Chapter 60: Wood and Family.

Joffrey swung the axe, striking the white tree with a grunt. He pried his tool out, and struck the hardwood again, this time bringing the great tree down with a harsh snap and a tremendous roar as it slammed into the earth.

He wiped the sweat off his brow, taking a moment to catch his breath as he leaned on the axe. He could hear the distant mating call of the Silver Apes in the distance; long, ululating sounds which made his chest thrum in reverb. Crocodiles snapped at the unwary ones, their jaws snapping shut with sharp cracks that echoed throughout the vale and betrayed the presence of a river nearby. The rainforest was absolutely teeming with life.

"This should do nicely," he said as he examined the fallen tree.

"Do! Nicely!" someone called out. Joffrey shook his head, smiling at the red-and-purple parrot perched atop the tree to his side. It stared down at him, unperturbed before extending its beak to its left and gobbling down a hanging seed. The great white tree was identical to the one he'd just felled, and so were the scores of others which dotted the area; trunks straight as streetlamps and branches as gnarled as a kraken's tentacles. Their wide leafs crowded the skyline, and were high roads of a sort for a whole civilization of worms, caterpillars, and blue-headed ants which scuttled from tree to tree.

"Do! Do! Do!" chirped another parrot.

"Oh boy… don't you all start," said Joffrey.

"Nicely!" said the first parrot.

"Do!" said the second.

"Oh boy! Oh boy!" chirped one, unseen.

"Nicely! Nicely!"

"All start! Do!"

Joffrey chuckled as he kneeled, measuring the fallen tree with a length of rope he'd tied to his belt. He examined it closely before making a notch on the wood with a serrated knife. The wood felt firm, not a sign of rot in sight. He nodded as he stood up, grabbing the axe with two hands. "All together now boys!" he shouted.

"Together! All together boys!"

Joffrey cleared his throat, waiting for a lull in the endless repetition before he called out with a clear voice, pitching it to carry. "A beaaaar there was, a bear, a bear! All black and brown, and covered with hair! The bear! The bear!"

"Bear! Bear!"

"Black brown! Black brown!"

He brought down the axe, white splinters flying to the sides. "Oh come they said, oh come to the fair! The fair? Said he, but I'm a bear!"

"Black brown! Black brown!"

"-and covered with hair!" said Joffrey. Each time he brought down his axe he sang another verse, stressing certain words so his chorus could follow in true form.

"The maid with honey in her hair," he sang, the axe sinking deep into the fallen tree.

"Her hair! Her hair!"

"The maid with honey in her hair!" Joffrey cleared the splinters from the gouge in the tree with a gloved hand, examining it with appraising eyes.

He hefted the axe with a puff of effort and got to work again, cutting the great white log and leaving it at about four times his length.

"My bear! She sang. My bear so fair! And off they went, from here to there!"

"The bear! The bear!" parroted his chorus in a riot of rainbow colored feathers, taking to the air as Joffrey whistled for Stennis to come get him.

"And the maiden faaaair!" he said, extending the last word and letting it hang into the wind with a grave pitch.

-: PD :-

The big log barely fit into the wagon, and poor Stennis had a hard time dragging the loaded thing past the rolling hills of the Sweet Lotus Vale. The big ox had a foul temper, and Joffrey had to keep him constantly bribed with tender buds of yellow lotus; else the beast was liable to feed on Joffrey's own hand instead.

He made good time, singing such timeless classics as The Bear and the Maiden Fair, Fair Maids of Summer, and The False and the Fair. The rainforest kept well clear of the path, in no small part thanks to the efforts of the Prince's men. Eventually the panoply of green and white gave way to tilled fields and orchards, sporting a dazzling variety of tropical fruits.

Joffrey segued into Antlers of Bronze and Iron, and then into The King's Fist, growing more nostalgic by the song. He refrained from singing Renly's Rope though, as there was no better way to kill a pleasant noon.

"OH there Stennis! Ho!" He reined in the stubborn beast, looking at the couple of Summer Islanders walking in the opposite direction. The man had teak skin, while the woman was of a nut brown complexion and somewhat taller than her companion. Both of them were clad in true islander fashion, sporting cloaks of red, yellow, and green parrot feathers.

"Sweet day, Joffrey. Its good fortune we met you today," the woman called out, a surprised smile on her lips. Hara wore a revealing spotted panther pelt below her cloak of feathers, making her even more dazzling and, to Joffrey's mounting curiosity, even more formally dressed.

"Sweet day Hara, Zhantas," Joffrey called back in the Summer Tongue, nodding at the man as well. The tall, well-built Zhantas wore a long tunic dyed orange. It was spotted with countless yellow and red lotus flowers; the most formal attire he'd seen him wear since he knew him.

"Bringing in the second outrigger for your little project?" Zhantas asked him, coming to a stop next to Joffrey's seat atop the small wagon.

"Right you are," he said, unable to keep the joy from his voice. It had been shaping up quite nicely… He really couldn't wait to sail it through even a moderately strong wind. He was half afraid it would fly.

Zhantas mirrored his smile, though it petered off into something bittersweet soon after. Hara had come to a stop next to Stennis, glaring at the ox when it tried to butt his head against her hand. The beast shied away from the dark brown eyes, looking at the ground instead.

"What are you two doing out here anyway? And in your summer best at that?"

Zhandar looked at Hara, and Hara looked at Joffrey.

"… Hara?" said Joffrey.

"We're going to Nivanze. The last love calls to us," she said.

Joffrey stared at the woman, stunned. "But Hara, I… Isn't this a bit premature?"

"The first blizzards in living memory have reached Walano. It's only a matter of time till they reach Jhala as well… the Last Summer grows short," she said.

"But that could still be a year or more away! I- Zhandar," he said, turning towards his friend, "We were going to sail the Sunray next month, I don't see why you need to do this now instead of-"

"We've been discussing this for months, friend," said Zhandar. "We decided last night, and already made our goodbyes. We'd waited for you but Sansa told us we'd find you on the road."

"She hid her grief well, but everything you could think of she said so as well," said Hara, not unkindly.

Joffrey sighed, jumping down from the small wagon and embracing Zhandar. "I'll miss you on the foresail," he said.

"It was not to be, friend," said Zhandar, patting Joffrey's back strongly, "… And despite your constant cheating, I'll miss our late nights of dice too," he added, his voice growing thick.

They separated. Zhandar cleared his throat before slapping Joffrey's arm with one of his big hands, "Bonol and Talthas already have a cask of the finest rum to celebrate our passing. Tomorrow at the lodge, don't miss out or my shade will steal your dice!"

"I won't," said Joffrey, feeling his own throat a bit tight.

"Don't miss us, it was meant to be," said Hara as they embraced as well. "Remember to move that shapely buttocks of yours from time to time, lest you grow roots into that weirwood," she added with a smirk.

"I'll try," said Joffrey, feeling a sad smile on his lips, "Take care, Hala. Thanks for everything."

They departed, tracing the same road Joffrey had taken. Theirs would take them farther away though, up the winding hills and into the Temple of Nivanze, where they would eat bitter fruits and make love until they closed their eyes together.

They would not open them again.

Joffrey's previous good cheer was in scarce supply as he guided Stennis, the wagon rolling up and down the hills as Ebonhead gradually came into view. It was the southernmost proper town in Jhala and the Summer Islands in general, straddling the mouth of the Jhol river and surrounded by beautiful swaths of black, tall ebon trees. It was mostly built out of ebonwood and other hardwoods, and most of the houses were raised on tall timbers above the wide river mouth, connected to each other by bridges. Canoes floated below, tied to pillars or in use by the town's inhabitants… of which there were fewer and fewer these past few months.

The Rite of Last Love had been growing in its practice as winter approached and the prophecies written on the Talking Trees of Walano came true. It was said there would be neither life nor body left in Walano –northernmost of the three main islands- by the time the Walkers got there… and Jhala would not be far behind.

Joffrey kept Stennis on the right track, avoiding the town proper as he turned west, following the coastal road. Soon enough he was upon a lone house built of sturdy ebonwood, surrounded by white sand which shimmered under the sun. His house looked like the tip of a dark brown thumb jutting out from the beach, the waves gently lapping at the small pier a short distance away.

Home.

Joffrey guided Stennis into the small shed past the house, removing his collar and leaving him next to the water trough. He patted the white teak log, leaving it on the wagon for now. "Soon," he told it.

He walked out of the shed, but before he made for the house a small bird of paradise perched on his shoulder. It trilled a sweet melody, the three blue feathers wobbling over its head as it looked at him. It took off for the tree line at the other side of the road, and Joffrey snorted before following.

The rainforest was light around him, the canopy leaving wide belts of sunlight that streamed past the leaves. Joffrey followed the small trail through the rainforest, smiling when he heard the whirlwind of sound coming up in front.

He found Sansa sitting below the pale brown Heart Tree, blood red leaves swirling away with the warm wind that carried echoes of frost. There must have been over half a hundred birds of paradise of different species perched around the Weirwood; wide swathes of cyan, vermillion, and scarlet. They trilled softly as they gazed at Sansa, the color of their feathers distorting into bright yellows and empty blues as the green valyrian candle in front of Sansa pulsed, small windows of change whirling around her.

They'd taken the surprising presence of a Weirwood Heart Tree as a suitable omen for building their home, but the tree still seemed out of place to Joffrey. He'd grown accostumed to seeing it under grey skies or over freshly fallen snow.

He gazed at the whirlwinds around Sansa as he came to a stop, leaning on one of the ebon trees surrounding the Heart Tree. Most of them showed endless expanses of snow; blizzards and snow dunes as far as the eye could see, Sansa's eyes and ears as she searched for the place where the Red Comet felt the strongest. One did not show the Lands of Always Winter though, for all that it was covered in snow and freezing gales. There were about a thousand walkers standing in a great circle atop a frozen shore, hands interlocked with each other. Their eyes seemed ablaze with the Comet's energy, their hands melding as they started to dissipate, the wind and the snow growing stronger each second until the frost made them one, an entire iceberg of sorts coalescing between them and growing taller and taller and taller until it approached the size of the Red Keep.

The Walkers were soon overtaken by their creation, trapped within it. Behind them more Walkers and countless wights marched towards the construct of ice and red might, seeking to enter it before it froze over completely and it started its journey. Joffrey recognized the distant outline of Tyrosh, its great black domes wrecked and in ruins as thousands upon thousands of wights marched out of the city; exquisitely dressed magisters and collared slaves joined in death as legions of the end.

Sansa took a deep breath as the thrum of the windows decreased in pitch, growing lesser until they dissipated into harsh colors that left Joffrey's ears ringing, fractals peeking out of the edges of his vision. His wife had been experimenting, leveraging their understanding of their own souls to use the Purple's own energy as a source of power, a replacement for blood in a way. Even damaged and battered, the Purple's power, energy store, breadth of fractals–however one wanted to call it- seemed enormous compared to the minute cuts she'd been taking.

The Deep Ones had said the Purple spent the eons between cycles recharging somehow… and the passing of the ages showed.

She smiled when she saw him, her right eye swirling from white to bright blue as the many birds took flight in a storm of squeaks and feathers. She hadn't found the place yet, she would have told him immediately if she had.

"You're brooding again," she said.

"I met with Zhantas and Hara on my way back…"

Sansa grunted, standing up with shaky legs. Joffrey went to help her up, and they shared a kiss before they walked out of the clearing. "More and more people are taking up the Last Rite…"

"I'd rather die sword in hand, but I admit there's a certain allure to going out in a frenzy of sex," he said, smiling despite his will. He'd been surprised to find out that the Summer Islanders had a prophecy of the Long Night as well, though their version was surprisingly fatalistic given how normally outgoing they were.

The innermost and most sacred trees, tended to in Tall Trees Town -itself a center of religion and tradition in the Summer Islands- held carvings which spoke of the end times. The times when snow would reach the lands of summer, when the dead would shamble from the far north across the sea and bring an end to the world entire. Perhaps it was not all that surprising that the people of the islands had embraced death on their own terms, after being confronted with the apparent truth of their teachings.

"How far are they?" he asked her.

"Those in the mainland? The southwestern force reached the Red Mountains yesterday, chasing the remains of Aegon's supporters as they flee for Dorne. They've fortified the mountain passes as well as they can, but I don't think they'll hold them for longer than a month or two."

"That iceberg in Tyrosh will be heading for them? Across the Sea of Dorne?"

"I don't think so, they were building it on the southern edge of the island. Walkers are straightforward, they might as well be pointing their fingers south en mass," said Sansa.

"Hm. Lys then." Joffrey held Sansa's hand as they reached the end of the rainforest.

"Probably. There's no need to hit Dorne from the sea, not with an undead dragon and thousands of flying wights bearing down upon the mountain passes…"

"Their progress is accelerating…" Joffrey shook his head, trying to bring his mind to more pleasant thoughts.

Fortunately, Sansa did it for him. "I saw you found the perfect wood by the White Grove."

He smiled proudly, "I did. She'll sail Sansa, oh she'll sail," he said, filled with anticipation as they reached their little house by the beach.

-: PD :-

That night they cuddled side by side over their bed, the sheets of tropical silk and red feathers drawn up high. Sansa lied stuck to Joffrey's back as they shared body heat, the pale yellow logs by the fireplace doing little to dispel the chill in the air.

They'd lived a good life here, in the Summer Islands. They'd worked diligently to expand the Purple into what it had once been, using only sensations and vague feelings to try and patch up a working they didn't even understand completely… trying to mold it as Joffrey had done to include Brightroar's sheath into the cycle. They'd made some progress, steeling their souls against the strain of death… though how far back they could go again was still a mystery.

For all that there'd been valid reasons to take their time this life, Sansa had enjoyed the reprieve from the constant danger and intrigues of the world entire. They'd needed the time so she could train with the candle they'd stolen from the Citadel, time for Joffrey to learn more of the module… but she hadn't truly realized how much she'd really needed this. Both of them. To truly rest after all the wars and the secrets. To just live day by day and not worry over the moves of lords and sorcerers, to not suffer so much for the fate of a world entire.

They'd sailed under the summer sun and fished rainbow colored trouts. They'd made good friends with neighbors and travelling priests and merchants. They'd spent entire days lazing about in the house they'd built with their own hands. They'd made love under the stars, the warm sand keeping the cold at bay.

And yet…

"Feels guilty, just lying here," she said. Her arm was draped over Joffrey's chest, feeling the slow cadence of his breathing.

"Why?" he asked, playing with her fingers.

"Robb's out there in Tarth right now, killing and maiming and playing the general until he makes one more mistake…"

"While we're here biding our time?" he said.

"He's just a boy Joff, he shouldn't be out there…"

"They grow up quickly in war… they always do," he whispered. "Have I ever told you about the Red Wolf?"

"Once or twice," she said with a slight smile.

He stopped playing with her hand suddenly, his fingers locked, "I still dream about him, some nights," he said, letting out a long breath of air as he resumed his fiddling, interlocking his fingers with Sansa's.

"I would find it hard not to."

"It's not the pain nor the violence that still haunts me… the focus of the nightmare changed, sometime between the Citadel and the Dawn Legion," he said, now caressing her arm. "It was the hollowness… Robb hadn't grown into a man. No, Robb Stark was dead inside, and no matter how many times that hammer fell, no matter how many of my bones he broke, he knew he'd never be alive again."

There was a moment of silence before Joffrey cleared his throat, "I'm not making it any better, am I?"

"Hm no, not really," she said, breathing deeply from Joffrey's hair and losing herself within the smell. Far from the stiff courtly perfumes, the sweat and grime and sea salt that often found its way into her husband's unruly mop held far more cherished memories. She sighed lowly, leaning into him as her mind returned to her family.

"It's kind of like the way Meera looked, when you told her Jon had died," she said.

"Similar in kind, though not in strength. I had taken everything from Robb, everything but war… that seems to be a common theme in his life, his destiny if you will. The way things happen if we don't oppose them with serious effort."

"What about Arya? I seem to recall she almost killed you once."

"Baelor's Sept," he said as if the memory pained him. "She should've gotten me there, by the rights of gods and men… She seems all over the place, looking back. Sometimes she fought and died after Robert's death, others she was taken hostage, a locked hellcat inside the Red Keep…" he snorted, "Once, I smuggled her outside the castle through a covered wagon just so she would leave me alone… only problem with that plan was that I didn't know how to drive one," he said with a little laugh.

Sansa chuckled with him; she could imagine it all too well.

"Mostly though, she tends to disappear," he finished quietly.

"I like to think she often makes it to Riverrun, and the Tully's keep it quiet so they can use her absence from the Red Keep as a bargaining chip against the Lannisters. For the eventual negotiations."

"… I think you may be giving your cousin too much credit."

She sighed, "Probably… you think she's alright? Wherever she is?"

"That one's willy, and hard to catch. For all we know she's in Volantis right now, convincing the rest of the Red Priests to sail west..."

She snorted, imagining her sister atop a stack of crates by the Red Temple of Volantis and pummeling every passerby with words… and fists. A long sigh escaped her lips, "Almost convinced me there. Running Arya. Brave little Arya." She grew quiet, "It's funny… I remember being so annoyed with her all the time. Like, righteously annoyed, something you'd level at someone who caused grievous personal harm."

"Like the Sealord after the table incident?"

Sansa chuckled silently, hiding her face in Joffrey's hair.

"After all this time you're still ashamed of that Sansa?"

"And the First Sword just standing there like a marble statue…"

They shared another chuckle at that.

She took a breath of fresh air, resting her cheek on Joffrey's head again. "Well, I suppose the hatred might've had a few similarities. But now when I remember my sister she just seems… I don't know, Impish? She's so gods-be-damned precocious," she said with a fond smile. "Running around with that sword and hopelessly trying to avoid her needlework… that really used to drive her up the wall…"

"Does, Sansa. Does drive her up the wall."

There was silence for a moment, and then Sansa breathed again. "We made fun of her, you know? Me and Jeyne… We and the other girls around Winterfell, we called her Arya Horseface… that was the least of the insults, though maybe the one she hated the most."

"It was just teasing. Besides, from what I know she gave as good as she got."

Sansa felt Joffrey's hand with her own, tracing the old woodworker's scars across the tip of his fingers. "Do you think she had a… a bad childhood?" She asked him, cringing at how the question had come out.

"All I can give is my opinion, and I think Arya is still a child and that she has a wonderful, caring family. That's a rarity and something you should rightfully feel proud about."

"That's sweet of you to say," Sansa whispered as she leaned back, looking at the ceiling.

Her sister was probably part of the horde shambling towards the Red Mountains, and yet here she lay, warm and comfortable. She dispelled the thoughts with a grunt, focusing on something useful.

"You're still undecided on Renly," she said.

"He's the perfect tilting dummy, why get rid of him early?" he asked as he turned to face her, supporting his head with an elbow.

"Don't be obtuse Joff, you know what I'm talking about. It's not about 'getting rid of him', it's about making him an ally."

"Can't be done Sansa, he's too enamored with the idea of being King. He'd grow to hate it, but he doesn't know that."

"Is it though? Is kingship what so obsesses Renly? He was not without reason when he fled the capital. Between Cercei and what he knew of the old you, he could have ended up…"

"Like Ned," finished Joffrey.

"Like father." Sansa nodded. "So there was a real fear for his life. Add to that the constant animosity between the two factions, and the fact that he'd been steadily sidelined from the keys of power by the Lannisters… especially after Jon Arryn's death… it's not hard to see why he would rebel."

"That's only part of the picture, dear. Renly thrives in court, he relishes the pomp and being at the center of it all, and I'm not sure Storms End is enough to sate his needs."

Sansa hummed, "I think that if we befriend him at the start, get him on side, and depending on the circumstances around Robert's death… we could delay any rash decisions. Once Robert is dead he can't complain about grasping Tyrell influence at court, so we could get them on side quickly as well."

Joffrey looked like he'd chewed something sour. "Bloody Tyrells… That'll mean a betrothal at least, probably two."

"Robb and Maergery could make a fine match, they cover each other's weaknesses," said Sansa, though she couldn't hide the slight animosity in her voice.

"And fill his innocent ears full of Tyrell poison," grumbled Joffrey.

"She's not that bad," said Sansa, finding herself in the uncomfortable position of having to defend Maergery Tyrell of all people. "We merely have to redirect her impulses to something more productive. Besides, Robb may be clueless about some things but he's enough of a Stark to-"

He scoffed, interrupting her, "I have a counterargument to that. It's called Jeyne Westerling."

"Well of course the other choice is Tommen, how's that for a sacrificial lamb to the Tyrells?"

"Gods, please no."

"I thought so," she said, crossing her arms.

"Okay, get the Tyrells on board. Make Renly feel safe and… I guess we could also make him Master of Ambassadors, that job will practically be pomp and feasting most of the time… at least before the War for Dawn."

"Good idea. We'll have to handle it carefully so he doesn't see it as a demotion from Master of Laws," she said. "What about Stannis?"

"He's in the shed, what about him?" he said.

She resisted the urge to slap a hand over her face… or his. "Honey, that joke grew old the day after you bought him from Bonol. "

Joffrey smiled. She knew he was laughing on the inside, the damned joke never grew old on him.

He grew serious after a moment, a frown dominating his features, "There I truly see no other choice. The man's rightfully convinced I'm not Robert's son and there's nothing we can do to change his mind... besides, he's the other readily available tilting dummy," he added somewhat sheepishly. "No short victorious war at the beginning and we'll have lords chafing and testing the boundaries everywhere. We'll be thrice as slow preparing the realm for Winter."

Sansa hummed, deep in thought. "True. And from what we know of him he wouldn't be deterred even if he only had a sword and one man to his name. Five thousand levies plus whatever mercenaries he manages to pick up… they're not the hundred thousand Army of the Reach. We won't have as incredible a victory as last time… "

"I'll just have to smash that Aegon dunce harder then. I hope you're not going to suggest we befriend him too?"

"Of course not." Sansa scoffed, "He needs to die, and preferably by your hand. It's a self-feeding problem though… With no warrior king reputation he'll have an easier time gathering support. We don't know how much of Varys' work in the Vale was after Jon Arryn's death. He may have been sowing the ground for a restoration decades ago; Aegon could count on half the Vale if he's lucky and we're not, or Dorne in its entirety if Doran backs him like in this life… maybe even both. With those numbers it'll be harder to get a crushing victory to truly cement our rule."

Joffrey leaned back as he drummed fingers over his chest. "Regular victory would cement it too, just not in the same way… We need to receive him on a prepared beach head, crush him utterly and hand out the Golden Company's famed bracelets to the Guardsmen and the lords and knights… it would be almost impossible to get there in time though."

"What about catching him out at sea?"

"That would be even better, though even harder to accomplish. No real way to intercept… by the time we knew he'd decided on a beach head he'd be landing already. We could block off escape with the Royal Fleet though."

Sansa brushed her hair, "What we need is information."

"Varys won't break."

She looked down to her hands, examining her wrists.

Her husband's mouth twitched. "You're planning something."

"Just a second string for our bow. I'm not even sure if it'll work. For now we should move forward on the assumption that both Dorne and the Vale will rise up in rebellion around year three or four."

"Blood and Mud," said Joffrey. "… Do you really think he's a Blackfyre?"

"The Illyrio Mopatis connection seems to point in that direction… besides, his blood… it was powerful Joff. The winds I brought forth from it almost tore the ship's sails. We should have taken half as long to reach Oldtown."

"Hm. That would explain why he was so useless promoting Daenerys' and Viserys' cause. It wouldn't have made sense to just use her as an expensive distraction if he'd really been a Targeryen loyalist." Joffrey frowned, scratching his small beard. "Speaking of her, what about Daenerys?"

"Joff, no."

"I'll wear you down eventually," he said with a goofy grin.

"We handle her cleanly. No dragon choirs, no catapults, and definitively no exploding Harrenhall." Sansa's cheeks turned red as she smiled. It soon dissipated though, as they remembered the specter of her second coming to Westeros. There would be no dealing with Daenerys and her dreams of righteous rule.

Between rumor, word of mouth from merchants and then refugees, and plentiful use of the glass candle, Sansa had been able to reconstruct some of the broad happenings of her homeland these past few years. She didn't know what changes had influence Daenerys Targeryen this time, but her initial conquest had been far less brutal in the beginning. Her conquest of King's Landing had been much cleaner than last time, though her rule had been chaotic from the start. In time, the strain of rule had obviously been too much for the famously unstable Targaryen psyche to handle.

The Faith Militant had been reestablished by Cersei in a fit of stupidity that had been out of all proportion even for her, and Daenerys had inherited the mess. Her attempts at dealing with them had swung from extreme to extreme, from bribing them with gold and privileges to holding public beheadings on Baelor's Plaza. Aegon, her supposed cousin, had refused to recognize her authority, and she had refused his offer of marriage. Aegon himself had been pushed out of the Stormlands and back to Dorne by the Tyrells, where he'd decided to wait out the clash between Daenerys and the Lannister-Tyrell coalition.

Said clash had been brutal. Tywin's stratagem actually managed to kill Viseryon out near the God's Eye, though it cost him his army and in all likelihood his life, for he was never heard of again. Most of the Westerlands' chivalry perished with him.

After the Second Field of Fire, Daenerys had grown even more erratic. The Reach devolved into a civil war of its own, and she flew there herself to aid her chosen factions. On her absence, the Faith Militant grew bolder, to the point of actually storming the Red Keep as their fanaticism spread to the countryside.

Events grew less clear as the continent dissolved into anarchy, the march of the Others adding fuel to the fire. Robb led the North's survivors back down the Neck as the Walkers marched behind them, his outriders pillaging what was left of the Riverlands and riding into the Crownlands. By then Daenerys had already burnt Baelor's Sept to the ground with most of the upper leadership of the Faith and the Faith Militant still inside, unleashing wide scale religious war within the Crownlands as her unsullied were hacked apart in the streets by the smallfolk. Drogon had been carrying out fire breathing runs on Fleabottom when Ser Barristan Selmy had unclasped his white cloak, taken his sword out, and pinned Daenerys to the throne she'd loved so much.

Three days later, when she'd carried her gaze across the sea through the glass candle's distorted light, all that'd remained of King's Landing had been a giant crater, still smoking with Wildfire.

Burn them all, Daenerys had screamed as Ser Barristan ran her through. Sansa shivered.

She was taken out of her reverie by the Red Comet blinking unknowingly in the distance, lying still over the frozen north.

"… We should do it soon. Safer than way…" whispered Joffrey. He was gazing northwards, his eyes peering beyond.

Sansa looked at the things they'd hung over the walls of the small bedroom: Bright tapestries made of tropical feathers, wooden masks bearing prayers to the Gods of Love and Hearth, paintings of the Tyroshi skyline. Small model swanships hanged from the ceiling, the strong yet precise cuts revealing his husband's chisel. "I don't think we've ever lived so calm a life… it's eerie."

"Feels like the quiet before the storm, doesn't it?" he asked her.

She sighed, gripping him tighter.

"We'll be ready this time. We were made for this," he said, his eyes alight with certainty. Small Purple fractals came alive over his hand, his breathing steady as he sought to bring forth his soul into their reality.

"You've made progress," Sansa whispered, watching as his whole forearm glowed with Purple light. The fractals weaved over it, forming the outlines of a bracer and gauntlet.

"The trick was to bring it to something physical. Something material our minds can imagine," he said, looking at his arm. The Purple was solidifying, the contours acquiring weight as Joffrey took another deep breath. He'd told her the module depicted the weight of the Purple streaming out of his own soul, surrounding it rather than holding it within. A way to bend the tune of the Song.

"And of course the first thing you thought of was armor," she said, a chiding smile on her lips as she looked at the gauntlet. She was fascinated by the way it grew around his hand, slowly pushing hers away. It was black, sporting a million indentations so close to each other that it felt smooth to the touch; they were the fractals of the Purple, carved directly into the piece of armor in swirling patterns of right angles. Sansa swore she could glimpse stars far within the void of the dark gauntlet, the distant dots sweeping in and out of her vision as Joffrey tilted his hand. It still felt warm to her touch.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked him.

He smiled, "It's hard to explain. Conversations with Captain Shah. The sound of my gauntlets striking Ser Robar during the battle in Renly's camp. The feeling I had when I reached the peak of the Mountains of the Moon. The weight of my armor back in the Dawn Fort. My lessons with the Archmaesters; Benedict's hands guiding my own as I held the hammer, Valleyn pointing to the stars…" he trailed off, looking at the gauntlet. "It feels as if I were giving voice to them. All those feelings. Experiences. Distilled into the Song right in front of me."

Sansa caressed his hand as the gauntlet melted into nothing, her eyes finding his. They would make it right. For their friends and family, for the people they would rule.

For all the living.

-: PD :-

The Pebble Lodge was a tavern in all but name … though perhaps calling it a brothel would not be incorrect either, from a Westerosi point of view. The building was held up by tall timbers over the mouth of the River Jhol; it was a homely affair of stools and tables, tall torches and thatched roofs. Half of it was bereft of walls, letting the warm breeze from the ocean carry on into its interior.

Bonol was red faced, holding his fist over his mouth so the spittle wouldn't hit Joffrey. "And then he said, 'tis only a little cat, Hara'!" he said.

Joffrey slammed the table with his hand repeatedly as he struggled for air, "If that panther doesn't kill you Zhantas then-"

"-I will!" finished Talthas, chuckling loudly. The three of them were in one of the outdoor tables, looking out to the sapphire blue sea. The crystal clear water lapped gently against the tall timbers, rocking the tied canoes in a lullaby of creaking wood. Joffrey memorized the scene so he could paint it later.

He knew the beautiful scenery was deceptive though. Not even the Summer Islands could be completely aloof from the end of the world, for the winter chills drew ever southwards, far in advance of the White Walker's floating islands of ice. Raiders and Corsairs also drifted like flotsam from the north, the more desperate among them raiding the isles' shores for supplies before making south for Sothoryos. The idea was to hug the great continent's shoreline as they sailed south in search of warmer climates which would deter the Others. Hara had always pitied them, for all that she'd crushed their skulls more than once when they'd raided Ebonhead.

"Hara." Joffrey chuckled, holding up his wooden mug. "Here's to both of them."

The other two Summer Islanders clashed their mugs with Joffrey's, and all three downed the spicy rum in one quaff. Joffrey leaned back, the sweet spice tingling nostalgia, sorrow, and contentment. Celebrating the dead with rum was a time honored tradition in the Summer Islands, and Joffrey found the liquid oddly fitting for the task. The dead should be remembered with joy, for sorrow there was aplenty.

They kept honoring their friends, the afternoon sun keeping the chill at bay as fishermen returned in their catamarans carrying clams, octopuses, and broad-leafed salmon. Joffrey leaned back on the pillar to his back, frowning when he heard that eerie laughter in the distance yet again.

For all that the sound was pleasant to the ear, there was something about it that seemed deeply unnatural to Joffrey, though his friends all had blank stares when he asked them.

"I need to pee. Don't finish that bottle without me!" he told them.

Bonol looked away innocently as Talthas winked at Joffrey. "I'll keep it out of his grubby hands Joff, don't you worry," he said.

"Yeah, and keep it in yours," said Bonol.

Joffrey walked through the men and women serving seafoods and carrying tall pitchers of rum or coconut wine, frowning again when he heard another run-away chuckle. He drifted past islanders embracing each other over long palm leaves that served as impromptu mattresses of sorts, sharing their passion with men, women; whoever wanted to partake in the moment. A Westerosi would liken the place to a house of pleasure, but in truth free love was a principle that was lived by in every corner of the Summer Islands. If anything, lodges were a bit more formal.

He followed the unnatural sound through the indoor section of the Pebble Lodge as another runaway chuckle raised the hair at the nape of his neck, and turned around a wooden wall to the sight of Tywin Lannister laughing like a madman.

He sat with two beautiful islander women perched atop his knees, the first as dark as the ebonwood around them, contrasting the much more clear nut-brown complexion of the second. Both of them were laughing wildly, red-faced as if they'd heard the best joke in existence. Tywin was dressed in islander fashion, with a cloak of bright feathers connected by a beautifully carved goldenwood brooch, worn over a more traditional doublet and ox-hide breeches. An arming sword was strapped to his belt, very similar to Joffrey's.

Joffrey stood there, stunned as Tywin said something that had the two women laughing again, his own deep timbered chuckle making Joffrey's hair stand on edge. He shook his head good naturedly, gripping the ebon-dark woman's buttocks as he leaned back, his relaxed gaze falling on Joffrey.

He tensed, just as shocked as Joffrey as they stared at each other like gaping fish.

Joffrey was still processing the sight of Tywin Lannister laughing when the man himself stood up, the women by his sides looking at him in confusion as he mumbled something. Joffrey was about to say something when the man suddenly bolted, making a run for the window.

Spoiler: Music

"Wait!" shouted Joffrey, breaking into a run and knocking a serving woman over, rum spilling over his doublet as Tywin leaped out the window. Joffrey reached the windowsill seconds after, watching Tywin break his fall with a perfect roll before regaining his feet and sprinting down the wide wooden bridge-street, running away from the beach and towards the tall houses of central Ebonhead.

Joffrey leapt down one of the tall timbers instead, sliding down until he reached river-level. He sprinted through the tied canoes, long jumps carrying him from one to the other as he looked up and to his right.

Tywin ran like a startled dear, knocking fishermen and port hands out of his way. Joffrey ran parallel to him, dodging the town's pillars and using rows of jointly-tied canoes as an impromptu walkway. He cursed when he realized the line of tied canoes came to an end abruptly, his head swiveling widely for new targets as he refused to lose momentum and kept running. He leapt and landed on an untied one, the startled fisherman shouting at him before he jumped to another one. The next canoe tilted over as he jumped from it with all his strength, spilling both sailor and freshly caught fish into the river as he reached one of the tall timbers barely, a painful thump reverbing through his chest. He climbed upwards as the fishermen insulted his line up to three generations back, using the pillar and the discarded, tied lengths of rope as a ladder.

"Sansa!" he shouted at the seagulls perched on the railing above him, startling them into a ruckus of shrill cries and feathers.

This couldn't be happening. What the hells was Tywin Lannister doing in Ebonhead?!

He vaulted over the railing when he reached the top of the wooden walkway held by the pillar, now into the town proper as Tywin slid under a stand selling boiled clams, just a few steps in front of him. "Hey!" Joffrey shouted, running over a nearby table and scattering mugs and dishes as he used it to jump over the stall without losing speed. The Lord Paramount broke right, turning for an alleyway of sorts between two big ebonwood houses. Joffrey ducked below an angry butcher, pushed aside a startled peacock trader, and sprinted for a stack of crates. He jumped over one, then two, and finally a third as he leaped into the roof of one of the houses. The teak creaked under his feet as he scrammed after Tywin, the man making for the eastern edge of town as a wide winged pelican flew above him, periodically making out low, hoarse calls as it kept station with him.

He leapt from roof to roof, the houses reaching dry land as the wooden boards below were replaced by sand and mud. Tywin looked behind him, his run losing speed for a second before Joffrey leapt from above, tackling him into the ground and making both of them roll with the force of the landing.

Tywin's expression seemed irreverent, and the mere sight made Joffrey shudder and loosen the grip on the doublet. "Come to take my head before the end of the world eh?! What did Tywin offer you? One last arselick before the Eternal Winter?!" he shouted, slamming his head against Joffrey's nose.

Joffrey recoiled, blindly blocking a haymaker with his right arm. He socked Tywin on the jaw with his other fist before they devolved into wrestling, spinning on the sand before they reached a deadlock of tangled arms and locked legs. He took the time to really stare at the man's face, and frowned. It was eerily similar to Tywin's, but seemed younger and filled with laugh lines for all that the man was scowling at him right now.

Joffrey resisted a push to shove him aside, slamming back Tywin's hands against the sand. His long blonde hair was braided in intricate, interlocking ponytails: southern islander fashion Tywin would have sooner killed himself than be seen sporting in public.

"You're not Tywin!" said Joffrey.

"And thank the heavens for that!" said not-Tywin, speaking the common tongue with a thick Westerlands accent. "Else my diarrhea would have devalued the realm's coin years ago!"

"What?"

"It's the long-eels, very tasty but you might as well drink wildfire!" he said, using the distraction to change the lock on Joffrey's legs and flip their positions. Joffrey went with the move, taking not-Tywin's knee to the belly before he used the momentum to roll again and pin the man against the sand once more. He head-butted the bastard for good measure, leaving him slightly dazed.

"Move and the sand will drink your blood, foreigner." Joffrey couldn't see who had spoken, but he felt the edge of steel against his neck. He tilted his head minutely, spotting the same ebon skinned woman from earlier in the lodge out the corner of his eye. She held herself regally, standing tall and holding a short spear in her hands whose end could nick Joffrey's neck in half a second.

"Swanlord, are you unharmed?" she asked slowly, her tone far more formal than he'd heard her speak before.

"He is, but you won't be if you so much as scratch my husband's skin," said Sansa, her voice coming from behind him as the woman grew tense and immobile… probably feeling a dagger by the side of her neck right now.

"Well, it seems we're in a bit of an impasse," said not-Tywin. "And as much as your nubile body tempts me, I don't do family... so you might as well get up and go back to Tywin with your tail tucked in."

"You're not Tywin," Joffrey said again, frowning.

"Have you ever seen Tywin laugh? Seven hells, no wonder you look like you've seen a ghost… Wait, does this mean you're not a Lannisport cousin looking for my head on a platter?" he asked, raising his eyebrows hopefully.

"Why would we want to curry favor with him? The Westerlands doesn't even exist anymore," Sansa's voice floated from behind.

"Tywin laugh… a laughing lion…" muttered Joffrey, staring at the awfully familiar man's face. "Great-uncle Gerion?"

"Surprise?" said Gerion, examining Joffrey's face. He looked thoughtful, "Huh… Great-uncle indeed. There's no mistaking it, you look like Jaime's spit at that age. You're his or Cersei's?"

"Both," said Joffrey.

"Oh," said Gerion.

"Swanlord?" asked the spearwoman.

The pelican landed next to Gerion with a thud, gazing at him closely with a beady eye.

"It's so uncanny," muttered Sansa. "Can you laugh one more time?"

-: 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 61: Heralds.

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Feb 26, 2019

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Chapter 61: Heralds.

"It was my greatest work. The best trick I ever played on Tywin." Gerion chuckled, leaning back on his wooden canopy chair. "It's almost a shame he never realized how thoroughly he'd been fooled…"

"So you never even set foot on fallen Valyria?" said Joffrey. He, Gerion, and Sansa were sitting back on the canopy chairs the islanders seemed to favor so much, which seemed more bed than chair to Joffrey in any case. They were resting on the Temple of Nivanze's outer terrace, slightly tired after the long walk from Ebonhead.

The place had a peaceful view to the west, the afternoon sun glinting slightly orange as it sought to sink beneath the Sunset Sea. The Red Comet was clearly visible by now, glowing crimson far to the North. Joffrey shuffled, scratching his neck. He wasn't entirely confortable here… For all he knew, Zhantas and Hara had died in this very room…

Gerion snorted, "Valyria? Madness." He shook his head before sipping from the holed coconut in his hands. "I cared less than a rat's arse for Brightroar and the supposed legacy of our House, may it serve as King Tommen's tombstone… though it seemed exactly the kind of idea that Tywin's impetuous little brother would fixate on." Sitting beside him, the differences with Tywin were obvious. His features were less stern, less bundled up and locked away than his brother's. The almost-brown tan should have been a dead giveway.

"And what better place to 'disappear' than Valyria?" said Sansa, smiling despite herself.

"What better place indeed! It worked perfectly. Half my crew 'deserted' in Volantis, making sure everyone heard we'd made it to the city and were preparing to sail east. The slaves we bought as replacement crew were manumitted two days away from the city, out of a supposed guilt attack on my part so I could 'make peace' with the Father before risking my soul sailing into the Smoking Sea. That part of the cover story never got through though… poor wretches were probably re-enslaved by the local magisters before they could spread the tale."

"And then?" asked Joffrey.

