop her shoulder and glaring at him with its little beady eyes.

"… I did see her naked –once- okay!?" he confessed. "She has nothing on your thighs as well," he added after a moment, feeling his wife's long legs with both hands.

She seemed undeterred as she huffed, the finch pecking Joffrey's forehead again. "Not good enough dear," she said before kissing him strongly.

"There's the bite," Joffrey chuckled before returning the favor, Sansa's hands roaming his breeches as they breathed harshly. "Lord Darry's supposed to be waiting by the Sept right?" he said reluctantly.

"What's the point of being royalty if you can't have a little fun now and then?" Sansa reasoned, and Joffrey found the argument very convincing as he flipped their positions, pinning Sansa against the wall.

"A servant is bound to find us," he said between kisses, "Royalty has beds too," he remembered as the poor finch seemed to grow dizzy; tumbling around them for a few seconds before flying out the nearest window as fast as it could.

"There's a storage room nearby," she whispered in his ear, sighing when Joffrey's hands wandered upwards.

"For old times' sake?" Joffrey agreed with a lusty chuckle.

Sansa suddenly grew wooden in his arms. "Stop," she told him.

"Why? Fuck Lord Darry," he said with feeling before frowning, "Actually scratch that plan," he said with another chuckle, tasting her neck and the Myrish perfume she loved so much.

"Joffrey, stop," she said again, an edge of panic in her voice as she grabbed his shoulders tightly.

"What's the matter?" he said as he looked around them, eyes cycling around the two ends of the deserted hallway. "Sansa?" he asked as her face grew pale.

"The birds… the birds are scared Joff," she stuttered as she rubbed her neck in anguish, the sparse little hairs on her arms standing on edge.

"Scared? Sansa what are you- what birds?" Joffrey asked her as he drew his arming sword, placing her at his back and leaving a hand free to summon Brightroar at a moment's notice.

Spoiler: Music

"All of them," she whispered in terrified awe, and an earth shattering roar punctuated her words as the stones of the Red Keep trembled.

They ran to the nearby window and saw a black shape diving for the harbor, leaving a sea of bright red fire in its wake as it set the docks ablaze, the ships of the Royal Navy burning at anchor as two other shapes flew close by, incinerating the harbor itself and sections of the wall, scores of fishermen and sailors screaming as the flames ate them alive before they could reach the water.

"No…" Joffrey muttered as he gazed at the three dragons; a silver, long haired figure riding the black one. The bells of King's Landing were tolling, the whole city screaming as the black shape turned around for another pass. Its wings stretched by more than ten meters from tip to tip, black scales and eyes as red as the inferno it unleashed upon Baelor's Sept, melting the great bronze bells into slag as it perched upon the tallest tower and rained fire from above.

"Daenerys… she was supposed to stay in Mereen…" Joffrey whispered in stunned horror, watching as his city was set ablaze by three dragons. The green scales of Rhaegal shimmered as the beast flew low over the Street of Seeds, vomiting liquid fire and leaving a gash of red over the city. "She's going to burn down the entire city…" he muttered in horror as the flames leapt higher and he remembered the other time King's Landing had burned, at the hands of the Red Wolf.

He turned his gaze to Sansa as she snarled lowly. "That bitch is not going to burn down everything we've accomplished here," she vowed as she grabbed the windowsill with both hands, clamping down her eyes and showing her teeth as she inhaled sharply, as if she were lifting the weight of the world.

Joffrey leapt on the window by Sansa's side, looking down at the chaos of the outer courtyard. Men were running around in a daze, some trying to get buckets of water as others ran from the towers, strapping armor as they battered panicked servants out of the way.

"TO ARMS! MAN THE BALLISTAS!" he roared as he materialized Brightroar in a flash of eldritch light, "CROSSBOWS TO THE WALLS! OURS IS THE FURY!" he roared above the din, cutting through the panic as men turned to stare at him.

Sansa moaned, tilting her head slowly as Drogon wobbled in the air, her moan morphing into a scream as the dragon roared to the high heavens and turned to stare right at them from across the city.

Sansa screamed again as blood run from her nose, Joffrey holding her by the shoulder as she shook wildly and almost fell through the window. "I, I can't- He's so angry- too strong- " she moaned incoherently, breathing harshly as Joffrey vaulted back to the corridor, putting her hand around his shoulders and half carrying her through a set of stairs as a distant roar increased in intensity and a flash of heat erupted above them, the screams outside magnifying by a thousand as Sansa shook her head wildly and she straightened.

"You managed to stun him somewhat!" Joffrey bellowed over the cacophony as they ran down the stairs, "Can you do it again?" he asked her as they emerged into the courtyard. The section of the Red Keep where they'd been but seconds before was now in flames, and Sansa nodded decisively as she took in a breath of fresh air.