He leaned forward, growing more animated as he told the story. "We sailed to an abandoned bay near the Smoking Sea, where the 'deserters' lay waiting for us. We repainted the Laughing Lion, changed the figurehead to a harpy, and cut our sails into a more triangular pattern while my carpenters changed the spread of the oars. The Laughing Lion sailed into the Smoking Sea and was never seen again, but the Zaqnak na Kamdz was just another Ghiscari trader sailing south for Walano."

"That mustn't have turned well when you reached Lotus Port though," Sansa said after a moment. "Islanders hate the Ghiscary and all but slavers avoid the Islands."

Gerion chuckled, his cheeks growing a tiny bit red. "Well I didn't know that back then. Never listened to my Maester all that much, and I was much more interested on the inhabitants' other qualities... In the end we sorted out the misunderstanding though. Some of the crew were happy in Walano, but I wanted to put as much distance between myself and Tywin lest he learned of my presence somehow. I figured I'd make a quiet living here in Jhala, fishing out of Ebonhead or hells, maybe even entertaining the locals. That would have given Tywin a heart attack if he'd found me!"

"Another layer of security," said Joffrey, hiding a smirk. For all that Gerion had striven to get away from Tywin's shadow, it seemed a tiny bit of its shade still clung to him.

"Of course, anyone that knows Gerion can see where that plan would have failed," said Nadhata as she swayed into the room, her saunter so improper even a lowly wench from fleabottom would have blushed. It made for a strange contrast to the wealth and dignity of her dress; her exposed arms were peppered with sapphires and emeralds twinned with white ebon roots, and her head was crowned by many feathers of a dozen different colors. The pattern of her long flowing dress resembled a butterfly's; wide circles of blue and black lined with streaks of white.

Joffrey hid a shudder. He'd always been uneasy around butterflies after Naath.

The tall, ebon skinned High Priestess seemed much more relaxed now that Gerion was out of mortal danger, her spear lying idle by the wall. She spoke the Common Tongue with a sweet, lilting accent, "I think he tried the quiet life of the fisherman for a grand total of one week before he started making a ruckus," she said, smiling as she slid to his side by the long canopy chair and sneaked a hand under his doublet.

Even after several years living here, Joffrey still found the easy intimacy of the Islanders bizarre. It all got even more complicated with Nadhata, as her own sexuality was a holy component of her office; a carrying out of her duties as important as a sermon was to a Septon. Gerion didn't even flinch, embracing the High Priestess by the belly and sitting her over him.

He'd really gone native.

"I started sailing with the swanships of Prince Dorrol Xhox, patrolling the trade routes for corsairs and slavers. The pay was good, the company better, and I got to hold a sword again." He shivered theatrically, "I still have nightmares about searching for that damned fishing rod, spending hours diving around the bay as it slipped my fingers again." He paused, leaning towards Sansa with a furtive air as Nadhata stroked his shoulders gently, "Sometimes I dreamt I had actually sailed into the Smoking Sea, but instead of Brightroar I was searching for that blasted rod."

Sansa laughed, "Not a fisherman's life for you then. But how did you become Prince Dorrol's Swanlord of all things?"

Gerion smirked, "Why, by climbing the ladder the hard way!" he said. Soon he was explaining some of his exploits, from raunchy happenings in Lotus Town to ludicrous escapes from New Ghis and everything in between; he gained the Prince of Sweet Lotus Vale's respect throughout the years as he was promoted to captain, then to Sail-lord, and finally to Swanlord: overall commander of all of his liege's fleets.

Nadhata smiled often. For all that Gerion had been living the life of an Islander, it seemed he had never been able to completely shed his Westerosi roots; half his stories involved Nadhata in some way, and it was obvious he regarded her as his wife in all but name. Gerion himself was funny, light hearted, and someone with a passion for living. He could see why Tyrion had loved him, one of the few lights within Casterly Rock as he grew up…

Joffrey felt his lips thin, thinking about his own uncle. "He always remembered you, you know?" he said all of a sudden. Gerion stopped mid-sentence, mouth clamping shut. "Jaime loved you, but Tyrion always looked up to you as… well, everything he could aspire to be in life," said Joffrey.

Gerion looked troubled, "I… leaving my nephews. It was the hardest part," he said, growing just a tad somber. "I almost took Tyrion with me."

"He would have liked that," said Joffrey.

"Did he have... a bad time, after I left?"

Joffrey frowned, tapping the chair, "No, I wouldn't say so. Things took a strain on him though. Without you around Tywin needed another target to discharge the family blame on, and Tyrion was the only acceptable target at hand. Jaime did what he could from what I understand, but Tyrion still had a few difficult years. Never stopped having them really, he just grew thicker skin."

Gerion scowled, shame and anger mixing within his features.

"You've already made your choices, golden one," Nadhata said in the Summer Tongue, "Do not let the past hold you." The abrupt revelation that Joffrey had been born of both his nephew's hadn't phased Gerion as much as this, and that spoke of a very open mind… that or he'd really gone native, as he'd seen a few Islanders do.

"I don't regret coming here. I've lived a good life, far better than I could have if I'd stayed at Tywin's side like a discount Kevan… what I've heard from Westeros only seems to confirm that," he said, pressing his lips.

"You don't sound convinced," said Sansa.

Gerion sighed, looking north. "It feels selfish sometimes. Jaime, Tyrion, Cersei… I left them all as pawns to Tywin, and that was never going to end well. And that's leaving aside this whole… end of the world thing."

Joffrey nodded. While he could understand him, he couldn't condone what he'd done. His long lives had seen him run from Westeros a thousand times, but he would die his last death there, fighting for kith and kin.

One last time, he thought.

"If you'd had a chance of saving your family from the Walkers… Would you have taken it?" he asked his great-uncle almost abruptly.

"Absolutely," said Gerion, "If I'd known what to do, what was coming…" he trailed off, eyes lost.

Joffrey took a sip from his own coconut wine. The Summer Islanders liked mixing their drinks inside fresh coconuts, and the sweet flavor did a lot to help him be at ease in this place. The Temple of Nivanze, whom Nadhata was High Priestess of, was the place where the people of Sweet Lotus Vale often came for their Last Rites. The stone-and-mahogany temple boasted several floors with wide open windows; altars of lovemaking where the people would eat poisonous fruits and die making love to each other.

Nadhata often guided the ritual, especially for those marginalized by mainstream Islander society for one reason or the other; those who found themselves alone with no one to die with often came to Nadhata herself. She took to that task with transcendent fervor, guiding their souls to death through ecstasy, herself an instrument of divine mandate so that her people could die on their terms.

And not on those of the Walkers.

Joffrey accommodated his doublet, warding off the cold chill coming from the sea.

"Father! Father!" shouted big Tytos, running through the dirt trail that connected the beach to the terrace. He looked enormous for his sixteen namedays, showing the height and girth of a Summer Islander. Of course, the long lines of Lannister gold that flew behind him as he ran, of a color with his eyebrows, gave away his heritage. Gerion's jaw was unmistakable too.

"Found another ribbed octopus?" Gerion asked with a smile as the couple reached the terrace. Tytos' big sister Mdeta ran close behind, flushed from the long run. She seemed the polar opposite of Tytos, her skin as fair as Myrcella's but with hair as frizzled and wavy as a dark coral reef.

"Father, it's a ship. Dark lanteen sails, heading for the beach below!" said Tytos.

"Ghiscary." Gerion said the word as if it were a curse. He scrambled to his feet as Nadhata got up and grabbed her spear.

"My love, we need to secure the Temple," she said urgently.

"Go, and tell my Honorguard to help you!"

"What about you?!"

"Nephew, how good are you with that sword?" he said instead, looking at Joffrey.

Joffrey had stood up already, his arming sword in his hand as he craned his neck, working out the stiffness after lying in the canopy for chair too long. "Good enough," he said.

"We'll buy you time to prepare the Temple, I'll meet you there!" Gerion said, looking at Nadhata.

She stared at him for a second before shaking her head, "You can get the man out of Westeros…" she said with an irritated smile. She threw her spear to Sansa before vaulting the railing behind them and running up the sloped trail for the temple proper.

"Tytos-" Gerion cut himself off when his son took a heavy ebonwood shield from below the chair where he'd been laying an hour ago, a bastard sword of distinct Westerosi make in his other hand. His sister stood by his side, taking a long string from her pouch.

"We're going," he said with those defiant green eyes which must have confronted every Lannister father in history…

All except one, thought Joffrey, shaking his head as Sansa tested the weight of the short stabbing spear. "Must be raiders. Anything else and they'd be heading for Ebonhead," she said.

"Agreed. We can delay them on the beach. If we give 'em a bloody nose, they may turn back," said Joffrey.

Gerion nodded, "Let's go!" he said, taking out his own arming sword and dashing down the path. Joffrey followed him, buffeting aside wide leaves of green and white, blue feathered birds squeaking in surprise and flying out of their way.

They broke out of the rainforest at a run, and Joffrey shielded his eyes from the sun as he spotted the Ghiscary galley. There was still time to contest the beachhead. Even a handful of men could hold it, depending on the number of boats launched from the invading ship.

He immediately knew something was wrong however, spotting the slashed sails and the barely moving oars. They seemed disordered, most of them not even paddling water and merely moving in circles around the air.

"Helmsman must be drunk…" said Gerion, shielding his eyes as well. The ship wasn't even making for the beach, just kind of drifting towards the shoreline. "She'll break on those reefs by the north," he said, pointing to the right side of the beach.

"Sansa, can you peer ahead?" Joffrey asked his wife.

She planted the spear on the sand by his side, and let out a long breath of air as she joined her hands over belly. Her eyes closed as the wind picked up, calming her mind as she listened for the Song. The power afforded by Varys' blood had run out long ago, but the Purple was plentiful and a force orders of magnitude stronger than mere mortal blood.

Gerion said nothing as he eyed her, his gaze quickly returning to the ship. "No watchmen either," he said. Tytos seemed more nervous, shuffling with the strap of his dark shield as he stared at Sansa sideways. He held his weapons in the classical sword and board style of the Seven Kingdom's, like a knight would.

The swirling vortex of distorted light slowly expanded into a small circle in front of Sansa, Purple fractals clinging around the air as if that section of reality was a painting, a flat space with no depth. The circle revealed the darkened hold of the Ghiscary ship, skeletons shuffling against each other and scraping pieces of rotten flesh whenever they clashed against the unmanned oars.

Spoiler: Music

"Wights," hissed Sansa.

"What?! So far south?" said Gerion.

"Any Walkers?" Joffrey shouted over the grave droning of the circle.

"None that I can see!" said Sansa.

Mdeta gasped, shaking her eyes from Sansa and the shimmering lights. She seemed the most stunned by far, but she turned to Gerion quickly anyway, "Father, does that mean Walano-"

"No, we would have known."

"It's going to crash!" Joffrey shouted.

The Ghiscary ship kept leaning towards its side as a gust of wind inflated its ragged sails, the derelict smashing into the reefs a hundred meters from the beach. It wailed like a wounded kraken as it tore through another jagged rock, water flooding the lower compartments as it sank and tilted sideways towards the beach. It grounded itself between dark red corals, wights shrieking to the wind as they tumbled overboard and splashed against the crystal waters of the Summer Sea.

"We should get back to the Temple, we'll be overwhelmed," said Gerion.

"No, they'll catch us in the rainforest. We make our stand here!" said Joffrey.

Gerion's sight leapt from Joffrey to Sansa, and back again as his face paled. "You've fought them before?"

"A hundred times!"

The wights scuttled towards the beach like spiders, obscuring themselves with all the splashing water that couldn't quite hide their eerie blue eyes. Gerion cursed, shaking his head, "Command us then!"

Joffrey didn't waste time as he turned to Gerion's daughter. "Mdeta! Aim for the chests or the eyes if you can!" he shouted as more wights emerged from the holes in the ship, others crawling out of storm hatches.

Mdeta nodded frantically, taking a step forward and disentangling the goldenheart longbow from her back. She nocked a long shafted arrow taken from the quiver tied to her belt, the steel tip glinting in the afternoon sun as she drew the bow. She took a deep breath as she aimed up and slightly to her left, holding that position for a second before letting go with a grunt.

The broadhead slammed into one of the scuttling wight's eyes with surprising force, tossing it back beneath the waves. It floated back up, inanimate as Mdeta drew again.

"We'll countercharge as soon as they reach the shoreline, covering each other's backs! We can't let them form up!" shouted Joffrey. Wights were not as stupid as the uninitiated often thought; they were capable of basic tactical thinking beyond a straight charge, when it suited them. Those wights would reach the beach and form up, waiting for their brethren before the charge… they would have to bring the fight to them. "Tytos, take the front and use that shield! Gerion will cover your flank while Mdeta keeps shooting! Sansa…" he trailed off when he looked at her.

"Shove and kill, dear?" asked his wife, feeling the length of the spear with her hands.

"You know me." Joffrey smiled.

She snorted, twirling her spear into a low guard.

Mdeta tore the jaw off the lead wight with another arrow, but it kept scrambling for them. They were Ghiscary alright, sporting corsair cutlasses and boarding axes.

How to explain this?! Joffrey thought as the wights reached the beach, feet sinking into the sand as they fought against the waves.

"Don't worry about the sorcery!" he shouted, holding back a bit of hysterical laughter at the absurdity. Sansa was still keeping an eye out for Walkers, though there didn't seem to be any. Joffrey waited until the first wights shambled into the beach, soaked to the bones as their comrades behind trundled over knee-high water. "Now!" He roared as he charged, materializing Brightroar and illuminating the hungering faces with Purple.

His arming sword parried the cutlass as Brightroar cleaved the offending wight's chest in two, still running as he spun and slammed the arming sword against the next wight's skull, this time Brightroar parrying the axe before cutting off the dead man's hand.

He was soon in the thick of it, charging left and right as the wights reached the shoreline and he pummeled them back into the sand. Soon they began to surround him, but Sansa was Joffrey's own shadow, shoving wights back with her spear's blade and butt. She held it above her head as Joffrey crouched slightly and she thrust at a flanking wight, shoving it back into the water. She spun with her husband, switching to a low guard and slamming the length of wood down a wight's neck like a hook, pushing it down where Joffrey cut his neck with a backswing of Brightroar . They were back to back as she tripped a wight and slammed its skull against the sand with the butt of her spear, quickly reversing the grip and hitting another one which sought to attack Joffrey from his blind spot.

Tytos had charged the arriving wights like a bull, slamming aside the first one with his shield and bringing down his sword on top of another one, sundering its head. His bastard sword seemed more like an axe as it tore through two wights cleanly, leaving only one that sought to ram its cutlass through Tytos' chest. He covered himself just in time though, taking the blow and using the kite shield as an anvil against his own sword as he cut off the wight's arm brutally. Gerion was by his side, fighting like a veteran sailor would; one handed sword parrying and slashing, his other hand grappling and tossing wights aside and against each other.

More wights reached the shoreline, shrieking in pain and hatred as they climbed the beach and emerged from the waves, scrabbling at the sand. Joffrey felt like an apprentice under Archmaester Benedict again, though instead of hammering steel he struck the skulls and spines of crawling wights, one standing up for every other he took down. One wight made it past Sansa's constant over watch, ducking under her spear and slamming against Joffrey. It tackled him from the side and against the muck, arming sword tumbling out of his hand.

'The Watchers of Stars.' He heard Shah's voice in his mind. He breathed in the smell of the Riverlands, the blood scurrying over the torn grain fields as soldiers made a pyre for Lord Darry's men. He felt the inescapable weight of the Dawn Commander's Armor. Wide eyed Onerays stood up and saluted, fists thumping against their chests.

He wrestled with the wight as his arms glowed Purple, fractals drawing long vambraces of darkest black, the color of the night sky. He struck the wight with one of his gauntlets, scraping flesh and bone with the three feline claws of dark metal melded over the knuckles. The piece felt as heavy as steel plate, but Joffrey moved as if he were unarmored, rolling with the wight and slamming his fist down on its shoulder joint, tearing it apart and severing an arm.

He blocked its clattering jaw with his other arm as it bit the bracer, blue eyes alight before a goldenwood arrow destroyed its skull as it zipped by, shards of bone cutting his face and peppering the sand.

Joffrey shoved the corpse aside as he rolled, avoiding an axe to the chest as Sansa roared and broke the offending wight's spine with the hardwood of her spear, shadowblade extending from her right wrist and slicing through another one as she followed him, her cover growing frantic.

The whole crew must have died almost at the same time, else they would have thrown the bodies overboard.

Joffrey could imagine it, a silent blizzard of hale and snow numbing the watchmen and making sure the sleeping seamen would never wake again. He rolled under another blow, his legs tangling the wight and making it fall to the side.

He saw Mdeta retreat backwards as four wights sprinted around him and Sansa. She nailed one at point blank range, shattering its ribcage as the other three reached her.

Joffrey let out a long breath of air as Stars formed out of dust and Purple, ramming the wights like a runaway mining cart and tearing one of them apart under his paws. Mdeta shuffled backwards, stunned, but her hands kept moving and she drew again, getting the surviving wight in the neck and making its skull fall to the sand, blue eyes still alight. She seemed to be whispering the same words over and over as she nocked again, looking at Joffrey.

Joffrey was already on his feet, retreating with Sansa as wights surrounded them. Gerion and Tytos were almost at their side, fighting their way back to Mdeta and Stars as well, overwhelmed by the entire crew of a Ghiscary corsair. "Joff, There's too many of them!" shouted Sansa. She never stopped moving, her spear in constant motion and her shadowblades occasionally emerging from her wrists, cutting those that got too close.

She was right, they just kept coming in two's and three's out of the waves, threatening to overwhelm them all. Joffrey groaned lowly as he hacked a wight apart with both swords, swinging wildly as another wight tried to grabble him. They couldn't die, not yet, not here with his uncle and his cousins right by his sides.

No, thought Joffrey, the weight over his body growing greater. For all the living.

The Purple blackness over his arms began to crawl upwards, covering his shoulders with pauldrons of defiant, roaring lionheads made of raw, green copper-

"Protect the Swanlord!" Joffrey heard Nadhata roar before he turned. She led two dozen men of Gerion's Honorguard as they emerged from the rainforest in a line, charging with goldenwood shortbows. The Summer Islanders were clad in tough, feathered serpent leather; the big snake heads served as helmets and each was crowned with three arm-long red feathers. They loosed a volley as they ran, bringing down half as many wights before switching to small buckler shields and ebonwood clubs tipped with steel, smashing into the wights around Gerion's family with an oddly stuttering battlecry.

Nadhata was at the forefront of the charge, a short stabbing spear in her hands as she parried and struck the offending wight, the Honorguard slamming into the wights like charging giants against a spear levy. Each of them towered over the dead Ghiscary, maces ripping apart limbs and tough hardwood sandals crunching down skulls and chests.

The skirmish turned against the wights as their numbers diminished, their swarming tactics growing ineffective under the shield wall of sorts which now formed around Gerion. Joffrey and Sansa used the formation as an anvil, hammering the wights against it until only broken wrecks remained.

Gerion wiped blood off the long gash by his cheek, obsessively checking over Tytos and Mdeta for wounds. Tytos tried to pry him off, but Mdeta was still a bit shocked. They all bore bites and scratches, but nothing that seemed life threatening. Joffrey absently noted to clean and bind the wounds later, to prevent infection.

"… Good enough?" Gerion asked Joffrey as Mdeta hugged him, the Honorguard securing the beach and killing any wight still moving.

"He can be a tad modest at times," said Sansa, a rueful smile on her lips as she leaned on her spear, catching her breath.

"Traitor," Joffrey told her, hiding a smirk. He smashed a crawling wight's head with Brightroar, the blade shearing halfway through the rotten Ghiscary and refracting the sun's light over the ocean in long lines of gold. The green pauldrons dissipated so quickly he almost thought he'd imagined them.

"Is that… is that Brightroar?!" asked his great-uncle.

"It really does shine gold," muttered Tytos, the Honorguard giving Joffrey and Sansa a wide berth.

By far the most stunned of the gathering was Nadhata though. She'd walked up to the couple almost in a trance, staring at them before she dropped her spear as Joffrey's vambraces dissipated in a kaleidoscope of Purple fractals.

Patterns within patterns, thought Joffrey. The battlefields varied, the reasons changed, the times twisted, but the core truth of war always remained. A cycle within his lives even as his struggle repeated through time, following in turn the cycle of the Long Night. Wheels within wheels. He shook his head. Battle always left him a bit melancholic.

"Nadhata?" Sansa asked as Stars tilted his head in confusion.

Joffrey realized he'd been staring at the High Priestess, Brightroar still in his hands as the wight below stopped struggling. Where those tears in her eyes?

She dropped to one knee, the bright sapphires and emeralds shining under the sun as she crossed her arms over her chest and grabbed her shoulders.

"Harsi Ma Bewa," she gasped reverently.

Joffrey didn't understand the conjugation. He looked at Gerion with a frown, but his uncle's gaze lay frozen over Brightroar, mouth moving silently like a gasping turtle.

It was Mdeta who answered the unspoken question though. She whispered the words she'd been repeating since she'd seen Joffrey unleash the Purple, then translated them to the Common Tongue. "It means Heralds of the End," she whispered.

-: 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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baurus

Feb 26, 2019

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Threadmarks Chapter 62: Sunray.

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baurus

baurus

Special Circumstances Agent

Mar 5, 2019

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#5,626

Chapter 62: Sunray.

Spoiler: Music

Nadhata guided them through the slope, moving branches out of the way with gentle hands. The trail seemed seldom used, the ground beneath it reclaimed by weeds and flowers. Sansa and Joffrey followed her lead, the rainforest quiet.

"Have you ever been to Tall Trees Town?" she asked, breaking the silence.

"Once, though we didn't stay long," said Sansa.

Joffrey remembered the throngs of people most of all, moving like waves of ants over hanging bridges, entire districts built over the Talking Trees like hanging, overripe fruits.

"The history of our people is written over the trunks, depicting our heroes and our villains. Our shames and our glories. Around the most ancient trees entire temples have sprung, guarding the tales of the very first islanders," said Nadhata. She wore her full regalia, a princess of the rainforest returning to some sacred domain.

Joffrey placed his hand on the branch she'd been holding, holding it in turn for Sansa. The long vine was filled with white flowers and coarse to the touch, red headed ants traversing its length and driven by some collective, unknowable purpose.

"There's a near-forgotten grove, deep within Walano. Only the High Priests of each Princedom know of it, though it does not really guard a secret. More of a by now discarded addition to the tales of the Days of Snow."

"It's carved, isn't it?" asked Sansa.

Nadhata ducked under a low hanging branch and a small violet-furred monkey the size of Joffrey's hand. It looked down at them with curious eyes as they lowered their heads, extending its hand to touch Joffrey's hair as he passed.

"It was," she said. "It spoke of a time long gone by. It is the root of the prophecy which every Islander knows since childhood, though most regarded it as mere myth before the dead rose… There is something different about that tree though. It's not a Talking Tree."

From one moment to the next, the sun shone from above. Joffrey covered his eyes as they emerged into a clearing, almost to the peak of the big hill. In between the sharp afterimage of the sun, right in the middle of it, laid a Weirwood Heart Tree; so pale it almost looked like a White Ebon tree. Its shadow stretched over the clearing; a massive, gnarled twisting of wood reaching high to the air. It was one of the biggest Weirwood trees Joffrey had ever seen.

"It's one much like this one," said Nadhata. A big overhang lay just behind it, protecting it from the northern winds. A cave breathed from the overhang, gusts of hot air rustling the red leaves periodically. The wind caressed Joffrey's skin, the hair at the nape of his neck standing on edge as he saw the face carved on the Weirwood.

Even though it lay battered by the ages, Joffrey could see it was a woman, scarred and old looking. A long gash ran through her eyebrow, reaching her eye and mangling her cheek. Her hair was long and straight, a shroud over her face that couldn't hide the penetrating gaze of her eyes. Joffrey couldn't move, staring at her as she gazed back, her eyes speaking to his heart.

They seemed haunted. Determined. Righteous. Sorrowful. Regretful. Victorious. They held a weight bigger than the oceans. Lighter than a feather. The weight of life. Of life lived. Of life understood. Of life cherished.

Of life slain.

Joffrey realized he was standing by the face's side, cupping its cheek. They were family.

"Azor Azhai," he whispered.

"The Last Hero," said Sansa as she kneeled by its side, her fingers tracing the flowing script surrounding it, twirling throughout the entire tree. It seemed illegible, degraded beyond meaning.

"Harsi Ma Bewa," said Nadhata.

"How did you know it was us?" he asked her, still looking at the face of his predecessor, the incarnation of his soul thousands of years ago.

Nadhata's voice came from behind him like the warm wind from the cave, "She will return, twice embodied and holding her soul in her hands, a change in the great rhythm as she unleashes it upon the warriors of the End. Twined souls travelling through the great circle, walking as one, theirs to live forever before the End, until the final death snows within..." She trailed off, the wind from the cave rustling the red leaves again. "… Only oral remnants of the words remain, but that was what lay carved on these trees... or so it has been whispered, throughout the ages."

He could hear Nadhata walking towards them. "Most of all, it was the way you looked. I had seen that gaze a million times before. In Walano before the Secret Grove. In Omburu below the Dead Tree… and here."

"You knew of the Cycle… you knew the Last Hero, Azor Ahai, Nissa Nissa, Harsi Ma Bewa, whatever you want to call he or her…" Joffrey trailed off, shaking his head, "You knew she'd return. You know it can be stopped!"

"Most in the priesthood think the Eternal Winter is inevitable. Inescapable," said Nadhata, walking past them and towards the cave. "These few rags of oral tradition but hopeful fabrications intended to sooth the souls of those who would live when the time came…" she whispered.

She stopped by the cave's entrance, a hand over the rough stone as she closed her eyes. "Only a few still held hope, clinging to old legends, awaiting her return… and I… I lost that hope, long ago," she said, shame shadowing her voice.

Joffrey and Sansa followed her, entering the cave and descending down long tunnels of natural stone. Luminescent mushrooms guided the way, illuminating the cave network with soft green light.

Joffrey found himself staring at skulls, dozens of them lining the roughly chiseled walls as they entered a primitively carved cavern system, the roots of the sand-white Heart Tree snaking around them. The skulls looked small and sunken, with eye sockets bigger than any human skull he'd seen before.

"The Eternal Children dwelt here, once. Some say they chose this place as a home because of its unique connection to the bones of the earth, to serve as a watchtower against the northern winds. Others whispered it was the only place where they could live and not wither…. " said Nadhata, passing a hand over the skulls. The long feathers over her head scraped the ceiling, tiny bits of moss clinging to them before the cave expanded into a great dome of rough stone.

"A watchtower?" Joffrey asked her.

"A Heart Tree erected in a place from where they could keep their vigil, surveying the lands to the Far North for the Long Night's return," she said.

Sansa frowned, tapping one of the Heart Tree's roots. They twisted all around the cavern, great guts of pale wood twinned with each other and cupping them all within. This Heart Tree seemed bigger than even the one in Winterfell. "A vigil peering North…" she muttered, grasping one of the roots tightly.

"Those who watched over this place are long gone, but I… I hoped you could use this place," said Nadhata, "The Rite of Last Love will soon take me as well, but if you can learn something of use here then maybe… maybe I can atone," said Nadhata, though Joffrey barely heard the last few words. She'd spoken them only to herself.

Atone to the dead and the soon to be…

"The Greendream… Meera often said Greenseers communed with the Heart Trees, glimpsing visions of the past…" said Sansa.

Joffrey knew what she was thinking a second before she spoke. "Meera said you may have the gift, dear, but you're no trained Greenseer," he said.

"But I know the Second Sight. And if this Heart Tree was used to spy the Far North, maybe we could find the place Joff. The place where the Red Comet's power converges."

Nadhata pressed her lips, "Mehllo and some of the other priests would have been of more use. They knew the Long Dream much better than I do… but they all set out to find the Heralds years ago, when the dead began crossing the Narrow Sea into Essos. They are all probably dead right now..." she whispered as she sat over a low root, guilt choking her.

'And it was me who found you,' Joffrey filled in the unsaid in the privacy of his own mind. The way she'd said it though, it almost sounded as if Nadhata was a Greenseer herself…

"You can still help us," said Sansa, kneeling in front of her and grabbing her hands. "Bring us into the dream, Nadhata. Carry us as far as you can."

Nadhata reared back, stunned. "Me? Guide the Heralds…" she whispered. She shook her head after a long silence, closing her eyes. "My will was not… is not enough. I am not worthy."

Joffrey paced around the great cavern, hands behind his back. Even if they convinced Nadhata to guide them…

"And then?" Joffrey asked his wife.

"I search for the Cycle's power with the Second Sight."

Joffrey breathed in sharply, "This is a bit beyond replacing blood with the Purple's energy, Sansa. We don't know what the hells will happen if we bring something powered by the Purple into…" he trailed off, disbelief coloring his voice as he turned back to the nexus of roots, "The Old Gods," he finished.

"Do you think the risks outweigh the benefits?" she asked him.

There was no recrimination in the question, only honesty. It hanged in the air, and Joffrey closed his eyes as he thought about it rationally. There was no plausible reason why the Red Comet would interfere, but there was always a risk… as he well knew.

"They don't," he said, leaving the specter of his errors behind.

Sansa nodded as she turned to Nadhata, still kneeling in front of her. "The Long Night can be stopped, but we need to find its place of power first, the place where the Red Comet first infused its warriors during the First War for Dawn and still does today. We'll need you to carry us into the Greendream though… I don't know how," she said.

Nadhata opened her eyes, gazing back at Sansa and sharing unspoken words. The ceiling dripped with condescend air; eerie patches of hanging water which took minutes to finally let go off the ceiling. One of them dripped over Joffrey's hair, and he felt the warm, slick droplet with his hand.

He wondered if the moss would survive the Long Night, or if they would give way to the Cycle as well; even the little patches of life an affront to the Red Comet's purpose.

"They died and I lived…" she whispered.

"Then make that sacrifice not be in vain," Sansa whispered back.

A veil of formality descended upon Nadhata as she regarded his wife, and Joffrey could see a familiar glint of steel in her gaze as the High Priestess of Sweet Lotus Vale rose to her feet. "It will be my honor," she said after a moment, her figure carrying out a bow both slow and regal with meanings beyond Joffrey's understanding. He knew enough to tell it was part-apology, to dead comrades and old dreams.

The feathers of her dress billowed gently with the warm air of the deeper caverns, and her stride was sure as she approached the great knot of roots directly below the Heart Tree.

"Heralds, hold unto my hands. Grab the roots with the other."

They did so. They were like a human chain linking two of the Heart Tree's roots together, with Nadhata right in the middle.

"Don't be distracted by what was, it will make you drift away. Be like an arrow shot from a Goldenheart bow; hungering for its target and nothing more," she said, her solemn voice rebounding inside the cavern.

"Understood," said Joffrey, taking deep breaths as he centered himself. He could feel Sansa through the Purple, doing the same as she prepared.

"I'm ready," said his wife.

"I'll release you within the Dream. Don't lose yourselves." Nadhata took in gasp of air, her eyes turning white as Joffrey felt himself fall from within. He let go, like a stone splashing against the water and sinking to the depths, the shock of the cold sea nothing to him.

-: PD :-

The flashes of timelessness were less disorientating than the sudden stops. Sansa felt as if she were standing upon the greatest of trees, looking upon the greatest of valleys. Winding rivers roared below her, and their whispers in the wind were almost overwhelming, their power almost drowning. She managed to keep herself coherent as she felt Joffrey's presence by her side, her constant companion through life and death.

Look, she felt him say. The horizon of her sight was shrinking slowly, a great curtain of white slowly enveloping the world and clouding it beyond.

Where is it? She thought as she opened her eyes to the Second Sight and tried to peer beyond the white curtain, seeking the source of its power. The Greendream grew impossibly sharp and turbulent at the same time, but the horizon kept shrinking at a steady pace. She realized it was the world itself, growing dim with the passing of the Cycle.

The Walkers did something to the Song. It turned mute under their passing; the melody of existence growing lesser and frayed under the white weight.

It won't be enough, she thought. The latent power of her own blood didn't hold a candle against the might of the Red Comet, and so Sansa drew sustenance from the Purple itself, bringing it forth just as she'd done in Carcosa. Purple fractals flooded the vale with power a thousand times stronger than Sorcerer's blood as the Pillars emerged like mirages in the desert; eternally tall structures chipped and scarred, growing from the edges of her vision as the Greendream trembled in recognition and buckled under the influx of power.

Something's wrong, whispered Joffrey, and she felt Nadhata's presence fade as the rivers of memory below suddenly churned, leaping at them and carrying a familiar hum.

Screams and dreams and colors of a thousand hues streamed past the edges of Sansa's vision in an instant. Prayers and pleas so quick that they seemed gusts of wind, all but forgotten under the heel of time. She felt her belly drop, as if she'd jumped from Winterfell's First Keep. She blinked, and it all stopped in front of a single image. A two hander made of Valyrian Steel, dripping with blood as a caring hand pressed a piece of cloth against the blade, cleaning it throughout its length. Sansa stared at the hand, hypnotized at it made its way to the end of the sword.

It was Ice.

"Father?" she said, looking up to see the young visage of Eddard Stark like she'd never seen him before. Young; haunted eyes not yet hidden beneath ice.

It was over in a second, a mind numbing wrench of speed and existence carrying her forward as she heard that familiar hum of power again. It echoed of life and death, of wheels within wheels. It echoed Purple.

A great fortification of tall towers and foreboding gates came into view as the God's Eye ran red with blood. It was as if the lake itself were feeding on it, great streams of the crimson substance swirling around the island that was their vantage point.

The enormous castle in the distance was burning; great stone towers seemed to melt and tumble to the ground as three dragons soared overhead, setting Ironborn archers aflame and making them leap over the walls to land on ground or lake.

Either would end their agony.

Harrenhal, she heard Joffrey whisper by her side. They had been carried back in time, the Greendream tugging them almost like a roped weight. But why?

She focused on the familiar hum. It was almost lost between the screams of the dying and the roars of Balerion, but she could hear it all the same. It echoed in time like a newly opened wound, resonating beyond them… and within.

Likeness calls to Likeness, she whispered. It was an elemental principle of all the magic's she'd seen or studied… so why not the Purple's?

Sansa stilled her heart, closing her eyes to the image of death and destruction. She opened her soul again, bringing the Purple into the vision and themselves. The image of Harrenhall's fall was suddenly tinged with soaring lines, crisscrossing its edges as she heard the thrum of the Purple coalescing around them.

She strained to hear the Purple's echo in time; their soul before it had inhabited their bodies. She drove herself towards it, following the echoes and guiding Joffrey towards them. To her astonishment, he seemed to be carrying his own self, his presence calm and serene. Time sped up beneath their gaze, faces and prayers and weather storming through her awareness like rainwater. It felt familiar, the dragging of their souls backwards against the pull of existence, and Sansa realized they'd done this before.

A thousand times, and more, said Joffrey, and she could almost hear the wan smile on his lips.

The Greendream shook, a chorus of a million voices calling out in agony as time slowed to a crawl and a man's face loomed over their vision. He was holding an iron axe in each hand, his face and chest completely covered in bloodied script that had scarred. Sansa was entranced as she gazed at the lines and lines of script carved into the man's chest, puffing up as he roared. Around the tree men bled out, dead or dying as more warriors flooded Sansa's sight and killed and maimed like Wildling berserkers of old.

Father give me Faith. Warrior give me Strength. Stranger give me Death, she said, reading the star-shaped script carved on the axe-wielder's forehead.

They sped away before the man's axe struck the Heart Tree, forcing themselves through the chorus of death and pain and using the Purple's echo like a lifeline.

Joffrey? Thought Sansa, but the man in front of her was not her husband. He had a likeness to him though; stone faced as Joffrey was wont to do when he brooded. He stood by the side of the Heart Tree with a bronze shortsword by his belt, a retinue of warriors around him clad in bronze lamellar and wielding short spears.

A half dozen small children with abnormally large heads and wide eyes crawled around the Heart Tree, securing the man which hanged from one of the branches, tied to his wrists. He was of long brown hair, eyes as sharp as a hawk's as he gazed down below.

"You didn't have to tie me, I give my blood willingly to the Gods," he said in the rasping Old Tongue.

Not-Joffrey walked to the man, and as he neared Sansa realized he was different too. An aquiline nose and sharp features marred what should have been smooth lines, but the golden hair and the uniquely steely-green eyes were undoubtedly Lannister. "I should have given you to the lions. Feeding the Gods is too much an honor for you," he said, eyes filled with hate.

"Did my daughter convince you otherwise?" asked the hanging man, a mocking tone to his words.

"No, she wanted to toss you to Goldenheart herself," said Not-Joffrey, enjoying the slight jerk of surprise that moved the hanging man like a diminutive pendulum.

"May the crows eat your eyes out. May the worms drink your blood and leave none to the Dream. I curse you Lann, son of Tatyah. I curse you with my last breath," rasped the man.

Lann's face twisted in anger, and Sansa could hear the distant roaring of lions, echoing throughout the dream like enraged behemoths. One of them shoved aside the awaiting retinue with its golden mane, roaring at the tied man like a tempest. Lann raised his hand and silenced the lion with a wave, still looking at him. He shook his head, standing back.

"Dust-Which-Shadows-Death. I bring blood for the Gods," he said, voice oddly fornal as he looked to his side, the dream whispering understanding to Sansa and filling the gaps in her knowledge of the Old Tongue. She realized he'd addressed one of the Children of the Forest; her long, mossy hair almost touching the ground as she bowed in acknowledgment. She was wearing a dress of blood-red leaves, covering her almost completely.

"Your clan will fall! Do you hear me Lann?!" shouted the man as Lann and his warriors turned and walked away, the lion following them after looking back one more time, "They will! A year from now! A decade! A century! Time swallows all! Time shackles all-" his screaming turned into gurgling as Dust-Which-Shadows-Death climbed the Heart Tree and slit his throat with a knife made of obsidian. The other Children hung upside down from the other branches as they cut open his stomach with expert cuts, feeding the Heart Tree with his entrails.

She realized they'd stayed too long in the vision, and the edges frayed as she pulled again.

If I had bled and tortured my enemies in front of a Heart Tree, would I have been considered righteous by my ancestors? She felt Joffrey whisper.

Their minds were twinned together as they reached for that distant echo once more and the Greendream grew parched, slippery to the fingers. They pulled as they'd done to escape the Red Comet, though this time their minds soaring backwards towards it as she felt an ominous tingle.

The Greendream grew more and more unstable as the distant square towers atop Casterly Rock were reduced to nothing and forests reclaimed the great hill, the seasons passing like lighting as the scenery changed. A Giant kneeled in front of the tree, looking at it with suspicion as he left his great stone-headed hammer by the side, lifting up snow with its impact. Grey-eyed men rode direwolves into the clearing, and Children of the Forest looking solemnly at the Heart Tree's face. She felt this Heart Tree had always been meant to peer northwards, but the unexpected resonance of the Purple also made the Greendream carry her backwards, backwards to the time it had first seen the Purple.

A village of seal catchers screamed as Red enveloped them. A group of hunters shuddered as they heard something, turning from the bear carcass at their feet just as its eyes opened again. A man stood over a frozen hill so far to the north that only a barren wasteland of snow covered dunes remained. He frowned as his eyes scanned the horizon, looking at the red aurora that covered his field of view. It shrieked towards him in a second, and he didn't have time to scream as his limbs were filled with red, his flesh melting apart as the Red cradled him gently.

Further, thought Sansa, shivering as she reached for the echo which was now an ear-splitting roar of existence, the dream fraying as she tasted Purple.

-: PD :-

The great barren field stretched as far as the eye could see; a snow-filled wasteland topped by the occasional dune, not a living being in sight. A lone mountain glittered in the night, and Joffrey could breathe the chilled air as if he were there.

It was growing colder.

There was a Heart Tree by his side, gnarled and bent, almost hidden between the dunes; a silent witness to what was to come. The silence was eerie, and he trembled as he held Sansa close for there was no longer an echo; he could feel the Purple right here as the air kept getting colder; a subtly worming presence that shadowed a lumbering titan, a reaching hand grasping for this place.

He realized he was not gazing at a mountain, but at a crystal palace so large it's size paralyzed him. It was wider by far than Ebonhead, wider than all the cities of Westeros. Wider than Volantis and Braavos and Lorath and Yin and ancient Zamettar combined. It was a hollow dome with pillars that reached high to the sky, a glittering newborn glowing red in the midst of the white wasteland as he felt the heavy hand of the Cycle. The Red Comet was so far away it wasn't visible to the naked eye, perhaps not even to a Citadel Far-Eye, but Joffrey could feel it awakening all the same. He could feel its dread weight as it reached for the frozen ground from beyond the sun's orbit, sculpting a mesmerizing vista of crystal in front of his very eyes.

Joffrey realized he was watching the beginning of the First War for Dawn; the Cycle awakening and building something in anticipation of the Red Comet's arrival, thousands of years from now.

Each pillar that surrounded the hollow dome beneath was as thick as King's Landing, leaving gaps just as wide between each other and forming a grand, hollow circle between them all. The crystal pillars were crowned in light; reefs in a sea of energy that looked like a red aurora descending from the heavens. The crystal pillars were like fixed sails catching the might of the distant comet; red lines that warped reality itself seemed to traverse the heights, reaching down to the enormous, concave crater at the bottom of the newly created structure.

More than the otherworldly sight, more than the shadows shuffling within it, Joffrey was struck numb by the muteness of the place. Here the Song faltered, and Silence reigned in its stead. The sheer wrongness of it choked him, a temple erected to the worship of nonexistence; a quiet drowning of all that was.

What is reality with no one to experience it? He thought as he gazed at the Crystal Palace. He could feel the Purple surge into existence as well, its patterns and fractals streaking in between the red aurora and disappearing like mist.

The Cycle was not yet mighty enough to end life… but when the Red Comet completed the long journey and its gimlet eye stared down into the Far North, into this silent temple… then, Joffrey knew, there would be no hope.

He took in a harrowing breath of air, trembling as he tried to stand up. He fell on his side, realizing he was holding Sansa's hand instead of Nadhata's. He used his grip on the roots as support, shaking his head like a dazed dog as he tried to remember where he was.

"I could feel your presence diminishing, witnessing the passing of the ages," said Nadhata, awe writ clear on her face. "What did you see?" she asked, by their side in an instant.

Sansa squeezed his hand harshly, sounding choked as she spoke. "The place we were looking for," she said.

"The Crystal Palace," Joffrey said slowly.

-: PD :-

Winter had reached Jhala. Soft snows fell over Ebonhead, straining the roofs of the raised town. The streets were almost deserted; occasional figures walking down the alleys with bags or thin-looking oxen in tow. A medium sized Swanship waited by the docks, its great sails still tied to the masts. A mixed crew of Islanders and other dribs and drabs from the Summer Sea were walking over gangways with sacks of wheat and fruit, carrying some of the island's last harvest aboard.

"You two sure about this? We have enough space and supplies for both of you," said Gerion, trying one more time.

Joffrey just shook his head, "We part ways here, uncle. Even though Tytos was quite insistent," he said with a smile.

"Some things never change. Especially when it concerns boys and their swords," said Sansa.

Gerion snorted at that, "You could say that," he told Sansa with a wink before turning to Joffrey. "He pestered you both like I pestered Ser Arthur Dayne back in the day. Even a little advice would keep me up for hours, practicing it in the yard…" He trailed off, looking down at the pier. "Listen I… Nadhata didn't tell me everything, before she…" he sighed, fidgeting with the pommel of his arming sword.

Nadhata had officiated her own Last Rite yesterday, along with Prince Dorrol Xhox and the last few Islanders which remained in Jhala proper.

"She was a brave and fierce woman, Gerion. A loving mother and a caring leader," said Sansa, holding his shoulder, "We'll remember her."

Gerion nodded in thanks after a moment, his eyes a bit red as his gaze returned from the pier. "She didn't explain everything, but she implied you two would try to fix… this," he said, waving his arms vaguely at the falling snow. "I can stay here, help you somehow-"

"Uncle, no," said Joffrey. He couldn't stop thinking about Tyrion in that moment, stomping his foot down in Oldtown and determined to accompany him to Valyria. "Go south, cherish your children," he said, holding his hand out, "Live well."

Gerion sighed, grabbing Joffrey's forearm. "Safe journeys, nephew," he said before slapping his shoulder, "And take care of that sword," he added almost absentmindedly.

He turned to Sansa, grabbing her hand and kissing it as he bowed. "Farewell to thee as well, my lady. Safe journeys."

"Take care Gerion. And you take care of those children of yours, charming rascals both," said Sansa, holding his hand with hers.

"My children…" he whispered, oddly pained for a second. He seemed about to say something when someone called out.

"Swanlord, we are ready!" the shout drifted from the ship.

He sighed once more, rooted in place. "They insist in calling me that, even though my prince is dead and the princedom lies dissolved…"

"You're still their leader," said Joffrey, meeting his eyes. The other man nodded after a moment, taking a deep breath.

"That I am, as crazy as it may sound sometimes. Goodbye nephew, and good luck," he said, bowing respectfully like one lord to another, before walking towards the ship. Joffrey and Sansa waved their goodbyes as the swanship sailed away, south east towards Sothoryos and beyond, in search of time and warmth. The great white sails soon crowned the swanship, making it seem like a bird in flight as it left the little harbor.

Sansa sighed as she leaned on Joffrey's shoulder, their hands clasped together as they watched the ship disappear under the horizon. She had hoped Nadhata would join the crew, but her holy mandate would allow no other course but to see her duties carried out to the end, and perhaps even more fervently than before. They spent long days communing with the Heart Tree, learning about olden times when Starks rode direwolves and entire clans disappeared from the land, learning about the layout of the Far North, past the Frostfangs and beyond into the Lands of Always Winter. They'd spoken for many a night as well; about the hidden, half-forgotten parts of Summer Islander prophecy that carried a glimmer of hope in the form of the Heralds, the only glimmer of hope in the otherwise fatalistic, mainstream islander worldview. Perhaps… perhaps in the war to come, she'd see Nadhata again. Not in the form of the broken, last priestess of Jahla, but in that of the vindicated leader with hope shining bright in her heart.

Their walk back home was almost solemn, most of it spent in silence as they passed abandoned orchards of tropical fruits. Rotten melons, pineapples, and mangoes littered the way, but Sansa held a different fruit in her hand; scarlet red and the size of a pear, rugged yellow veins running from top to bottom.

She looked at it thoughtfully, "What if we win?" she said.

Joffrey grunted inquisitively, staring at the sky as they walked. The clouds were growing thinner, the winds carrying just a tiny hint of warmth.

"What if the plan… what if the war works? What if we manage to somehow punch through to the Crystal Palace… what do you think will happen then?"

"It will end," said Joffrey, stone-faced. "One way or another," he whispered before returning his gaze from the skies.

They walked in silence towards their house, almost reluctantly so. She felt worry tug at her belly, her chest compressed as she pulled her hair back. What if they couldn't return farther back than Oxcross? Even if they returned to the morning a few days after Jon Arryn's death, the task ahead of them would be almost insurmountable. A delicate balancing act between victory and escalation, death and total war, family and truth.

They would need authority and respect like no other ruler before them. They would have to become living legends in the minds of their people, proportional in awe to the horror of the Long Night.

Joffrey was right, of course. She could feel it within her, just as he did. One way or the other, it would end.

Tonight, their gentle dream would end as well, perhaps for the last time. She stood in front of the doorway, strangely hesitant before she realized Joffrey had stopped behind her.

He stood there in the porch, looking at the crystal clear sea. The midday sun often banished the cold for a few hours every day, briefly returning the island to its old, colorful splendor. It did so now as the light snowfall petered out for the moment, the clouds letting in occasional flashes of sunlight like a slowly widening curtain; great slashes torn by the hands of some brilliant giant.

"Sail with me," he said all of a sudden, his cheeks flushing with color as he turned to her.

Sansa felt a smile grow on her lips as she gazed at her husband's eager expression, all the worries and the revelations evaporating for a second and leaving her jumpy, strangely lightheaded. Steel-green eyes twinkled, and his face seemed to banish the weight in her belly, leaving her oddly giddy as if she were a little girl again.

"Together," she said, an unbidden smile on her lips.

-: PD :-

Spoiler: Music

The Sunray soared, cresting another wave in a splash of foam. The catamaran seemed like a bird in flight, its white ebon hull shimmering bright under the midday sun. Its single sail looked ready to burst open, gobbling the wind and propelling the ship to ludicrous speeds; a white streak over the water, parting the seas with grace and furious speed.

"It's another swell! Hold on Sansa!" Joffrey shouted, pushing his weight against the tiller. The Sunray responded immediately, turning against the oncoming wave and tearing it asunder. Sansa spluttered indignantly as she was buffeted by saltwater and her pony tail stuck to her neck, feeling like a piece of moldering seaweed.

Joffrey laughed wildly, holding his belly with one hand as the other kept a firm grip on the tiller. He was bare chested, his form lean against the tiller as his muscles bulged with strain, mangling the ship around like a small, unruly pet. "Wait until we get back to shore Joff! Laugh like a boar then!" she shouted, struggling to contain the monstrous chuckle lurking in her belly as she held on to a taut length of rope.

Jhala kept fading in the distance, though she realized she didn't care that much at all.

Joffrey had built the Sunray on his own, from design to carpentry to seamanship. The katamaran followed traditional Summer Islander design principles; essentially a wide raft held over two great outriggers with the tiller right in the middle, a small bench nailed by its side. He'd built his own modifications into it of course, streamlining the design like a Braavosi architect planning out his masterpiece.

A sudden gust of warm wind slammed into them from the right, and Sansa scuttled to that side of the ship as the starboard outrigger rose with the force of the wind, carrying her up like a seesaw. She grunted as she leaned back, only her legs still on the ship proper as she pulled on the length of rope tied to the top of the mast, making weight. Joffrey was doing the same, and they grinned like fools when they saw each other, hanging in midair as the outrigger kept climbing and they were almost vertical against the sea, an inch away from capsizing. Joffrey whooped as the Sunray slammed back down into the sea, the cyan blue waters reflecting the gently chiseled hull like a Myrish mirror.

"Friends to port!" shouted Sansa, pointing to her left as she spotted streaks of bluish grey periodically jumping out of the water. There must have been a dozen dolphins jumping in two's and three's, keeping station with the Sunray and chirping to each other like old women at the market, shoving one another mischievously. Sansa grinned, blinking slowly as she directed one of the dolphins against Joffrey. It jumped across the ship in a clean leap, buffeting Joffrey in the head with a fin.

"Hey!" Joffrey shouted, rubbing his cheek as he sent an accusing glare down to Sansa. She looked up at the sky instead, humming innocently as she gazed at the parting white clouds.

"Alright! Let's show these bastards some speed!" shouted Joffrey, standing up next to the tiller and pulling a rope. The mainsail extended completely, and Sansa was jerked back by the sudden acceleration. The dolphins were still keeping stations, mocking him relentlessly with flips and insolent chirps.

"Sansa! Loose the jib! Let her fly!" he roared with a big grin.

Sansa chuckled as she ducked under the boom mast, crawling to the bow of the Sunray as it cut through another wave and it splashed her with warm saltwater. Her cloak of bright feathers was undaunted though, yellow and scarlet tips swaying with the wind as she reached the prow. She blinked the salt out of her left eye, untying the knot below her with precise motions.

"Hold on Joff!" she roared back as the wind intensified and her hair flew loose from its ponytail, flying from side to side like a red banner in the hands of an overeager knight. She pulled the rope with a huff of effort and unleashed the jib in all its splendor, rope sizzling as the sound of canvas on wood filled her ears. It depicted Sansa's own humble interpretation of Stars, yawning lazily as he gazed upwards to a field of stars; his tongue lolled to the side, almost like a dog's, eyes half closed under the wind.

Let the boar laugh at this, she thought with a wide smile. She'd all but forgotten that little bit of creative interference in Joffrey's pet project.

Joffrey sputtered indignantly, but his catcalls soon devolved into bare-chested thumping and great roars of joy as the jib rippled and ballooned forward, the Sunray almost flying above the waterline as it kept speeding up. Each swell made it jump in longing to the skies, and Sansa felt her stomach drop each time they slammed back down into the sea in grand sprays of saltwater. They quickly left the grumbling dolphins behind, the winds carrying them south with no destination in mind.

The catamaran seemed to glide over the water, and Sansa feasted her eyes on the perpetual rainbows which streaked from the sides of the outriggers. They were quickly swallowed by the sea, and would cease to be should they stop… but today, for now, she and her husband flew on the backs of rainbows. Sansa got back to the tiller, gripping Joffrey tightly and kissing him silly. He fought back with everything he had, still gripping the tiller with one hand as the other took the back of her head and deepened the kiss as far as it could go. He tasted of sweat and saltwater with just a tiny breath of sweetened mango at the end.

She lost herself in his taste as she gripped his head with both hands. Joffrey was hers to do as she wanted, and no man, no law, and no cosmic force was going to take him away from her.

Sansa broke the kiss as she felt a multitude of beings high up in the air. She looked up and saw scores, hundreds of wings over the Sunray; vermillion and cyan and bright yellow hiding the sun as another great flock of Summer birds migrated south, escaping the cold.

They trilled and jabbered, sang and chorused, some of them almost touching the sails as they flew past the ship in a riot of color. "There must be thousands of them," said Sansa, awed.

"And the prettiest one landed right here. Lucky me," said Joffrey, passing a hand over her coat of feathers until he touched flesh and kept going. Sansa sighed deeply, leaning into him as the Sunray broke another wave. She sat on one of his knees as her arms snaked around his torso, gripping those taut muscles of his as she kissed him again. The better grip helped immensely.

"Prettiest, bravest of them all," whispered Joffrey as his lips slid off hers and travelled down her neck, making her shiver. "Furious like an autumn storm. Gentle like a summer breeze."

"Your poetry has improved," she muttered, closing her eyes as she felt his back with her palms. He was an orb of warmth, radiating heat that held off the steadily cooling breeze.

"Strong like winter gales, tender like newborn spring," he said as he left her neck and kept going downwards. Sansa gasped gently, her nails sliding off Joffrey's back and reaching his waist.

The Sunray buckled lightly under a side wave, and Sansa chided Joffrey as her hands reached his breeches. "You keep your hands on the tiller, I'll keep mine on yours," she whispered into his ear before biting it.

The poet went mum after that.

-: PD :-

The great winds which had carried them forth had faded with the night, and the Summer Sea was as calm as a cup of milk. The Sunray floated adrift, its sails tucked and folded. Joffrey and Sansa lay on the middle of the raft, the stars their ceiling.

They lay sideways, side by side with their foreheads almost touching each other's. Each held half a fruit, scarlet red with yellowed veins. Its skin felt rugged to Joffrey, as if barely able to contain what lay within.

He breathed in the chilly air, eyes leaving the bright stars overhead and focusing on the two blue ones right in front of him. He cupped Sansa's cheek, tracing her high cheekbones with his thumb. It felt like the fruit's diametric opposite; pale and smooth.

She'd always been beautiful. A traditional Tully flower, tall and graceful even as the Stark blood within lent her a pinch of exotic allure. Now, under the stars and garbed in a rainbow of feathers dominated by red, of a color with her auburn hair, her beauty seemed ethereal. Like some mythological being come to lay his weathered soul to rest.

"Sansa... If we never wake up again-"

"Shush you," she said, kissing his lips lightly.

So many things to say. Regrets and satisfactions. Feelings and memories. How could one say goodbye to the other half of one's soul?

"I love you," he whispered.

"I know," she said. So many things to say, so simple the answer.

Each ate their half. The Death Fruit tasted bitter, though not repulsively so. It had a spicy aftertaste, like sweet ginger.

Joffrey held both of Sansa's hands as he scuttled closer, crossing her arms with his in between their chests, touching her forehead with his. "Together," he said.

"Together," she whispered back.

They laid there, staring into each other's eyes as their breaths grew shallow. They cuddled close as they died, his heart thumping loudly as his vision grew dim. Sansa tried to press herself tighter somehow, though they were already as close to each other as humanly possible. They gripped each other strongly all the same, shivering under the cold as the Song grew in volume and Joffrey's eyelids drooped.

One more time. Please, one more time. That's all I ask.

He closed his eyes for a long second, and opened them to the realization that the great starry vault above them was now Purple. Instead of stars, constellations of fractals crisscrossing its length as a distant figure glowed red. He held on to Sansa as the wind blew and the Sunray rocked; cracked Pillars rising slowly from the depths of the ocean like awakened behemoths made of soulstuff and Purple. They carried them aloft at an ever increasing speed, even as they splintered and broke from the strain. Joffrey could hear the Song winding back, a great river of sound as his soul ached, his awareness centering on a summer morning years ago; a young boy oblivious to the world around him and to the consequences of his actions. The Purple squealed under the strain, the Song stuttering as Joffrey remembered that lazy morning; hounds barking in the distance and one guarding his bed. King Robert with empty eyes as he prepared for a hunt. Myrcella walking down corridors lost in thought. Baelish scheming in his solar for coin and ruin. Jaime garbed in gold and silver, standing by the door and looking beyond it in longing as Mother's hair was combed by quiet handmaidens.

He was the Pillars, and the Pillars were him. In here with no true physical barriers, their souls intermingled as they'd been created, Sansa and Joff, Joff and Sansa. The flow of the Song stuttered again, Pillars shattering as they reached out with hands of Purple and the morning of their rebirth beckoned in the distance.

-: PD :-

Last edited: Mar 5, 2019

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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Mar 5, 2019

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Threadmarks Chapter 63: Cold Wind.

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baurus

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Special Circumstances Agent

Mar 13, 2019

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Chapter 63: Cold Wind.

"Sure she's okay?!" Robb asked urgently. He took up the stairs two at a time, his brother close behind.

"I think so, it didn't look too bad!" said Jon as they reached the fourth floor, jogging through the grey corridors of the Great Keep. "Maester Luwin was nearby, he's checking her now."

"What happened?" said Robb. He tried to still his heart after the sudden panic and the mad dash up the stairs. Jon wouldn't be so calm if the accident had been truly bad.

"I'm not sure, I think she just tripped. She'd been squabbling with Arya near the Septa's study and then they tumbled down the stairs," said his half-brother.

Gods, they could have broken their necks. Couldn't they get along for a day without trying to kill each other?!

They reached a cluster of chambermaids and the odd guard, milling about the end of the staircase that led to the Septa's study. "Give them some space, get back to your duties," Robb heard Maester Luwin's voice. It was commanding, but not overly worried.

Robb sighed as he squeezed past the servants before they could make way for him. They departed quickly once they saw him, bowing their heads. "Everything alright, Tomard?" he asked the big-bellied guard gently shoving the servants away.

"Just a fall M'lord, more ugly than bad. Best if you see for yourself," he said, standing aside and shooing the last chambermaid away. Robb saw both Arya and Sansa on the floor, the former sitting up with a scowl and a broken lip while the latter was attended by Maester Luwin. Sansa's wound looked a little more serious; a trickle of blood ran down her forehead.

"You two alright? What happened?" Robb asked them.

"Stupid Sansa fumbled the steps and brought me down with her!" said Arya, almost skewering him with those sharp grey eyes. Sansa said nothing, Luwin still examining the wound.

"Mother told you two to stop fighting, she'll have a fit now..."

"It's not my fault!" cried Arya, crossing her arms and wincing as her lower lip twitched. She took one of Maester Luwin's towels and wiped the bit of blood under it, "She'd been prattling the whole way from the Septa's study and then got angry and tried to chase me…"

"Now now Arya, you should tell the whole story. Tomard says you pulled her hair," said Jon. Two years ago he would have been kneeling by Arya or Sansa's side. Now he stood at a 'respectful' distance…

Robb hated that.

She harrumphed, looking away.

"Arya, Robb, tone it down for a second," said Maester Luwin, still cleaning Sansa's wound. He felt guilty as he nodded, standing back a bit and letting the Maester work in silence.

"I'm fine Maester Luwin, really," said Sansa, gently guiding his hands away.

"That's for me to decide, young lady," said the Maester. "Do you recall what date it is?"

Blue eyes regarded Luwin intensely, "The twenty-seventh of the second month."

Luwin shook his head slightly, "It's the twenty-eighth."

"What?" She seemed shocked.

"Don't worry Sansa, things like this happen after a bad fall. It'll all clear up soon, I promise," said the Maester.

"It's just a day… one day… we made it," she said slowly, her face growing lax as if she'd been in pain before.

"Do you recall what you were doing a moment ago?" asked the Maester.

Sansa looked at him again, eyes uncertain before her whole demeanor changed. She stilled her features before smiling at the Maester, standing up smoothly before he could get out another word.

"I'm quite alright. Thank you for the assistance, Maester Luwin," she said, nodding at the Maester.

Had she just dismissed Maester Luwin? Robb swore she had sounded like Mother for a second, and Luwin obviously thought so too; he'd reared back from sheer instinct.

"I- lady Sansa-"

Luwin didn't manage another word before she turned with a sigh, "If you must know I was arguing with my sister before we tumbled down the stairs like two sacks of cabbages. Maester Luwin, I feel fine. If that changes I'll search for you in the tower. That will be all," she said, blue eyes centered on his.

"Very well my lady," Luwin muttered, hiding a frown as he took up his things. "Make sure to come to me tonight, both of you. I'll have to clean your wounds again."

"Of course," said Sansa. Arya simply nodded as she looked at her sister, lips thin.

Robb's gaze followed the Maester as he left. "You two shouldn't fight near stairs. It's dangerous," he said, distracted.

Jon walked towards Arya when Luwin was gone, likely to help her up. Sansa got there first though.

"Arya," she said, a strange smile on her lips. "I'm sorry, are you alright?" she asked, holding her hand out. Arya slapped it away, scoffing as she stood up by herself.

"Save it for mother," she said, storming off.

She sighed, massaging the side of her head as Robb grabbed her arm, "You sure you're okay?" he asked before cursing inside the privacy of his own mind. Sansa had taken to emulating Mother these past few years, and hated being seen like a child.

She shook her head, startled for a moment. "Robb," she said as she raised a hand to his face, her voice a twisted knot of emotion. "It's good seeing you like this..." she whispered, pressing a hand over his visage. Robb smiled, placing his own hand over Sansa's and bringing it down.

"Like what?" he asked.

"Hale. Happy," she said almost absentmindedly, her eyes a million leagues away, "You have a beautiful smile, brother. Never hide it."

"I'll try not to," he said, raising an eyebrow at Jon she turned towards him.

"Jon," she said, seemingly at a loss for words. It was different from how it usually was. She did not stutter, did not blush, and certainly did not scowl… though the last one was far more likely if Mother was around. She seemed at a genuine loss for words for a moment, before grabbing Jon's hand gently. "Brother," she said after a moment, her eyes thick with unspoken words. "Thanks for the help," she managed, squeezing his hand gratefully before walking away.

Sending Master Luwin away had been a mistake. She had definitely hit her head too hard.

-: PD :-

Things hadn't been too different after the fall, at first. His sister had kept to her routine as she always had; embroidering sigils with the Septa, going to her singing lessons with the other maidens of Winterfell, sharing gossip and whatnot... Slowly though, the whole routine had started to fray. Robb started finding her sister staring off into the distance by the windows, eyes closed as the wind caressed her hair, her lessons for the day forgotten. She'd started drifting away from the previously tight-knit group of girls; Jeyne and the others bewildered as Sansa barely seemed to pay them any mind. Where before listening to the Septa had been a favored activity, Sansa now scoffed lightly and did every task as if it were a silly chore. It was as if she were growing tired of upholding a façade, harnessing her will towards it and failing all the same.

Or at least she had.

"The fights with Arya marked a turning point," he said out loud.

Jon grunted. They were standing atop the Great Keep, watching over the horizon to the north. They'd climbed here to spar without Ser Rodrik's supervision, as they'd sometimes done when they'd been little. In truth though, they hadn't even touched the swords.

"Yeah…" muttered Jon. His half-brother was by his side, leaning on the crenellations. "They were so weird… even without the abrupt change in behavior."

Robb agreed.

One had been in the dining hall. Arya had placed a lemoncake on Sansa's seat, which squelched rather loudly once her sister sat on it without realizing it. Arya had burst out giggling, unafraid of mother's blandishments, but Sansa… Sansa had smiled. A sad, nostalgic smile as she stood up and regarded the squashed lemoncake remains over her seat. Like a mother finding her child hiding under the bed sheets and plotting a scare. She'd looked at Arya, and then the entire Stark table –including Theon who'd actually arrived in time that afternoon- with a hesitating expression. By then, Old Sansa would have been demanding Arya's head on a platter, and probably pulling her sister's hair silly until it split at the base.

The abrupt lack of a reaction had somehow set the whole table on edge. Either the harshest tantrum of all was upon them, or their sister had fallen gravely ill. She'd noticed the uncanny stares, and had subsequently turned to a sort of reluctant outrage at Arya, chastising her like Rickon would a misguided puppy… that is to say, not a chastisement at all really.

It had been eerie. She'd excused herself shortly thereafter.

The second was by far stranger. The first fight had left an impression on everyone; Mother had been making sharp inquiries into what exactly any of the Stark children had done to leave Sansa so seemingly… off-character. Theon had been laughing about her hit to the head leaving more than just a bruise, though he'd shut up about it after a good talking-to by Robb's fist. Nevertheless, Sansa had been near the kitchens then, and she'd heard that remark… it had just made her seem more uncomfortable, shuffling away with an apologetic smile.

… Next day, she'd started a fight with Arya over some misplaced ink wells, and it had been… supremely uncanny. Robb had heard it all, as he'd been in the library as well, writing out an essay about Old Valyria for Maester Luwin.

It had seemed like an academical dissection of one of their fights. There had been nothing new in terms of concepts; the usual stuff about horse faces and underfoot scamps… but the delivery… Sansa had been clear and methodical, laying out on Arya verbally until his sister had broken down completely, not even responding any longer to the barrage as she cried her eyes out. He'd stepped in then, feeling like a belated fool as he rushed to hug Arya and stop the sheer carnage. He'd been about to let Sansa know a piece of his mind then but… but then he'd seen her eyes.

There had been sheer horror in them, both hands covering her mouth as her eyes watered, as if she couldn't believe what it had all come to. She'd rushed out... and after that…

"There she is," muttered Jon, pointing an inconspicuous finger at the northern wall. Robb shuffled under his furs, frowning at the unusually cold wind that seemed so prevalent as of late, before gazing at his sister.

"Hm… She's not peering south," Robb said.

"Obviously. She's peering north," said Jon.

"Don't be dense, brother. Just because she's looking north, that doesn't mean she's peering north," he pointed out. "Right now she's looking pretty west to me." She was walking slowly, her eyes closed and a serious smile on her lips.

Jon grunted, "True. But it's often the case."

"Yesterday she was leaning on the west wall and yet she was peering south, I'm sure of it," said Robb, "She was all happy, almost skipping over the stones."

Jon's silence turned reluctant. He agreed.

They called it 'peering' between the two of them; when their sister took a walk around the walls and battlements for a bit of 'fresh air'. She'd get oddly focused gazing in a determined direction, and though the usual emotions associated with each direction could vary, they usually correlated with each other. When glimpsing south she seemed somehow lighter, her fingers brushing the crenellations as she walked; her smile like a radiant sun, somehow brighter than when she'd been praised by the Septa in what seemed like months ago instead of days. West was more reserved; she'd frown and sometimes smirk, her pace measured and determined. Sometimes she'd even move her mouth, as if speaking with someone.

North was the worst, it often left Robb with goosebumps. She'd just brace against the crenellations, as if she were about to be blown away by a storm. No movement, only a statue like the ones in Winterfell's crypt, somehow seeing beyond the grey clouds of the northern horizon. She peered in that direction only sporadically, and afterwards she'd always excused herself for the rest of the day; retiring to her chambers with cramped shoulders and haunted eyes, shaken by something.

He didn't know who Sansa had been trying to kid when they'd asked what was going on. They were family for Gods' sake, of course they'd realized something was wrong.

Though granted, after her second fight with Arya she'd seemed to… well, it had seemed as if she'd given up on holding the façade of… herself. She'd calmly refused to attend any more classes under the Septa or Maester Luwin, claiming her knowledge was sufficient. She'd answered the tests that followed almost like a trained Maester, at least from what Jon had heard Luwin tell Father. She'd passed the Septa's test as well, leaving Mother with no arguments to restrict her free hours. She never fought Arya again, and gave up any and all semblance of respect for the castle's gossip mill.

From one day to the other she'd ripped the veil asunder, spending more and more time in the library, riding off into Wintertown, or writing letter after letter to mysterious correspondents only Maester Luwin really knew about. Well, him and Father at least.

"She's walking away, doesn't seem too shaken… maybe thoughtful," said Jon.

"It was probably west," said Robb. He wondered what her sister was really doing when she got like this. Theon's hypothesis sounded far too simple and… convenient for something so ominous. There was something about Winterfell that had changed with her fall. Something tense. As if Robb had found a string tied to his waist, taut but slightly frayed, holding him over something…

He watched her walk over the north wall; even her stride had changed. Whereas before she'd walked awkwardly in a half stride half rush, Sansa had by now given up all pretense of normality; she now glided through the corridors at a stately pace that was both quick and dignified; her back straight and her hands clasped in front, her pace determined and undiminished by the streamlined dress she'd sewn herself, combining northern pelts and green fabrics from the south… and she didn't seem to put any conscious effort into it.

Robb had later realized that she'd been putting effort into not walking like that.

She stopped abruptly, turning to gaze at them.

Robb and Jon immediately ducked under the crenellations, staying still.

They peeked up after a few minutes, finding Sansa in the same spot; arms crossed, her smile an exasperated one. Robb smiled sheepishly, and she shook her head good naturedly before walking into the northwestern tower.

Yep, still Sansa. A different kind of Sansa though…

Gods, he needed a drink. Maybe Theon would have some.

"Fancy something stiff? This whole riddle is worse than one of Luwin's valyrian poems," he said.

Jon shook his head, "We're riding off to see to that deserter tomorrow morning, remember? Father won't like it if we turn up smelling of Theon's cheap swill," he said.

"Shit, you're right," said Robb, though he was secretly pleased he'd stopped calling Father 'Lord Stark', at least when they were in private like this. Jon was to be his right hand man, not one of the keep's servants. Why couldn't everyone see it that way?

He shook his head, "Best we get down then. Be sure to stay with Bran, it'll be his first time," he said.

Jon nodded as if it had been obvious. Of course he'd been about to do it without prompting; his thick headed brother was thoughtful, at least where little Bran and Arya were concerned.

They climbed down for dinner, and he sent Sansa another sheepish smile over the table. She accepted the apology with a roll of her eyes, listening to Father's conversation with Mother and even laughing when Rickon attacked her with a spoonful of tart… though she grimaced when Arya sat at the other end of the table from her.

Robb sighed, turning his attention to Bran. I just hope you don't get nervous tomorrow… he thought, startled by a sudden caw in the distance.

Bloody ravens…

-: PD :-

Spoiler: Music

The morning was overcast, the horizon covered by a grey blanket. Robb realized his hand was fidgeting of its own will, in tempo with the errant gusts of wind which crawled over this patch of green highland north of Winterfell. He stilled his hand, looking at Sansa again as the couple of Stark guardsmen brought the deserter up the hill.

She was an unexpected addition to the party, though you wouldn't notice it by her dress. She'd stormed out of Winterfell's gates almost twenty minutes after the main party had departed, wearing tight riding leathers covered by furs like any one of Robb or Jon's garments, except hers had been crowned in white by her neck. A white wolf's pelt.

The dozen or so Stark guardsmen around the small hill looked grim, knowing what was to come. Father shot Robb a glance as the two guards manhandled the deserter halfway up the hill, and Robb nodded. He moved towards Sansa, stepping past Bran and Jon. His half-brother was talking slowly, a calming hand on Bran's shoulder.

Unlike Bran, Sansa didn't shuffle as the time of the execution arrived. She seemed to be gazing north; at the grey horizon which looked like one great formless cloud. Robb suppressed a shiver of unease as he leaned on her, gently grabbing her elbow. "You don't need to prove anything Sansa. Whatever happened between you and Arya, or Mother…" he trailed off awkwardly, like a blind man grasping at reeds. Just what was the deal with her?

"I assure you this has nothing to do with them, brother," she said, eyes still distant. Gods, when had she grown so quiet? Sansa should have been gossiping with Jeyne and the other girls in Winterfell, not standing here witnessing an execution.

"Father then? … Me?" he added hesitantly.

"Not at all."

"Why then? Sansa, you almost fainted last year when old Nib killed that hog… and this will be far worse."

"I know."

"If you make a scene here, it'll reflect badly on Father," he said, trying for another angle.

"I won't make a scene."

"Mother will be mad with you," he added.

"Let her."

"Sansa, what's gotten into to you?" he said, his grip tightening.

She finally turned to look at him. Once –in what felt like months, not days ago- she would have wilted under Robb's demanding, older-brother gaze. He was the one who shuffled instead, letting drop her elbow. He felt those blue eyes piercing him for a moment, before the faraway glint disappeared and she really gazed at him. "Bran is younger than me, and yet Father took him against Mother's wishes. Why?" she said.

"… Bran will be lord of his own keep one day. He needs to learn," he said, trying to repeat what Father often said but mangling the whole thing.

"And me? Don't I need to learn our customs too?"

"Your future husband will see to it," he said awkwardly. He'd never much cared for that far distant future, but it seemed the right thing to say.

Sansa frowned, tilting her head. "And when my husband goes to war? What then Robb? What when winter sows hunger and anarchy? What when the enemy is at the gates and we stand besieged? Should I hide in the knitting room, hoping for someone else to carry out the duties of my House?"

Robb opened his mouth, but no sound came out of it. He licked his lips, "I-"

"No," she said, returning her eyes to the northern horizon, hands clasped in front of her, "The blood of the Starks runs through my veins too. It was high time I started acting like one."

"… Why?" he said after a quiet moment.

"Because we won't be children forever, Robb. The cold wind is picking up, and the south rides North. We must be strong if our House is to survive the trials ahead," she whispered almost too low to hear, the air of prophecy hanging around her words. "The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives," she said as Robb strained to hear.

He frowned, shuffling uneasily once more as the guards reached Father and Ser Rodrik. The wind felt unusually cold against Robb's furs, seeping past their protection and chilling his bones as the deserter from the Night's Watch looked at him with wide, still eyes. Father looked at him as well, and Robb shook his head. Sansa herself had somehow weathered Father's icy reprimand, standing her ground without flinching as she explained her position like Maester Luwin would, argument after argument piling up into a conclusion so undeniable Father would have been a hypocrite to deny her presence today. Robb's own intervention had been Father's last recourse.

Eddard sighed, and turned towards the mumbling deserter. His black coat seemed parched and frayed, his sunken face pale and haunted. "I saw what I saw. I saw White Walkers." The words drifted down with the wind, and Sansa stilled.

"People need to know… bring word to my family… tell them I'm no coward… tell them I'm sorry…" he whispered.

Father gazed at the deserter for a long moment, before nodding at the two guards. They made him kneel, placing his chest against the worn stone by their side. Father withdrew Ice from its sheath, Theon bowing his head reverently as he stepped back with the empty scabbard. Father began to pass judgment as Jon whispered in Bran's ear quickly.

"-I Eddard, of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and-"

"Father, a moment please!" said Sansa, striding forward.

Father's head turned towards her like a whip, his eyes thunderous behind the lordly demeanor. He shook his head as if he'd knew this would happen, turning to Jory Cassel. "Jory, take Lady Sansa down to the horses and await there for our return," he commanded sternly.

"Right away Lord Stark," Jory said as he made for Sansa, who had reached the stone and the kneeling, mumbling deserter. She'd left her hair untied today, letting it curl down her back as the winds willed it.

Hells, Robb thought, barely a step behind Jory. Father had had a quiet word with Robb, and he'd entrusted Sansa to him for the journey… now he'd failed at keeping to the solemnity of the occasion.

Jory reached her first though, "Come now little lady, you've had your fill of fresh air-"

"That won't be necessary," she said, taking a knee by the deserter's side. The command was so self-assured Jory hesitated for a second, a second Sansa used to look up at Father. "His words, he believes what he says."

Jory looked at Father questioningly, and Robb was surprised to see the icy expression melt by a tiny bit. "I'm sure he believes so, Sansa. But that does not take away what he did," he said as if explaining it to a child. The two guards behind the deserter looked at each other.

Robb made to pull Sansa back. "I know he has to die," she said, making him flinch. "He's a deserter to the Night's Watch, and we can't make even a single exception or the whole institution could crumble," she said, still gazing at Father like a wolf, "That must not happen… But every man should have a right to a few last words. Wouldn't you agree?"

Her words left Father no other choice but to nod in assent. His expression promised retribution back at Winterfell though, for all that confusion marred it. Robb sighed, shrugging when Theon shot him a bewildered look.

"Tell me, what did you see?" Sansa whispered gently, the two guards shuffling when her face neared the deserter's by a handspan.

"I saw… I saw White Walkers…" the man said.

"Do you remember where?"

He hesitated, closing his eyes uncomfortably and making silent expressions. "I… I saw what I saw. They were there. Blue eyes mind. Moonshadow dawn… I saw white walkers…" he mumbled.

Sansa placed both her knees on the ground, her face level with the deserter's as she placed a hand on his cheek. Robb moved to intervene but a look from Father stilled him.

"What's your name, Watcher on the Wall?" she whispered. Robb could barely hear her.

His eyes seemed to focus on Sansa for the first time, and he blinked slowly as he opened his mouth. "Will," he said, almost a squeak.

"I believe you, Brother Will. Where did you see them? Where did you see our ancient enemy?" she said, breathing deeply as Will froze. The winds seemed to grow lax, losing strength as her blue eyes bored on the deserter's.

"What's your report, Brother Will? Where did our enemy return?" she whispered, the Stark banner on Alyn's spear drooping as the wind ceased to be. Will stared at his sister's eyes like a madman staring at the sun, blinking slowly as his face relaxed.

"The Haunted Forest," whispered Sansa.

"Yes," said Will.

"How many of them did you see?"

Will moved his mouth slowly, chewing nothing but air.

"Two?" whispered Sansa.

Silence.

"Five," she said slowly.

"Yes," Will squeaked.

Sansa placed her other hand on Will's cheek as well, caressing it like a mother putting her child to sleep. By now the wind's death was so complete he could hear her whisper. "They will not win," she promised him, "The might of the North shall not refuse the Starks. We'll march on them with fire and steel by right of ancient oaths. All the banners of the South will answer the call, and Winter will know the wrath of man. I, Sansa of the House Stark, swear this by the Gods of Stone and Tree," she said, the guards holding in their breaths so they could hear her voice.

Will blinked again, and Robb realized tears were falling down the man's cheeks, slipping through Sansa's thumbs and down her wrists. "Thank you," Will whispered, closing his eyes. "Thank you."

She stood up and took a place by Robb's side, the silence almost suffocating as the wind picked up again.

"I'm ready, Lord Stark," Will said after a moment, leaning his head down and exposing the nape of his neck.

Father hesitated for half a second before he took a deep breath. "In the name of Robert of the House 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, I, Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North, sentence you to die."

He hefted Ice with both hands, taking a step backwards. He swung the blade with force, and it sung through the air before cutting the man's head with a clean blow.

Sansa didn't even flinch; gazing at the bubbling blood from the man's severed neck. She then closed her eyes, tilting her head down in respect before turning back and walking to the horses.

Father looked at Ser Rodrik. The men shared something that Robb couldn't quite understand before the old Master-At-Arms bellowed for the guards to move out.

He accompanied Father down the hill, stopping with him as he took Bran's shoulder. "… You understand why I had to do that?"

"The man who passes the sentence should swing the blade… and if you can't find yourself to do that, then perhaps the man does not deserve to die," said Bran, dragging his eyes from the horse's stirrups.

Father nodded, but Bran didn't stop there, "Though Sansa also said there was another possible outcome..."

"Did she?" Father said, turning to look at Robb's sister once more. She was waiting ahead, already atop her own horse, "What did she add?"

"… that if the man is guilty and you can't swing the blade, then perhaps it is the ruler who does not deserve to rule," said Bran.