"I- I can try!" she said as she blinked the white out of her eyes. "You won't have much time!" she said with growing confidence as they ran across the courtyard.

"The green one's coming for another pass!" shrieked a Guardsman as Joffrey grabbed him by the shoulder.

"GET THE CROSSBOWS ON THE WEST WALL!" he roared in the man's face before shoving him towards it. Men bellowed as the bells kept tolling and Guardsmen and Redcloaks ran for the walls, officers hollering as teams carried lighter ballista pieces up the stairs and servants searched desperately for buckets.

Joffrey and Sansa ran for the stairs as well, the shadow of Drogon spinning away as Rhaegal came in for a pass, flying past the burning silhouette of Baelor's sept and heading straight for the Red Keep. The crossbowmen looked too shocked to run, ashen faced as stone-like hands followed the drill they'd been hammered on month after month.

Joffrey strode through the front rank, just a step away from the crenellations as the city burned and teams of shaking Stark guardsmen loaded the nearby ballistae; long wicked bolts of iron peeking from the siege engines. "We'll have but one chance!" Joffrey bellowed as he hefted Brightroar above, walking amongst the soldiers along the westernmost battlements, reaching Sansa who'd ran up to one of the crenellations and was staring at the approaching glimmer of green that was Rhaegal. "Wait for my signal!" he roared as more soldiers climbed the stairs and kneeled by the crenellations, the clanking of reloading crossbows an enveloping sound that almost managed to drown the city's screams as Sansa breathed deeply.

"This one's weaker," Sansa whispered, breathing harshly as Joffrey held her tightly, Brightroar still held aloft. "The other one –Drogon- there was this presence… fury… madness…" she whispered as she swayed, each breath tilting her back and forth as she blinked repeatedly.

"Do you have a feel on it?" Joffrey asked her as Rhaegal cleared the flames of Baelor's Sept, each wave of its wings a crack of sound as it raced for the Red Keep like an arrowhead.

"Yes," Sansa whispered as her eyes turned completely white and her breathing turned mechanical, regular.

"Wait for my word," Joffrey whispered, gazing as the green beast as it crossed the Hook.

"Here it comes!" screeched one of the crossbowmen.

"WAIT FOR MY SIGNAL! AIM FOR ITS MOUTH AND WINGS!" he bellowed, quivers rattling inside their crossbows as the men shook and a few ran for their lives.

"HOLD!... HOLD!" Joffrey roared as the wind picked up and Sansa's grip on the wall turned bloody, her nails breaking.

Rhaegal roared as it opened its maw, vermillion flames dripping from its maw as it reached Aegon's High Hill and Joffrey squeezed his wife's arm.

Sansa twisted her head harshly as the green dragon convulsed in midair for a moment, mouth agape and wings held wide as it wobbled in a daze that lasted a single second.

"LOOSE!" Joffrey roared as he slashed down with Brightroar, crossbows singing to the wind and ballistae shrieking defiance as the air was filled with iron and wood. Scores of bolts materialized all over Rhaegal's wings as thick ballista bolts tore holes through its gaping maw. The beast shrieked as it lost altitude, men screaming and running out of the way before the dragon crashed against the wall with a brutal snap.

"FINISH IT OFF! FINISH IT OFF!" Joffrey roared as he took a loaded crossbow from a stunned Guardsmen's hands, standing over the crenellations and aiming below. Rhaegal had caved part of the wall they were standing on, one of its wings a mangled wreck and two of its legs broken. The beast seemed dazed, moving its long neck wildly as if trying to get a hold of its caved head.

Joffrey swore as he missed the eye by an inch, crossbowmen leaning on the crenellations and shooting the beast to no effect.

"Sansa! Can you hold it steady for two seconds?!" Joffrey asked her as he took another crossbow from a soldier, the tip of the bolt following the beasts shaking head as it tried to stand up.

"It's in pain… scared… it's mother's call a distant one…" Sansa muttered as she leaned on Joffrey, staring at the beast. She closed her eyes, frowning, "It's hard," she said in anguish, squeezing her eyes as tears descended down her cheeks and Joffrey breathed deeply, the sounds around him dissipating as he aimed his crossbow at the beast's eyes.

Come on Sansa, come on my love, he prayed, white noise enveloping him as Rhaegal almost managed to stand up, its motions interrupted as it turned its long head sideways suddenly, almost brutally, its eye staring directly up at Joffrey for a second.

Chrrick.