Father tapped his belt thoughtfully, looking at Sansa as if lost in thought.

"Father," Bran said, startling them both, "What did she say to the deserter… to Will?"

Father hesitated, sharing a look with Robb, "She consoled him in the hour of his death. A noble deed," said Father, but Robb found the words hesitant. Even Bran seemed to notice.

"We should go, my Lord," said Ser Rodrik as he reached them, looking past his back, northwards. "Lady Catelyn will be anxious," he said.

Lady Catelyn, or you?

They rode back even more silently than before. Sansa's words kept rebounding within Robb's skull, and he found he couldn't stop staring at her back. She'd almost taken the lead, at the front with Jory and Alyn.

No one had thought to reprimand her.

Something had happened to his sister, most of the family knew that much… Something that had made her age decades in a single moment, something primal and hair-raising. She couldn't hide that, just as you couldn't hide the sun. Not from her own family.

Father had sought answers in the Heart Tree, and Mother in her Sept. Robb though… Robb suspected the answer was right in front of him, riding ahead...

Comforting a man at the gates of his own death, or whispering prophecy like the Greenseers in Old Nan's stories? Robb shook his head, chuckling at the thought. It sounded vaguely choked to his ears, the sound echoing slightly within the confines of the Wolfswood. He hadn't even realized they were crossing it.

Thin white birch trunks dotted the mass of green; spruces and pines adding a dry sweet scent to the air. Theon raised an eyebrow by his side, and Robb was about to talk to him when Jory called out a halt, sounding tense. The forest was oddly quiet, and he kept a hand over his sword's pommel as he dismounted quickly. They'd stopped over a small stone bridge with a little creek running below it.

Perfect spot for an ambush, the thought came unbidden, and he gazed around for wildlings as he made his way forward with Theon. Here half a dozen archers would be able to pin them down from both sides, turning any attempts to mount their horses risky and thus nullifying the biggest advantage Winterfell's men had over a hypothetical band of wildling raiders.

He found Father and Ser Rodrik kneeling by the side of a dead stag by the end of the small stone bridge, gazing at it quietly. He joined them quickly, followed by Jon and Theon as Alyn watched the forest instead.

Good man, he thought.

"Mountain lion?" said Theon, gazing at the stag's torn throat and belly. The guards had put hands to pommels or halberds, looking around as they picked up their liege's tension. Sansa was standing by the dead beast's side, seemingly unconcerned.

"A direwolf did this," she said, examining the wound. She seemed thoughtful for a second before closing her eyes. She smiled all of a sudden, her features relaxing as she seemed to bask in the presence of… something. She almost skipped as she turned and walked down the side of the small stone bridge, eyes still closed as she climbed down the tiny gorge made by the nameless river that was more of a trickle right now.

"Sansa wait!" said Father as he scrambled after her, unsheathing his arming sword as Robb took off after him in turn. "It's dangerous!" he bellowed.

"It's alright, Father," she called out. She had walked a little along the river bend, and Robb frowned as she kneeled near a grey bulk, uncaring of the mud. "Lady," she whispered happily as the shrub next to her jingled and a tiny wolf pup emerged from it. It made its way straight towards Sansa's lap, sniffling as it tried to climb it with tiny paws. Sansa scooped it up and pressed it against her cheek.

Robb saw tiny tears in the corners of her eyes as he walked around her. "I missed you," she whispered into the pup's ear.

Father stumbled to a stop next to her, gazing ahead at the grey bulk which Robb just now realized was the enormous body of a dead direwolf. Several pups were still shuffling by the dead mother's belly, whimpering softly.

"It's bloody huge," said Theon. Bran and Ser Rodrik brought up the rear as they crowded around the dead beast and kneeling Sansa, staring at the dead beast with wide eyes.

"Direwolves south of the Wall…" said Father, almost entranced by the great beast. He extracted an antler from the direwolf's neck, gazing at it thoughtfully.

"… South of the Wall?" Robb asked out loud. There hadn't been a sighting like this in… hundreds of years at the very least.

Something is changing, he thought, shivering lightly as his knuckles went white over the pommel of his sword.

"Five of them," said Jon as he looked at Sansa's pup. It seemed completely at ease with her, licking and whining as if she were her mother. Jon knelt to take one of them before passing it on to Bran, "Here, want to hold it?" he asked.

Bran grabbed it hesitantly, the tiny grey pup squirming for a bit as he shifted the grip. "Where will they go? Their mother's dead…" he said, looking at Father.

"With us, back to Winterfell," said Sansa as she stood up. Her pup was licking the errant tears on her cheeks. Soon, they were all gone.

Father hesitated before shaking his head, "They won't last long without their mother, better a quick death…"

"Alright, give it here," said Theon as he stepped towards Sansa with a dagger.

Her eyes snapped up from the pup, and her piercing blue gaze seemed to pin Theon in place.

She pressed the pup against her cheek once more, closing her eyes as she let out a long breath of air and she cuddled it silly. "You can't have her. Lady is mine to keep, mine to feed… and mine to slay, should fate ever call for it," she said, as sure a declaration as an oath of vassalage.

"Sansa… what do you know about this?" Father said after a long moment of silence, punctuated by the whimpering pups and the lazy crawl of the river. Robb didn't exactly know what the 'this' referred to, but he suspected it was bigger than mere pups. Even direwolf pups.

…What indeed…

She lifted her gaze at the same time as the pup, both of them looking at Father with a serious expression. Sansa seemed to consider him for a long moment, her mouth chewing silently as if she were arguing with herself. Finally though, she seemed to give up on whatever she'd been thinking. She sighed, returning her gaze to Lady as the pup looked back at her as well. "Her mother was fleeing south, carried along by ancient instincts. Her own blood knew the way towards ancient oaths; hearth for service, life for life. The wrath of winter for the joy of summer."

"It was searching for something?" Jon asked. He was often silent around her, though she didn't seem to mind the question.

"Yes. Starks," she said with slight smile as the pup yawned. She scratched the side of its head as she kept talking, "Starks of old faced fates worse than death, millennia ago. They made their own blood sing, attuned it to that which they considered the noblest of the North's beasts. Companions who would follow them in the world of the living… and make sure they stayed in the world of the dead, when the time came. Companions not unlike little Lady here," she said, her smile turning tender as the pup whimpered at the end.

Theon snorted, though he didn't move towards her again. "Sansa, don't be silly…" Robb found himself whispering.

"The sigil of our House honors them. Their mother carried them but an hour away from Winterfell and died by the side of a small road seldom used…" she paused, looking over at the mother's corpse. She sniffed, "Died and gave birth the very day we would pass through it. Does it really sound so hard to believe we were meant to have them?"

"We?" asked Bran.

"There's six pups, one for each whose blood flows with the echoes of winter. Four males, two females. One each for the Starks of our generation."

"But… There's five of them, Sansa," said Jon, a bewildered frown dominating his features.

She smiled good-naturedly, "Yours is quite alike you. Silent as a ghost when it suits him," she said as her eyes drifted to his side.

Even the guards turned to look when Jon whirled towards the little nook Sansa had gazed at. Robb's heart thumped like a war drum as he saw a small white pup, barely making a sound as it stared at Jon.

"Hello little one," whispered Sansa, smiling.

"Old Gods green and wise…" whispered Jory, hand trembling despite the firm grip over the pommel of his sword.

"Why are they coming south, Sansa? Why was the mother fleeing?" asked Father, voice thick with tension.

Sansa hesitated, petting Lady absentmindedly as it licked her jaw.

"Why Sansa?" said Father.

She sighed, the sound of the wind slow against Robb's ears. "You already know the answer to that question. You can feel it in the air; how the wind seems to cut through fur like a dagger in the back," she said.

Robb shared a look with Jon, the little white ghost in his hands staying eerily still, regarding Sansa with red eyes.

"You can see it when the clouds break over the Wall and their grey remnants lay perched over Winterfell, waiting…" she said, cradling Lady against the cold. "You listen to it when the crows caw and the wolves howl, the edge of a deep anxiety hidden beneath their calls. Like blades in the dark…" Her eyes turned to Father's, her smile wan, "You can feel it when you speak with the Heart Trees. They cry red sap at what's to come. They remember," she whispered.

Robb felt as if he were being choked, his vision slowly tunneling on Sansa's face.

"You ask, but you already know the answer deep inside you. You already know the answer to that question, Father," she said.

"Winter is Coming," someone said. The voice sounded drowned, filled with dread.

Robb realized it had been his.

"Ser Rodrik!" Father commanded suddenly.

"My Lord?" Ser Rodrik responded at once.

"We ride on to Winterfell at speed, keep those pups close! Recall the patrols and double the guard on the walls tonight. I want the gatehouse closed by mid-afternoon."

"Aye my Lord!" said Ser Rodrik, immediately turning towards the small bridge where the rest of the guards were. "Alyn!" he bellowed, "Take point with Tobin and Horace, eyes peeled. We make for Winterfell at a fast trot!"

Alyn had been tense before, but the urgency in Ser Rodrik's voice seemed to jolt him into action. He turned as he gestured with the halberd, the Stark banner picking up as the wind returned with a vengeance, "You heard him men! Mount up and look sharp!" he shouted.

"Father…" said Sansa, her voice bewildered for once. "We're safe now, there's time still before-"

"That will be for me to decide," he said, checking over the great brooch that held the heavy pelt over his back. "If that is so, then the men could still use the drill. And if not…" he trailed off, sounding disbelieving as he shook his head, "I want to see you in my solar as soon as we arrive. Are we clear, Sansa?" he said, his tone brooking absolutely no disagreement.

Robb opened his mouth.

"Alone," said Father as he stared him down. Robb shut it back with a clack as the guards ahead scrambled.

Sansa gazed at Father, blue eyes clashing with grey before she sighed, nodding halfheartedly. "Come on Lady, there'll be a warm meal for you back home," she said, and the pup seemed to give a small bark of agreement. Robb felt the hair at the nape of his neck stand on edge as they moved; even Theon was unusually quiet as they grabbed the pups quickly and climbed back to the end of the little stone bridge. They mounted their horses in silence.

"Make sure the men say nothing about this," Father said to Ser Rodrik as they climbed their own horses.

"I'll tell Jory," said Ser Rodrik with a nod.

His sister was not mad, Robb was sure of it now. She had seen something, known something with a sort of visceral awareness Robb could only liken to yard-trained instinct…

"Jory, take the rear with Mortin and Dallen, make sure they all keep pace!" shouted Ser Rodrik.

"Understood!" said Jory, moving over to the back and talking lowly with the guardsmen of the rear guard.

"Let's go!" shouted Ser Rodrik.

As the group departed at a fast trot, Robb found himself looking at the overcast horizon. He didn't know what Sansa had seen there. He couldn't name it, but he could feel a sliver of it in his gut anyway.

When the cold wind blows, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives, he remembered.

Had Sansa seen the Cold Wind?

-: PD :-

Last edited: Mar 13, 2019

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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Mar 13, 2019

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Threadmarks Chapter 64: Behemoth.

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Special Circumstances Agent

Mar 18, 2019

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Chapter 64: Behemoth.

Spoiler: Music

Joffrey walked through the Street of Steel, listening to the beat of the hammers. They were a powerful melody, a constant percussion of metal on metal, a rhythm arising from the simple beats which crawled over each other and built something greater than the sum of its parts.

The street was full to bursting. Crowds of people walked in and out of buildings, carrying raw ore to the furnaces that loomed high over the skyline, painting the horizon with black smoke. It warred against stormy clouds, black against grey, coal-fire against bone-chilling cold.

To his side Joffrey could see a warehouse filled with weavers, spinning wheels cackling like starved beavers on tender wood. The women were trawling away stack after stack of uniforms, all of them dyed Purple. Hundreds of crates had been stacked, uniforms upon uniforms for the Legions of Westeros. The spinning wheels added a buzzing quality to the beat of the hammers, building atop it and adding to the Song.

Joffrey thought the color was wrong. They should be dark, with orange accents; the cheapest and easiest dye to produce en mass. The Mopongo Slime was native to the Summer Islands, but it was suited to many climates… and when processed by a triple press of Yi-Tish design, the amount of dye extracted should exceed the output of even Tyroshi manufactories by far...

Down by the harbor he could see a vast flotilla of ships; Yi-Tish traders with sails crossed by reeds, Swanships and purpled Braavosi galleys, cogs and galleons from the Reach and the Vale and the Narrow Sea. They filled the bay, carrying supplies and men, thousands of dockworkers moving like ants as they shouted and hollered. The sound brought a strange sort of peace to Joffrey. It was a far cry from the quiet contemplativeness of the Heart Trees, but a soothing one nonetheless.

There was something substantial, immaterial to the laboring of men. Lazy grunts and hollered orders, quick conversations and moving wagons. The huff and puff of lifted crates and grabbed tools. The sound of men working for something they were part of and yet couldn't see. Something they couldn't smell and couldn't touch, though they could feel it all the same. That long unceasing buzz of sound set him at ease, adding another layer to the Song and granting it richness; a sort of vivid quality he could feel in his gut.

Joffrey spent a while listening to the beat of the hammers on steel, the melody a constant companion as he entered one of the smithies. He found a lit forge, the hammer waiting for him over the anvil as he grabbed a pair of tongs which already held a length of metal. The warmth of the forge bathed him; a core of scalding heat which energized him, filled him.

He started hammering, his clanging adding to the beat all around him; a lowly bass that framed the melody to a steady beat. He ordered the Song thus, reinforcing the vividness with every blow of his hammer.

"It'll be a potent transformation, what you'll bring to your land," said Captain Shah as he sat by the side of the forge. The serene Scout wore his old Long Patrol armor; long sand-grey leathers under scaled armor, a long overcoat swaying around him with the wind. The grey sands of the Beyond still clung to him, crusted in between the joints of his outfit.

"A necessary one, old friend," said Joffrey as he accelerated the rhythm, the melody gaining speed as he hammered the piece of metal with mighty swings. "I've been thinking lately, of what you told me back in the Grey Wastes."

"Always dangerous, that. We wouldn't want your brain to turn to mush, would we?" said Shah, grinning like the fool he was.

Joffrey grunted, smiling as he stopped hammering and raised the length of metal to his face. It was hot, his face heating up as he slowly turned the length of it around, examining it.

"I believe there's something… intrinsic, to man," he said, putting the metal against the anvil once more and lifting the hammer again. "To all men. Brindled. Winged. Hairy. Westerosi and Essosi," he said as he hammered it according to his will. Archmaester Benedict had often told him of the strange duality of the forge. Calm evaluation and passionate creation. Fury and patience. Art and science.

"The little flames," said Shah, smiling, "Small and yet burning so brightly."

Joffrey smiled as well, "I've been chased by a feeling, an intuition. It's almost an old friend by now… a certainty that we're something akin to unrefined ore, if you will," he said, concentrated on the beat of his heavy hammer. The smoke of the forge was intoxicating to the senses, filling his nostrils with the scent of oil and metal, coal and leather. "We were buried deep within the earth, alone and undiscovered, but now we've been dug up," he said, the melody growing in depth as the ghostly smiths around the city woke up and took hammer and tong, joining him.

Clang. The hammered in unison with him.

"Now the gaze of the sun blinds us. The winds of the world chip at us. We've woken to the truth outside the mine, the cavern; we've seen the stars and the truth of the world," said Shah.

Clang.

"A terrifying truth. An all-consuming beat," said Joffrey, a bead of sweat descending down his forehead as he changed his grip on the tongs. "But we can no longer be ore, not under the gaze of the stars," he said, looking up at Aegon's High Hill as he quenched the length of metal in a bucket of water. The Dawn Fort dominated the hill, tall towers of black stone shadowing the city. Beyond it stood its sisters; five forts on five hills.

"You'll mold them in your image," said Shah, gazing at the scores of legionaries donning black armor below the Dawn Fort. They were the smallfolk of King's Landing, grim faced and stern handed as they moved like knights before battle. The sound of a lumbermill's saw on ebonwood screeched in the distance, adding a low and constant buzz to the beat of the Song as the people grabbed weapons and armor.

Clang. Clang.

"Not my image," said Joffrey, "I'll turn my people into what they were meant to be, Shah. The old ways will not do against the coming Night." The hammering grew frantic as Joffrey slammed the length of metal back against the anvil and he hefted his hammer time after time. He'd almost forgotten how it felt to wield such a powerful tool, not to kill but to create.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

The symphony of steel on steel grew, the rhythm filling him from the inside like an overflowing wine cup.

"No. If humanity is to survive, if the light of consciousness is to endure beyond this era, we'll have to forge ourselves into something greater. It's there Shah, nowhere and everywhere, held within the very means we have to experience the world," he said, eyes glazing as sparks jumped like streaks of lightning with each hammer blow, illuminating the forge with each hit. "It's behind every piece of music, every work of art. You heft it with our every tool. You taste it with every bowl of food. You hear it in every cry of ecstasy. You silence it when you kill." He'd found the rhythm he'd been looking for, the beat of the Song caressing his skin like a half-forgotten lover, an all-enveloping rapture. "Existence, Shah. Existence and Experience," he said, the last hammer blow illuminating the city like a newborn sun.

"We don't see the Cosmos… We are the Cosmos," he said as he dropped the hammer and the tongs.

CLANG.

The sound of the hammer slamming against the marbled floor dominated him, the Song holding its breath like a Braavosi Maestro holding his hand up; orchestra silenced for a single moment before the main piece that was to come, the climax of the symphony itching to start. He lifted the incandescent metal with bare hands, anvil and forge forgotten as he gazed at his creation.

Appraising eyes travelled down the length of the rod; it was made of refined copper, streaks of burnished orange shimmering under the light of the newborn sun. "What they were meant to be, Shah. Not ore, but ingots of purest metal. The little flames pooled together into one great bonfire that shall be our answer to the stars above. We shall be worthy. Death or victory, we shall be worthy... "

"For Dawn," said Shah, a tender smile on his lips as blood trickled down his mouth, a splotch of red emerging from the center of his armor.

"For Dawn, old friend," said Joffrey, smiling as he closed his eyes.

-: PD :-

The dream laid him down gently, a slowly spinning awareness that deposited him on the ground. He felt his back first, muscles cramped and hard. They were still unused to sleeping over rough terrain. His arms and legs came then, lying down by his sides and below, feeling stiff. His head felt light, his eyes opening almost hesitantly against the gently glowing sunlight. It seeped through the fabric of his small campaign tent, bathing his body in understated yellow.

A distant buzz zipped within his ears; conversations nearby growing and dying. They followed the Song even if they didn't realize it, molding it as it molded them. He could hear clanging hammers in the distance, the caravan's smith probably hard at work against the Queen's Wheelhouse yet again.

A long sigh escaped his lips, the dream still behind his eyelids as he closed his eyes again. It had been a while since he'd dreamt of Shah. The events of the Dawn Fort and the war that raged there seemed so long ago, as if they'd happened to another man. A man torn and beaten, seeing the doom of all and spitting in its eye. A man choosing to die with hammer in hand rather than live in shame. A man scarred and broken, held by the love and respect of comrades in arms, oblivious still to his origins and to his purpose. A man searching for truth like a godless prophet.

Joffrey was no longer that man. He was no Dawn Commander. Neither sailor nor captain. No reckless explorer and adventurer lost in distant jungles. No learned man of the Citadel and certainly no artist. He'd lived so long, held to so many identities, so many different hopes and struggles and dreams and nightmares... Sometimes, he wondered which one of them he actually was.

Which identity was the truth and which was the lie.

Truth was, he was both none and all of them at the same time. King and general. Lover and adventurer. Scholar and dreamer. He was Joffrey, and today he'd show another group of men what they were meant to be. Today, he'd be Commander. He listened to the Song for a while longer, letting his mind bask in it for a moment before it was time.

His eyes drifted to the tent flap a second before Barret opened it. The former Red Cloak gulped, staring at him for a second before regaining his composure. "They're ready," he said.

"I know," said Joffrey.

-: PD :-

"STAND!" roared Barret. Olyvar immediately straightened; halberd held by his right side, shoulders squared and chin up. It had been a bit more than a week since the King's Party had passed the Twins on its way North.

To Olyvar Frey, that might as well have been years ago.

His squad of ten straightened as well, the sound of shuffling armor and butting halberds dominating the small clearing by the road for a second. Ten smallfolk laborers clad in the same half-plate as him, the scion of a powerful Riverlander House. Days ago, the thought would have left him bewildered… now, he just prayed they'd polished their armor well.

Because if not, the Mother's own mercy would not save them from Olyvar's wrath.

"Recruits!" Bellowed the Crown Prince. He emerged from the right, striding at a sedate pace in half-plate identical to theirs save for the blackened sheen and the tabard over it. The tabard's design was far away indeed from the heraldry of the Baratheons of King's Landing; it depicted the Hand of the King locked in fist, silver against white.

Olyvar suppressed a scowl as he followed the Prince's stride, cursing his helmet's field of vision when the Prince momentarily disappeared from it. "I know you've been training hard, but what you've been through has not yet prepared you for the trials ahead. You are not yet Guardsmen, for you do not yet know what it means to be a Guardsmen," he said as he reappeared into Olyvar's view. He walked thoughtfully, halberd held over the shoulder and one hand resting between his plate and the pommel of the hammer by his waist.

Olyvar knew what being a Guardsmen meant. It meant endless drills, followed by more endless drills, followed by pointless running and pointless marching from side to side.

"You do not yet know what being a Guardsmen is, because it is something you can't know. It is something one understands. A bone deep certainty within you. A belonging one can't articulate into words. A certainty I believe you're finally ready to understand."

"Recruits, today will be a hard day," he said, planting his halberd on the floor. Joffrey was fond of pointless ramblings which made absolutely no sense whatsoever, but Olyvar found himself abruptly wondering what his cursed liege would consider hard.

Hard was repeating simple drills with 'his' men from dawn to dusk with a single half hour break in between. Hard was being woken up that very same night for a round of marching around the quietly laughing Red Cloaks of the Party's night guard. Hard was oiling and cleaning his halberd and armor every time a speck of dust settled on it. Hard was practicing polearm thrusts until his arms refused to move any longer.

He heard Lancel stifle something by his side. So, worst yet, he thought, trying to prepare himself for whatever was to come. By now wise to the ways of the Prince, he intuited the answer was torture.

"Today you'll be confronted by your own limits. Today you'll convince yourself you'll be a step away from dying. Today you'll wish you were dying," said the Prince. He walked with his back straight, hands behind it as he surveyed the troops. He carried a sort of silent dignity, a quiet presence that demanded everyone's attention no matter what you'd been doing a second ago.

Each Serjeant was standing in front of their squad by the side of the King's Road, and the noise of the King's Party had already overpowered that of the forest nearby. The King is probably waking up right now, thought Olyvar, ruthlessly suppressing a stab of envy. The days were he'd been allowed to sleep till after dawn, of waking up to a warm meal and not bloody warming exercises… it now all seemed but a child's dream.

"Today you'll be confronted by your own limits… and if you truly want to be Guardsmen, today you'll surpass them," he said as he settled into a wide legged stance, "Today the Royal Party is expected to make moderate progress before stopping for lunch, Wheelhouse willing," he said, leaning forward with a slightly maniacal grin that was swiftly smothered. "And today, we are going to beat it."

"Shit."

"What was that, Serjeant Rykker?" called out the Prince.

"Nothing, Commander!" he replied crisply.

"Sounded like grunt of expectation to me. Since you're so eager, your squad will take point," he said as he paced again, Renfred's squad stifling groans behind their superior.

"Aye, Commander!" shouted Renfred, undaunted.

Why are all the Serjeants such lickspittles? After everything this son of a whore has done to us? Was it because he was a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms? It couldn't be that, Willard Mooton would hit the King if he'd felt disrespected by him, consequences be damned. He tried to fight off the devil whispering for him to throttle Renfred Rykker and his stupidly stern expression, as if waiting for the Prince's next command. Their self-styled 'Commander' wouldn't approve of it, but by now Olyvar felt just about to blow up.

He stayed as stiff as a statue, and hating himself for it. "This'll be a non-stop fast march in full armor and camp gear through rugged terrain. You'll be following stakes tied with colored ribbons which the Hound has generously laid ahead of you," he said, eyes suddenly turning serious. You could tell by the way the sharpened slightly, the presence becoming taut like a string about to snap.

The smell from the caravan's mobile kitchens was hard to ignore. The scent of freshly baked bread and sizzling bacon wafted through the assembled men, carried south by a small breeze. It was enough to water Olyvar's mouth. A far cry from the hardtack and jerky they'd been fed this morning… and last morning, and the one before that.

"If any member of your squad is beaten by the Queen's bloody Wheelhouse, your whole squad will be doing strength exercises till dusk, and the honor of the Guard will be beyond you for the foreseeable future. I don't care if you fell down a bottomless pit, there will be no excuses!" he bellowed. "And if any piece of armor, kit, or –Father forbid- your halberd is missing on arrival, then the entire century will run back to get it. Am I understood?!"

"Aye, Commander!" bellowed Olyvar, more than fifty men and their Serjeants shouting with him.

"Then get to it! Go!" he said, and Olyvar felt as if a ghost had possessed him. He turned by instinct, bellowing at his squad of smallfolk to get in order. One of the ten –Klint- was a second slower than the rest as they turned for the march. Olyvar was upon him in an instant.

"Eyes ahead and halberd by your side! Look alive!" he shouted at the bastard. Klint looked back in something akin to loathing before giving out a muffled 'Aye, Ser.'

Slovenly wretch, thought Olyvar. His cousins had thought him kind hearted. This past week, Olyvar had discovered that he harbored an all-consuming hatred of mankind deep in his heart.

"At a quick jog!" he bellowed, and soon he was jogging with 'his' men, the block of smallfolk biting off curses and low looks as they marched by his side. Renfred's squad had taken point, marching crisply ahead of Willard's and Tyrek's squads.

Full kit over rough terrain, thought Olyvar, calculating the weight the men would be carrying. It didn't look good, depending on how long the run would last.

Wheelhouse willing.

Lancel's squad was right in front of Olyvar's, and the Frey scion picked up the pace a bit so he could catch up to him. Each Serjeant marched by side of their squad as the column of soldiers extended completely like a metal snake, with Joffrey at the head. They marched past the outer rearguard of the King's Party, and the Red Cloaks and Stormlanders lounging there didn't bother hiding their guffaws once the Prince had marched by, not even looking at them.

Self-righteous imbeciles, thought Olyvar. He'd bet even these ten wretches against the lounging fools one for one any time. Bet they haven't worked hard in years, he thought. They probably didn't even understand the concept of hard work. Gods, in what sorry state would he be left after four years of this? His legs would fall off.

And it's only been a week and half!

He shook his head harshly, now was not the time to despair. "Ho there, Lancel!" he grunted, taking care not to drop his halberd. Never drop your weapon had been one of the first lessons the Prince had taught him and his newborn squad.

"Pleasant morning for a walk, eh Olyvar?" said Lancel as Olyvar matched his pace to the other Serjeant's. The damned fool seemed chipper about all this.

The squads started jogging as they entered the forest nearby, leaving the slowly waking King's Party and the dreaded Wheelhouse behind. Lancel and all the other squads carried red ribbons tied to their forearms, the significance of which the other Serjeants had been unusually reticent in sharing. It made him feel excluded, him and 'his' squad.

"We spent the entire day yesterday marching in circles around the King's Party! And now the Pri- Commander decides to pull this? He wants to kill us?!" said Olyvar, jogging at a quick tempo with his halberd held against his shoulder with both hands. The terms of the agreement had seemed so bloody generous back in the Twins. Joining this 'Royal Guard' had seemed the obvious choice with so big a payout in the end. Besides, living and learning to lead and fight around the heir to the Seven Kingdoms for four years should have been an easy way to knighthood…

Knighthood.

The thought threatened to make him scream.

"Easy there, Olyvar," said the King's nephew, eyeing him sideways. "You and your men feeling okay for today? Ate light?"

"Yeah, they're all bloody accounted for. Just like the good little Serjeant that I am," he said. Gods, he needed more sleep.

Lancel smiled knowingly, shaking his head, "It'll be tough at first, Serjeant. But then…" Lancel trailed off, staring at nothing for a moment before he took a deep breath, "Then it'll all somehow fit. I promise."

Olyvar frowned, skipping a boulder as the trail kept growing smaller, the ribbon-tied stakes taking them further into the forest, "You sound as if you've done this before," he said.

"We've all done it. The Commander repeats it every time a new squad joins the century. Willard's did it a couple of days before we passed the Twins."

"Merciful Mother… that explains why they looked half dead back then. Why didn't any of you say anything back at the mess-hall?" he asked. They didn't even dine with the rest of the nobility, because of course their crazy liege preferred to make them all dine together with the smallfolk. He honestly shouldn't have cared about that, he'd dined many times with the Twin's servantry for one reason or the other, but nowadays everything Joffrey did felt like pulling at a rotten tooth.

"Commander always asks us to keep it quiet. Mine and Tyrek's was actually the first; only a few days off King's Landing… Gods, seems like an eternity ago. I think it was four days before Renfred's squad joined us," said Lancel.

Each Serjeant had a squad of ten men they were responsible for in every way. They'd train together, they'd eat together, and they'd sleep together. 'And if one of you dies, you'll all dig the tomb together,' the Prince had added in the end, sending chills down Olyvar's spine. He'd known the Prince possessed a certain… intensity about him the first time he saw him in old Walder's solar. If only he'd known.

"Best you get back to your squad. First time's always the hardest," said Lancel, eyes oddly solemn.

Olyvar nodded, dropping speed to match 'his' squad. They must be nearing the Neck, for the ground looked unusually moist, filled with reeds and leaves. The forests were turning more ragged as well, drooping trees and snaring vines which fit Olyvar's mood just about perfectly.

The ten members of his squad jogged silently by his side, like reticent donkeys clumsily plowing ahead. "Watch those steps, you could twist an ankle if you're not careful," he said. They huffed in acknowledgment, and Olyvar felt an irrational spike of anger. They reacted just as he did in front of the Commander. "And pick it up! I'll be damned if any of you slacks off. We'll not end up working till dusk while the other squads sleep like babies in a crib!" he snarled with quiet intensity. The men seemed to share his feeling, picking up just a bit more speed as the trail ahead grew rugged, tiny ledges and fallen trees starting to dot the way. It just served to make Olyvar angrier.

If the bloody 'Commander' thinks he can break me, he's got another thing coming…

-: Step – Step – Step – Step :-

A small creek passed his sight, his boots churning puddles and caking up with foul mud that smelled of Old Walder's chamber pot.

Olyvar didn't care.

Every breath was like a dagger shoved between his ribs and into his lungs, and yet he lusted after those stabs of pain unlike anything else he'd ever wanted; for behind every stab of pain was a blessed, holy intake of air. Precious air more intoxicating than strongwine, more intoxicating than even the foul concoction cousin Wendel had mixed for him once, when he took him carousing around the northern villages in what felt like a lifetime ago.

His boots climbed another fallen tree, and his eyes glazed over a stake with a piece of green ribbon tied over it. Each color had been supposed to mean something about their progress during the run… now they were just that, stupid colored ribbons littering the way.

How could something so precious be so abundant? How had he been so blind as to dismiss the very air around him as unworthy of his consideration? How, when every delay in its intake threatened to make Olyvar's lungs burn from within? If he'd snorted Wildfire, would it have felt similar to this?

Olyvar realized he was jogging alone.

He started, almost tripping and impaling himself on an upturned root. The squads had extended themselves like a piece of string; he could make out Lancel's last recruit about twenty paces ahead, turning a bend around a large willow. That meant…

He looked back, and realized he'd overtaken 'his' own squad by quite a distance. They seemed half-dead, barely moving their arms as they jogged with heads down, their halberds swaying above them like the antlers of some drunken stag.

We're not going to make it.

The thought of being subjected to Joffrey's fake disappointment was enough to jolt him out of his stupor.

"Keep up the pace! Come on!" he shouted as he slowed down, reaching the first man in the long tail. His voice sounded raw, and his throat felt parched. Water was a painful memory better off forgotten.

"Yes, Serjeant!" he said.

"Good man!" Olyvar said, letting the huffing recruits pass him. "Come on come on! Every step you take is a step closer to the end!" he said as another three men passed him, their stride just a tiny bit faster than before. He didn't know from where he'd gotten the strength to speak again, but once he started Olyvar found he couldn't stop.

"Come on recruits! You want to make the fucking Commander pity you?!" he bellowed as he reached the tail end of his squad and thus the entire century.

One of the three men at the end scowled, spitting a tiny sliver of glob, "Fuck that!" he said, gaining speed. Here, with these men, no one was afraid of insulting the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms; a rare quality in a group of men be they noble or smallfolk. In fact, insulting the Commander inside the relative privacy of the squad tent was a guilty pleasure of them all.

"Then pick it up, Robben!" Olyvar said, falling in beside them, "What about you, Galv? Fancy carrying weighted armor once we finish?!"

"No, Serjeant!" said Galv. He'd been a baker's apprentice near Darry, before he'd signed away his freedom in exchange for the Seventh Hell.

"Fancy there'll be any bread left if we keep running at this pace?!" shouted Olyvar, something red and hot simmering in his chest. What was going on with him? His mood had swung from almost drunken stupor to murderous rage in less than a minute.

Gods, I'm just so fucking tired of this.

"No, Serjeant!" said Galv.

"Then how much food do you think we'll get if we're beaten by the fucking Wheelhouse!" he shouted.

"None, Serjeant!" said Galv. He'd been a little fat around the edges, the day Olyvar met him and they'd assembled a squad for him out of the hopefuls the Prince had been trailing behind. Now he looked like another man.

"Do you want that, recruit?!"

"No, Serjeant!"

"Then why are you slowing the squad down?!"

Galv picked up the pace, huffing loudly and holding the side of his chest. Olyvar was about to lay unto Klint when he realized the man was actually keeping pace with Galv and Robben.

He scowled, biting off the words before Klint turned his head to look at him.

"Say it anyway, you were going to do it without even looking," he spat.

Olyvar shook his head, "What's your fucking problem, Klint," he said, jogging next to him and wrenching the halberd from the tree branch it had snagged unto.

"Really? Here… of all… places…" huffed Galv, holding his sides.

They half crouched, half ran through a thicket of broken willow branches, slapping long tails of green that clung to their by-now dirty breastplates. Cleaning those would be hell.

Klint was red faced, slapping aside willow branches with wide swings of his halberd, "Maybe I'm just tired of your sneering, Serjeant," said the man. He took another big breath as they emerged from the veritable forest of hanging branches. "Maybe I'm just tired of you strutting about like you own us," he rasped.

Olyvar reared back, his face flushing red as he growled, "You and the rest of fifth squad are under my responsibility. One of you shits where you're not supposed to, it's my hide that gets tanned by the Commander!"

"And yet here you are-" said Klint, pausing for another breath, -"running ragged just like the rest of us. You're not our better, so you should stop strutting around like you expect us to be your manservants. You're just the spare Walder Frey decided to gift to the Commander. One less mouth to feed in exchange for the Crown's favor," he spat.

Galv and Rollen gasped, and not from the exertion.

Olyvar felt as if he'd been slapped- no, right now he felt as if he'd been punched in the gut, complete with the lack of air. This time the bastard had gone too far.

"You willing to back that up with more than just words?" Olyvar said, dangerously low.

"Tonight, after the Commander retires for the evening. There's bound to be a nook around here somewhere where I can smack your teeth in," said Klint.

Brawls were strictly forbidden. Olyvar didn't care. What was the Commander going to do? Make him work harder? "We'll see who gets his teeth smashed in, bastard," he said with relish. Klint Rivers scowled, balling his fists.

They kept running, taking care not to fall into the little ledges along the way; they were descending now. By now intimately familiar with the local geography, Olyvar thought that meant another climb would beckon soon. The churning anger deep inside his chest kept him running though, the anticipation of the fight sustaining him.

-: Step – Step – Step – Step :-

Spoiler: Music

Each step carried them closer to the end of this madness.

This Agony.

They'd started collecting members of their squad for a while now; lagging recruits who could no longer slack off under Olyvar's gaze. None of them had seen the tail end of Lancel's squad for a while now… and that meant they were getting left behind. The thought carried a strange emptiness that made Olyvar frown and his steps quicken.

"Keep running! Hold those halberds tight!" he bellowed, gripping the side of his belly in pain. Each breath was shallower than the last, but they had to be getting closer, they couldn't be too far away. How much time had they been running anyway?

Olyvar's muscles didn't burn any longer, they just ached with a sort of empty hollowness even worse than mere pain. His breaths were short and shallow, each one sending ribbons of pain down his throat, as if bits of flesh were streaming inside it like the fucking ribbons they kept passing. He felt he was going to faint.

And then the climb started.

-: Step – Step – Step – Step :-

Olyvar's head buzzed strangely, and he forced himself to take a just a bit more air with each breath, withstanding the long stabs into his sides.

However penny-pinching, he'd been raised in a wealthy household. Well-fed since childhood and not unfamiliar with the rigors of what he'd –hysterically enough- had used to think of as a rather strict Master-At-Arms. His squad had not enjoyed the same.

Just ahead of him, Galv clutched his belly as he slowed down. "Keep going!" rasped Olyvar, throat dry.

Galv shook for a moment before puking his breakfast; grabbing unto a chestnut tree for support as his other hand stabbing the halberd into the ground. He swayed dangerously as the rest of the squad passed him by, shouting ragged encouragements.

"Come on Galv! We're not leaving anyone behind!" Olyvar rasped, grabbing him by the shoulder and dragging him forward. Galv swayed, aiming at the other side before vomiting again. He shook his head, dazed as Olyvar kept him from falling. "We need to keep up, we need to keep up!" he roared in his face, trying to make him understand.

Galv nodded, grabbing his halberd firmly with both hands and scrounging his face as he ran faster, uncaring of the bits of regurgitated jerky that had stuck to his breastplate.

The climb turned steeper, knees burning as more and more recruits started vomiting their breakfast. "Let's go! Let's go! Keep it up! We'll raid the cooks for more!" Olyvar bellowed, though he didn't know how he could, his chest ached so hard he could barely get out the words. He shoved and pulled the lagging members of his squad, pressing them for just a bit more effort. They were close to the finish line. That was what the yellow ribbons meant, he was sure of it.

His men's huffing and puffing muted the sounds of the forest, birds flying away as when they heard the groans and the cries of pain. Their backpacks jingled with every step, and Olyvar realized Klint of all people was falling behind, his feet shuffling as his halberd drooped.

"Come on Klint," said Olyvar as loud as he could. It came out as a ragged whisper.

"I can't," Klint whispered back, drooling bile over his plate as he kept slowing down, "Tell him I couldn't, tell him a quit," he said.

"You can't quit, not any longer," said Olyvar, keeping pace with him and trying to think of anything but his burning legs.

"I… I can't… I'll be an outlaw. I'll take the noose… please…" said Klint, stumbling and almost falling face first into the rocky ground. The climb was relentless in its hatred of all that breathed, and it wasn't- it couldn't let up.

Olyvar grabbed him by the other arm, almost tripping himself as he avoided a boulder. "Fuck that. Nobody's going to hang a member of my squad damnit! Least of all that golden-haired fucker!" he shouted, or at least that's what he tried to say. It came out as a sort of primal growl instead, though Klint seemed to get its meaning all the same. The bastard sounded out what could be charitably called a chuckle, holding tight to Olyvar's arm as they returned to their previous pace.

A couple of hares dashed below them, almost making them trip. They managed to keep going though, the sun cooking them inside their plate.

Olyvar half dragged Klint with his right hand, side by side with the man as he took another breath of air. "Robben! Jost! Don't stop now! Keep those feet moving!" he said from behind them; the pair picked up speed again as Klint and him reached them. His men seemed like corpses. They were all corpses picking their way through the Seventh Hell, wondering where they'd died.

He'd only wanted to serve someone important, anyone really. Be made a squire, get a knighthood eventually. Hells, he would have settled for pagehood. All he'd wanted was to leave the Twins, be someone, do something beyond the stifling life under his head of house. The laughingstock of the Riverlands. All he'd wanted was to be away from that toxic mire and excel at something. Anything.

Had that been too much to ask? A part of some higher Lord's retinue? A place by his table, earned through skill and effort and loyalty? Was it really too much to ask?

Olyvar felt a deep source of unwellness within him; a nauseating twirl within his belly, his chest, everywhere. He was dying, the wrongness climbing his throat like slowly seeping lava, an agony that made him wish it was done and he were dead already.

His pace was cut in half, and he almost fell to the ground as his chest spasmed inwards as if he'd been rammed with his own halberd. He puked the light breakfast he'd eaten in what felt like years ago, the torrent of food dirtying his plate and his breeches, though he couldn't care less about that.

"Another step… come on," whispered Klint. Olyvar turned his head to look at him, dizzy as his feet refused to keep moving. He barely managed to look down as another blow hit him and he puked again. He splattered bile all over the other man's breastplate, dirtying the heraldless tabard with his own innards.

"Another… step... Or do you… wanna'… forfeit… the fight…" Klint whispered in his ear.

Olyvar growled, taking in a shuddering breath of air as he tried to walk faster. He spasmed again, bile dripping from his dried, cut lips.

"Don't be… a coward…" rattled Klint, "I don't… hit… so hard…" Every word was followed by a desperate gasp, as if he were two spent words away from choking to death.

Olyvar growled again, the walk turning into a small jog. They rejoined the rest of the squad, still holding unto each other as Olyvar realized they'd reached the peak of the climb. The sun was shining bright overhead, and he could make out the Queen's Wheelhouse rolling slowly over the King's Road, not yet reaching the ribbons farther ahead still.

There was still time.

The sight seemed to embolden his men, and they picked up speed during the descent. Olyvar was not feeling quite human any longer, instead he was this thing.

He didn't know what the thing was. He felt strange, a multitude of sensations clamoring for his attention even as his mind was content to ignore them all. He felt sore in places he hadn't even known existed. He felt as if he'd been pressed under Riverrun's waterwheels, ground to paste and spat on the other side.

He felt bile on his chin, reeking something fierce, though curiously enough he didn't mind the smell much. He was all upside down, inside out. One of the men –Jost- had peed his leather breeches. Olyvar thought he might as well do that himself.

The aches, the pain, they were all kind of melding with each other, forming a strange whole that breathed. In and out. The agonized huffing of the men seemed everywhere; it enveloped Olyvar, made him one with them. He realized they were all this thing; a singular, dying behemoth.

Olyvar turned to his right, vomiting more bile before returning his sight forward. There was only the run. There was only his men.

"No man left behind," he growled, passing a hand over the back of Jost's neck as he and Klint reached him, making sure he didn't fall behind.

"Stop… please…" ragged the smallfolk.

"No man… left behind…" whispered Olyvar.

The three of them supported each other; when one insisted he couldn't possibly keep going, the other two pulled and whispered encouragements.

The behemoth was still dying though, and all things came to an end in this life. Olyvar's men soon jogged in pairs, even trios, holding each other. Though Jost had moved forward, Olyvar and Klint remained in the rear guard, pushing and shouting at any that came close. By now Olyvar was weeping silently, sluggish tears sliding down his cheek in an infrequent tempo dictated by the rise and fall of some deep, inner agony. They were all crying, for they would soon be dead and know the blessed joy of oblivion. Slowly, the aching emptiness consumed them.

The squad had almost stopped, the behemoth breathing its last when suddenly he was there, like a streak of black and white lighting; loud and demanding and all-encompassing. "KEEP GOING!" roared Joffrey Baratheon as he barged into the middle of the squad, halberd still in hand. "KEEP MOVING THOSE LEGS!" he roared in Robben's ear, the man shuddering and somehow running faster. He pulled and harangued, propelling men forward as he kept roaring.

Joffrey's face was covered in a sheen of sweat, halberd held in one hand like an oversized arming sword. In a second, he was beside Olyvar and Klint. "You want to be a soldier?! You want to shake Westeros to the core!?"

Klint growled with unexpected ferocity, pulling Olyvar forward. How could he?! How could a man hold so much breath after this?

"What of you Olyvar?! Will you fade into obscurity?! Will you be another Frey spare, used and forgotten?!" roared Joffrey, his face suddenly looming over him, steel-green eyes staring into his soul.

Olyvar gave a wordless cry; a mixture of bellow and grunt and sob. He pulled his weight, still holding on to Klint as the two ran with all they had, all they were.

"This is war! This is what death and battle will feel like! Agony and sorrow all encompassing! Only you and your brother-soldiers against the End!" roared Joffrey, the men giving out a wordless bellow like a wounded animal.

"If you win this, if you dare win this, you'll be My Decree! My Guard!" roared the Commander.

They all broke out of the forest, the sun suddenly blinding like an exploding mill. They ran into trodden wheat fields swept sideways by the wind, wispy tails brushing Olyvar's legs.

"You'll be knights of will and grit! Soldiers that will change a continent! My Will! My Fists!" roared the Commander, and Olyvar wanted to be that will, that terrible fist, unknowable and unstoppable.

"The Wheelhouse is still away! You can still win this! You can still be worthy!" said Joffrey, and Olyvar took a shuddering breath as he lifted his head and looked to his right. He could see the King's Road, he could see the dreaded Wheelhouse slowly making its way towards the field of red ribbons, towards…

Olyvar realized the entire century was waiting for them, two ranks; one kneeling and the other standing, arms over each other's shoulder, interlocked. Smallfolk and nobles. Serjeants and recruits. A wall of steel awaiting its brethren.

"Come oooon!" roared Olyvar, his roar shrill. His men took it up, somehow, somehow screaming through snot and tears, somehow finding within themselves the will to go on. The strength to join that dream, that promise. He dared believe, and in that instant Galv fell.

He'd been turning to look at Olyvar, turning to better pay attention to what his Serjeant was screaming. He stepped into a hole in the field, his foot twisting painfully as he groaned in pain.

No.

He fell like a statue, the look of sheer surprise and sudden dread searing into Olyvar's memory before he slammed against the wheat field in a sprawl of limbs and steel, halberd tumbling down by his side.

No…

He reached his side in a heartbeat. "Come on Galv, come on," whispered Olyvar, trying to help him stand up as he extended an arm to his prone form. Galv tried, he tried with everything he had, tears streaming down his cheeks as he tried to stand up and he leaned on his bad leg. It jolted him like a lightning strike, making him fall to the ground again with a scream.

Failure.

"Come on Galv, come on," begged Olyvar as him and Klint tried to lift the man between them; but their strength had deserted them, and they almost fell beside him. He looked to the Wheelhouse, and realized it would reach the flying red ribbons in moments.

They had failed.

"Hold on, soldier," said a voice by Olyvar's side, and with a low growl Joffrey Baratheon grabbed the fallen recruit. The growl kept rising in volume until it was the roar of a giant unchained, muscles bulging under tanned leather around the places where the plate didn't cover them. Joffrey Baratheon lifted up Galv in one single motion; his steel plate screeching against Galv's as he put him across his back and shoulders in what Olyvar distantly remembered him calling 'the Guardsman's carry'; sideways against his back and gripping one leg and one foot.

He accommodated his grip on Galv, the recruit's backpack snagging awkwardly with Joffrey's own. He didn't complain, didn't say a thing as he put man, plate, and kit atop himself.

"Pass me that halberd, Serjeant," he said as he looked at Galv's fallen weapon.

"… Commander…" Olyvar whispered.

"Guardsmen don't drop their weapons," he said by way of answer.

Olyvar held it out to him, but Galv grabbed it first. The sobbing recruit grabbed both his and Joffrey's halberds, pressing them sideways against Joffrey's chest and using them to reinforce his grip on the Commander. The Wheelhouse was almost to the flags, the servants and the party's outriders looking at them with snorts and shaking heads as they broke out stools and cooking utensils.

"Onwards!" roared the Commander.

They jogged, no, they ran across the fields, his squad around him. Olyvar ran next to Galv and his Commander, Klint taking up the other side; halberds against their shoulders like an honor guard. Joffrey grunted every second step, golden hair stuck against his helmet as rivulets of sweat descended down his face, legs pumping like some sort of unstoppable clockwork mechanism.

"I'm sorry- I'm sorry Commander-" sobbed Galv, holding tight to the Commander and the halberds as their chestplates clashed with each other after each step, a rhythmical beat of steel on steel.

"You're to be a Guardsman. It's important you know our guiding principle," said Joffrey.

"Blood… Blood and Mud?" he said.

"Those are our Words, recruit."

"T-then..?"

"For the Living, Galv. For the Living," he said, oddly serene.

"For the Living," whispered Galv, as if the words held the secret to the universe.

The men, the soldiers by the finish line were silent, but their gaze screamed encouragement; their grips tense, their knuckles white. They tilted forward as the squad tried to reach the line before the Wheelhouse, looking like a grey riverwall about to give out under the weight of the earth behind.

More than his Commander's speed, Olyvar was stunned by the sheer intensity of the man. He'd never seen the Crown Prince like this; never imagined a man could be so focused. His eyes never deviated from the flags, and his face might as well been made of marble for all the exertion he showed at carrying a man in plate and kit besides everything else. He was an irresistible force propelling them all forward, their ails dissipating as they ran for the stakes, as they ran for the little forest of red ribbons that promised to defy a continent.

"We're not going to make it. You'll have to be faster than this, Olyvar," said the Commander, still gazing forward as he ran.

Olyvar eyed the carriage, and then the line of waiting soldiers. He gazed at the line of swaying red ribbons, streaming under the wind, defiant. He snarled as he felt bile rising within his throat, and he spat it quickly to the side. Behind it though another thing rose from his belly; a burning sensation a hundred times more potent. A hundred times more intoxicating.

"ffffFFFFIFTH SQUAAAD! CHAAARGE!" roared Olyvar, and his men roared with him. It was as if Olyvar had bewitched them. Instinct took over, thousands of drills condescend into a simple set of movements. They sprinted across the golden fields like men possessed, halberds forward and lowered, carrying the roar like a battlecry; hopes and dreams and glimpses of a strange unity propelling them forth. Joffrey ran by their side, carrying Galv at a full sprint, face slowly reddening as he sprayed drops of sweat over the field.

They reached the stakes in a sudden rush, and the Red Cloaks sitting nearby stumbled up or scrambled back, retreating from the ferocity writ clear on the faces of Olyvar's men.

His legs wanted to keep moving, but Olyvar forced them still. He came to a stop with the rest of his squad, standing uneasily as he blinked at the befuddled servants and startled guards. A strange silence descended upon this little patch of the King's Road, his body and mind bizarrely attuned as he felt every speck of air entering his lungs, the colors of the wheat field somehow sharper, as if he'd realized he was in a dream; wide swaths of gold and amber swaying under the northerly gusts. He breathed in the scent of oil and sweat and smoke, the weight of his armor indistinguishable from that of his body. It lasted less than a thought and more than a war.

Was it really over? He turned to look at the stakes and realized the Wheelhouse was just now passing them. He swore he'd barely been a few steps ahead of it. How long had he been standing here?

He took a moment to gaze at his men, feeling a surge of pride. Joffrey gently lowered Galv next to his squad mates, the men still gripping each other so they wouldn't fall, and Olyvar felt the surge of pride grow and grow and grow. He felt it was going to burst out of his chest, a golden glow he couldn't control, a glow that would kill him at last.

The line of awaiting Guardsmen slammed into them; a wave of sound and metal cheering and hollering as if they'd just won the Rebellion. Men slapped palms against his back, other shouting as they held his shoulders. "Congratulations, Olyvar. You made it," said Lancel, smiling as held up a piece of red ribbon, the recruits making space for him.

Olyvar eyed it dumbly before collapsing forward, but Lancel caught him in a firm yet gentle grip. He couldn't control the tears that wracked him then, slowly coming out of his eyes like puss fleeing an infection.

"It's okay, we've got you. It's okay," whispered Lancel, grabbing him firmly by the back of the neck.

"Make room! Open the circle!" he heard Serjeant Willard shout, and Olyvar suddenly found himself held up by two men, his squad and all the others making a circle of interlocked arms. Joffrey stood in the middle, holding up a big waterskin in one hand. Someone had passed one to Olyvar as well.

"Fifth squad! Serjeant Olyvar!" he roared, holding up the waterskin. The entire century held theirs up to the air.

"Blood and Mud!" he said, and drank.

Olyvar gulped the water down. Its taste was to Arbor Gold like Arbor Gold was to cheap swill. He felt as if he were drinking from a holy spring straight out of the stories, a cold wide rush descending down his torso and revitalizing him. He reveled in it, holding the waterskin up and letting the water fall over his head, wiping out the traces of bile and sweat as the water traversed him completely, seeping under his armor and cleansing him.

The wineskin empty, Olyvar looked around the circle. Klint was holding one of his shoulders, Robben the other. They looked different. Could simple water change a man's face so completely? They looked around like newborns, blinking slowly under the noon sun, the rest of fifth squad by their sides and the rest of the century as well; one great circle of steel. One newborn beast.

The Commander planted the butt of his halberd on the mud, and the movement felt oddly ritualistic. One foot slightly forward, head bowed down lightly, the halberd's butt brutally against the ground like spearing a hog. He stepped back from it with a satisfied nod, as if at ease with the world.

Olyvar realized he was still holding his. Of course. A Guardsman never left his weapon.

"Blood and Mud," said Olyvar as he planted it on the ground with surprising strength, the rest of the men doing likewise in a short cacophony of thumps and grunts.

"Now you see… Now you see what we'll become," said Lancel, grabbing him by the shoulder like a brother would.

A Behemoth, thought Olyvar, singular and terrible and not at all dying.

No, far from it. It would be alive.

-: 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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Mar 18, 2019

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Threadmarks Chapter 65: Hearth.

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baurus

Special Circumstances Agent

Apr 1, 2019

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Chapter 65: Hearth.

Lord Eddard Stark nursed the cup of strongwine in his hand, staring at the fire by the hearth. It crackled almost silently, tiny sparks flying off every time the thick logs lost strength and resettled amongst themselves. He was strangely aware of his heartbeat, abnormally loud thumps ringing within his chest.

Catelyn paced around the front of the hearth, fidgeting with the cresses of her dress. "It's just a passing fancy, Ned. She's clearly distressed by the coming of the King," she said.

Ned sighed, looking at the fine Myrish cup again. He was barely halfway through… drink had never been his solace, but after today he'd felt the need to hold something in hand to ward off the cold. The logs seemed insufficient for the task. "Distressed?" he asked mildly.

"Yes," she said, "Leaving her favorite dresses for riding leathers and northern designs, acting 'mysterious' instead of her usual self… she's probably worried she's not good enough for the southern court."

"And you think this is a way of compensating? Becoming what the south sees as a northerner woman?"

"What else then Ned? Our daughter seeing visions in the clouds? All the tales Old Nan's put in her head now come alive?"

He grunted, taking a drink from the cup. Brandon had loved strong vintages, but for Ned every drink was like a punch to the gut one needed time to recover from. He had to admit though that the heady scent of the burning pinewood made for a pleasant complement to the wine. He could see why his brother had loved the mixture so much.

Brandon… It had been a while since he'd last thought of his brother. For all the color and furor of his nightly escapades, there had been a little corner to him that most people never really knew. He'd loved to sit by the hearth occasionally, basking in the warmth of a good fireplace when it snowed outside, a heavy brandy by his hand. Rare moments like those were the fondest memories Ned had of his him; Lyanna asleep by his lap, her hair a mush. Little Benjen still playing with wooden horses over the mat. And the fire, throwing a gentle light over the book in Ned's hands.

Before the war. Before books turned to reports and wooden horses to war destriers.

He frowned, sitting up and leaving the drink on the small table as he heart thumped against his chest. He felt rattled, his mind tied into knots by some slippery, unseen vine of some sort. Would Bran remember archery practice with fondness? Would Rickon reminiscence of the olden, carefree days when he'd fall asleep on the floor and Catelyn would carry him to bed?

Before the war?

He sighed again, massaging his face with both hands. They hadn't trembled like this since the day he'd killed Arthur Dayne.

Someone knocked on the door to the solar, startling Ned. Jory peeked in after Catelyn called out.

"Ser Rodrik is here," he said.

"Let him in," said Ned.

The Master-At-Arms trundled in with a bit of snow still atop his right shoulder. It fell over the woolen carpet as he turned back to thank Jory.

"Sorry about that, my Lord. My Lady," he said, bowing his head to Catelyn.

"It's quite alright, Ser Rodrik. We've got other things in mind besides the carpet," she said with a rueful smile.

"Quite a lot of things, I'm afraid," said Ned, trying to mirror his wife's smile. It came out more like a grimace. "The guards?"

"Out and about," said Ser Rodrick. "Seems like we'll be having a storm tonight, but the boys are doing alright. They've got their winter furs out, and the wall braziers are all lit up. Winterfell is secure, my Lord."

Eddard nodded deeply, even thankfully. Ser Rodrick was an island of dependability in suddenly uncertain times. Whispers of conspiracies and murders inside hollow far-eyes. Courtly intrigue climbing its way North. Strange omens and mythical truths…

The man walked up to the hearth and laid his hands over it, silently warming up. He was wrapped up in furs and steel, though he'd left his winter coat outside. The leather hold on his scabbard was undone, though. It was a habit of old veterans when they got nervious.

He shuffled, acutely aware Ice's weight against the big chair's armrest. Only a painfully loud heartbeat away from his hand.

Its leather hold lay undone as well.

"… What do you honestly think about this, Rodrik. About all of this?" Ned asked after a while.

Rodrik peeked at him, then at Catelyn. He wrapped his hands over themselves, twirling them over the fire, sighing softly. "In the south they'd call us all mad to even think of it…"

"As well they should," said Catelyn.

Ser Rodrik shot him a meaningful look, and Eddard nodded silently, cupping the lower half of his face.

"… And they would be right to do so, my lady… in the South."

Catelyn gazed at him like he'd grown a second head. "Ser Rodrik, surely you don't…" she trailed off, looking at Ned. She shook her head, going to the cupboard and serving herself a cup of wine. "This is too much," she muttered, twirling the cup before taking a little sip. She hesitated, leaning on the cupboard and facing away from them. "Maester Luwin assured us that Sansa has wielded no… no sorcery," she said slowly.

Ser Rodrik looked at Ned, "When-" he cut himself off, mulling on the word. He shouldn't have bothered, Catelyn had been called a southron a thousand times since she'd ridden North with him for the first time. "People from the South, they imagine sorcery as an affair of blood rituals and fell words spoken in the midst of the full moon."

"And here?" she asked sharply.

"The North is an old land," said Ser Rodrik by way of explanation.

Ned could count the times he'd seen him fidget like that.

"Greenseers were not the sorcerers of Old Valyria, powering storms of scalding ash through the sacrifice of hundreds," he said as Catelyn looked unconvinced, folding his hands behind his back, "The Old Magic… I think that whatever Maester Luwin learnt to get his Valyrian Steel link, it won't be of much use to us…"

"Less than one in a hundred Maesters hold that link, Ser Rodrik."

"This is not something that can be measured with old scrolls and darkened rooms," said Ned. How could he explain this, when it hardly made any more sense to him? To describe the omens of ravens and dead direwolfs, whispering trees and chill winds?

The whispers of Greenseers?

Winter is Coming, he thought, feeling the cold wind even from here inside the Keep.

"It's best we don't jump into conclusions," he said, "And listen to the answers of our own daughter," he added.

Catelyn nodded at that, and they all tried to make time as they waited. You could cut the anxiety with a dull knife.

Maester Luwin arrived after a few minutes, having a quick word with Catelyn before sitting down on a chair near Ned. Sansa had showed no signs of confusion or disorientation. In fact, the slight cut on her forehead had already healed up completely.

It would have made things simpler, thought a treacherous part of his mind. Ned leaned forward on his seat, rubbing his collarbone as he tried to take a big breath. He felt short of air, a lesser cousin to what he'd felt when he heard Brandon and Father had been killed in King's Landing. Could his daughter whisper omens of that which was to come? Dare he know the truth behind the crying Heart trees.

Behind the cold winds?

The thought seemed so absurd, but then why was the cup on his hand trembling so hard?

"Lady Sansa's here," said Jory, leaning in by the door.

"Let her in. And give us a bit of privacy, please," said Ned, his voice low.

"I'll walk to the other end of the hallway. Holler if you need anything," said Jory, his head disappearing back behind the door. Moments later Sansa walked through the doorway, carrying Lady. She briefly reminded him of Queen Rhaella the one time he'd seen her in King's Landing, before the Rebellion. Her daughter carried herself with that same easy grace, though without the edge of anxiety that had hidden beneath the old Queen's eyes. No, his daughter's blue eyes bore confidently on the room, tense but ready for the trials ahead.

The way she made to bite her own lip before camouflaging the movement with her hand left Ned strangely relieved. It was still her daughter in there, just different.

"Take a sit, Sansa," he said. She walked quietly by the side of the fireplace, still holding the little ball of curious fur as it gazed around the room. She sat down in one of the room's big, padded chairs to Ned's right, beside Catelyn.

Maester Luwin sat opposite to her, leaning on his arm and absentmindedly scratching his chin. Ser Rodrik preferred to keep standing, leaning by the window and occasionally looking through it and to the courtyard.

The smoke from the cut pinewood left a burnished, sweet scent hanging around the room, and Ned eyed his cup of strongwine before taking another drink. The fiery waterfall making its way down his chest made him sit up, and he looked at his daughter attentively.

Perhaps Brandon had been unto something. He dispelled the errant thought with a sigh, nodding at her.

"First of all, I want to make it clear that we're not angry at all Sansa, just confused. This is not a punishment, just an opportunity for you to explain to us what… has been going on these past few days."

Sansa nodded, "I'm sorry if I've been confusing or… " She eyed Catelyn by her side. "Frightening…" she added somewhat hesitantly.

Catelyn looked as if she'd been slapped. She grabbed Sansa's hand with both her own, holding it tightly. "I'll never be frightened of my own daughter, whatever happens. Whatever's on your mind, I shall never turn you away. Do you understand that, Sansa Stark?" she said with unusual intensity.

Sansa blinked once, putting her other hand over Catelyn's. "Thank you," she said, her voice thick.

Ned cleared his throat softly, trying to steady the glass cup as it shook lightly. He ran his other hand down his thigh, taking another breath of air. I need to know.

"What's happened to you, Sansa? Why did you say those things today?"

Sansa looked around the room, her hands returning to Lady's grey fur. She scratched the young direwolf repeatedly, holding back a sigh. "I did bring this on myself…" she whispered.

"That you did, young lady. Scaring off my men like that," said Ser Rodrik.

Sansa smiled, but she banished it after a moment, looking down at Lady. Ned braced himself as if against a tempest over the horizon, running down on him with no shelter in sight.

She took a deep breath, blue eyes boring into his own.

"I've seen the future, Father."

The cup snapped in Ned's fingers. He looked down reluctantly, a trickle of blood fleeing from his thumb and index fingers. What little strongwine had been left was now scurrying down his hand, leaving a softly burning sensation in its path before dripping down on the carpet.

Maester Luwin stood up immediately, "I'll get that-"

"No," said Ned.

He sat back down reluctantly, eyes on him. Ned took the cloth handkerchief from his pocket, wrapping the small wound tightly. The last time he'd done a field dressing had been during the Greyjoy Rebellion; an archer had grazed his forehead when they'd stormed the walls, following that fool Thoros of Myr and his flaming sword. He could still hear him as if it had been yesterday, shouting benedictions like a madman as he climbed over the rubble and waved that thing at terrified raiders. Arrows had pelted Ned's plate like hail, but he'd barely felt the one that'd grazed his cheek. For a moment he'd though it'd caught him in the eye, the blood blinding him.

Ned lifted his eyes from the covered wound; the entire room was looking at him.

"Go on, Sansa," he said, his voice steady.

She looked at his hand before leaning back slowly on her padded seat. "I suppose lived the future is a better term for it. I've done it several times, waking up in Winterfell after every death, seeking to prepare the Kingdoms for what's to come."

"That is simply not possible," said Maester Luwin, grey eyebrows creased in a deep frown as he leaned forward.

"And yet it happened," said Sansa. "Some lives I ruled Westeros as Queen, others we devoted to search the world for answers and to learn the necessary skills to survive."

Queen? What is to come? There were so many questions Ned didn't know which one to ask first.

"We?" He latched on to the one which made the most noise inside his head.

Sansa nodded, "My husband, Prince Joffrey Baratheon."

It was like a punch to the gut. My daughter? Married? He saw Catelyn make a gesture towards Maester Luwin, as if to say 'let me handle this'.

"Sweetie," she said, caressing her hand, "I know how much you dream of court and the south, I did so too when I-"

"I don't dream about it anymore, Mother," she said, her eyes latching on to hers with a kind of slow weight. "I lived it, lived it all. The joy and the pain," she said, almost whispering by the end. "I quickly discovered the truth of the south. How feasts and tourneys hid fake smiles and daggers in the back, how the game of thrones warped those around it…" She shook her head, "But that's not important. What's important is that you know what is to come."

"The White Walkers," Ned said out loud.

Catelyn's head snapped back to him, "Mother above! Eddard, surely you don't- you can't believe this!"

Sansa simply turned to look at him, idly scratching Lady's back as the tiny direwolf regarded him like the old sphinxes outside the small council chambers. He could see snow by the window behind her; the storm had arrived. Ser Rodrik seemed a statue, his face inscrutable as he watched the falling white rattling against the window.

Wind's getting worse, thought Ned, returning his eyes to Catelyn.

"Robert always wanted us to be family," he said after a moment.

She huffed, almost falling back on her seat and looking at him as if he'd gone insane.

Eddard couldn't point to a single, specific reason why he believed her daughter… and yet he did.

"I can show you," she said.

"Did you… bring something, from your previous lives?" said Maester Luwin, the skepticisms writ clear in his voice.

She shook her head, "No, only our souls travel back each time. Well, Joffrey carries Brightroar with him but that's…" she came to a stop, sighing. "It's complicated. For now, I think it would be better if you saw for yourself."

Spoiler: Music

Ned was about to ask her what she meant when the corners of her eyes glimmered. Strange, twisting lines seemed to seep out of her eyes by a hand span or two, purple patterns twisting and changing too quickly for him to make out as a sudden drone began to thrum within the room.

"Sansa?!" Catelyn shouted.

"It's okay Mother," she said, "I learnt the art of far seeing beyond the Mountains of the Morn. It's a way of peering beyond the limits of our eyes… Don't be scared," she added the last almost absentmindedly, frowning as the drone turned deeper, echoing inside the chambers. A slow ripple began to form by the center of the room right in front of the hearth. It was as if a tear had been cut into the fabric of reality, a slowly widening gash that thrummed again like a war drum within Ned's chest.

"They say… this… I- it's like a glass candle…" whispered Maester Luwin, mouth agape. Distorted colors reflected on his face, the hearth's glow turning bright red and the snow outside shining like starmetal, like Ser Arthur's Dawn swinging from above. Sansa's hair was whipping back and forth as if under a furious gale, though Ned couldn't feel even single gust of it. The room felt still, as if frozen under the warped colors.

"I have been looking for the Walker's scouting parties for a while now, to no effect. With what I saw within Will's mind however, I managed to track down the group that ambushed him," she said, the gash rippling brightly as it expanded and showed a raven's view of what had to be the Haunted Forest.

"Sansa, sweetie," whispered Catelyn, somehow still holding on to his daughter despite everything. She seemed terrified, and Ned had to squash the impulse to stand up and hold her. He had to see this. He needed to see this.

The point of view descended amongst the tall pine trees of the Haunted Forest, greens and whites flooding the room. It seemed eerily still, not a deer or hare in sight as the vision narrowed upon a slow moving stream, most of it frozen solid despite the clear weather.

Ser Rodrik stepped up to Sansa's chair, gripping it tightly as he placed a hand on the pommel of his arming sword. He looked upon the frozen vista, transfixed by it as the point of view gradually slowed down. Even Lady seemed entranced, her fur slowly standing in edge as Ned shivered.

"We have years still, maybe six or seven until they press the Wall in force. We'll have to be ready by then," said his daughter.

He saw them walking between the trees, a patina of frost climbing up the trees and cracking them as the Walkers strode with an eerie mechanical grace. There were five of them, walking in unison with their backs facing the ripple. They carried long blades of crystalline ice, and Ned realized there were other figures around them. Children and old men, hunters with the look of wildlings dragging bone spears that left lines on the snow.

They were all dead, blue eyes staring listlessly ahead as they shambled; souls of the damned shackled to the will of Winter.

It's true. It's all true. "Winter is Coming," he whispered.

"And the dead with it," said Sansa, smiling sadly. The purple fractals by the corners of her eyes seemed to have stabilized, thrumming gently as they seared themselves into Ned's vision, looking more solid than the chair her daughter sat upon. "They… damaged me, the last time we fought. This will be my last life, our last chance to defeat them before they scour the continent clean of life."

"What will happen then?" said Ser Rodrik. His voice sounded raspy, dry like sandpaper on limestone. Ned couldn't swallow, his throat just as parched as he stared at the Walkers. Beings of legend and myth now walking among the living and the dead.

"They'll begin constructing great ships of ice; floating icebergs to carry wights and Walkers across the Narrow Sea. Pentos, Braavos and Lorath will likely fall next, and the Three Daughters soon after," said Sansa. She sighed as she looked down at Lady, cradling the tiny pup, her eyes still surrounded by ribbons of fractured purple. They'll attack the Empire of Yi-Ti through a land bridge to the north-west, scouring the northern hemisphere of life. By then most crops north of the Summer Islands will have already failed, and the world entire will freeze."

Catelyn was no longer staring at the Walkers. She'd turned her gaze to Sansa, terror giving way to a soul-wounding sadness as she hugged her daughter. "It's true. It's all true… My Sansa. Oh my sweet Sansa, what did they do to you?" She cried, long tears falling down her cheeks.

"Can…" Ned licked his lips, raising one trembling hand to his mouth and rubbing it as he coughed. "Sansa… can you get any closer?" he asked her.

She hesitated for a second, leaning into Catelyn's touch. "They're quite unnerving. Are you sure?"

"It's my duty," he said.

She nodded slowly, "We'll make it quick anyway, just in case." She held Catelyn with one arm as she leaned forward, slowly tilting her head sideways as the ripple droned lightly and the point of view neared the White Walkers.

They followed them at about twenty paces, and Ned examined his enemy. They were armored in swirling patterns of crystalline ice, pauldrons of purest snow on their shoulders. They walked in a sort of arrow head formation, their steps locked in unison unlike the shambling hordes of the dead that walked by their sides with empty stares.

Winter is Coming. His forefathers had known, and the time had come for the Starks of Winterfell to face their ancient enemy once more. The Others marched again, an army of the dead bearing down on Westeros and only the heavily depleted Night's Watch standing between them.

"Old Gods green and wise, guide my dreams…" The words came unbidden to Ned's lips, Old Nan's lullabies still in his mind after all these years. He stared at a group of children marching northwards, greyish-blue eyes illuminating the snow with a soft glow. Their jaws hanged wide, and many dragged torn legs or mauled arms behind them. He imagined Benjen out there, surrounded by the dead and shouting defiance with only steel and a few half-starved rangers at his back. He imagined him marching south, Stark-grey turned dead blue, his black cloak torn and ragged. Winter is coming, and the dead with it.

He had to call the banners right now. The Umbers could reinforce the Wall in less than a week; if they could hold until the Manderly Fleet docked on Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, the Night's Watch could be augmented by some fifteen hundred men and over a hundred heavy horse. They should be able to mount shipborne artillery on the Wall itself; ballistas and onagers. Would it be enough until Robert called the realm to war? Could all the banners of the South be enough?

One of the Walkers stopped.

It turned slowly, the fire by the hearth cowering as the Walker stared right back at Ned, endless blue eyes whispering an end to all things.

"Sansa?" Ned called out as the Other started walking towards them with long strides. The gash in reality shimmered, diminishing slowly. Too slowly.

"Sansa?!"

"It's interfering somehow!" said his daughter, purple fractals crawling out of her eyes like lightning as she stood up.

"Stand back!" roared Ser Rodrik as he unsheathed his arming sword with one hand and shoved Catelyn back with the other. The Walker seemed to almost glide towards them, its long strides deceptively fast as the blue glow in its eyes grew and the storm outside suddenly screamed, slamming against the keep and rattling the window like a dying breath, the cobblestones tingling.

"Jory! Jory!" Ned roared as he stood up, tossing Ice's scabbard aside and fumbling with the blade's grip as the chair fell behind him.

Jory smashed the door aside with his shoulder, sword in hand. He stumbled to a stop when he saw the Walker almost running towards the gash, its brethren turning as well as the wights around them quivered like a chorus in ecstasy, screeching. He choked on air as he placed a hand on the doorframe. "Sound the bell! To arms! To arms Winterfell!" he screamed.

"Rodrik! Rodrik get her out of there!" Catelyn screamed from the floor as Sansa walked in front of the gash, her arms held wide as Lady growled by her side, puffing up into a ball of snarling fur.

"It's trying to make a connection, hold on!" roared Sansa. She looked like in the midst of a hurricane, her dress fluttering wildly as she closed her fists and she squirmed, the gash rippling with an ear tearing thrum, groaning like a ship torn in half. The Walker was less than five paces away, its sword held high and glowing a deep red as Ned placed himself in front of Sansa, Ice held up in a parry as the fire by the hearth rattled and died.

The Walker swung its red blade down just as Sansa gasped and the window closed. The thrum echoed away, distorted colors growing right again. Ned breathed heavily, still gripping Ice like a talisman of the Old Gods as he stared at the dead fire by the hearth. It was surrounded by snow.

Heward and Tommard arrived at a dead sprint as Jory bellowed down the hallway, hollering for spears and axes to the inner keep. Ser Rodrik picked up Catelyn from the floor, his wife on shaky legs as she clung to the knight's arm. Eddard fought to control his breath, his hands no longer shaking as he slowly lowered Ice.

Sansa whimpered. Ned turned and caught her by reflex before she fell, holding her by the arms as he looked at the frozen gash that ran from shoulder to belly. "I'm okay," she whispered, "It didn't touch my soul, I'm okay," she whispered again, her legs buckling.

"Maester Luwin!" Ned roared as he lowered her on the ground, her legs unable to hold her weight.

"I can… I can heal it," Sansa rattled, her lips blue. Catelyn wailed as she reached her side and kneeled, holding her back and cupping her head with both hands, combing back red hair so she could see her daughter's face.

Ser Rodrik was pushing the guards aside before they reached the hearth, "Give us some space, damn you! Jory! Get the men in order! Give us some privacy!" he bellowed.

"A-a-aye Ser!" said Jory, shaking his head wildly before shouting at the guards, "Hold that door no matter the cost! Let no one enter!"

Maester Luwin was already by Sansa's side. He opened his satchel with steady hands, though his voice was less so, "I-I've never s-seen a wound like this b-before," he said, grabbing and dropping instruments one after the other.

Ned grabbed him by the shoulder, "Call the banners as soon as Sansa is stable. The Starks of Winterfell call for aid. Tell Jon Umber-"

"Father, no," said Sansa, gripping his arm strongly. She scrounged her face as she snarled, purple lines crisscrossing her skin where the gash had taken her. "No one else must know of this. Not the banners, not the south, not even Robert!"

"Sansa- why?" said Ned, stunned as the purple lines mended her skin, leaving only unblemished skin in their wake.

"It's not yet time. If you sound the alarm now no one will believe us, you'll poison the idea."

"They'll believe us if you show them what you showed me!"

Sansa grimaced, "The South would label me a sorceress and promptly ignore whatever I said. Showing them that way would only make the rumors stronger. Perhaps they'd even try to pressure Robert out of the betrothal… as funny as the attempt would be," she added wanly.

What betrothal? Oh, right, the one she'd had- would have with Joffrey Baratheon. Royalty. Her daughter behind the Iron Throne.

Catelyn was caressing Sansa's hair gently, sniffling now and then as she cradled Sansa's head, afraid she would banish in an instant if she let go.

Ned shook his head. "I can't just ignore what you showed me Sansa. We must prepare!" he said, Winterfell's bells tolling outside. He could hear Alyn's voice in the distance, hollering for the day shift to wake up and run to the armory.

"And you will. Summer's reign will last a few more years; time for good harvests and plentiful industry. We've planned for this, Father, we've planned our last stand for decades," she said, and Ned could see his daughter's real age for the first time. Mature eyes that hid scarred sorrows, mended with time and all the stronger for it. He kept seeing a scared little girl when he thought of Sansa, but the truth was his daughter had become Queen of Westeros, a ruler, a Greenseer, a sorceress. She'd been fighting this war for years before he even knew it had began.

Ser Rodrik still had his sword out, listening with one ear as he gazed at the doused hearth with suspicious eyes. Maester Luwin had ceased his ministrations, as they were now unnecessary. He just sat back, listening mutely as Jory and the rest of the guards held the door against Robb's angry shouting.

"I wasn't even supposed to tell you, according to what we'd planned," said Sansa, "But Joffrey… as much as he's grown away from it, he still comes from a family full of secrets. It's the way he was raised. I realized keeping the truth from you and Mother was not a course I should have followed... it was not a course I could follow. It would have torn this family apart."

Ned sighed deeply, leaning back. Lady crawled into his lap, staring up at him and tilting her head. The pup raised her ears inquisitively, whimpering softly as if pleading on behalf of her mistress. "And now we know the truth…" he whispered.

"The alarm has been heeded. The future King of Westeros knows of this, Father. He's preparing now, training the core of a standing, professional army on the march. Even now the orders he left in King's Landing are being carried out, setting the seeds for manufactories and lumbermills, smithies and grain reserves and a hundred other preparations to face the onslaught of the Walkers."

Ned sighed again, patting Lady on the head. This little ball of angered fur had faced down a White Walker while he'd almost lost the grip on Ice. There was a lesson somewhere in there.

"You trusted us with this, Sansa. I'll trust you in return," he finally said.

Her smile returned warmth to his heart as he stood up, nodding at Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin. "No one is to know of this without mine or Sansa's word," he commanded.

They both nodded. "Jory, tell the guard to stand down. The 'drill' was a success," said Ser Rodrik. His nephew nodded in understanding, white as a sheet.

Ned looked down at Catelyn, but she'd been nodding already. "If you think its best," she said, caressing Sansa's cheek, "You were very brave there. Braver than I could ever be."

Sansa's face turned slightly red, her smile tender. "Thank you, mother," she said as her eyes drifting back to Ned, "And you too."

Eddard nodded, "I'll want to speak with Prince Joffrey..."

"That's all I ask," said Sansa, leaning back with a deep sigh. "I missed this, mom," she said as she leaned on Catelyn's gentle touch, closing her eyes. Her face relaxed just a tiny bit, and her whole frame seemed to lose the edge of tension which had plagued her since the fall and her abrupt change.

Ned took that burden gladly, even if it seemed but a fraction of what she carried within her soul. His children would not grow to see Winterfell an empty hall of memories, fallen family leaning on the edges of vision, dull aches behind every corner and hallway. He would not fail his daughter. He would not fail his family. He would not fail his people.

This Eddard Stark promised by the Gods of Stone and Tree.

-: PD :-

Last edited: Apr 1, 2019

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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Special Circumstances Agent

Apr 26, 2019

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Chapter 66: Father.

Joffrey entered the small wooden house at a brisk pace. The muffled yelling increased in volume until he reached the second door, the floorboard cracking as he opened it to the sight of a dozen Maesters and double the acolytes locked in vigorous discussion; one of them was even halfway across the table, trying to rip a book from his colleague's hands.

"I have about twenty minutes, so let's make this one quick," said Joffrey, taking a discarded chair and righting it with its back towards the table. Should have enough time to get this over with and get a bit more presentable. The room descended into silence immediately, chains jingling awkwardly as the Maesters looked at each other on the down low.

Joffrey snorted as he sat on the chair, arms over its back. He'd forgotten how lively academic discussion could get behind the placid façade the Citadel liked showing to rest of the west. "Let's hear it then," he said.

They all erupted at once; the wall of questions, assertions, and plain old yelling slammed into him like an enraged raven. "Alright, that was a bad idea!" Joffrey shouted over them, signaling to one of the younger Maesters that seemed about to piss himself. "Let's take it one at a time. Maester Galwyn, your thoughts?"