The bolt pierced cleanly, even the feathers lodging themselves tight within the beast's skull as it screeched in its death throes. Sansa screamed as she held her own eye, stumbling wildly before Joffrey dropped the crossbow and held her close, trying to soothe her as the door to the tower by their side slammed open and more crossbowmen streamed through.

She couldn't stop trying to feel her left eye with her hands, and Joffrey grabbed them both tightly as he slammed his forehead against hers. "You're here Sansa! You're here!" he shouted in her face, her mad breathing steadying a bit as she blinked repeatedly.

"I-… I'm okay," she croaked, swallowing heavily as she held on to him and the soldier's ragged cheering turned into screams.

"Right above us," she whispered as she blinked, and Joffrey shoved them both through the opened door to the tower by their side, narrowly avoiding the jet of flames that incinerated his soldiers.

"RHAEGAL!" screeched a voice outside, followed by a mind numbing roar as the tower itself started to heat up.

"We have to get out of here!" Joffrey shouted as he helped Sansa up, carrying his limping wife as they descended the stairs and the stones around them shimmered. The tower creaked ominously as they tried to reach the lower levels, stones slamming around them as the whole thing tilted sideways slightly. The roaring and the buffeting of sheer fire against the tower turned worse as Joffrey looked up, the whole tower tumbling sideways as streams of fire emerged from sudden holes in the stonework. Bricks flew like shrapnel all around them, one of them hitting him in the forearm before the whole structure came down upon them and he tried to carry Sansa to the door right in front of them-

-: PD :-

….

His mouth had been overpowered by an ashen taste. It felt dry, painfully so.

Joffrey tried to open his eyes, forcing through the strange lock keeping them closed. He blinked slowly, trying to shake off the cobwebs with one hand before he screamed lowly, biting his lips in pain.

He turned his head slightly and realized he was half buried in stone and bricks, his right forearm clearly fractured. His other arm was buried in debris, along with both his legs and part of his chest. He moved his right arm carefully towards his face, trying to carry his palm closer. He ignored the spikes of pain, finally managing to clear the dirt off his face and getting a somewhat clearer view of his surroundings.

A heavy curtain of ash seemed to have surrounded the outer courtyard and beyond. It stuck to his face, hot and sticky as he moved his head slightly, peering at the desolation around him. Bricks and mortared stone seemed to be everywhere, a few wisps of fire burning here and there around the stables and the Godswood behind Maegor's Holdfast. Whole sections of the Red Keep seemed to have been subjected to dragonfire, half collapsed buildings showing their blackened wooden ribs to the air.

He was surrounded by bodies; armsmen and halberdiers strewn about like discarded toys, their armor a bloody mesh of broken steel. Servants were scattered around the clearing and hanging from windows and crenellations, missing body parts or burnt to a crisp.

Joffrey coughed drily as he tried to move, barely capable of breathing under the weight that covered half his chest.

"Hey Joff," said a weak voice to his right.

Joffrey tilted his head slowly, following the sound.

He swallowed the choking horror in his throat, smiling gently as he found his voice. "Hey Sansa," he whispered slowly, gazing at the broken body of his wife as it lay sideways, only a few meters away.

She was looking at him, half her face burnt away as she blinked lazily with one eye. A third of her bloodied chest lay crushed under stone, both her legs bent at strange, horrific angles that showed bone around the parts that weren't covered in soot black bricks which had once been red.

The bricks must have been scalding hot when they collapsed over her.

"It doesn't hurt as much as it looks," she enunciated slowly, her voice shaky as she blinked slowly.

"Don't worry Sansa, don't worry," Joffrey rasped as he tried to dig himself out of the debris. He shoved against the broken stone, grunting in effort as the weight barely moved. He bellowed in exertion as he tried again, blood running down his right arm as he tried to get himself out of there with all his might.

"Joff… please don't…" she muttered, gazing at him. It seemed the only part of her body she could move was her eye. Darkness was steadily descending around the Red Keep, the eerie silence only punctuated by the occasional swelling of hysteric voices coming from the city, though they grew muted as time passed.

"We're ending it right now Sansa, don't worry," Joffrey promised as he tried to move again, screaming as he willed his body to move. A few of the bricks tumbled down, but he was still trapped tight as he bit his lips, hazy agony seeping through every muscle in his body as something inside his chest snapped. He coughed blood, almost choking on it before he spat the rest.

"Please stop… I don't want to see you suffer like this," Sansa muttered, the angst and the sadness in her voice breaking him as she kept staring.

"Okay, okay," Joffrey managed between heaving breaths, spitting a bit more blood. He closed his eyes as he tried to steady his chest, trying to focus on the depths of his soul and the embodiment of it that was Stars.

Gentle bumping of branches… swirling red leaves… he thought incoherently as he tried to bring the silver lion forth.

He coughed more blood, his head pounding like the Smith's Anvil as he tried again and again, each time less successful than the last until he couldn't even concentrate on his breathing.

"Is… Is there anyone out there?!" Joffrey bellowed weakly, coughing again as the hot ash got into his lungs. "Your liege needs assistance!" he bellowed, his voice breaking halfway, "I know of a secret passageway. I can help you escape- COUGH!" he rattled, sized by a coughing fit as he leaned his head back for a second, taking just a few moments to rest.

He gazed at Sansa, struggling to regain his breath as she looked back. "It'll soon be over love, can't be long now," he said with a weak smile.

"Do you think Bran and Arya… burned?" she asked after a moment of silence, having trouble with the last word.

"They were with Meera by the inner courtyard, lessons…" Joffrey struggled to remember through his hazy memory. "Alyn was with them. Dependable, good head on his shoulders," he said.

"Bran would have wanted to fight, Arya too. They're so brave…" Sansa whispered.

"Alyn wouldn't have allowed it. And Meera knows almost as much as we do about the Red Keep's tunnels-" Joffrey trailed off, a coughing fit interrupting him as he struggled for fresh air. The damned heat was choking him, and he could barely breathe with so much ash in the air.

"Arya hid for a week after she learned about Jon," Sansa whispered. Her eye seemed lost as she gazed at him, "Remember how we found her?" she asked.

"Half-starved and stabbing wooden buckets with that rapier of hers," Joffrey remembered with a grim smile.

"She wanted to go and kill Aegon's Essosi backers…" Sansa whispered. She flinched lightly as she took a deeper breath, coughing gently a couple of times. "We used to fight so much… so stupid… I never… I never told her I loved her…" she said almost reluctantly, as if she were confessing a terrible sin.

Her voice was broken as she stirred lightly, "Do you think she knew? Before she-" she was beginning to sob, blinking rapidly in grief and pain as the stress made her shake slightly, one of the brick tumbling down and bumping the rubble over her chest.

"You'll see her again soon," Joffrey interrupted her, "All of them. Jon, Bran, Ned…" he said as Sansa rode out the harrowing pain of the small impact, squirming gently against the rubble in blind pain. She breathed raggedly once it passed, returning her gaze to him.

"I'm sorry… what did you say?" she asked.

"You'll see them soon, all of them," he repeated.

She smiled at that, "I'll hug her for a whole day, we'll escape Septa Mordane together…" she said wistfully, a trickle of blood running down from the corner of her mouth. "I'll train with Bran… maybe even smuggle… a few lemoncakes… for Jon…" she said mischievously, her words slow.

They stayed quiet for a while longer, night descending on the keep. He stared at Sansa, wriggling slightly within the stonework when her gaze wondered. He couldn't free himself however, no matter how persistent his efforts.

The contingencies were not enough… we should have had four times as much artillery… he thought, enraged. She seemed reasonable back at Quarth… she should have negotiated… he thought in fury and despair.

The Red Keep looked almost like Harrenhal in the darkness, twisted shapes and silhouettes that deepened as the moonless night covered the sky. Joffrey's pounding headache made his mind wander, remembering the time he'd seen the great fortress from a distance. It was a frequent stop in his imaginary journey around the rivers of the Riverlands, calm winds propelling his small yacht with only his wife and maybe a friend or two as company, no worries in the world.

"Joffrey… how much longer… do you think…" Sansa whispered. Joffrey realized she'd been crying quietly for a while now, silencing the agony that he could see written all too clearly on the unburnt half of her face. Joffrey shuddered to imagine the level of distress it must have taken for her to even voice that question.

"Not much longer love, you should be fading in and out of consciousness soon," said Joffrey, his voice thick and raspy, "Too much blood loss. It can't be long now," he said forcefully, grunting as he tried to move again.

"I was so stupid…" she whispered, "I should have sent an assassin for her, we were too confident…" she said in between shakes, her teeth rattling.

"Don't think about that now," Joffrey told her, "Just rest, rest for now," he begged her.

"It's too bloody cold to rest…" she half grumbled, "Half the city burning and I'm so cold," she whispered, disbelief writ clear on her face.

"Look at me Sansa, focus on my voice," said Joffrey, trying to distract her.

Her gaze wandered back to him, slowly focusing on his face. "Tell me that story again… the one about the shadowcat and the Mountains of the Moon…" she whispered as she shivered.