Blessed silence returned as the brown bearded Maester clenched his teeth. "This… this…" Galwyn seemed out of breath, grasping the piece of parchment like a lifeline. "This- it'll change everything!" he gasped, two of the other Maesters crowding him with their heads as they struggled for another look, whispering furiously to each other.

"I'm glad you liked it."

"Liked it?! Prince Joffrey, this will revolutionize scribing! Seven Above, why even have scribes when you can 'print' a thousand books in the time it takes to copy one!" he said, slamming a palm against the table in his enthusiasm.

"Pardon my Prince, but the acolytes will be out for your blood. You've just rendered half their source of income obsolete," rumbled Maester Lanfred, leaning back on his chair by the other side of the table while the two dozen acolytes standing behind and around the table tried very hard not look at Joffrey.

"No need to worry about that, they'll have their hands full by the time we really get going," he said. "I need a prototype built within the month, can you do it?"

Maester Galwyn gulped. "Ugh, well. I suppose it's possible-"

Joffrey interrupted him, patting the table with a gauntleted hand. "What did I say about treating Prince Joffrey?"

Galwyn stuttered to a halt before smiling sheepishly. "Truthful and to the point, my Prince?"

"Aye," said Joffrey, nodding deeply at the man like a proud parent. There was enough work to do without having his own cabal of Maesters beating around the bush for fear of royal retribution. "How soon can you have a proof-of-concept?"

"Hrm. Well, that's the thing. These rotary wheels, they're far too complex," he said, pointing at the diagram on his hand.

"I feared that would be the case. What if we replace it with wooden rails?" Joffrey said.

"That could work... but the wood itself would need to be quite resistant, else the rails would be liable to snap-"

"Build them out of Ironwood, they'll be so thin it wouldn't cost much," said Maester Yardyn. The heavy set northerner could have impersonated Jon Umber's son, if he'd exchanged his chain for a battleaxe and the clean chin for a fully grown beard.

Galwyn narrowed his eyes, "The cost of the materials themselves wouldn't be prohibitive, but getting ahold of a master carver who's an expert in Ironwood-"

"I'll speak with Lord Stark. I'm sure something can be arranged with Lord Forrester; Ironrath has the finest carvers in Westeros," said Joffrey. The benefits of an enthusiastically cooperative Ned Stark keep popping up left and right...

"Yes, yes- and the blocks can be made out of oak, we'll have to carve hundreds but they'll be easy to make anyway," said Galwyn.

Joffrey hid a smile. Most of the Maesters here were middle aged, learned but not set in their ways. Livelier too, he thought.

"So, a month?" he asked.

"Hrm. I don't think so, maybe three. After that we should be able to quicken the pace. How many were you thinking for the second run?"

"A hundred."

The entire table reared back in shock, but Joffrey leaned over and placed a hand on Galwyn's shoulder before the poor man fainted. "Don't worry, that's for the long term. Three months is okay, you'll need as much to find a suitable artisan for the picture blocks. And the Ironwood will take that much to reach King's Landing anyway."

And don't even get me started on the headache that's paper. I wish I could abduct the entire complement of Bronze Scribes back at the Dawn Fort.

"M-me?" asked Galwyn.

"Yes, you," said Joffrey, patting him in the back. "I'm naming you leader for this project. That means you'll be in charge of it, but don't go bossing around your fellow Maesters for nothing; you may find yourself under their lead in another project."

Galwyn jerked his head up and down, returning his gaze to the diagram with such intensity that Joffrey feared it would burst into flames.

He held back a snort, drawing that 'old fragment of Yi-Tish wisdom' out of memory again would be a pain. He'd even gotten the northern dialect right on the calligraphy, for added authenticity… not that it'd needed it.

And it only took me sixteen tries, he thought happily. "Maesters Yardyn and Doleos," he said, nodding at each. "You'll be under Maester Galwyn on this. Any requests you have, make them through him. If it's too expensive for the ink chest, he'll have to come to me." The Maesters nodded, descending into whispers as they stood up and reached Galwyn, pointing fingers at the diagram.

The ink chest was their war chest of sorts, the amount of golden dragons Joffrey gave them on a monthly basis. In typical Westerosi fashion, the smallfolk working around here had soon started calling them his 'Ink Group'.

Delegate, Delegate, Delegate. All he could was set them on the path, there was simply too much to do for anything else to work. Which leads us too…

"Maester Lanfred, thoughts?"

Thick black curls covered half the man's face like a curtain as he leaned forward, setting his chin over his hands. "An elegant design, my Prince. Did you think of it yourself?" he asked. His voice had a deep, cavernous quality to it.

A different sort of curiosity as well. He decided to be truthful, though he had to be careful. Too many sudden inventions and people would start asking… well, more questions. The Tourney of the Hand had already raised enough eyebrows for this year.

"In part. The idea has been making the rounds around my head ever since I saw Riverrun's wheels, though it wasn't until I spoke of it to a blacksmith in the Twins that it really blossomed."

"I see. And did this blacksmith accompany you south? It would be quite helpful to have him in hand for the construction itself."

Joffrey frowned, "I'm afraid he couldn't quite up and leave, due to various circumstances."

Maester Lanfred nodded slowly, eyes returning to the diagram he'd been quietly examining moments ago. "The Water Hammer will triple the efficiency of the forging process, at the very least. Apprentices will be able to help out in other tasks instead of spending half their hours hammering metal; that will be another increase in man-hours. The first Waterwork will be ready in less than three months, provided ample use of manpower. With by-then experienced building crews I'll get one up every two months, more if I split the veterans after the fourth."

Lanfred looked up from the sketch, "You do want a great quantity of these new smithys, I assume?"

Joffrey tapped his chin. Maester Lanfred was exercising some initiative already... and thinking ahead. "Indeed I do. In fact, if you can get me three of these by the end of the year I'll be quite impressed. Lets see if you can surprise me.

The man's hum was like a struck tuning fork. He looked to his side and down the length of the table. "It's possible, but I'll need Maesters Hart, Kryston, and Felden."

The alluded Maesters sat up from their discussion. "Why them?" asked Joffrey.

"Hart for his red gold, Kryston for the yellow, and Felden because of his hard head," His lips turned into a minuscule smile –the first Joffrey had seen on him- when Maester Felden chuckled. "We both apprenticed under old Benedict. If anyone can argue stubborn Master Blacksmiths out of their old ways, it'll be him," he said.

Architecture, finance and logistics, and finally another steel link to help him out with the forging process itself. Yes, I believe I'll be keeping an eye on the esteemed Maester Lanfred.

"Done. Maester Rickahm, the spinning weavers?" said Joffrey.

"I think they'll be easier than anything else you've dropped on us, but that's not what bothers me," said the Maester, slowly twisting his great girth so he could look at Joffrey. "This new design will force us to radically rethink the workplace and even the process of weaving itself. I-"

"Pardon, m'Prince. It's Lady Sansa," said Barret as he peeked in by the door.

Time already?

"Shit," said Joffrey, standing up. "Build a team and come up with a list of possible issues and solutions. Find me in the Red Keep tomorrow morning."

"Not tonight?" he asked.

"No work at the feast, Maester Rickham. We've talked about this," he said with a smile. The acolytes seemed relieved, bless their souls. "I'll expect to see you there."

"We will, Your Highness," he said as he stood up. They all stood up, their chains jingling once more as they bowed. Joffrey suppressed a sigh as he nodded, Barret holding open the door as he left them to it.

The more informal he tried to be with them, the more respect they shoved back. He wondered what his past self would have thought of that fact, and of his mild irritation with it. Men idolized leaders, and the more he led the more they would idolize him… kingship would only make it worse.

Barret strode quickly to the next door, but Joffrey picked up the pace and opened it himself. He shielded his eyes as against the afternoon sun hitting him directly in the face, and from the midst of its orange sheen walked Sansa, enveloped in silver and white. The wrap dress flattered her form, accenting the neckline with generous cuts that focused the eye on the black pearl necklace that doubled around her neck. The hemline was short, cutting above the knee, but the piece boasted long legs instead of the traditional gown, lending the attire a hardy, rustic air that made the subtle luxuries like the silver hair pin or the thin golden bracelet all the more alluring.

"My love, you look absolutely stunning," said Joffrey as he embraced her.

"Yes, quite," she said, hands by her side. Joffrey frowned as he let go. He blinked the orange spots out of his sight, and realized Eddard Stark was standing right beside his betrothed; a long suffering ice statue with troubled eyes.

"Ah, my Lord Hand," he said, nodding in his direction with an awkward grin.

"Prince Joffrey," rumbled the ice statue. Seven Hells, this is the strangest relationship I've had with Ned Stark since… since I cut off his head.

The Lord of Winterfell, Hand of the King, and abrupt confidant of the Last Heroes of Dawn, did not look amused. "I realize it may seem… strange after decades of marriage, but I urge you to remember that you are still merely betrothed to my daughter in this… life." He ground out the words like spitting gravel, and Joffrey hid a wince as he nodded and grabbed Sansa's elbow with his own, taking care to keep the distance to 'respectable'.

They walked away from the house commandeered by the Ink Group, taking off at a sedate pace along the banks of the Blackwater. Construction crews were still working on both sides of the river, building bridges, housing, and sawmills. The first stage of the plan that would see the Crownlands turn into an economic powerhouse, and then into the heart of the war effort against the Others.

They walked along the newly constructed Street of Wood; a large wooden walkway that ran between the eastern side of the Blackwater and a cobbled two-lane road still under construction. The last was proving to be a painful expense, but it'd be worth it in the long run. The original Blackworks had trouble with the sheer amount of wagon traffic: thrown dust and muddy trails had been a constant headache.

He could feel Ned Stark's presence like stormy skies, walking at a pace with them by Sansa's other side. Sansa's abrupt confession had completely blindsided Joffrey…

Ned Stark knows of the Cycle. Ned Stark knows about the Purple. It still shocked him every time he thought about it. Sansa's improvisation had begun to reap benefits when she'd defused a slow burning plot laid by Lysa Arryn of all people, one that had sped by unnoticed by Joffrey all this time: A letter carefully worded to cast suspicion on the Lannisters for the death of Jon Arryn, delivered secretly to Winterfell by the means of a hollowed out far-eye. Suffice it to say, Sansa had laid out Lysa Arryn's current state of mind very clearly, nipping that seed of suspicion before it could grow.

It had probably been a supporting attack of one of Littlefinger's schemes from before Joffrey had killed him, but it had showed how valuable it was to have Ned Stark onboard the plan. Having an informed Hand of the King had sped up a whole lot of ventures which Joffrey hadn't been expecting to lay fruits before he was crowned.

They'd talked for a whole night back in Winterfell, and Joffrey had stuck to the broad outlines of his experiences and what was to come. Keeping it simple and avoiding difficult subjects… like Robert's likely fate, or the truth of his own birth for that matter. It still hadn't made things any less awkward between the two of them.

He shuffled uncomfortably, a sigh escaping his lips.

Hammers and handsaws spoke to each other as they walked past one of the half constructed worker accommodations, the smell of sawdust hanging in the air as men hauled handcarts filled with discarded wood. The worker's strength had deserted them along with the sun, and there was a lethargic quality to the foreman's orders as he directed the new pillars to be laid out.

"Pack it up for today, men! Get to the feast and put some food in those bellies!" Joffrey called out as they passed.

The foreman started, a big grin growing on him as he dusted off his leather gloves. The simple safety measure had already improved overall efficiency through decreased accidents.

"Thank you m'Prince! Let's give it a cheer for Prince Joffrey!" he shouted. The work crew cheered with surprising fervor, lifting up their tools before they began to close things.

"So, Lord Stark," said Joffrey, "You're going to the feast?"

"Not quite. My daughter may have taken the South's sense of fashion by storm, but I'll be damned if I let her walk out of the city dressed like this…" Ned hesitated, "Even if she couldn't… dispose of any assailants with barely a look," he added.

And back to awkward. Well done Joffrey. Still, Ned could have sent Jory or any other Stark guardsman to serve as escort…

Sansa shook her head, "I see that your sense of fashion hasn't changed at all. Really Joffrey, plate armor again?"

Joffrey looked down at his half-plate, "I knew you'd say that. But look! Barret!"

Barret walked up from behind, taking the folded black cape off his shoulder and clipping it to Joffrey's pauldrons. "There it is, sire. Just as you like it."

"See?" he said.

Sansa moaned.

"What?! I'm not a depressed Bravo!"

"Your words darling, not mine."

"Look, many of our guests are fighting men. What manner of impression would I give if I strolled inside wearing fine silks?"

"That of a human, Joff. I don't know anyone who goes about in plate all day every day."

"What about the Hound?"

"He's a special case."

"And I'm not?"

"No," said Sansa, tearing off his cape and wrapping it into a bundle. She tossed it to Barret, who caught it with an oomph. "That helmet, take it off."

Joffrey looked at Ned. He tried speaking directly into his mind. Help me.

Ned just crossed his arms, watching the exchange with a raised eyebrow.

Gods. He took off the helmet.

"Good," said Sansa, taking a step towards him and grabbing the neck of the leathers he wore under the plate. "Fortunately, I suspected something like this would happen. I've an idea or two."

"Always a bad precedent- Uff-" She yanked up, the coarse leather pressed unfortunately tight against his chest due to the plate. She yanked twice more, and Joffrey swore she must have scrapped the skin right off his chest.

"It's something," she said as she folded the neck over the plate. "Now it looks like a conscious choice and not like you forgot about the feast and ran late. Barret, dunk that cape on the river and bring it back."

"Aye, my Lady," said his aide.

"I liked that cape. It made me look dashing."

"Dashing to a funeral maybe. Give me that," she said as she took the helmet off his hands.

"Thank you Barret, you're a charm," she said, exchanging the helmet for the soaked cape.

"A pleasure, my Lady," said the damnable traitor, a pleased smile on his lips. How fast they turn for a pretty smile. Jaehaerys the first had it right; kindness is a terrifying weapon.

"Now stay still," she said, passing the wet rag over his face. Joffrey withstood her ministrations stoically, sneaking a kiss on her cheek as she leaned sideways trying to clean the sweat by the nape of his neck.

She slapped him with the soaked cape, turning and cleaning his hair. "That ought to do it," she said, hands on her hips.

"I feel like a new man already."

"You better be. There's still water in here. Enough for you to get quite dashing," she said, hefting the cape.

"I yield," he said as he raised his hands, chuckling. They resumed their walk through the steadily darkening Street of Wood, squads of Goldcloaks already on patrol. Joffrey suppressed a snort. How had he put it to their erstwhile Captain? An obedient Slynt was a living Slynt.

Spoiler: Music

Ned seemed oddly wistful, gazing at the occasional ship loaded with ore or lumber drifting down the Blackwater.

"What?" Sansa asked her Father.

Ned just shook his head, his smile turning wan. "You two bicker like an old couple. If the blatant show of magic hadn't convinced me, this would have been enough."

Joffrey smiled sheepishly. "It's… weird, being open with this."

"I would hardly call it open. Not even Catelyn knows what you told me," said Ned.

And even then you just know the broad strokes… There was still a part of him that felt a sort of childish betrayal at Sansa's actions, but in truth he had no right. By now it was her secret to tell as much as his, and they were partners in this as in all things. The return trip from Winterfell had left him thoughtful, unsettling truths he'd long held as absolute.

"I know you didn't want to reveal the truth so soon, but I'm glad you did," said Ned. "This is your fight, your war; I'll help as I can, but that much is clear to me now."

Joffrey nodded, biting his lip as they made their way besides the low growl of the Blackwater. Knowing of the end of the world but only half the plan to stop it must have been difficult. Though… there was one more thing that he'd wanted to talk about, but it had somehow felt out of place in a discussion of fates and war, death and dawn.

He shook his head, placing his hands behind his back. A couple of finches crossed their path, flying close to the ground as Lady erupted from a small patch of bush nearby, following them back the way they came. Eddard had actually killed Lady during his first life; for some reason he could remember that whole day with crystal clear clarity. Ned had stormed out of Robert's tent with such quiet determination it had actually scared him.

"Lord Stark, I-" he took a deep breath -"Ned."

Sansa shot him a knowing look, and he nodded reluctantly. She picked up the pace, signaling Barret as the two left them behind. Ned looked at him curiously, silent as was his wont.

Joffrey flexed his hand, settling it on the pommel of his sword. He smiled for a second before banishing it away, letting out a breath of air. It was difficult to put into words.

He remembered walking like this along a copse of birches, staring down at the snow. Robert had left to hunt but Eddard had declined the invitation. Instead he'd taken him on a walk on the opposite side of the Wolfswood, their path taking them on an upward slope, just the two of them and a few Stark guards following far behind.

He remembered staring mulishly at the ground, sick and tired of seeing white everywhere. White snows, white tree trunks, white rocks… The white made the emptiness worse. Hollow.

'Joffrey, look up,' Ned had said. The top of the birch forest had been crowned in such a splendor of yellow it had taken his breath away for a second. The vast ceiling of spindly yellow leaves had played with the sunlight, blinding him intermittently as he walked and kept staring upwards, his eyes slow to blink as he processed the sight.

It was curious. Never again did he see a yellow quite like it, not even in the same place and the same time a hundred lives later.

"I suppose I wanted to thank you," he said after a long moment.

Ned tilted his head, "After everything you told me, supporting your plans in the Small Council was the least I could do."

"It's not that," Joffrey growled, "I mean, your help has been invaluable in that sense, but-" he trailed off as he shook his head. He stopped walking, hands on his hips as he gazed at the Blackwater.

"Joffrey, what's wrong?" said Ned, stopping by his side as his voice turned incredulous. It must have been strange for him; Joffrey had felt more composed talking about the extinction of their species and the glare of celestial bodies…

Just keep it simple.

"When I started the long journey, I was not the man you know."

"You told me you were spoiled and unprepared for the trials ahead," said Ned, looking at the Blackwater with him. The sun was hiding, drawing long shadows out of the trees that dotted the opposite bank.

"It was more than that. I was cruel. Vindictive. A simpering fool. An idiot with no clue about the harm he caused others," he said, the words rushing out of his mouth, "An ignorant boy-child proud of his-"

"Then you've come a long way," said Ned, turning to look at him with a fatherly smile, "You're an accomplished warrior and commander, an expert administrator and a veritable Maester without a chain," he said as if it were obvious, "Robert is proud of you, did you know that? He can scarcely spend an evening without talking about you."

Robert. The one they call my Father. Joffrey cleared the little knot in his throat, "You think that because this," he said, pointing at himself, "Is the only version of me you remember."

"Indeed," he said. "A man possessed of a keen sense of justice, living in honor without speaking a word of it." He smiled as he shrugged ever so slightly.

And of course, to Ned Stark it really was that simple. So simple it was complicated.

Pure Ned Stark, he thought with a fond smile. His chest ached lightly, and he loosened the plate's neck clasp.

"There's a lot I don't know," said Ned, "More than I would wish to know, I think." He crossed his arms, the yellow sunlight bathing him as the sun kept hiding to the west. "Yet I hold into this truth like a beacon in winter," he said as he looked at Joffrey, grey eyes still and serene. "You are a just man, Joffrey. You'll be a King I'll serve gladly if I live to see it. And if not, I'll die knowing my daughter could not have asked for a better man."

He looked away from Ned's eyes as bittersweet coils squeezed his throat. I have to say this. But what exactly? How to explain an abyss of pain and anguish. How to explain the emptiness? Ned's voice the only thing tethering him to sanity in a world gone mad under its own weight, the glare of the Purple an ever present sun? Just make it quick. Just get it over with.

"If that's true, it's because of the seeds you planted," he said slowly, eyes staring dead ahead as the weight of the breastplate turned unbearable. "You lifted me up Ned. You took care of me when nothing made sense anymore. You guided me out of that abyss I built for myself- you made me look up-" he choked off, seized by an inner pressure. It came out of nowhere, gripping him taut like a strained rope. Gods, what's happening to me? He tried to keep it down, but it kept rising like water flooding a stricken ship, reaching for his eyes. He was no boy to wear his emotions on a sleeve. He was the Bloody Lion. He was Dawn Commander. Stormking. Herald and Last Hero.

He knew he shouldn't have looked at Ned. He knew it was a mistake the second he did. Hundreds of years and yet there it was. That same expression. Ned placed a hand on his arm, lowering his head just a bit so it was level with his, confused but all too ready to help. It was too much. For a moment Joffrey found himself in front of the Heart Tree in Winterfell, alone and broken except for those eyes that promised care.

He sighed, hiding the tears falling down his cheeks, "I'm sorry. It's hard to explain," he said as he shielded his face with one hand. This had been a mistake.

"I understand enough," said Ned, bringing him into a hug. It felt the same even after all this time. A thousand deaths and rebirths separated that moment from now, worlds upon worlds rewound and made again, and yet it still felt the same. The morning when Ned Stark saved him.

He didn't know how, but somehow, Ned somehow understood. His body lost tension as he hugged him back, trying to keep control over himself. He gripped Ned tight as the painfully slow sobs wrecked him, his weight an oak tree in the midst of a storm. "I don't care what they say," he whispered fiercely, "You're my Father." It was all he could manage and still retain his dignity, and so he closed his eyes and rode out the whirlwind of emotions. This lay beyond Houses and true bloodlines, beyond secrets and dusty books and blonde hair. If he was what he was today because of Eddard Stark, then how could this man be anything but his Father?

"And I would be proud to call you my son," Ned whispered back, his grip tight and safe, the tether that lifted him up from the abyss.

They separated slowly, almost sheepishly. Ned passed him a handkerchief as he patted his back, and Joffrey received it with a smile. It had been a long time since he'd felt this vulnerable, and even longer since he hadn't minded it.

It felt good.

"Thank you," he said. For everything.

Ned smiled as well, his eyes a bit red despite the strong façade he wore like a second sleeve. There were no more words to say, and so they resumed his walk, following the Blackwater upstream.

He felt lightheaded as they rejoined Sansa. She didn't say a word as they walked the rest of the way, the rustling of the Blackwater soon threaded by the sound of drums and flutes. A small sea of tents emerged into view with the last drips of the sun; knights and smallfolk laborers, maidens and maesters, guardsmen and more all mingling under the free flow of good ale and hearty food. The feast had just started, though in Braavos it would have been called a festival.

The scent of change hanged in the air, the Song taut like a drawn bowstring. Here laid the seeds of a new era, a great pile of tinder waiting for the spark.

Tonight, that tinder would spark, and the eventual bonfire would be a thing fit to stand against the might of the Red Comet.

-: PD :-

Last edited: Apr 26, 2019

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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Apr 26, 2019

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Threadmarks Chapter 67: Beginnings.

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Special Circumstances Agent

May 6, 2019

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#6,146

Chapter 67: Beginnings.

Spoiler: Music

This night had been long in the making, in some ways the culmination of a project more ambitious than any they'd ever taken before.

Though perhaps it should be called the beginning of one?

He and Sansa walked by the outskirts of the little sea of tents which had sprung up around one of the river bends. Parts of it were walled by great canvasses of art in varying styles, though there was a thematic thread subtly woven through them all. Indistinct figures holding up scythes and swords. The Mountains of the Moon dripping red under the afternoon sun. Smallfolk laborers frozen in superb detail as they raised a windmill.

They all spoke of something more. A spirit beyond the Guard and the self-styled Silver Knights, beyond the apprentices and the acolytes whose imaginations had been unleashed by Joffrey's inventions. A common thread to the energy which propelled the thousands of smallfolk laborers waking up every morning to pour their heart and soul into the Blackworks. Joffrey had to admit, the skill of Sansa's followers had increased by leaps and bounds these past few months.

"That one's my favorite," he said, pointing with his chin as Sansa smiled knowingly. It was a painting of King's Landing as if seen within a dream, its form indistinct, surreal almost. Its towers were too tall, it's people too numerous. And yet the crowded streets added a thread of color which spread like a spider web throughout the entire canvass, grounding it, adding weight to it.

Errant notes became full on songs as they made their way towards the center of the sea of tents, though they could scarcely hear it under the racket of laughs, bellows, and full-bellied singing. What had started as a worker camp had tonight turned into the feasting grounds for more than a thousand souls; soldiers, workers, young nobles who had come for the Hand's Tourney but had stayed beyond its end…

Ned had taken his leave a while ago, but Joffrey still felt wistfully light on his feet. He would have liked Ned to see this, but the man had just smiled and taken his leave.

"How did it go?" Sansa asked him.

"I called him Father."

"That'll make things awkward," she said with an impish smile, grabbing him by the waist as sapphire blue eyes drifted closer, warm breath tickling his neck.

Joffrey caressed her cheek, admiring her up close for a moment. "It runs in the family," he said. He smothered her chuckle with a kiss, their breaths intermingling.

"It's like you're searching for closure," she said when they separated, her voice subdued.

"And you're not?" He combed an errant lock of red hair, putting it in its place so he could keep admiring her. "I saw you teaching sword drills to Arya the other day. Think she'll do well in the shield wall?"

She grunted, "Point taken."

"I think it's natural. It's hard not to feel like an ill lord writing out his will when…" Joffrey trailed off. She knew.

The strong buzz of hundreds of voices echoed throughout the streets of the city of fabric, all coming from the central clearing like blood from a pulsing heart. Sansa leaned her head on his shoulder, pondering the weight of the unspoken words.

"It's getting closer," she whispered.

Joffrey sighed, embracing Sansa and pressing her against him. He could feel the gradual deceleration of the Red Comet deep in his bones, somewhere between his belly and his ribcage, a second of prescience when he took a deep breath. A second of eternity in the void between inhalation and exhalation.

"I wonder if that's how it feels to cross the stars," he said, "To leap across the void in body and soul."

It was a ponderous presence, a massive existence. It was easy to get lost in it. They breathed together, and even that great crystalline landscape was but a gnat against the blinding splendor of the sun. Joffrey felt for a second the massive weight not only of the Comet but of the earth itself. It pulled him towards it, and he fell with breathless speed. Like a boulder rolling down from some colossal mountain, great plumes of red arresting his fall in auroras of shifting shapes that defied the imagination.

Joffrey shuddered as he breathed out. "I…" He blinked slowly, feeling his wife's contours. Sansa. The drifting stars seemed so bright beyond the atmosphere, a sea awash in streaks of reds and blues, points of white and yellow glimmering within the void. He brought his mind back to the here and now, leaning back and gazing at her eyes. Those twin sapphire stars were all he needed. "It's slowing down. The year will be over soon…"

"Like bloody clockwork," Sansa said as she looked up, the first few stars glimmering overhead. She sighed as her gaze turned south, to the road back to King's Landing. "It's insane how petty it all seems. How nonsensical the whole game is under the light of a million stars."

"And how it will all end under the light of one," he said.

And it would end, one way or the other. Either mankind would go extinct, or man would rise to the challenge and be changed in the process. Change, thought Joffrey. That's the key. That's the essence.

"We should go," he said, holding out his elbow. "We'll need all the help we can get," he added, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Sansa grabbed it, and together they walked the rest of the way to the great clearing. The Guardsmen on duty saluted with firm thumps to the chest, servants nodding franticly as they carried small wheelbarrows filled with foodstuffs. Mandolins called out from the budding darkness as the sun hid completely, wandering bards strumming their instruments with great theatrical gestures as their partners sang long tunes.

The sea of long tables and benches were arrayed in concentric circles, but no formal sitting arrangements had been given to the attendees. They swirled and intermixed, the free flowing mead and food keeping a cheery and bemused air.

"There she is! Lady Sansa!" said one of the dozen maidens emerging from the crowds, "They're ready, but Lady Annila said we'd need more chairs if-" she stuttered to a halt when she saw Joffrey. "Oh, beg your pardon my Prince," she added with a curtsy.

The rest of the young ladies crowded around Sansa, curtsying as Joffrey waved it away. "It's quite alright. Tonight's not a night for formalities," he said, smiling as they started whispering in his wife's ear. Their dresses echoed Sansa's; vaguely petal-like fabrics which built on each other and wrapped the upper body. None of theirs was crowned by a brilliantly white pelt around the shoulders though, that was to the 'Northern Princess' what a crown was to a King.

"You look magnificent, Celyia. You'll be sure to draw young Wyll's eyes," said Sansa as she let Joffrey go, the others crowding around her and all but shoving him away.

Lady Celya blushed as she neared his wife, "Thank you. But about those chairs? The attendees far exceed the original list, and we're running short."

"There's a few extras by storage three, we'll use those," said Sansa, looking around her with a proud smile, "You've outdone yourselves, now let's go make this a night to remember."

They murmured excitedly at that. She turned and grabbed another maiden by the bare shoulder, explaining something as she waved her hand delicately, her thin golden bracelet glimmering under the moonlight. They laughed, and Sansa pointed at some distant table as she kept explaining.

The hemlines were extremely short, reaching just above the knee. The scandalous choice was contrasted by long leggings of a rather practical sort that covered the entirety of their legs, much like a tight set of trousers would. The people of King's Landing couldn't make up their minds regarding the whole ensemble, swinging between outrageously provocative and parochially quaint. The ambivalence seemed to fuel its widespread adoption, particularly amongst the youth caught in Sansa's ever expanding web of influence.

"And is it true about the singing competition?" one asked quickly, "I heard Tribune Tyrek gave a favor to Talia Forrester!" Vaguely scandalized gasps received the proclamation, and soon enough Sansa was guiding them away. She shot him an apologetic smile, and Joffrey waved goodbye. Dances and singing had become staples of Sansa's twice weekly gatherings, though not the only ones. She'd often take new maidens into the ranks of her handmaidens, drawing them in with weaving and painting competitions which had unleashed an untapped bounty of creativity. More and more of the girls had unwittingly become entangled with the administration of such events, helping Sansa organize feasts and balls such as this one. Some had even began helping out with the Blackworks.

He moved on, nodding at the servants who carried long rods tipped with flame, lighting up the lanterns tacked on to the poles that surrounded the area in rings. He greeted carousing knights and squires who'd stayed after the Hand's Tourney; they often stopped whatever they'd been doing in favor of listening to him with a sort of rapt attention that would have likely left their maesters green with envy.

He passed a table filled with Stormlander and Reacher knights and squires; boys and men who hadn't returned to their homes after the tourney for reasons they couldn't quite explain. Always waiting for one more lesson, one more night of companionship.

"Could you please repeat it one more time? The wrist is held down like this?" asked Hobar Redwyne, demonstrating with his arming sword. His silver cape fluttered as he turned, looking up at Joffrey, hopeful.

"Not quite, here," he said as he demonstrated, letting the movement flow naturally at a tenth of the speed, their eyes following his sword hand like moths to light. They hummed appreciably, squires and even knights years his senior commenting on the order of strikes. The little incident during the semi-finals had forever sealed in their minds the battle-prowess of the Silver Knight. "Remember not to drink too much, all the ladies will be watching later tonight," he said, earning considering nods from those present. "You're all good students, but let's try to keep the drunken bumbling to a minimum," he added with a smile.

"Silver Knights don't bumble, Ser Joffrey!" said Ser Robar Royce, "We're just realigning our momentum!" he called out, the rest grunting and whistling as they raised their mugs. In another time and another place he would have been called Ser Robar the Red, but tonight his cloak was silver.

"None of that now!" said Joffrey, slapping the young man on the back and jingling his pauldrons. Most of them were in armor; they'd adopted many of Joffrey's mannerisms within the weeks after the tourney. "You all better behave! If you're going to use my good name you might as well do it relatively sober!"

They jeered at him, and he ended up downing a tankard all the same. Their eyes glimmered under the torchlight, brief smiles as they chuckled and held each other's shoulders for another round, their short silver capes flowing like moonshadow. The camaraderie of the Silver Knights was a wholly different beast than that of the Guard. Less hierarchical; more a brotherhood than an army. Its abrupt formation had taken Joffrey by surprise, thought in hindsight it shouldn't have.

To be a true leader was a strange thing. By accepting the responsibility over his people; what he'd often called his burden, he'd also accepted a small piece of them all and made it his.

I underestimated the chivalry of Westeros, he thought as he looked at the Silver Knights, still wearing their individual heraldries even as they sported their silver capes with pride.

After the events of the Tourney of the Hand and his abrupt knighting, these squires and even knights had begged to train with him. He'd been happy to take them all, but he never imagined that the awe struck noble scions would have hung unto every ounce of attention freely given, desperate for more to the point where they'd start calling themselves after his knightly persona, waking up early every day to follow him in his morning armored run. They'd even taken to hunting and socializing together, sharing the tips and insights gleaned from their unofficial task master.

"We'll have our work cut out for us tomorrow, eh Ser Balon?" he said.

Ser Balon Swann chuckled, crossing his arms, "The usual then?"

"Nah. Let's give 'em the morning. They've earned it," he said. They'd been holding up remarkably well under Joffrey's ministrations, for highborn that is. Ser Balon had turned into a sort of unofficial Master-At-Arms for the equally unofficial order, and together they'd been running them ragged through heavy cavalry drills. The War for Dawn would need a special breed of knight, after all.

A Silver sort of Knight, thought Joffrey, hiding a snort. Ser Balon smiled curiously, but Joffrey just shook his head as he walked away.

Hilariously enough, it had been the whores of the Street of Silk which had originally coined the name, for the group had started to share even their brothel outings. The harsher Joffrey smacked them in the training yard, the mightier was the resulting fervor with which they listened. He was no Arthur Dayne, and yet the young knights and squires held him in equal esteem.

Joffrey turned, basking in the atmosphere around him. He thought he could see Tyrion in the distance, a keg of ale under one arm as he waddled like a Master Thief after a heist. He frowned when Tyrion reached a tent, its flap opening to reveal Lyra Mormont and Pocket of all people. They hushed each other as they dragged him inside, the unmistakably burnt face of Sandor peeking outside and looking both ways before closing the flap.

A hound, a northerner, a raider, and a dwarf inside a tent… It sounded like the beginnings of a joke.

Joffrey chuckled. I was fitting, for tonight was a night for beginnings. Great circles had formed organically around the tables and strewn benches, tankards being passed from one to the next as the sound of conversation grew.

The Song was exalted, almost turbulent. There was something in the air, he could feel it… change.

"I wonder what terrible deaths you plan for your enemies when your eyes go like that," said Renly, Ser Loras standing by his side.

Joffrey blinked. "Uncle, Ser Loras," he said, nodding to each. "Enjoying the feast?"

"I've… never seen anything like it. Take that as you will, nephew," said Renly.

That's really something coming from you, thought Joffrey, nodding at what he decided was a compliment.

"I wanted to thank you again," said Ser Loras, his voice low and unsure.

"You've already done so multiple times," said Joffrey. "You even forfeited the final! I'd say that's thanks enough." It really had been; Ser Loras was a superb rider, he might have carried the joust if he hadn't forfeited.

Loras looked at Renly, his long hair momentarily parting to reveal the long scar that ran from forehead to cheek to neck. Renly didn't have any answers though, staring at the mock-up saw the lumbermill workers had placed at the center of their table. The circular wooden blade served as a stand of sorts, holding up a big keg of ale from which the workers refilled their mugs every minute, inviting anyone who drifted close. They had reason to be proud; mill number eight had gone up earlier this week, ahead of schedule even.

Ser Loras sighed. "The last time didn't feel personal enough. I just…" He looked down, mulling his lips. "When Ser Gregor was over me with that two hander- you have to understand I couldn't- I had blood all over my face… I… I thought he'd killed me already."

"Don't serve yourself short, Loras. You have good reflexes," said Joffrey. "If you hadn't grabbed your shield as fast as you did you might as well have been."

"And if you hadn't stopped him right after then I'd be dead anyway. The way you fought him… it was over too fast for me to help," he said, a familiar emotion writ clear over his face. "Over before I could catch my breath. If only I'd stood up more quickly I could've-"

Joffrey grabbed Ser Loras' shoulder. He held his eyes as he thought, the words slow to come. "It's no use fretting over the past. All we can do is strive to be better." That's the truth that saved me. That's the truth that made me.

Loras nodded slowly, facing Renly for a moment until the Lord Paramount nodded back. "I'll remember that. Thank you again, my Prince," he said before walking away.

Renly remained, however. "You did the realm a favor by putting down that dog," he said, face inscrutable as he examined him.

Joffrey nodded cautiously. Ser Gregor's frenzy had taken him by complete surprise this time, and with the Hound out of King's Landing and protecting 'Prince Joffrey' there hadn't been anyone else to stop him in the few seconds they'd had. The fight had been short and brutal, a fierce melee as Robert roared outrage and the crowds shrieked.

"It was like working a sentinel pine. Only it wielded a two hander," he said as he shook his head. He'd seldom seen a human take so much concentrated punishment and keep going. His arming sword had tore through Gregor's armpit; he'd hammered the man's head no less than four times and yet still the Mountain had plowed into him like a battering ram, a titan of steel and rage that almost managed to split Joffrey apart. It had been a surreal reveal of the 'Silver Knight', that was to be sure. Taking off his helmet after Ser Loras conceded the final, standing over the corpse of the Mountain... Robert's face had been unforgettable, so at least there was that. It had been strange, being knighted on the spot.

"Like a sentinel pine…" Renly snorted, "You sound like you've actually logged one of those..." he trailed off, staring at him intently, "Hells, maybe you have. Those lumberjacks seemed absolutely convinced of your forestry knowledge." He seemed incredulous, his mouth moving unto the next sentence though no sound came of it.

Hells, he looks like he's going to faint, Joffrey thought as he raised a tentative arm towards him.

Renly batted it away, swinging his own arm around, "All of this," he said, finding his voice again. "Your 'Guard'. The new shipping fleet. The tourney… Sansa was right. You've really changed." Renly shook his head, frowning hard. "Why? What are you scheming? Speak honestly, nephew. What could have possibly changed you like this?"

"A dream and a vision, uncle. A vision where greed and ambition destroyed everything I cherished. A dream where I saw what this continent was capable of."

Renly was unconvinced, combing his hair with one hand as he stared at him like an unsolvable puzzle. "Your betrothed speaks sweetly of honors for me and the Stormlands, positions of strength and influence in your future court, but tell me nephew." He took a long breath, gazing at the wine cup in his hand before lifting his eyes and glaring at him. "What is it you really want?"

Joffrey placed his hands behind his back as he gazed at his uncle, marshaling his thoughts.

What I really want…

He sighed as he looked up at the stars, the buzz of a hundred conversations framed by the distant roar of the Blackwater. He made his way past the crowds clustering around little red-and-green serving carts, many of them smiths and workers, lumberjacks and constructors. Small windmills shorter than Joffrey but placed atop tables spun without end, bright sparks of color propelling their blades to great speeds and awing the crowds around them. The burnt smell of sulfur drifted past him as he stopped for a moment, hands on his hips as he took a second to admire the work of the Alchemist's Guild. They'd taken to firepowder like wildlings to iron, and already their experiments were yielding results.

Renly seemed content to let him wonder, gazing intently at him as he sipped from his cup. Many of his Guardsmen had settled on a group of tables almost in the middle of the circle, their halberds jammed into the ground around them like a forest of steel. Joffrey chuckled as they launched themselves into another drinking song, filled with banging mugs and full-bellied shouting. Like many of the Royal Guard's drinking songs, Guardsman Galv's Poor Sore Feet' was a choke-worthy tale filled with exaggerations, puns, ribbing, and that little grain of truth that gave strength to the theme behind it. On and on they went, keeping the tempo constant by the banging of their mugs.

'Ouch- he said! Ouch- oh no! I seem to-have! Misplaced my-foot!

'Ouch- he said! Ouch- oh no! Spin he-did! Tripped he-was!'

And on he-ran! And on he-went! His poor sore-feet! He left-behind!'

One of the Guardsmen stood over his chair. "Oh Guardsman Galv!" he shouted off-tempo and ahead of his peers "Watch out for-rought-" he was cut off by gauntleted hands which pulled him down, the rest of the soldiers struggling not to lose the beat.

'Oh Guardsman-Galv! Watch out for-rocks! Eyes in-front and halberd-forth!'

And on he-ran! And on he-went! His poor sore-feet! He left-behind!'