Joffrey wanted nothing more than to make her warm again, to end the pain… but even Brightroar was out of his mind's grasp as he blinked slowly. "Tyrion gave me the idea…" he whispered with a slight smile, "It sounded like a fun challenge, something incredible I could prove myself against… that I was the one in control of my fate…" he said, eyes heavy in recollection. He told her of the intensive training, of the wild drinking competition with the Umbers, of the freezing blizzards and the heart stopping thunders that sought to deafen him as he scurried under caves and overhangs, Fate's fury seeking to cast him down.

He was hallway through his first encounter with the shadowcat when he realized his soul ached. It was a strange, deep sense of hollowness that couldn't be pinpointed, couldn't be expressed verbally. He blinked as he stared at Sansa, the thin trickle of blood still descending from the corner of her mouth and pooling by her side. Her eye was unmoving, her frame still.

Joffrey sighed, leaning back on the stones. He looked at the night sky as he awaited the Purple, looking at the malevolent, vermillion slash that was the Red Comet, its baleful influence flooding the world and the far north with sheer thrumming power.

Always late when expected, always early when not. Truly the Purple is the worst of guests, he thought with a scowl, blinking heavily –impatiently even- until darkness claimed him.

-: PD :-

Something's wrong, was the first he thought he had as he tried to get out of his bed. He could feel two strong arms carrying him, one by each side. He blinked wearily, gazing at the way his legs dragged, listless as they carried him forward. He recognized the decoration of the Red Keep, patterns in the stonework interrupted by the occasional body or piece of broken masonry, his boots drawing a wake in the ash that covered almost the entirety of the floor.

He craned his neck, looking at the soldier that carried him. He was lightly armored, walking with decision but lacking a certain… wakefulness. He didn't look at Joffrey as he strode at the same pace as his companion, the both of them dragging him below broken thresholds and collapsed gates.

Astapori light armor… he thought groggily, Unsullied, he realized as he blinked repeatedly, the orange sun of the late afternoon blinding him for a second before they carried him to another building. He narrowed his eyes, trying to shield them as he surveyed what he realized was his own throne room. A gaping hole had been torn through the western wall; a big, black dragon had made a nest of the broken masonry around it. It screeched hatefully as it saw him approach, and he scowled back at the ugly beast as the unsullied suddenly halted their advance, two thirds of the way to the Iron Throne itself.

Joffrey grunted as he tried to stand up. His stern guards did not react as he found his feet, supporting his own weight as he finally processed the full sight in front of him.

The hall was full of some sort of Essosi irregulars distinct from the far more professional unsullied, wielding mismatched weapons as they cleared the remains of people Joffrey could only assume had been eaten by Drogon, blooded gambesons and heraldry strewn around the floor.

The Iron Throne was flanked by a few Dothraki bloodriders, bloodied arakh's in their hands as they kept watch over the hall. Right beside the Iron Throne was a woman Joffrey could only assume was Daenerys Targeryen… though she seemed… odd.

Her hair was long, reaching past her waist and almost to her legs, the vibrant silver Joffrey had seen in Qarth turned a dull almost-grey. Her nails were long as well, curved things that rattled off the throne as she felt it with her hand, the other arm held close to the chest. She was entranced by the sight of the Iron Throne, almost hypnotized as she rounded it, coming to a stop right in front of it before she finally sat down.

Her face was locked in child-like wonder, awe even. She smiled widely as tears streaked down her cheeks, accommodating herself in the throne as the ever fickle thing stabbed her lightly, tiny rivulets of blood flowing from her arms and back. "I made it…" she whispered in infinite contentment, "Home," she whispered in ecstasy.

"Khaleesi…" muttered a gruff, white haired knight standing a few steps below, watching the blood with worry. The man looked spent, sporting sunken eyes and a wide scar that travelled from the corner of his mouth right to his ear. He looked familiar to Joffrey, faded laugh lines and the strong frame making him think of a certain, mace wielding handmaiden…

"Mormont?" Joffrey asked after a moment, stunned.

Jorah's expression of hollow despair evaporated as the man turned to stare at him, face curdling into distaste. "The Usurper's get is here, Your Grace," he said diffidently, signaling at the unsullied holding him by the arms.

Joffrey bit down a scream as the mechanical soldiers carried him forward, his right forearm and his broken ribs protesting the rough handling as they made him kneel a bit closer to the throne.

"Daenerys…" Joffrey muttered, looking at the woman as the wide smile slowly transformed into pure fury. "What did they do to you..?" he whispered as he gazed at her arm, blackened and rotten. The strange, twisting putrefaction reached just past her shoulder, almost to reaching her neck.

"Oh, you mean this?" she asked him as she looked at the bound arm, "It was a gift from the Warlocks of Qarth. Thought they could kill a dragon with simple poison…" she said as if she were explaining it to a child. "They were wrong," she continued, a sick grin overtaking her as she leaned back on the throne, "Astapor, Yunkai, Qarth, Tolos, New Ghis… I showed them, I showed them all how wrong they were," she said as she bobbed her head.

Surely she isn't… she isn't… Joffrey's mind stuttered at the implications.

"You're insane-" he said before Daenerys exploded.

"BE SILENT!" she screeched, Drogon roaring as the unsullied by his side held his broken arm, squeezing it and making him squirm.

"The Keep is secured my queen," said a big, fat warrior of nut-brown skin as he entered through one of the side doors, hefting a big arakh in one hand as he bowed. He threw Lancel's head at the steps of the throne, like a cat carrying tribute. "This one was the false king's cousin. He fought well," he said.

"You son of a whore… you'll die for that," Joffrey promised, enraged.

"Thank you Belwas," Daenerys told him, her expression changing from rage to kindness again within the span of seconds.

"You fool… you idiotic madwoman…" Joffrey muttered, spitting blood as he gazed at Daenerys and then at Ser Jorah. "Do you understand what you've done?!" he asked him, "How could you allow this to happen?!" he spat at him, "Mad Aerys reborn on the Iron Throne!" he roared as the unsullied twisted his arm again.

Ser Jorah said nothing as he stared at him, his uneasy eyes betraying his stern façade.

'Belwas' was less circumspect, walking to Joffrey before planting a fat fist on his belly. Joffrey dry heaved, spitting blood and saliva as Belwas shook his head in contempt.

"And this is the Sunset Land's famed warrior King?" he said in contempt, his low valyrian strangely stilted, speaking as if he were a native Ghiscari speaker.

"That's enough, Brave Belwas. We have matters to attend with the false king," Daenerys said as she gazed at him, smiling wide again. "Madness… such a petty word to describe dragons," she mused thoughtfully, hand twirling one of the Iron Throne's sword pommels. "Maybe I am. Mad. Fitting; for what are dragons if not madness? The power… the majesty… How fitting that mortals should name us mad, for how else could they lay their eyes upon the lords of Fire and Air, and not despair?" she reasoned. "We are the heralds of magic, of power, our rebirth foretold by the very skies…" she said joyfully as she gazed through the giant hole in the room, at the Red Comet shining above.

Joffrey was appalled. "You burned King's Landing, the very city your ancestor built. How-"

"AND I WILL BURN AS MANY I HAVE TO!" she screeched, Drogon growing weary at its mistress' distress. "The Sons of the Harpy! The Warlocks and the Pureborn and the Sorrowful Men! The Iron Legions and their Ghiscari Masters! The Red Priests and their Red Lies and they will all burn until they bow!" she rambled, "I will rule and break the wheel of thrones! I will break the cycle! They won't deny me now. They won't deny my home!" she kept going, growing visibly agitated.

"Khalessi…" Ser Jorah interjected respectfully, "The city is yours and the hour is late, perhaps we should adjourn matters of the court for to-"

"NO!" she roared, "They took my brother and my sun-and-stars! They murdered my sweet Missendei! They turned my Daario against me with their lies!" she said in heart wrenching angst, her face returning to satisfaction as Ser Jorah paled and she nodded decisively. "Yes… I shall pass judgment!" she said triumphantly as she leaned back, gazing at her knight.

Ser Jorah grew visibly agitated at that last word, looking behind him at an unsullied standing almost half hidden behind a pillar, some sort of slave commander who looked back at Jorah with the merest of flickers, communicating silently as they stared at each other.

The unsullied commander shook his head slowly, and Ser Jorah sighed minutely. When he turned to look at Joffrey he seemed sorry. "Joffrey Baratheon, you are charged with the crime of high treason. Your vile actions sought to destroy all that was cherished by our Queen, Daenerys Targeryen; Stormborn and Mother, Breaker of Chains, the Undying Dragon, and Scourge of Slaver's Bay," he recited as if from memory, the words curiously familiar to his lips. There was not an inflection or a shred of doubt, as if he were reading from a script.

He'd done this before this day. Many times.

"Feed him to your Drogon my Queen! It has a taste for Lannister's now!" crowed Belwas, gazing at the tattered shreds of red armor amongst the veritable pile around Drogon.

Is that… Joffrey thought as he gazed at the familiar cape.

Tywin Lannister, devoured by a dragon.

There was something absolutely hilarious in that thought, and Joffrey had to bite his tongue. It was his concussion's fault, surely.

"Nono, Brave Belwas. Joffrey is my subject. He needs to be tried first," she scolded the big warrior as if he were a child.

Joffrey snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. This… this was something else. He'd really thought he'd seen it all by this point.

Fuck you all, fuck this, he raged as he chewed something sour. He spat a glob of blood, before giving Daenerys a red smile.