The song picked up speed and volume as it approached its end, soldiers standing up as they banged the table faster and faster.

'Try not-to-trip and spin-and-fall!'

'Oh Guardsman-Galv watch out for-rocks!'

'Try not-to-trip and spin-and-fall!'

'Oh Guardsman-Galv try-not to-trip'

'But if-you-do! But if-you-do!'

'Oh Guardsman-Galv but if-you-do!'

'Oh Guardsman-Galv you keep-in-front!'

'You-keep that halberd up-in-froooooooooooooont!'

They broke out into cheers, crashing their mugs together in one big toast as they hollered to the heavens. The Royal Guard was but one piece of the change, one piece of the movement he and Sansa were nurturing, and yet even now it connected itself to others. Smallfolk builders and laughing maidens carrying ledgers had also surrounded the table, the revelry contagious.

"I'm glad you're having fun, boys!" Joffrey said as he approached the table, "Though I must say that the only word Guardsman Galv got out before kissing our beautiful land was something akin to Ugh!"

"Commander!" they chanted, inebriation fighting against discipline before they melded into a bizarre compromise that saw them surround him from all sides, pressing mugs into his hands as they cheered.

"Now, now! I only need one!" said Joffrey as he took one of the mugs, "Guardsmen!" he bellowed.

They straightened, and Joffrey gazed at them intently. Many of them had just completed their training, the culmination of another batch of recruits. "I've been reviewing your performance, and well…" Joffrey trailed off, his gimlet eye making them straighten even more. A almost imperceptible smile grew on his lips, "You lot may be the clumsiest, slowest, and most disappointing bunch of Guardsmen I've ever seen, but at least you're-"

"FASTER THAN THE BLOODY WHEELHOUSE!" they roared, shaking each other in pride as Joffrey laughed out loud. They had never actually raced the Queens wheelhouse, in fact these men had carried out all of their training here in the Crownlands, but the Royal Guard was already filled with myth and tradition. They had raced –and beaten- the hated 'Wheelhouse Spirit', a construct far more ominous and perfidious than what the real thing had ever been; made of suffering and pain and unity just beyond reach. Red ribbons adorned their arms, and they wore them proudly.

Joffrey felt a surge of pride seize his throat as he gazed at them. Highborn and lowborn. Tall and small. Guardsmen. If he were to die fighting against the Others one last time, then he'd die surrounded by his dreams of Westeros. By what his homeland should have been.

By what it can be, his mind whispered.

The men inexplicably sensed his mood, giving him space as the cheers ebbed. "You can all feel it, can't you?" he asked of them.

They blinked, their faces those of men at the dawn of understanding. Joffrey closed his eyes as he breathed deep, the Comet still far away as it breezed through the void with crimson sails. He was focused on something much closer to the earth right now. It was somehow more powerful than even that eldritch being, more ponderous and more massive in weight than even the great cycle.

He opened his eyes and saw Lancel; his legate was smiling, confident. He understood.

"What we're building here," said Joffrey, "It's not just about soldiers and coin," he said, turning slowly so he could see the faces of all his men. He wanted them to understand. He wanted them to realize. "It's more than workers and industry. What we're really building here cannot be seen nor touched, but it can be felt."

Those on the table next to him had lowered their voices so they too could listen; it was filled with laborers and assorted workers from the city, the Crownlands, and beyond. "All of us here can feel it. This gateway between the old world and the new." His voice grew with his audience as he gave vent to feelings he'd spent lifetimes pondering.

"We're building it right here, all of us! A road out of the squalor and the drudgery, out of this destructive cycle that has kept us locked for three hundred years and more!" he said, the words coming out like a growl.

The smallfolk growled with him. "Hail Prince Joffrey!" shouted a coal hauler as he leaned on his table. "Fuck empty laws and promises! He's given us good work and fair wages! He's done more for us than a dozen Aegons!"

"He's given us food from his own table! He's given us tools so we can work without fear for our lives!" roared another one, emboldened as he stood up.

"That's nothing," said an old baker, his scarred face dauntless under the shadows and the bright sparks of the windmills. His low voice cut through the din of the crowd, and the people there turned to look at him with shock.

"I survived the Sack," he said, gaze travelling along the length of the table. "I saw my city waste away under the new King, same as the old King." He shook his head. "No. Work comes and goes. Coin comes and goes," said the baker, staring right at him with eyes devoid of fear. "But you gave us more than that, Prince Joffrey. You gave us hope, and for that I'll die beside you as hard as any high lord ever did."

He felt a kindred soul within the baker, a man scarred by the past but possessed of this bizarre, even frightening new thing. A thing he'd hold on to even if it meant death and oblivion.

"Hope," said Joffrey, holding the baker's eyes. He understood. "It's a strange thing, isn't it? It's not really something one can hold…" he trailed off as he turned, the crowds around him growing quiet. The Guardsmen by the other tables had quieted down, their banging tankards and marching songs giving way to eerie silence. The cheering knights and the laughing maidens lay quiet, his uncle Renly a frozen statue. Only the faint buzzing of the windmills could be heard throughout the entire clearing, spinning slowly now that their firepowder ran low.

"And yet you can taste it. You can feel it in the air like the morning after the storm. The growing certainty that we can build something that will last," he said, his voice rising as a smile broke out. It was curious. The certainty of his coming end energized him, made him feel like a boy again, exploring the seas of the world. "The dream that we can find a way out of stagnation. Out of the rules of old where people lived and died in squalor with no end in sight. The hope that we can build our own era of myth and legend!" he said, bringing his arms close and thumping his chest plate, "A time of awe and wonder as great as any Age of Heroes! As mighty and powerful as any Ancient Valyria! As learned and wise as any Empire of Dawn!"

The Song buffeted Joffrey like a wave, it was not quite a cheer; it was low and abrupt, unclear emotions and strange longings intertwined as his people rumbled. The dredges of King's Landing and the forgotten smallfolk of the Crownlands, wondering about certainties long held by their fathers and their father's fathers.

"The seeds have been laid, and this is but the beginning. You can feel it all around you!" he shouted, swinging his arm wide and enveloping the people and the tables, the river mills and the forges, the city and the realm. The people around him shouted assent, some nodding fiercely as others lifted up tankards with growls of pent up purpose. "The beginnings of something new. A path forward out of the mire, a road of industry and purpose where the only horizon is set by our skills and our dreams!"

They roared like lions, as hard as any troop he'd ever commanded. He could see the hope reflected in their eyes, their fervor invigorating him in turn. These were his people, turned for the first time into true companions against the end. For the first time Joffrey Baratheon would live or die with those he'd swore to protect, and the thought lifted his spirit like the sight of the Vale under his feet, chilly mountain air buffeting him against the top of the world.

"Can you feel it?! This beginning now taunting us. Daring us!" he said as he gazed at the lower nobility and the bastards cast aside. Third born sons and spare daughters starting to believe; people of set futures now starting to wonder. Their eyes followed him as if entranced, struggling to disbelieve the dream. The dream that seemed harder to achieve than even the end of the Cycle.

He felt as if in battle, limbs growing agitated as he started pacing, the crowd around him expanding yet again as more and more faces joined him under the moonlight. He turned to the table filled with Guardsmen. The soldiers and officers seemed to glare at him, stone-faces hiding a boiling exaltation that strained against their discipline- 'We're here' they seemed to say. 'We're with you' they whispered.

Joffrey felt a surge of pride as he gazed upon them, his white fists strong and stalwart. "An age of reforging! An age of strength in unity!" he said, and his legates gave out a wordless bellow. Jon, Willard, Olyvar, Lancel, Renfred, Tyrek, all of them and more. The Guard roared their lungs out as they slammed gauntleted hands against hard oak. It sounded like a rain of steel, like the legion's archers let loose on white wights. It spoke of a promise to fight and die for a future they had already seen and could thus never forget, the promise of becoming something more through shared purpose.

He caught Sansa's eyes as he turned. His wife had been trailed by a group of ladies and maidens, all wearing dresses of a kind, like little ducklings following their mother. In time that streak of practical fashion would be put to good use, along with the budding familiarity between highborn and lowborn. Who else but them were to administrate the great hospitals behind the frontlines, nursing fighting men back to strength and aiding overwhelmed Maesters with ledger and bonesaw? Men or women, all would be needed in the war to come. The war for the living. The War for Dawn.

Sansa nodded slowly, her eyes alight with purpose. Joffrey breathed harshly as he turned again, seeking to encompass everyone within his field of vision, left hand firm on the pommel of his sword as his right rested between belt and hammer. His growing audience seemed hypnotized, servants and cooks clustering as they forgot their duties, Maesters and apprentices leaving discussions halfway as they neared closer. There were tabards around him, knights and squires of a hundred different houses whose colors under the moonlight seemed one and the same.

"An era where the vows of knighthood ring true," he said, voice growing soft. "An era where we are not killers at the bidding of ambition."

The crowd breathed with him in shock. Not only had he killed the Mountain, but he'd just denounced the perversion of knighthood he'd embodied. He'd all but denounced the ways of his grandfather, his tools and excuses.

It made this real. It made them understand this was not about a royal's ambition, but about them all. They said words were wind, but then what was a tempest if not winds upon winds building on each other until it was a whole fit to shake the earth itself?

"It's being born, right here, right now," he said as if it were a terrible secret. "Can't you feel it?" His voice was barely a whisper, "The beginning?" He smiled as he saw the first specks in the eyes of them all, that same glint he'd shared with Shah under the stars all those years ago, the same one that blazed from his wife's eyes when the Purple enveloped them for the last time. The certainty. The will.

And they felt it. One would have to be dead not to have felt it. "It's here. Within each and every one of us. Together…" his voice trailed off as his smile grew. The Song held its breath as the maidens did likewise, the knights gripping their pommels harshly as the Guardsmen straightening almost in unison, workers holding each other like a forest of proud oaks. The Maesters leaned forward, the silence unbearable as Sansa smiled proudly.

Their eyes glowed like dry kindling caught alight, the little flames under the great void, entranced as Joffrey nodded at Renly. This was his truth. This was what he wanted.

The Song reached its zenith, and Joffrey spoke the truth.

"Together we shall build a future the likes of which this world has never seen before. Together we shall be one kingdom. One people," he said, and they were.

His people rocked back, shock and wonder writ clear on their faces as they heard the Song. Joffrey didn't begrudge them the reaction; together they'd not just witnessed the birth of a new era, they'd created it. The Age of Unity. The Age of Purpose. The Age of Westeros.

They would all be protectors. They would all be watchers of stars.

-: 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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May 6, 2019

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Threadmarks Chapter 68: Symphony.

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baurus

Special Circumstances Agent

Jun 17, 2019

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Spoiler: AN

Chapter 68: Symphony.

"Come on, Ser Robar!" Joffrey shouted as he spurred Moonlight onward, ducking under a hanging branch before reaching the clearing.

Ser Robar Royce bit off a curse as he struggled to catch up, the rest of the Silver Knights close behind as they reached the mustering point and they spread out, forming a wedge with Joffrey at the tip.

"Lances down!" Joffrey called out as they reached the group of strawmen arrayed in a great mass. He slammed his lance through the first one's head, and then the second. By the third he lost his grip on it, so he took out his hammer and started bashing left and right as the rest of the knights formed up with him, taking out hammers and morningstars. Their frenzy against the targets made for sloppy shield handling though, they were neglecting their offhand again.

Not good.

The horses seemed bestial under the morning sun, clad in heavy barding as they were. They plowed into the straw army, running down and slamming aside the fake men before Joffrey blew the horn.

Not nearly fast enough, he thought as they wheeled as a group, retreating back the way they came. The great mass of armored horses soon reached the group of tents and tables arrayed to the east of the clearing, the scent of freshly cooked food hounding them forth.

"You're all making progress, but we're still not disengaging fast enough," he said as the silver-caped knights groaned. They dismounted and went immediately for the ale and the boar a couple of servants were spit-roasting near the tables.

"You've said that the last ten times," said one of the Redwyne twins –Horas- as he sat on one of the benches, massaging his thighs. Joffrey snorted as he put a leg atop the bench, leaning on it as he took a sip from the tankard waiting for him. The Silver Knights formed up around the table in a mess of jeers and laughs, and Joffrey had to suppress the slightly irrational urge to discipline them. They were not Guardsmen but the sons of nobles, many of them second or even firstborns. There was only so much stricture they'd take before walking away.

Brotherhood, not an army, Joffrey thought as Ser Robar sat on the bench. He just had to frame it the right way.

"The barding is too heavy, we're lacking momentum for the shock," said Ser Robar.

Shock won't do a thing against wights, Joffrey thought. He shrugged instead, "That armor will let us plunge deeper into enemy formations without losing too many horses. I think a bit of momentum is a price well paid."

Ser Robar copied his shrug, "Well, you're the one paying for all that barding," he said, a little smirk overtaking his features as he lifted the tankard, "And this, too."

"That too," said Joffrey, lifting his tankard up and to the middle. "Good run, men. Load up, we'll see if we do better with a full belly!"

"It'll only drag the horses down!" Ser Emmon called out, "Especially Hendry here," he added as Hendry Bracken choked on a piece of boar, turning to glare at him.

Joffrey chuckled with them, shaking his head. I hope their good cheer survives the Cycle.

He looked at Ser Robar as the knight tapped his thigh idly, at a tempo with a pattern long familiar to Joffrey. He smothered a tiny smile as he leaned back, "After that I want you to guide them through afternoon meditation."

"We have afternoon meditations?" asked Ser Robar, raising his eyebrows.

"We do now."

Ser Horas groaned, "But we already have them every morning!"

"Ser Robar," said Joffrey, "Be so kind? I'm tired of repeating myself."

Ser Robar shook his head good-naturedly, leaning back and looking at Ser Horas, "'Do you or do you not want to be one of the best knights in Westeros?'"

Ser Horas groaned again, not even deigning a response as he returned his eyes to the boar over the spit, a great gash on its belly where the spear had taken it.

Ser Robar chuckled, but he seemed uneasy all the same.

"You're going to groan on me as well?" said Joffrey.

"Not at all," said Robar, "Hells, I fight better after each session. That Yi-Tish fellow must have been a hell of a warrior," he trailed off as he looked to his sides.

Joffrey smirked, "You could say that."

Something's definitively bothering him…

"But..?"

Ser Robar sighed as he shook his head, "It's not worth bothering about," he said, lowering his voice.

"It's alright, we're all brothers here, remember?" said Joffrey, lowering his voice as well, hidden beneath the general ruckus of –generally- young and ravenously hungry men tearing into boar meat.

Ser Robar snorted, "Not officially. We need the King to proclaim-"

"You leave Robert to me," said Joffrey, "Now, why all the hemming and hawing?"

Robar sighed again, deflating under Joffrey's eyes, "I know how important you think those meditation exercises are. I'm worried I'll botch them."

"Ah," said Joffrey. "Come, walk with me."

Ser Robar followed him as they walked a short distance away from the table, the constant knocking of carpenter birds on wood soon overpowering the sounds of the encampment. The greenery had a yellowish tinge around these parts of the Kingswood, lending it a autumn-like solemnity.

"Those carpenter birds," said Joffrey, waving at one of the tall trees which doubtlessly hid half a dozen of the hardworking birds, "How would you characterize their sound?"

Ser Robar seemed nonplussed, "Rhythmical. A pattern, I guess."

An interesting choice of a word, given that most people would have found the sharp knocks a chaos with no rhyme or reason beyond the frenzied haste of the bird in question.

"There is a sort of underlying pattern to it, isn't there?" said Joffrey, tapping one of the trees. "Have you heard it anywhere else?" he asked idly as he looked up at the yellowed crown of the tree.

Ser Robar shuffled, "Can't say I have," he lied.

Joffrey smiled, "I wouldn't worry about disappointing me Robar, I'm not lying when I tell you you're the Silver Knight who has… understood, the most."

"Ser Emmon is the better fighter," he said.

"He is."

"Ser Vardis is the better rider."

"He is," Joffrey said again.

Ser Robar shook his head again, "It's just, if all those facts are true, then why are you and Ser Balon constantly delegating on me? I'm a second son. I'm no leader-"

Joffrey put a hand on his shoulder, "Robar, you'll be fine. You just have to listen," he said, punctuating the last word as he looked at the knight's eyes.

He hesitated, looking down.

"I…"

"Yes?"

"A few of us have been… talking. About that rhythm-"

"Prince Joffrey, there you are!" said Samwell as he reached the two of them, huffing every step of the way. "The candidate you were expecting is here," he said, beads of sweat already travelling down his neck and infiltrating his silvered chestplate.

Joffrey grunted assent, "Hold that thought, Robar. We've work to do," he said as the three made their way back to the camp.

"Honestly I don't know how you find enough hours in the day to sleep, my Prince," said Robar.

It's complicated, thought Joffrey, letting his sight drift to the puffing form of Samwell Tarly.

"Cursing my name already, Samwell?"

"Oh. Never, my Prince," he said as his authoritative waddle pushed knights and squires out of the way, guiding Robar and Joffrey to one of the back tents. The Tarly scion got to skip half of the usual battle training in favor of his administrative duties -which certainly made the ragged Ser Balon happy- but made a poor fit for Sam's future survival.

So Joffrey had made him wear weighted armor for the better part of each day. And half the usual training or not, Joffrey had been putting a little extra personal attention on Sam during his daily bouts with the Silver Knights. It would save his life if he ever actually ended up in combat, and more likely still, would help keep Lord Tarly off Joffrey's back if he ever came snooping around King's Landing, searching for the fate of his son.

The Night's Watch, he thought, "What a waste…"

"What was that, my Prince?" said Samwell.

"Nothing, Sam." Bless Sansa's eyes. Well, her raven's eyes. Master Samwell's mind has better things to do than freeze atop the Wall until the Walkers march south…

"How are we looking on today's rations?" he asked his unofficial Quartermaster.

"Pretty well actually, the hunters are really earning their keep," said Sam.

Good. The less coin he used here the more he'd be able to pump into the Royal Shipping Company. I wonder if there's a piece of the Purple somewhere that would let me duplicate myself…

After everything he'd seen such a power would look positively quaint…

"Never thought I'd grow bored of eating bore," said Robar.

"Nice pun!" said Samwell.

Ser Robar blinked, but Samwell waved it away as if it were nothing, "Never mind," he said, quickly becoming immersed in a discussion with a group of servants laying down a crate between two tents and blocking a makeshift 'road'. "No no no! You have to take it to Ser Balon! I- Excuse me my Prince, I'll catch up to you, just keep going straight ahead, the green tent!"

"Will do, Sam," said Joffrey, suppressing another smile. He kept walking with Ser Robar, the encampment not all that big for all there was a lot of movement within it. Noble scions tended to need a level of pampering which was a bit more manpower intensive than a Guardsman's, sadly.

Still, he found himself oddly nostalgic as he made for the green tent. He suspected he was going to miss messing around this place, after his other duties absorbed him completely.

He sighed.

Kingly duties…

"He's come down a long way," said Ser Robar.

"We'll make a knight out of him yet," said Joffrey.

"I was talking about his weight. Still quite a bit on the pudgy side though."

Joffrey chuckled, looking at the little glint within Ser Robar's eyes. Not as dumb as you pretend to be, eh? As if he'd needed confirmation.

They walked around a stuck wagon, the horses neighing shrilly as the rider tried to calm them down. "They usually have to beg and scrape for you to even consider training them, much less make them a Silver Knight," Robar said as they neared the tent.

"Intrigued?"

"He's got to be pretty good if he caught your attention."

"She, Ser Robar. She," said Joffrey, opening the tent flap.

Brienne was kneeling, fully armored as she passed a whetstone down her longsword. "My Prince," she said as she scrambled up, only to belatedly come down again and take a knee.

"Rise, Brienne of Tarth," he said as he examined her. They called her 'Brienne the Beauty', and it didn't take a prince to figure out why; her frame almost rivaled the Hound's in size, and her curt demeanor did her no favors. Still, there was something alluring in the sheer intensity of her gaze as she lifted her eyes from the ground. Ultimately, beauties were a copper a dozen in this land, but a woman with a strong mind…

Now if only I could communicate that to my lords…

"You have my sincerest thanks for inviting me here, my Prince," she said, "I promise you shall not be disappointed with me."

"I'm sure I won't," he said. Her longsword seemed well cared for, it's pommel molded by constant use. Robar contained a snort with one gauntleted hand, scratching his small beard before he turned to Joffrey.

She certainly lasted longer than you, Ser Robar 'the Red'.

Still, appearances had to be kept. "Show me then," he said as he turned, walking back through the camp.

"If she's searching for a husband, she won't find one here," said Ser Robar as the two made for the training yard, Brienne following from a respectful distance.

"I doubt that's her goal."

"Then why is she here?"

"Why are you here, Ser Robar?"

The counter-question took him by surprise. Ser Robar stammered for a second before shaking his head. "Glory," he said.

"Acclaim, prestige, brotherhood, skill," said Joffrey, his stride constant as he nodded at the Hound, who'd just reached the clearing and was dismounting from Stranger. "Things you knew second sons had to earn, fair or not."

Ser Robar frowned, lowering his head by a fraction. "It all sounds so simple when you say it…"

"It is simple. Thought it's also complicated at the same time. Simply complex, you could say." Joffrey snorted, "Kind of like life itself, huh?"

Ser Robar nodded slowly, looking strangely at him.

Joffrey shook his head, "In any case, I think you'll find a bit of a kindred soul within Brienne. Her curse was far worse than being born second."

"If you say so."

"I do. Sandor!" said Joffrey, waving at the Hound as the man trundled towards them, shooting glares at anyone who got close, "How are the Raiders doing?"

"Like shit," said the Hound, joining seamlessly by Joffrey's other side, walking half a step behind him. "Pocket stole Glyra's dagger, so she rammed it into his thigh for good measure."

"Business as usual then. Their Low Valyrian getting any better?"

Sandor broke out into an ugly cackle, throwing his head back as the burnt side of his face curdled in mirth.

"That bad, huh?"

Sandor's good humor disappeared as Ser Robar joined in with an unsure chuckle. "Maester Karton's lost what few hairs he had left, though he said Horwick was getting better," Sandor said, "You should see for yourself. It's all drunken rhyming to me," he added, leering at Ser Robar. The fact that Sandor preferred the company of dubiously reformed cutthroats to the proud youth of chivalry said a lot of both Sandor and knighthood in general.

"I'll do it tonight," Joffrey said as the reached their 'training yard'. There was no such thing, merely a circle of trodden earth where the grass had long since given way to mud. He reached the weapon rack and took a tourney bastard sword, turning to the sight of a stunned Brienne. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Ser Robar handed her one of the tourney longswords, and he stepped back with a private grin as a few Silver Knights congregated around.

"You're the one I'll be fighting?" she said, her grip on the longsword unsteady.

"Every Silver Knight has fought me. You have to win to get in," he said as he lowered his knees, sword circling slowly as he started moving sideways.

Brienne followed, both of them circling the mud as Ser Horas –or was that Hobar?- turned to his twin with a confused expression. "But-" he managed before the other slapped him on the back of the head.

She tensed as his left foot slid by a hair's breath. A good sign, thought Joffrey. He launched himself at her a heartbeat later, probing with two stabs. She deflected both, but his low sweep caught her off guard and she collapsed on the mud with an oomph.

"You're going to have to do a lot better than that," he said as he circled her fallen form.

Brienne cursed, shaking the mud off her face as she stood up. She attacked with broad sweeps, pushing Joffrey back before he rolled on the ground and sprang up with a long stab. She parried it away, but Joffrey's fist caught her on the mouth and she stumbled back, blood running from her lip.

"Are you sure you really want this, Brienne?" he said, "You don't look very convin-" Brienne bellowed over his words, stumbling up and ramming him with the longsword. The tip slid off his plate as Joffrey spun, arming sword batting her weapon away and slashing downwards. She ducked low, riposting for his ribs before Joffrey blocked and he retreated backwards. Brienne followed through a series of furious stabs as their swords danced through the air, Joffrey grunting as he jammed her blade against the ground and kicked it. It tumbled out of her grasp, but she managed to duck under his follow up blow, scrambling for her sword and grabbing it by the blade just before Joffrey slammed her with a two handed hit.

Her parry tingled throughout the clearing, her shoulder slamming into Joffrey's chest before she hit him there again with the pommel, using the hilt as a hammer. Her skill with the Stormland's murderstroke variant was surprising, and Joffrey scrambled back in a complex water dancing feint.

He jumped at her off hand, parrying the longsword and driving her guard up. He twisted her off hand away with a Yii lock as his bastard sword redirected the pommel up, leaving her open for a head-butt that saw her slam against the ground.

He placed the tip of his sword right over her neck, breathing harshly as his chest ached. The vaguely amused banter surrounding them had died a swift death a while ago, the Silver Knights now murmuring to each other as Brienne sighed painfully.

"I yield," she said, her voice small as she closed her eyes.

"Well fought," said Joffrey, lifting the sword up and replacing it with his hand. "Welcome to the as-of-yet-unofficial Order of the Silver Knights."

She gaped at him, hope and suspicion warring in her eyes as she stumbled through the words. "B-but I lost!"

"No shame in that," said Joffrey, "No Silver Knight's ever actually beat me. You came closer than most though," he said, giving her a little smile.

It was as if the sun had just broken through the clouds. Her face transitioned through half a dozen emotions before she took his hand and he lifted her up.

"Congratulations," said Ser Robar, nodding absently. His brows were furrowed in deep thought as the Silver Knights slowly started clapping.

After that performance I think she'll fit right in. After his long lives, he'd learned that nipping a problem before it became a problem usually saved everyone a headache.

The sound of frantic hooves made him turn though, dispelling the warmth that had replaced the pommel-shaped ache on his chest, hand ready to draw his hammer as his knees bent.

"Prince Joffrey! Prince Joffrey!" bellowed Barret, reigning in his horse.

"What is it?" Joffrey asked as he jogged towards him, a dark feeling creeping up his gut.

"My Prince, I- It's the King," he said.

-: PD :-

"And he didn't drink a single drop of wine?" He asked him.

Ned shook his head, their long strides carrying them up the last set of stairs. "Said he didn't need it. He…" Ned trailed off, the sad smile all too fresh on his lips, "He said the fresh air tasted like summer wine already."

Joffrey grunted, looking at the floor as they reached the corridor. The door was guarded by Ser Barristan, who held it open as Mother left. Myrcella seemed red eyed, and Tommen was crying openly.

Did you have anything to do with this? Joffrey thought as he stared at her. Cersei seemed as shocked as him though, her eyes nervous as they cycled through everything in the hallway, likely trying to predict things through. They settled on him as they reached Ser Barristan.

"Joffrey-"

"Mother," he said. She flinched from his stare, and he blinked as he gazed down at Tommen and Myrcella, clutching her in anguish. No, Cersei had not killed Robert this time.

"It'll be alright, Tommen," he said, gently lifting his cheek and looking at his eyes. "It'll be alright," he said again, the trembling stopping for a few moments. Myrcella gave him a little nod, and he steeled himself for what was to come.

Spoiler: Music

Vague whiffs of rot sneaked through the edges of his perception as Joffrey entered the Royal Bedchambers. The curtains were wide open, and sunlight bathed Robert Baratheon as he laid on his deathbed. His brow was lined with sweat, his face pale as he gazed at the sun with not a care in the world.

He craned his neck, and a strange energy seemed to lift him up as he saw Joffrey, "Son! About fucking time," he said as he propped himself up on his elbow, "Where did you find him, Ned? Beating the brains out of those knights of his?"

"You could say that," said Ned, sitting on one of the chairs by the side of the bed. Joffrey sat by Robert's side, on the bed. He grimaced as he peeked under the blankets and saw the bloodied bandages around Robert's guts.

"That fucking boar," he muttered. The irony was not lost on him. Robert Baratheon's first death had been at the tusks of a boar, and so would be his last.

"Biggest one I've seen in my life. It was glorious," said Robert. "You should have seen it… Should have seen your old man like he used to be," he said as he lay back on the bed, coughing something red into the handkerchief in his hand.

Joffrey sighed, leaning back as well. "You're one reckless fool, you know that right?"

"Heh. That apple didn't fall far from the tree," said Robert, "Though the boar will make a far better wall ornament than the Mountain, that's for damned sure!" He chuckled, a rolling snort not unlike that made by the beast which killed him.

Joffrey's smile was stillborn, "Robert-"

"Ned, leave us for a moment, would you?"

Ned grimaced as he stood up, shooting Robert a long look.

The King grunted, "We already said our goodbyes you honorable fool," he said, hiding a smile.

"That we did, old friend," Ned said after a moment. He gave Robert a nod, and Robert nodded back.

"Oh and Ned," Robert called out before he left the room.

Eddard stopped by the door, turning back.

"Remember what I said about the damned boar and the funeral!"

Ned chuckled against his will, "I said we'd prepare it just how you like it, but I won't lie to you now, Robert. I'm going to make sure they roast it good."

Robert's expression grew thunderous, "You savage northerners! No respect for last wishes," he said, and they both shared a good long laugh, something unspoken passing between the two.

And if their eyes grew a bit misty, then it must have surely been Joffrey's imagination.

Ned closed the door, and Joffrey turned to find Robert's eyes fixed firmly on him, not a trace of mirth on them.

"You stopped calling me Father around the time we went to Winterfell," he said after a moment.

Joffrey's heart thumped like a gong, and he gripped the sheets like lifelines as he leaned forward. "Robert I-"

"No, no, it's alright," he said as he shook his head. He turned to look at the sun streaming through the window, a small smile on his lips, "Gods know Ned Stark makes a better father than I ever did."

"You…" Joffrey cleared his throat, "You did well. Myrcella is an intelligent, strong girl. And Tommen will grow up to be a man you would be proud of, I promise."

Robert turned to stare at him, "And I believe that promise, I believe it more than I believe in the Father. That conviction in your voice… it's so strong you could weigh the damned thing." His smile grew wan, "Tommen, Myrcella… And you, the greatest legacy I'm leaving to this wretched city." He grew quiet, shaking his head in incomprehension, "It was so sudden, like night and day. From spiteful brat to everything I should have been."

Joffrey opened his mouth, but Robert waved a paw at him, "Let me speak damn it, a son should hear his Father's last words."

A son, he thought, the grimace fresh on his lips. Could he let Robert die without telling him the truth? There would be no more lives after this one, no more chances. He fisted his hands, growing white under the strain.

"Like night to day," he said again, "A master of sword and mace, a courteous young man drawing confidence from within instead of beyond. You've seen battle before, haven't you?" His stormy blue eyes bored on Joffrey, the Demon of the Trident rousing from the depths of that blue ocean.

Joffrey held his breath, holding Robert's stare before sighing. "Yes," he said.

Robert sagged back, as if released of a burden, "It was during that night, a few days after Jon died. Something happened to you. Something great and terrible."

"I dreamed," Joffrey whispered, "I lived a thousand lives and grew to hate what I was."

Robert nodded.

"Was there war?" he asked after a while.

Joffrey closed his eyes, breathing deeply, "Great and terrible."

"Great and terrible," said Robert, taking a deep breath, "You could sum it up in those two words, couldn't you? That thrill behind every hammer blow, that momentum that makes you feel invincible. Unstoppable."

"And then you look around," said Joffrey as he opened his eyes, "And realize what you've done."

"Dead friends and old regrets," said Robert, wincing as he shuffled in his bed. He placed a hand over the sheets, roughly where the boar had taken him. "Then you look at those green boys playing at war and realize there's nothing you can do to stop it. To stop the cycle. You can just try to-"

"Make sure they don't die, when the time comes," said Joffrey.

Robert grunted, "That why you took those 'Silver Knights' under your wing?"

"Among other things," he said, nodding slowly. "We'll need another breed of knight for what's to come."

"Another breed of people," said Robert. "That's what you've been doing, isn't it? This Blackworks of yours. All the young strays you've been picking up. All the pretty paintings Sansa's legions have been putting up. What was the name of the one over the thing you're building in the Dragonpit? With the knights and the workers and the maidens? The one where they're all looking at the morning sun."

"Together," said Joffrey.

"Together," said Robert, looking up at the ceiling, "I wonder what terrible sight you must have seen that night. The enemy that would threaten this great and terrible New Westeros whose foundations you've built."

"An enemy we'll drown in steel and fire and fury," said Joffrey, the nape of his neck tingling on edge as he leaned closer.

"There's the conviction again," he said with a wan smile, "You didn't promise victory though."

Joffrey bit his lip, "I can't."

Robert was pale, but he still smiled as he took another deep breath. "That's wise of you." His hand was trembling, and Joffrey grabbed it all of a sudden, steadying it with both his own. It felt cold.

"Help me up," he said, straining as he tried to stand up. He felt so frail, so different from Joffrey's childhood memories. He helped him walk towards the two chairs by the window, and they received the full brunt of the sun as they walked fully into the light.

"That night," Robert said a moment after they sat side by side, his voice laced with an almost inaudible tremor. "Did you see what- what lay…?" He trailed off, the blue storm within his eyes growing tame.

Beyond.

Joffrey gripped Robert's hand tightly, lifting it below his chin and holding it close. "Maybe," he said after a breath. "We've always thought of it as something different. Seven Heavens. The Eternal Dawn. The Green Dream. Something Beyond this place."

The corner of Robert's mouth turned up. Joffrey too heard the rising conviction within his voice, his brow furrowed as he tried to explain it to him, to himself. "But it's not. Not really. It's here. It's now." He frowned, holding Robert's hand like a priceless talisman, "It's around us. And within us."

"Here…" whispered Robert. He smiled fully, his whole face engaging as he relaxed under the sun. "I was never meant to live inside musty keeps." He snorted, blinking under the glare, "I much preferred the sun as my roof."

Joffrey smiled with him, "I know."

"Did I ever tell you I was proud of you? In the dream?"

Joffrey looked down, closing his eyes as he took a deep breath and the knot in his throat came and went, the Red Comet crossing the light of the sun and glittering orange. "I- Not in- not in as many words."

"I'm proud of you," said Robert.

He sighed. His eyes felt moist, the glare of the sun too intense to stare at for long.

He turned to look at Robert, and was surprised to see a moist sheen within his blue eyes too. Today the sun seemed especially bright.

"Could I ask you a favor?" said Robert

"Anything."

"Fetch me my warhammer, would you? It's beside the bed."

Joffrey stood up and went to get it. He stared at the big warhammer for a second before lifting it up reverently. It felt light in his hands as he walked back, its part in the Song slow and steady.

"Robert. There's something I need to tell you."

He crouched by the side of the chair. "Robert?" he asked again, grabbing his arm.

He was staring through the window, blue eyes still like becalmed seas. Joffrey breathed deeply as he let himself fall back, sitting on the chair's armrest. He placed the warhammer vertically, between Robert's thighs, wrapping it with his arms, the head resting over his chest. Robert Baratheon no longer breathed, but Joffrey could still feel his presence.

Though perhaps presence was too strong a word. His life made ripples. It changed the rhythm. It had imprinted the Song with his actions; like waves lapping over the surface of the Sunset Sea.

An Imprint, thought Joffrey as he stood up. The body of consequence a life had done.

You could even call it a spirit, he thought as he glanced down at Robert one last time, his smile whimsical. Waves who would never really dissipate, stretching into infinity by the influence of its source. "Here and now, Robert. Here and now," he said as he gripped his shoulder.

It was a form of immortality, in a way. A note in the eternal symphony.

He walked out of Robert's room, closing the door gently.

"The King?" said Ser Barristan, white brows furrowed in concern.

The Repository was close indeed, Joffrey could feel the great plumes of red thrumming through his belly; a furious tempest pushing against a weight of crystal and silence which spun slowly on its own axis. The beginning of the end was now closing.

"The King is dead," said Joffrey.

Ser Barristan's eyes widened, then steeled.

"Long live the King," he said.

-: PD :-

Last edited: Jun 17, 2019

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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Jun 17, 2019

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Threadmarks Chapter 69: Great and Terrible.

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Jun 24, 2019

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Chapter 69: Great and Terrible.

The dull roar of the crowd was a constant as Joffrey descended down the steps of Baelor's Sept, Sansa's arm held tightly in his own. She looked appropriately regal in her long gown, possessed of a dignified momentum that made her glide down the long open-aired stairway to Baelor's Plaza. Her crown was a circlet of silver studded with sapphires and charcoal grey diamonds, simple but elegant.

"Eyes ahead, dear," said Sansa, blue eyes twinkling.

"I was just mesmerized by your pristine beauty," Joffrey said as he returned his gaze to the crowds below; a great teeming mass of people chanting and clamoring. They formed a sea from end to end, covering the whole plaza but for a wide road by the center, Guardsmen lining up at each side every two paces.

"Pristine?" said Sansa, smiling at the crowd as they took another set of stairs at an excruciatingly slow speed. The cloak of the Baratheons of King's Landing flowed from her back like a mantle as she flicked her eyes at him, "I'll be sure to remind you that at our bedding ceremony."

"All pure and innocent. That's Good Queen Sansa alright," said Joffrey, feeling her grip on his arm tighten as she snorted daintily.

"I've been wearing a crown for less than an hour. They can't be calling me that already."

"The smallfolk were calling you that the day after Robert died."

She hummed as they reached another landing, this time closer to the crowds. Streaks of red, violet, and pink swirled around their path as gusts of flower petals rained from above, carried by the winds as Sansa pulled his hand gently.

"Again?" he said, gazing at the laborers, fishermen, cobblers and more assembled around Balor's Plaza, blocks of Guardsmen standing at attention around the final landing and the carriage.

"Just do it," she said, not bothering with hiding her smile as she raised an arm.

Joffrey did likewise, feeling a bit ridiculous as he gave the crowds a wide armed salute. They responded immediately, the din rising to meet him as they cheered and roared.

It made it better if he just thought they were his soldiers. It was even true, in a way. During the war to come, all the living would be his soldiers. He turned lightly and as he raised his hand higher, more confortable this time. He fisted it, pumping it once as the blocks of soldiers thumped their halberds against the ground and the cries of the crowd became a bit more distinct.

"Hail the King!"

"Bless Good Queen Sansa!"

"Hail King Joffrey!"

"They seem to like us," she said, a pink petal getting caught in her hair.

"I'm sure it has nothing to do with the great feast you've organized for today."

"It might have helped," she said, her smile impish.

"Let's go, time's a wasting."

They descended down the next set of stone stairs, the weight of the crown heavy on Joffrey's head. It was a web of antlers made out of pure castle forged steel; somehow it felt heavier than it ought to.

"Must you go?" she said quietly.

"You know I have to."

She sighed. The roar of the crowd was louder now, but Joffrey could hear her as if they were by the beach near their old house in Jhala. "Things are in motion in the east as well."

"The Emperor reached Bladhahar yet?"

"This morning," she said. "Most of the Bloodless are still mobilizing around Bol-Qobam, but he's linked up with young Ka-Mil and around five hundred of those 'Immortals' of theirs."

Joffrey grunted, "Never fought them, but they looked like good troops." Vajul must have made quite the impression if they were mobilizing this early in the war. Assuming Bladhahar was secured within the year, then they might spare a bit of manpower for operations around the Beyond.

I bet that's what Ka-Mil has in mind… It would shore up his position within the Bloodless to be seen leading the charge like that. Joffrey hadn't spoken to him, but he'd seemed a competent enough player from what he'd learned in Carcosa.

Joffrey shrugged, "I reckon it's a short flight across the Dry Deep; Mahil Suul and the Yellow Wing's vanguard are probably taking possession of Bonetown right now. What about the Dawn Scouts?"

Sansa grimaced, hiding it with a tilt of her head as she waved at the crowd again, "It's all blurry, all I know is that they've left the Greytower."

"Good," said Joffrey, "Means the Jade Scribes are taking the Emperor's offer seriously."

"Do you really think they'll reach K'Dath?"

"We can only hope, Sansa. We can only hope…" Joffrey trailed off as they reached the final landing, the Guardsmen of the First Regiment straightening even further as his small council kneeled.

"Your Grace," they intoned. Renly, Eddard, Tyrion, Ser Barristan, and Grandmaester Pycelle all looked suitably impressed by the crowd's reception, and they made a show of congratulating him and offering him their allegiance in front of King's Landing. They repeated the same words uttered inside Baelor's Sept after Ned had taken Sansa's Stark cloak and the High Septon had crowned them both.