"Piss on your judgment, you crazy bitch! You claim to deliver royal justice?! Fine!" he spat, "I demand that most illustrious of Westerosi legal traditions! Trial-by-Combat!" he called out.

Belwas was already moving to strike him again, but Daenerys stopped him with a word. She was looking at Joffrey, bemused, as if he'd walked right into her trap.

"Very well then," she said with a savage smile, "Then I name Drogon as my champion, the Black Dread Reborn!" she crowed, relishing every moment of it.

Drogon huh? Joffrey thought with a huff, looking at the snarling, ugly beast. Its scales were pitch black and its breath utterly odious. Never thought they'd grow so fast, he thought, remembering the time he'd seen them in Qarth; barely larger than a small dog.

He took a deep breath, preparing himself for his coming demise. At least he'd make a show of it… and who knows, he was planning on taking quite a few of the crazy ones with him…

He frowned when nothing happened, the unsullied still holding him as Daenerys kept staring at him with that penetrating, vaguely hollow gaze, her expression slowly morphing into confusion.

Joffrey looked behind him, examining the half opened doors and the ruined masonry, soldiers and cowed servants skittering about and avoiding the gaze of the Dothraki. So, it's already started… he thought, anger growing within him as he imagined the rapine already inflicted on the capital… or whatever survivors were left. He hadn't gotten a good look, and for all he knew his city might have burned to the ground.

Joffrey looked back at Daenerys, the same curious expression on her face. "I'm sorry," he said, looking back again and then to his sides, "Are we waiting for someone? Oooorrr…?" he asked tentatively, gesticulation slowly with his good arm. He realized there were a few nobles by the other side of the room, surrounded by watchful unsullied. They seemed to have been judged worthy enough to avoid death for now, and they all had this respectful posture that tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. He thought he could spy an ashen faced Lord Darry, and a Maergery Tyrell that seemed one step away from crying, for all that her mask of composure sought to show her as a powerful noble in complete command of her faculties. She would have her work cut out for her in this court…

"You will fight against Drogon!" Daenerys declared again, tilting forward on the throne.

"… Yes, you already said that," Joffrey told her, nodding. "I will fight for myself. Not that there's anyone alive to do it for me," he added sardonically, as if he were explaining it to a simpleton. When that was not enough to elicit a reaction, he looked at Ser Jorah in incomprehension. "Is this some sort of Ghiscari ritual or something..?" he asked before trailing off, understanding reaching his mind as a small chuckle tried to emerge from his dry throat.

"Oh! I see… I see…" he said, trying to repress it, "Not the reaction you were expecting huh?" he said in between guffaws.

"You WILL fight Drogon!" she screeched.

"Oh no! I'm sorry Good Queen Daenerys!" he called out shrilly, "Please don't let that ugly flying deformity come close to me!" he shouted. "Please don't let it- it- it," he trailed off as he laughed compulsively, holding his belly as his ribs flared in pain. He laughed as Daenerys shook her head in incomprehension, the people around the hall looking at him as if he were the crazy one, "You really think your pet lizard scares me?!" he called out loud, howling in laughter.

"Come on!" he snarled suddenly, the unsullied struggling with his arms as he tried to charge forward, his boots slipping on the ash. "Let's do it! Right here! Right now!" he said, his blood singing.

Ser Jorah frowned, "Khaleesi, Joffrey Baratheon will serve as a fine hostage for now, perhaps-"

"NO!" Daenerys screamed over him, "The Red Comet guided us here, heralding the renewed reign of Fire and Blood! Summoned by the rebirth of the Lords of Air and Fire! It has decreed that fire consumes the Usuerper's spawn-"

"THE RED COMET?!" Joffrey bellowed incoherently, "My, my. What arrogance! That red vessel of power in the sky heralds nothing but death for all life you imbecile!" he roared at her, thoroughly fed up with this stupidity. Whatever sympathy he'd had for Daenerys evaporated as he stared at her like the idiot she was, "The birth of your dumb beasts are nothing more than a fart of cosmic power, feeding off the repository of eldritch horror flying above us," he explained to her, "Do you really think the birth of these glorified reptiles is responsible for the return of ritual magic from Asshai to the North and Beyond?" he shouted, the disbelief too much to be contained. "The shadows thicken under the grey pyramids of dread K'Dath because you hatched Drogon here out of some petty blood sacrifice…?!" he trailed off, shaking his head as he cut himself off. An unnatural silence stretched throughout the throne room, and Joffrey simply laughed again.

"Alright, I'm just wasting my time here. This is what we're going to do," he told her patiently, "I'm going to shove a sword through your pet's eye, then I'll ram it through your chest and pin you to the throne you seem to love so much, understand?" he explained patiently.