Joffrey wondered for a moment which empty platitudes the Spider would have uttered, hands hidden inoffensively within his robes as he all but bowed in ceremony. Alas, Varys was currently being toured around the Kingswood by the Hound and a few trusted men. They needed him alive, but that didn't mean leaving him free to plot here in the capital.

"Maybe I could talk to him," said Renly as they congregated near the carriage, "Speak some sense into him."

"It's a lost cause, uncle," said Joffrey, "Besides I need you, all of you, here in the capital."

Ned looked mutinous at that, but kept his peace. They'd argued enough behind closed doors.

Renly nodded, looking at the cobbled floor of the plaza.

Does he feel guilt about almost following Stannis' steps? Whatever Renly's previous ambitions, this time he'd thrown his lot in with Joffrey. It still left the thorny matter of the Tyrells of course, and according to Sansa's spies Maergery and Ser Garlan were already on the Roseroad, making for King's Landing with an impressive escort of knights and handmaidens.

One problem at a time, Joffrey reminded himself.

"I'll guide you in," Sansa whispered as she drifted closer. They kissed, the crowd cheering all the louder as Joffrey forgot for a moment the great and terrible price in blood that was to come.

"Come back to me," she said when they broke, hugging him tightly.

"Always," he said, her warmth seeping past the cold of his own plate. The armor had been polished to a sheen, but he knew it would soon run red.

Legate Olyvar stepped forth with an antlered helmet in his hands. They looked tall, wickedly sharp to his hands as Joffrey exchanged it for the crown.

"Guardsmen!" he roared after Sansa had gotten inside the carriage, the soldiers around him slamming their halberds against the cobbles. "We march to quench rebellion!" he said, "We march to war!"

The crowd seemed to share his legion's determination, their cries rising higher as the Royal Guard slammed their halberds again and again.

"We march to restore unity!" he roared.

They bellowed their defiance as Joffrey strapped his helmet, the sun playing off the bronze of the antlers.

This time, Stannis would not take the initiative.

-: PD :-

Ser Robar Royce shuffled in his plate, craning his shoulder as he worked off the stiffness. The chainmail clinked under the plate, the sound painfully loud.

This damned mist is muffling everything. He shivered, gazing ahead at the impenetrable white wall around the galley. It was so quiet he could hear the sailors fidgeting on the rigging above, their awe long ago giving way to shocked silence.

The silence was almost haunting in its stillness, revealing vague eddies just beyond the senses. A rhythm of sorts that called to Robar. I'm just a bit nervous, he thought, closing his eyes as he concentrated on his breath as the King had so often taught them. It made it worse, the rhythm of his breath giving weight to the rhythm without, at a tempo with the muffled grunts of the rowers in the decks below.

He shook his head harshly as he walked through the lower deck, seeking distraction as the occasional wave made him stumble. Captain Colrin had called this 'unusually calm seas'… Robar wouldn't hazard a guess on how he'd fare in worse weather.

He checked the arming sword on his belt, then made sure the battleaxe strapped to his back was still there. It was, just the way it was the last time he'd checked.

Get a grip, Robar, he thought as he banished the insidious hill snake coiling in his gut. Royces had been battling since the Age of Dawn. He'd trained for this for almost his entire life. Hells, Joffrey had been training him relentlessly throughout the past few months. He was ready.

He climbed to the upper deck and reached the back of the Shortsword, the galley's oars rowing at a slow, steady beat. He examined the two big lanterns hanging from the back of the ship as he looked down. They were battered by the occasional spray of saltwater, but the flames within still shone bright. Robar nodded, lifting his head up.

Where are- there!

He saw the two other lanterns somewhere within the mist, their course secure as they followed the Shortsword. The ships behind those should be following their back lanterns in turn, and so on throughout the entire fleet of some two dozen ships big and small. All depending on the skill of one man.

King Joffrey Baratheon didn't seem fazed by the occasional swell, his legs compensating without a second thought as he peered straight ahead, hands steady on the tiller as he stood alone but for Captain Colrin, who held out the occasional map and constantly wrote down the King's observations.

There were no lights ahead of the Shortsword.

Ser Hobar and Samwell were leaning on a railing to the right, their short silver capes unmoving under the glare of the dead sky. The young Redwyne knight was gazing at the King as if in a trance, untroubled by the occasional sway of the galley. Robar suppressed the stab of envy as he walked over there and they made space for him; it was common knowledge Redwynes were more comfortable on ships than horses, though it was more often said with snickering tones than the true air of a compliment.

Ser Robar didn't feel like snickering right now.

"Ser Hobar," he said, his voice painfully loud.

Hobar nodded absently.

"Are we close?" he said after another moment.

"I… I think so. I've never seen such a skilled navigator," said Ser Hobar.

The King's seamanship had to be pretty good if it had made Hobar forget the fact that he supposedly knew 'next to nothing' about ships. Maybe he'll start waxing about the King's incredible skill in trade next…

"I can hardly see the tip of the ship in this damned mist," said Robar. It had descended upon them yesterday, and if he hadn't known better he would have said the King had been expecting it. He'd steered them through the entire night and on to the morning, his motions confident and his eyes fixed on the grey horizon.

"F-feeling good? For the battle today?" asked Samwell Tarly. His great girth had diminished somewhat under the King's exacting training, but he seemed wider still now clad as he was in chain, gambeson, and heavy plate. The chainmail jingled as he shivered, his eyes rapidly scuttling across the ship.

"I am," Robar said at once, thinning his lips.

"Oh of course!" Sam said quickly, "I did- I mean I didn't mean to imply otherwise," he said with a fleeting smile witch turned into a pout.

Get your head straight, Robar thought as he closed and opened his eyes forcefully, "No, it's- I'm sorry, Sam. Just a bit tense, is all. Perfectly natural."

"Perfectly natural," Sam agreed, obsessively checking the warhammer he'd rested between his legs, running his hands over the wooden handle. The King himself had trained Sam in the style he'd thought most suited to him, though that was true to an extent for every silver knight. Unlike the King's hammer though, Sam's was a two hander, long and slender with a single flange on one side, a small hammerhead on the other, and a spear blade on the tip.

The sight of Sam licking his dry lips, eyes wide as he looked once again to the front of the ship, was enough to banish the hill snake which had stubbornly burrowed into Robar's belly again. "Sam," he said as he took his shoulder, lowering his voice, "You know you don't have to do this."

"I can do it."

"I know you can, but you don't have to. Joffrey will understand."

He understands more than he ought to, he thought but didn't add.

"How can I call myself a silver knight if I hide at the first sign of battle?" said Sam, "The others will shun me, call me coward." He said it as if it were a fate worse than death, the air of long, bitter experience hanging around his words.

"That's just a load of horseshit," said Ser Hobar, chipping up unexpectedly as he kept staring at the King.

Robar crossing his arms, "Everyone here knows that you're half the reason the knights can do anything useful when Joffrey's not around." The other half being Ser Balon Swann, still unofficial Master-At-Arms of the equally unofficial Silver Knights. Robar supposed he himself merited a place somewhere in that analogy, as Joffrey had been delegating more and more stuff to him before Robert died and war called.

Sam deflated with a long sigh, eyes focusing on Robar's for the first time, "And then what?" he said, a bit of fire slipping into his voice, "Hide every time I feel that- that black pit in my belly grow again?" He shook his head before Robar could respond, "No. It's been chasing me my whole life, worse than one of father's hounds. It stops today, one way or the other," he said, his quivering form leaving no doubt as to which outcome he thought more likely.

"Sounds like you spoke with him."

"I did. After we embarked." They both looked at the King, who seemed as calmly focused as he'd been two hours ago, his hands gripping the tiller with a sort of instinctual ease. He seemed taller in full plate, bits of chainmail showing from his vambraces. Helmetless, his windswept blond hair shuffled under a gust of wind Robar couldn't feel.

Sam didn't tell him more; Robar didn't need him to. There were times Joffrey seemed to communicate in depth with barely a spoken word, his mere presence an open invitation to listen.

Ser Hobar shuffled, the silence growing thicker somehow. "Have any of you two… you know…" he trailed off helplessly, the sound of the oars licking the water as the ship's timbers groaned.

"Heard it?" Sam's voice was barley a whisper.

Ser Robar swallowed again, but before he could respond the King spoke up, his voice echoing within the mist and startling them.

"We're almost there. Get ready."

Even in full plate and armed to the teeth with hammers and swords, the King exuded an air of peace. A steady presence that stilled the winds themselves. It made Robar think of the night of the feast.

Can you feel it?

Spoiler: Music

A sharp caw startled him, and Ser Robar shivered as he looked up. Was that a flight of ravens circling above the ship?

"She's all yours, Colrin," said Joffrey as he turned to the Captain of the Shortsword. "Keep her steady on this course. We should be there in a few minutes," he said before making his way to the main deck.

"Tell the others it's time," Robar said, cursing the way his voice broke halfway.

Sam nodded, not trusting his own voice as Ser Hobar opened a nearby hatch.

"Stay close to me, we'll make it out of this together," Robar promised him at the last second, and Sam gave him a grim nod before climbing down.

The small galley quickly turned into a hive of activity as Captain Colrin called out orders, sailors hollering at each other as ropes were picked up and Guardsmen emerged from the hold, halberds and crossbows flooding the main deck in a rustle of wood and steel. He copied the King's pose as he caught up to him, putting a hand over the pommel of his arming sword. It seemed to help with the damned shivering, though when Joffrey turned his eyes seemed to pierce Robar instantly.

"Just it let it be, Ser Robar. Battle is a great and terrible affair; it's right to be wary of it."

Robar felt his face flush. "You're as green as me, Your Grace," he said with a jerk of his head, regretting the words as soon as he said them. Insulting the King. What the hells is wrong with me?! Even in the fiercest of melee's, he'd never felt this rattled.

Far from insulted though, Joffrey just nodded. "It's bound to be a shock though. I'd guess the trick is to keep moving, keep up that momentum… let a small distance form without losing sight of yourself," he said, eyes narrowing as he peered forward from the side of the galley.

"Of course, Your Grace," he said quickly. There were certainly no records nor rumors that Joffrey had ever partaken in any battle whatsoever, not even a skirmish. He'd been too young for Balon's Rebellion…

Ser Robar frowned as he peered forward, vast silhouettes emerging from the mist.

Then why am I convinced otherwise?

"We're here," said the King.

Dozens of ships began to form ahead as they sailed right past the towers of Dragonstone harbor, so close they could hear the guards playing dice inside one of the towers. Heavy war galleass, carracks, cogs, light galleys, scores upon scores of ships all laid anchored around them. Not a single ship had been out on patrol; only a madman would have sailed in these conditions. Only a madman would have taken the fight right to Stannis' own fortress island mere days after he'd declared open rebellion. He shivered again as Joffrey smiled grimly, the grip on his weapons relaxing.

"Legate Mooton," he said.

"Aye, Commander?" The Legate came from the other side of the ship, which was already chock full of Guardsmen. They looked impressive, arrayed in straight lines of steel… though some seemed a bit sea sick despite the calm waters.

We'll see how good they really are soon enough… The tremble in his hand intensified, and Ser Robar scowled as his grip on his arming sword went white.

"Get me those ships. I want my Royal Fleet intact."

The legate nodded, "It will be done," he said as he slammed a fist against his chest plate.

"Lanterns," said Joffrey.

"Aye, Your Grace?" said one of the seamen.

"Signal Legate Snow aboard the Stormwind: Surprise achieved. Second and Third Cohorts to form the blocking force on the main road. Blood and Mud."

"At once, Your Grace!" said the sailor, running back up the upper deck.

"Ser Robar."

He straightened immediately, "Your Grace?" Most of the Silver Knights aboard the Shortsword, more than two score of them, were already on the deck and clustering near Robar as they took out their weapons.

Joffrey kept looking forward, the shoreline now visible as the first signs of alert came from small-boat fishermen, crying out as they tried to avoid the armada sailing into the harbor. "You and the rest of the Silver Knights will be with me," he said as he jabbed a hand at what had to be the Harbormaster's Office; a small keep in all but name halfway up the town. Fishermen cried out as they couldn't get away in time, their boats capsizing as the Shortsword plowed through the harbor's still waters. Their screams drifted towards him, and Robar tapped the pommel in an absent rhythm.

"Ho! Ships in the harbor! Watch out! Watch out!"

"We'll be punching straight through to the Harbor Office, ripping the heart out of any improvised defense. We must secure the port before Stannis rides down from the castle," he said as he turned to Robar. "We can end this whole rebellion before nightfall, if we move quickly enough."

"I'm with you, my King," said Robar, swallowing something skittish as the hair at the nape of his neck stood on edge.

A new Era. The Era of Westeros.

Stannis -the traitorous dog- was the one obvious threat standing on the road to the Era of Unity. Standing on the way to that dream, that rhythm just beyond hearing.

He had to be stopped by any means necessary.

"I know," said Joffrey.

Robar frowned as Brienne took position near the King, after Ser Vardis and Ser Hobar. She may have handled herself surprisingly well against Joffrey, but he'd keep an eye on her all the same. She returned his gaze levelly, as if daring him to say something.

"They're flying Robert's Stag! Sound the bells!" someone screamed as Dragonstone's shoreline grew completely visible and he spotted groups of armsmen running around the harbor front, bellowing and slamming fists on tavern doors.

Captain Colrin leaned on the tiller, aiming for one of the unoccupied wharfs. "Oars in! Brace for impact!" he shouted. There was no turning back now. They were committed.

The thought was strangely comforting, the shouting from the harbor growing frantic.

"Rouse the men! Stand to! Stand to!"

Joffrey put on his helmet, wickedly sharp antlers adding an ethereal quality to his person. He seemed taller, bigger. Stranger.

Something not quite from this world.

"Blessed Mother! It's a whole fucking fleet!"

The Shortsword slammed against the wharf, boarding ramps clamping down into the pier like steel-toothed hounds as crossbows sang from the forward upper deck.

"Westeros. With me," Joffrey called out in a clear voice.

It was time.

"With the King!" shouted Ser Robar.

His doubts banished in a flash of heat and tingling exaltation, a roar escaping his throat as the he followed Joffrey down the ramp and into wooden pier. The King's antlers still glinted despite the mist-hidden sun, his charge outpacing all of them and carrying him straight to a group of swaying men at arms spilling out of a seaside tavern, some still holding tankards of ale.

They recoiled seconds before impact, Joffrey's roar a physical force that made them stumble back He smashed into them with hammer and sword, reaping lives left and right as he drove into the group. Ser Robar's run turned frantic as he struggled to catch up, an eternity slipping past his eyes as he reached the end of the pier at the same time as Brienne.

They struck together, each taking one of Joffrey's sides as Ser Robar hefted his battleaxe. Blood spilled across his chest as he split one of the men at arm's helmetless skull, his heart thundering inside his chest. The first man he'd ever killed. He found himself face to face with another, eyes wide with cold fear as he struck with a sword.

The hit was jarring, cobwebs of pain spreading through his shoulder. Ser Robar let out a primal scream, slapping aside the sword with a vambrace as the King was wont to do when they sparred. He slammed the battleaxe deep into the man's shoulder, his voice turning ragged as he took another gulp of air and the man went down.

The entire group broke under their onslaught, but Robar saw more soldiers stumbling out of inns and whorehouses. They were panicked, lifting their breeches or strapping sword belts as some clutched their chests, gazing at the bolts lodged in there in incomprehension. Royal Guardsmen were rushing all along the pier, boarding ships with their hand axes as two more galleys crashed against the docks, spilling men and arrows.

The man below Robar still had the battleaxe jammed into his collarbone, gasping in tiny breaths as his eyes swiveled wildly, arms twitching. Robar froze at the sight, his hearing focusing only on the man's panicked, sharp gasps for air as everything else dissolved into white noise.

The King slammed his arming sword through the man's eye socket, ending him instantly as Robar blinked. "To the Harbor Office! With me!" he shouted in his face. Deep green eyes surrounded by steel plate, a gash of splattered blood crossing it all at an angle. A promise of something great. A promise of something terrible.

The shouting and the racket around Robar became clearer, and he breathed again as he took his battleaxe from the corpse's shoulder. "Onwards!" he said by way of response.

They cut their way through dock guards and levies as they ran for the Harbor Office, a force of chaos smashing through steadily hardening defenders. Robar became distantly aware of the smell of burning wood, and he realized a couple of burning war galleys were listing sideways in the bay as more and more of the King's Fleet reached Dragonstone, some of them engaged in boarding actions while others rammed the beach, soldiers disembarking from long ramps and tossed scaling ropes.

Dragonstone the town was a mesh of tightly clustered one and two story buildings, many of them made out of stone quarried directly from the island itself. It seemed to share the island's lugubrious appearance, grey and foreboding, not a streak of color to be found as the buildings followed the steep hill up to the volcano, eventually turning into a solitary road that led straight to Dragonstone Keep.

They reached a hastily manned barricade by the east end of the docks when a small galley crashed into the stonework by the other side, shouts of 'Blood and Mud!' and the rarer 'King and Westeros!' drifting with the wind as Guardsmen disembarked from boarding ramps, a hail of bolts spreading from the galley's foretower and impacting flesh and metal on the other side of the barricade.

"Hold 'em here! Hold 'em here damn you!" roared a grizzled armsman in Dragonstone livery, two of his comrades trying to stiffen the defense as they harangued a large group of panicked sailors or mercenaries, most of them unarmored and wielding boarding cutlasses or even chair legs.

Ser Robar roared as he scaled the piled furniture in a second, cutting apart one of the mercenaries as another volley of crossbow bolts from the galley threshed the defenders like wheat under a scythe. One of the mercenaries slammed a torn table leg against Robar's helmet, and he stumbled back under the force of the blow, a buzzing ring overtaking everything else.

He could only hear his own strangled breathing as he wrenched the table leg away from the man, slamming the battleaxe one handed against his bare chest. He went down without a sound, Robar's heart thundering within him as he turned and saw one of the Dragonstone armsmen swing down his sword, the blade a flash of grey light. The suddenness of his own death took him by surprise.

Samwell plowed into the armsman with all the force of a war destrier, slamming him aside with an armored shoulder and making him tumble down from the top of the barricade, a shuddering breath escaping Robar's lips as he realized he was still alive.

I'm still alive. The thought seemed alien, his mind stuttering as if he were back in Runestone inside Ysilla's room, his little sister playing with the curtains. Opened- Closed- Opened- Closed- Her carefree laughter punctuated each time sunlight flooded the room.

Sam screamed incoherently as he brought his warhammer down hook first, just how they'd practiced a half a thousand times around the Kingswood; cursing the bad weather as Hobar called out encouragement and his twin brother laughed. Robar's motions were not his own as he jumped down the barricade and covered Sam's right, battleaxe biting deep into a sailor trying to jam a cutlass through his friend's neck. The Dragonstone armsman on the ground coughed blood as he stared at his punctured half-plate, blinking when Sam smashed him again, three times before a wave of Guardsmen caught the defenders from behind in storm of halberds against flesh.

It was madness; screaming faces and bellowed war cries, splashed blood hot against numbed hands. Robar advanced with Sam, never leaving his side, bringing down one man after another. Sam's hysterical breathing kept him focused; as long as he heard it, he'd know Sam was still alive.

I'll know I'm still alive.

Joffrey was already moving on, his march uphill relentless as he brought down a couple of levies emerging from a commandeered house serving as a barracks of sorts.

He had to follow Joffrey. Nothing made sense right now, but that thought was his guiding star. As long as he followed Joffrey, he would come out of this maddened maze alive. He had to follow the King.

They fought on, the Silver Knights following Robar's directions as if he knew what he was doing, trying to keep up with the King and directing his brothers to protect the flanks, calling out hastily arranged ambushes.

Robar almost lost his life again when they were assaulted from an alleyway by a group of men at arms, but Brienne interposed her longsword right in time, cutting the man in half with a hideous hack. Robar slammed a gauntlet on her pauldron, earning a gruff grunt in return. They had to follow the King.

He had to keep going. He had to keep fighting. The terror had diminished, his mind growing more focused as they kept up the steep climb through cobbled streets and open aired stairways. Some of Dragonstone's fabled gargoyles jeered from nooks and crannies between alleyways; the fruits of enterprising smallfolk which had looted the fallen decorations straight from the keep itself after one sack or the other.

Ser Emmon Cuy died abruptly, an arrow appearing through his left eye. His friend didn't even have time to seem surprised, just slumping forward and laying still on the ground as they smashed against another barricade on the road to the Harbormaster's Office, their target taunting them from a rocky overhang in the middle of the town, a single squat tower over a rectangle of walls.

Robar gave a wordless bellow as he followed Joffrey, climbing over the upside down wagon and personally tearing the archer's belly apart. The quick vengeance did nothing to soothe the cold blue horror coursing through his veins, but it did offer distraction as he pushed himself further into the fight. It turned relentless, some bizarre momentum pushing him forth as months of practice locked in, knowing exactly when Ser Hobar would take a step back so he could jump in and finish the spearman, knowing exactly when to crouch as Ser Vardis interposed his shield. Sam's breathing had stabilized, at a tempo with Robar's heart as he heard the rhythm again, a fleeting echo growing closer.

It was sudden. From one moment to the next they were storming through the small keep's entrance, oak doors wide open as they slew runners coming in or out, their run taking them through an enclosed dog leg as shouts echoed through the stonework.

"Who the hells' in charge!?"

"Lord Velaryon! He's back in the hall!"

"Ser Dovin, get those levies organized!"

"Any word from the King yet?!"

"Where's Lord Celtigar?! Someone get me a headcount!"

"Which banners?! Calm down godsdamnit! Which banners did you see?!"

"Where are the damned arrows!? Bows to the wall! Now!"

"Aurene! Your brother wants you back inside!"

"There were ships everywhere! I saw him! I saw Robert Baratheon carried by mist!"

"Any word from the west side? What's happening out there for fuck's sake?!"

"Arrows! Father above, get me some damned arrows!"

"Where's that fucking runner?! You! Run to the docks and tell me what's happening!"

Robar felt like some sort of beast as they scuttled through the enclosed tunnel in a mad dash, a runner stumbling to halt and trying to get away from them as they came face to face and almost crashed one another. They emerged from the dog leg into a small rectangular courtyard filled with pandemonium. Smallfolk levies from the Narrow Sea were opening stacks of crates, taking spears and arrows. Men at arms, mostly unarmored though a few wore half plate with Celtigar livery on top, were gathering up in a confused mob at the center. A knight stood atop a table, shouting over the din. They outnumbered the Silver Knights by twice or more.

All of it flashed through Robar's mind in but a moment.

"They're already here!" screamed the runner as Joffrey caught up to him, his bastard sword emerging cleanly through the center of his chest. He lifted him up with a grunt, tearing the sword away in a spray of blood as the man flew away to the side like a broken doll and for a single second, only a single second, silence reigned absolute.

The moment seemed surreal, time flowing eternal as heads swiveled towards the entrance. Robar could see in exquisite detail as their eyes widened, mouths opened in surprise as the knight nearest the entrance went for his sword, the runner's body tumbling over the ground one more time as Joffrey's antlers glinted and his liege dropped his arming sword, exchanging it for another hammer as the silence turned unbearable and Robar took in a gulp of air.

"Shieldwall!" screeched the knight nearest the entrance, and before Robar knew it he was beside the man, tearing him apart from the shoulder down. The Silver Knights charged with him as they, followed their King with barely a grunt, some impossible force propelling them forth almost silently, a low growl escaping Ser Robar's throat as they tore through the courtyard. The knight on the table barely managed to leap down before Joffrey crumpled his helmet with twin strikes from his maces, their charge puncturing the confused mob like a spear. Knights years his senior fell under Robar's battleaxe, their momentum unstoppable, their purpose undeniable.

Some of the men dropped their weapons, crying out as they kneeled on the floor and others scrambled for the short, squat tower at the back.

"Samwell!" said the King as they reached the double doors.

Sam took the tower door at a run, slamming it aside and tossing the two men behind it to the floor. He blocked a clumsy overhand sword strike with the haft, the riposte clean and sudden as he drove the hook of his warhammer deep into the neck of the dragonseed which had attacked him. Blood drenched the man's fine silken clothing, giving a tarnished sheen to the silver seahorse brooch that adorned his chest.

"DRIFTMARK!" someone roared as the small hall sang with the sound of drawn steel, startled lords flipping over tables as maps and colored beads flew everywhere.

"THE KING!" roared Brienne as Joffrey charged into the breach, the Silver Knights picking up the cry and flooding the room in a frenzy of violence.

It was so fast there wasn't time to think. Sam gasped in pain as an arming sword grazed his elbow joint, sparking against the exposed chainmail. The Valyrian features of his enemy were clear for all to see; violet eyes and long, handsome silver hair. Green silken tunics were covered by a hastily clad chestplate, the man staggering back as Sam's warhammer ripped a gash on the seahorse tabard, failing to penetrate. Two armsmen cornered Robar, blocking him off as he tried to reach Sam, one of them hammering his shoulder and making him scream in pain.

Lord Velaryon's stab made Sam stagger, and he took advantage of that. The Narrow Sea lord took a step forward and reversed the grip on his sword as he grabbed it by the blade in a desperate murderstroke technique, using the pommel as a hammer to cave Sam's chest in.

"My brother! You killed my brother!" he shouted as he pounded him, tearing out the Tarly tabard and denting the plate. Sam bellowed in pain, crossing his warhammer and barely parrying the next overhand blow before jerking the blade out of the lord's hands- just as Joffrey had taught him. He drove the spear point into Lord Velaryon's neck, the lord blinking in confusion before the light faded from his eyes and Robar slew one of the armsmen, the other throwing himself to his knees. It was over in seconds, knights and lords tossing down their weapons as they cried for ransom.

The rest of the battle Robar remembered only in flashes. He remembered the panicked Guardsman as he reached Joffrey's newly established command post, pale as the King jerked his head from the maps on the table. "It's too soon," he'd said. Too soon. He remembered the quick march up to the town's entrance, the long winding path to Dragonstone Keep filled with the banners of the Narrow Sea as a mass of cavalry trotted down the path from the fortress. Hundreds of them, too many to count.

"My White Fists!" said Joffrey, pacing in front of the assembled soldiers as blocks of halberds arrayed themselves on the only real chokepoint between Dragonstone Keep and the path to the harbor, where precious troops and supplies were still being disembarked. "We've a choice to make!" he roared as he pointed with his sword, the sun breaking through the mist and glinting off his silvered armor, "We can let Stannis push us back into the sea! We can let him break our will and our dreams!"

The Royal Guard bellowed defiance, less than a third of the First Regiment having managed to reach the chokepoint in time. "Crossbows! Load missiles!" shouted Legate Olyvar, Robar and the Silver Knights steadying the central, understrength Cohort. His eyes were drawn to the knights of the first row as they spread out from their riding column, Stannis Baratheon riding down the length of it with a banner in hand, turning his force into a wedge formation under the strong, curt gestures of his sword.

"Or we can Stand! Our! Ground!" said Joffrey, his voice overpowering the sound of winching crossbows, "We can show this world the power of our bond! The might of our vision!" He paced like a roaming shadowcat, each of his words almost following a melody of some sort, a cadence that bound them, that promised them. "We can forge One Kingdom!" said the King, "Through Blood and Mud! One Kingdom!"

They roared. All those people; cobblers and laborers, bakers and farmers, lower nobility and hedge knights. They all roared as one, lowering halberds as horns thundered ahead and a thousand lances bared down on them, the chivalry of the Narrow Sea bidding it all into one desperate charge to cast them back into the sea.

"Can you feel it?" asked Ser Hobar by his side, a stunned, bewildered smile on his lips.

"Steady!" shouted Legate Snow, the rumbling hooves echoing stronger as Stannis took to the head of the charge, his retainers chanting as they lowered their lances.

Robar blinked slowly, taking a breath of air as squeezed his battleaxe and Joffrey took position barely two steps behind the second line, his sword held high.

"Crossbows!" roared the King, a chorus of clicks answering his call as bolts flew from the forest of steel, impacting horseflesh and armor in a racket of metal and death.

"Steady!" said Legate Snow, the front line of double halberds stilling their trembling hands as they braced.

Stannis shouted something, the knights closest to him picking up the cry as those who fell were trampled underneath, the grand charge undaunted, their fiery banners worshipping foreign gods. The horses neighed in fear and frenzy, at a tempo with the rhythm as Ser Hobar turned to look at him.

"Can you feel it?" he whispered.

"Crossbows!" roared the King, steel bolts blanketing the charging wedge as knights fell and horses tumbled like boulders, banners drooping under the onslaught, Stannis taking two in the chest and somehow screaming through it all; one hand gripping his personal banner as the other raised his sword high.

"Steady!" said Legate Snow as Robar strained to listen, the pattern demanding that-

"ONE KINGDOM!" roared Joffrey, and Robar realized he was the Rhythm. They all were.

The might of the Narrow Sea smashed into them with the force of an avalanche.

-: PD :-

Robar was of two minds during the battle. One roared and screamed, suffered and frenzied, lived shame and exultation. The other struggled to keep listening for that Rhythm, that speck of meaning which Joffrey seemed to have mastered so completely, that breath that joined Robar to his battle brothers.

Riders flew from their horses. Blood sprayed over him. Halberds shattered. Blood and snot ran down his nose as he picked himself up from the ground and barely parried a blow from a fallen knight.

War consumed him into a place which had no time, a great and terrible thing which took a life of its own. Joffrey had known. Without a shadow of a doubt, Joffrey had known.

Robar battled knights and men at arms in a world without end, his body burning under a hundred cuts and bruises. He roared in vengeance as he ran Stannis through the throat with his arming sword, the Lord of Dragonstone already sporting a dozen crossbow bolts as he grimaced with bloody lips.

He fell next to Ser Hobar's corpse, and Robar took a moment to close his brother's eyes. "I can feel it," he told him, his eyes too tired to cry.

The haze of the battle eventually gave way though, and Robar realized night had descended upon them. He'd been sitting on a rock, staring at the ground and deep in thought.

He nodded absently at Sam, the other man returning it slowly. "That black pit you spoke of. Did it go away?"

Sam blinked at him again, his lips slowly forming a smile. He snorted, then started laughing. He laughed and laughed as if he'd just heard the greatest joke in all the world, growing red under the strain.

"No," he said, tears in his eyes as the laugher died away, "It didn't." He said it with a bewildered air, much like a man who'd just found out the sky was actually orange.

They trundled over the corpses of friends and foes as Guardsmen separated the dead, walking for a while until they reached the vantage point near the road where Joffrey's banner flew, a silver lion looking up at the dark sky.

He was standing there, helmetless and with his hands clasped behind his back. His legates and the hardened, surviving Silver Knights stood in silence around him, all veterans now, hardened by loss and war. They were watching Dragonstone Keep burn, a great column of fire up in the distance.

Ser Balon gave him a deep nod, and Ser Robar returned it with respect. He'd landed with the second wave, but Robar had seen him sometime during the battle by the road.

"It started burning before we could reach it. Legate Rykker thinks it might have been Stannis' zealots," Ser Balon told him.

"That'll guide in any straggling ships at least," said Samwell, still looking puzzled as he sat next to Ser Horas, the grip on his warhammer so tight Robar could see blood on it. The Redwyne knight seemed stunned as well, still going through the death of his twin brother, Robar supposed. He swallowed something bitter, slapping a hand on the man's shoulder. It had been his fault, his responsibility.

Ser Horas looked up, eyes glazed. There was no blame in them, only grey shock and a kind of strange concentration, as if listening to something just out of sight.

Robar looked up to his liege, and marveled at how Joffrey understood. His every posture, his every breath seemed attuned to that Rhythm Robar could barely hear. He found himself learning more about it just by looking at his liege and the way even his tiniest gesture flowed with it, with the Rhythm that seemed to permeate everything. He gave himself a few minutes just to try and process that growing comprehension, the absent trembling of his hands disappearing.

"Ser Robar?" asked Legate Snow.

"You aren't entirely human, are you?" he said.

The knights and the legates should have sputtered in shock. They should have called for a Maester. They should have led Robar back to a tent and laid him to rest.

Their silence as they turned to look at Joffrey's back said it all. He'd given voice to some instinctual truth, the missing piece in a puzzle they quite couldn't understand. A puzzle they had been crawling over like blind men, feeling out the pieces.

Joffrey tilted his head over his shoulder, looking at him with one eye as the former seat of the Targeryen princes glowed orange in the distance, illuminating the island as if the Dragonmont were undergoing an eruption.

"No, not quite," said the King.

The silence was deafening, Joffrey's eye peering through him and far beyond.

Ser Robar swallowed, his hands tingling as he straightened his back, standing on the precipice of something vast. "You're preparing us," he said, the pieces falling into place.

"Yes."

Shivers ran down his back, the Rhythm echoing with truth so strong it felt like a punch to the gut.

"What for?" said Samwell, shadows playing over his face.

Joffrey returned his eyes to the distant bonfire, "You can hear it by its wake, the silence it imparts."

Legate Olyvar held his head with one hand, "It blocks the currents, like a boulder damming it all. Father Above, it blocks the river."

"I don't understand," said Brienne, her eyes turning to Joffrey, "What are you all talking about?"

It was Ser Balon the one who answered though, slowly putting thoughts into words, "It's like the rumbling of Shipbreaker Bay. Like the sea but alive…"

Joffrey smiled like a proud parent, "The Song of Existence," he said. "You can hear it too, if you dare listen. It's here. It's now. It's us."

Ser Robar listened for it, a slight fraying in the distance, the Rhythm buckling as a dread weight neared closer, a grasping silent hand. "The silence… It's here too," he said, realizing his hand was clutching his throat.

"It is," said Joffrey, turning to look up. Ser Robar lifted his gaze and saw a bright crimson comet flare against the night sky, its silence great and terrible as its brilliance grew and grew from distant dot to fiery star, its dagger sharp tail trailing long behind.

"What… what's happening?" said Lady Brienne.

"The Red Comet is achieving orbit around our planet," said Joffrey, a wan smile spreading through his lips, "Our true enemy has arrived. The end to all life."

Legate Snow shook his head slowly, "The deserter. Sansa. Winterfell… Oh Gods, the Guard."

Ser Robar was struck speechless as he kept staring at the comet. It left a wake in the sky, covering it like crimson wings as they spread gently, the Guardsmen beyond the clearing gasping and muttering as they pointed up. It felt like a choking weight, a horrible presence that was nothing at all.

"Our ancestors called them the White Walkers, and the Red Comet is the source of their power," said Joffrey, hand on the pommel of his arming sword as the other rested between hip and hammer. "That's the true war I've been preparing you all for. Soon, in less than a decade, we shall fight the Second War for Dawn."

"The Guard," said Legate Lancel, "The Blackworks, the Maesters and the fleets…" he trailed off for a moment, gazing up with dawning comprehension, "The Age of Westeros. It's your answer. Your answer to this silence."

Can you feel it?

"Are you the Warrior?" asked Ser Robar, returning his gaze to Joffrey. He too returned his gaze from the skies, smiling at Robar.

"No," he said, "Just Joffrey."

A raven landed on Robar's shoulder, cawing in warning as Joffrey's eyes widened, the Rhythm warbling in dissonance as a towering monstrosity of shadow and smoke took form behind the King. It had three faces and six tendrils made of sharp blackness, the smell of charred blood fresh against Robar's nose as he recoiled in horror.

Joffrey spun in half a breath as the tendrils almost speared him, a Valyrian Steel sword growing out of repeating purple-gold patterns around his hand. He slipped the blade through the thing's chest, and it wailed in agony as the three heads shrilled to the heavens. One was a redheaded woman with a slightly eastern complexion, the second was of a little girl with a half scarred face, and the third-

"Stannis?!" shouted Ser Balon as he unsheathed his sword, the knights and the legates scrambling back in shock as they took out their weapons, but Joffrey was already twisting his golden-tinged blade.

"Blood sacrifice," he said.

Robar couldn't get a word out, holding his sword out like a talisman as he saw Stannis' face locked in agony, shadows starting to dissolve as Joffrey further twisted the length of Valyrian Steel.

"It's over, Melissandre. Let it go," said Joffrey, peering straight at the woman's face as it warbled in torment. His head drifted down a little and he took a sharp breath, "Shireen…"

The Rhythm seemed to grow clearer then, melodies beyond Robar's comprehension ringing around Joffrey as he took a deep breath and looked at the little girl again. "Rest, little one. Rest," he said, his voice haunted.

It dissipated as quickly as it'd appeared, blowing with the wind as the distant fires around the castle dimmed, one of the towers collapsing under the heat.

They stood there in stunned silence, Joffrey gazing at the fires for another second. "That was Stannis' pet Shadowbinder. She must have burnt herself along with the rest of the keep…" he said.

"Brightroar… how?" said Lancel.

"It's a long story," said Joffrey. He turned towards them, the strange recurring patterns on the blade hypnotizing Robar. "What is to come will make the shadow you just witnessed seem like a joke. An amateur under the horror of the Red Comet," he said, his voice ringing clear through them all like an edict. "There's a storm coming, and for some reason fate chose to rest that burden on me."

His eyes travelled through the legates and the knights, and Robar could feel the Rhythm coiling in anticipation, his heart hammering against his chest with deep thrusts. "It's a heavy burden," he said, his voice growing ragged by the slightest margin, "A weight I've carried for almost as long as I can remember."

He took a deep breath, "But I can't do it alone."

Ser Robar realized he was still holding his arming sword. He gazed at it thoughtfully, the hair at the back of his neck standing on edge as if lighting had struck the nearby trees. He felt them rise from tailbone to neck and back down again as he breathed.

He took a knee, planting the sword on the ground as he lowered his head. "I will share this burden, my King."

Samwell took a knee by Robar's left, placing his bloodied warhammer on the floor. "You showed me the truth. I will share this burden," he said.

Ser Horas knelt as well, jamming his sword against the earth as he bowed his head, "For Hobar," he said.

Ser Balon, Ser Vardis, Hendry Bracken, Lady Brienne and the rest, all the survivors of the battle knelt, all but the Legates.

"The Guard Stands with you, Your Grace," said Lancel as him and the other Legates stood to the sides.

"No honor but Blood and Mud," said Legate Olyvar. Joffrey smiled as he gave them single nod, oaths given and accepted.

The King walked to those who had knelt, his stride measured, at a tempo with the Rhythm. Ser Robar felt the light weight of Brightroar touch him on the shoulder, the glow of the fires uphill and the comet above streaking through the blade and playing out ghosts of patterned light on the floor and on his face.

"Robar, of the House Royce," said Joffrey, "Do you swear to protect the Kingdom of Westeros from the living and the dead?"

He'd seen it from afar, but now the door beckoned. The new era called to him, a transformation, an entrance to a frighteningly new world of which he'd seen but the faintest glimmer, the faintest promise. The Age of Westeros. Did he dare?

He remembered Hobar's face, a bewildered smile on his lips.

Can you feel it?

"I do," said Robar, goose bumps searing his body as he entered the Age of Westeros.

"Then rise, Lord Commander of the Silver Knights."

Lord Commander Robar Royce stood up, sheathing his sword and taking a step behind Joffrey, the silence absolute, hallowed. The King gazed at those assembled, and took a step to the right. "Samwell, of the House Tarly," he said. "Do you swear to protect the Kingdom of Westeros from the living and the dead?"

"I do," said Sam, Brightroar bathing him in light as Joffrey tapped his shoulder.

"The rise, Ser Samwell. Knight-brother of the Order of the Silver Knights."

Each time he took a step to the right. Each time a Silver Knight was born.

"Brienne, of the House Tarth."

"Horas, of the House Redwyne."

"Hendry, of the House Bracken."

One by one, the knight-brothers of the Order of the Silver Knights stood, taking their place with their King as the fires in the distance grew dim.

There was much Lord Commander Royce didn't understand. The glow of his newfound duty, at a Rhythm with the beating of his heart and reflected by the gaze of his brothers, that he knew, understood with implicit certainty.

White had given way to Silver. A new order for a new Westeros. Robar would not be unworthy of it.

One Kingdom, great and terrible.