Daenerys screeched in disbelief and fury, "DROGON! DRACARYS!" she screamed. That got a reaction from the unsullied, their arms growing lax in surprise. Joffrey took that second to slip, rolling on the ground as Drogon roared and bathed the place where he'd been but moments before, burning the unsullied into charred flesh as he dived for the nearby pillar.

His mind hadn't been pummeled enough to forbid his connector, and he roared as he ran from the other side of the pillar, straight towards Drogon as Purple fractals broke into reality and multiplied exponentially, drawing the contours of Brightroar as the dragon reacted by instinct and tried to rake him with a paw.

Joffrey twisted, Brightroar in one hand as the paw almost tore his bad arm. He spun past it, cutting deeply into Drogon's paw and painting the floor with black blood. The dragon screeched in pain and tried to retreat backwards, opening its maw to blast him at point blank range with dragonfire.

"He's undisciplined," Joffrey called out disapprovingly as he moved with him. The colossal beast which had guarded fallen Valyria had been smarter than this, years of life moving it beyond simple instinct. Drogon was pure savagery, and he'd expecting more from a beast bonded to a human.

Whatever the beast had expected, it wasn't this. He closed the distance instead of retreating from the sharp teeth and the ominous orange glow at the back of the beast's throat, slamming Brightroar upwards through the dragon's palate. The Valyrian Steel went upwards with a wet sound, and Daenerys screamed in horror as Drogon convulsed. "Belwas! KILL HIM!" she screeched.

The man moved to comply, but Joffrey was already jumping atop the rearing Drogon, climbing its spikes one handed as the beast tried to spit Brightroar, which he'd left in its mouth. He quickly reached the top of it as it thrashed around the room, barreling over unsullied and panicked servants and guards.

"Watch out Lord Darry!" he called out as the Lord tried to scramble out of the maddened beast's path, getting stomped for his troubles as Maergery screamed and ran in the other direction. "Bad Drogon! No randomly slaying nobles of the realm!" he scolded the beast before materializing Brightroar again and slamming it brutally into its eye from above.

Daenerys gave a harrowing scream as the beast tumbled to the ground, convulsing as Joffrey rolled on the ground, using the momentum of its fall to sprint towards the throne as he spat blood. "Time for the real fury, Targeryen!" he roared as he ran, but Belwas intercepted him and tried to cut him in half with that monstrous arakh of his and a bone rattling bellow that left his ears ringing.

Joffrey dodged the blow but the fat warrior followed it up with a bash from his bronze buckler, scattering half a dozen of his teeth all over the ground. He tumbled to the floor and barely rolled out of the way of a stab, coughing blood all over the place as he stood up.

"VISERYON! VISERYOOON!" Daenerys screamed like a frightened child as the Dothraki and Ser Jorah stood in front of her, wielding a bastard sword with both hands as Joffrey fainted and went for Belwas' sword arm. The man parried and dodged a second blow, barely avoiding a deep cut on his shoulder. Brightroar licked his scarred chest though, drawing a small wound before the man grabbed a hold of his sword arm and pulled it up with superior strength. Joffrey was breathing harshly as he tried to get his mangled right arm towards his boot and the hidden obsidian dagger within, but Belwas swept up with his arakh, too quickly for him to react. He cut off his sword arm with the brutal swipe, just above the elbow.

Joffrey screamed in agony as he fell on his knees, propelling himself against the man's rotund belly with a headbutt. Belwas tumbled backwards by the force of the surprise attack, and Joffrey sprinted like a bleeding madman past him and towards the screeching Daenerys.

He was almost upon her and Jorah before Viseryon carved a new hole into the throne room, desperately getting its long neck in the way and unleashing a storm of fire at point blank range. Joffrey screamed as he kept running, the remains of his armor and clothes evaporating along with his hair and face as Belwas bellowed in pain behind him, part of the man roasting along with a few more slave guards and unsullied.

Joffrey was propelled backwards by the torrent of flames, crashing against a pillar and shattering what was left of his spine. One of his eyes must have melted because half his vision was gone, and he managed to take in a choking breath of air before he rattled, chuckling drily at the hilarious expression of terror in Daenerys' face.

He tried to get up and murder her, but when he tried to inhale again he found he couldn't, and his head slipped forward as he stared at the floor and Purple tendrils emerged from the masonry, curdling around the stonework's indentations as if it were blood, forming a sea of fractals as they multiplied and enveloped him in pain.

Hey Sansa, he thought as he felt her presence, letting himself be swept by the Purple tide upwards towards her, upwards as the world twisted.