Interlude: Daenerys.

"But must he keep plying me with feasts and wine in the meantime? Why are the Pureborn taking so long?" Daenerys said as she fed Drogon a bit of meat. The tiny black dragon snapped it up eagerly, the charred piece of lamb swift to disappear into his gullet.

"These things take time, Khaleesi," said Jorah, frowning at Drogon and the other caged dragons. He was always careful around them, keeping his distance and leaning a hand on the pommel of his sword. Ever his armored protector, Jorah stood in such a way that the double doors to the finely decorated room were always in his sights. The arched windows let in the sound of peddlers and highborn children playing by the street beyond the low walls, and Daenerys smiled as she remembered their awe the other day when she finally took a few to look at her dragons. At a distance, of course.

She crossed her arms as she considered sitting on one of Xaro's lounges; the stylized Quartheen chairs were a welcome luxury after the harsh journey over the Red Wastes, but she was beginning to feel restless. Some mornings she awoke with a tight throat, as if she were being throttled in her sleep. "I'd feel better if Xaro had something else but empty promises each time he came back from the Hall," she said as she opened the lacquered ebony doors, going out for a walk.

Jhogo helped open the door for her with a lazy smile. Of her three bloodriders he was the one that hated dragon-guarding the most, bored out of his mind to be locked inside her room for the whole day.

Curious how plentiful luxury can feel stifling after weeks of thirst and hunger, she thought.

Jorah grunted noncommittally as he took her side, and they took the scenic route past the wing's gardens, filled with many-feathered birds and screeching monkeys; the latest in the Merchant Prince's long string of gifts. It was beginning to grow suspicious, all the more so after she learned about a particular Qarthi custom regarding weddings.

They went down an open set of stairs with ivory balustrades, each the shape of a different man or woman, sinuous curves holding the weight of the heavy railing as the stair formed a half circle over the patio. There was some sort of commotion near the gate, where a few of her dothraki and a group of Xaro's slaves were arguing with someone.

"What's the matter?" said Daenerys as she gestured at one of the slaves, his collar incrusted with sapphires and amethysts.

His bow almost took him to the floor, "Some men wish to sing for you, Mother of Dragons," he said as one of her bloodriders took out his arakh and spat a glob of spit.

"Sing for me?" she said, an abrupt smile growing on her lips. The semi circled stair held four ships made of marble, whose prows peaked out of the stonework and fed water to the pond by the base. There was a big wagon just a bit past the gate, by the left end of the patio, its sides painted in reds and blues and depicting all manner of fantastical beasts; from manticores to mountain lions to even dragons.

"Kahleesi wait," said Ser Jorah, but she waved him off as she reached the base of the stairs, looking curiously at the man wheedling and begging in low valyrian against an unimpressed Aggo and three of her dothraki, which now surrounded him.

Aggo turned to her with a start as she crossed half the distance, bowing his head, "Peacock's slaves let them through without your permission. Say the word and I will take this fly's head for you, blood of my blood," he rasped in Dothraki.

"Spare your blade for now, brave one," she told her bloodrider with a smile. "Where do you hail from, goodman?" she asked him in low valyrian, stopping some ten meters from the wagon as Ser Jorah placed a warding hand over her chest.

"From sun-bathed Myr, oh great Mother of Dragons! City of glass and marvelous culture!" he proclaimed as he stood atop his seat at the front of the tall-wheeled wagon, the horses neighing in thirst as they tried to inch closer to the fountain. One of her kahlassar held the reigns of both horses tight though, preventing them from moving. "My name is Master Faedyl," he said with a perfect Free City bow, gesturing at the back of his covered wooden wagon which now opened hatches from one side, revealing a great array of puppets and two women quickly preparing more, hanging them from long sticks which then jutted out of the wide hatch. "And this here is the marvelous Company of Truth, acclaimed performers from Pentos to Lys and beyond!" he said with a great theatrical flourish.

Daenerys stifled a chuckle, looking at the paintings on the wagon. They did look a bit faded, and that along with the hungry look in the woman's eyes was enough to connect the dots. She'd certainly never heard of any 'Company of Truth' during Viserys' bumbling voyage from city to city, or during her stay in Illyrio's manse.

"You seem to be down on your luck, Master Faedyl," she told him, not without a bit of sympathy escaping her voice. She could understand the man all too well, and unlike her these low level performers didn't have a bunch of dragons they could show off for gifts and courtesies. The two woman at the back slumped a bit, their iron collars evident to the eye.

His smile seemed to lose a bit of its luster, "You've a sharp eye Kahleesi," he said as it turned into a grimace, "It is a sad day when the free daughters of Valyria spurn true artists in favor of animal shows." He said the last with true disdain, a twisting frown marring his features, "We've come east seeking the generosity of the Quarthi, but the esteemed Master Xaro's aide has just given us the latest in a long line of rejections."

"And you thought you'd perform for me instead?" she said, considering it despite herself, "I warn you I've not the money to spare for such a fine performance as the Company of Truth seems to offer."

A true statement in more than one way, she thought silently. They'd been selling as much as they could of all the gifts the Qarthi had been filling her with, but funds were still extremely short. They could buy maybe a couple of galleys, let alone the armada that would be needed to retake Westeros from the Usurper and his dogs.

The Myrishman deflated like a kicked puppy, "We're willing to take payment after the show, Mother of Dragons." He hesitated for a moment, "Perhaps in food as well."

Ser Jorah took her by the arm gently, "Kahleesi, Xaro would arrange for an entire festival in your honor if you but asked. Do not waste your time with the likes of these," he said as he gazed at the man in suspicion.

"Look at the hunger in his slave's eyes. We were just like them not two months ago," she whispered.

His eyes softened as they sometimes did when counseling her on matters close to the heart, like a caring father trying not to crack something cherished. "Remember the wine peddler. What if the very same slave drops a bit of poison into your cup when you're distracted, or the man draws a knife in the middle of the act."

It seemed impossible that the ailing Master Faedyl were capable of such a thing, holding his hands nervously as his eyes drifted to the other end of the patio where the free-walking birds of this palace wing trundled, eating dates left on the floor every day by the slaves. Her heart wobbled when she realized he was staring at the dates, not the birds.

So hungry he'd not waste a breath before joining the birds in on their meal. Daenerys had felt that kind of hunger before, a black knife twisting through the belly, crying in pain with every memory of food. In the end even imagination became a tool of torment, fooling the mind and the stomach both with empty promises.

She was about to walk the rest of the way for the wagon when Xaro's slaves by the entrance bowed, opening the gate and letting in none other than Pyrat Pree in a hurried stride. "Mother of Dragon!" he said with an urgent intonation, "I come with-" the black-robed man stuttered to a halt, as still as a statue.

Daenerys frowned, looking at the paralyzed Warlock. "Master Pree?"

He was staring at something up by the balustrade. She turned to the sight of a simple raven, looking down at the Warlock with an eerie stillness. "… Undying One?" she asked, returning her gaze to him.

"I… I bring-"

The raven cawed, interrupting the man as he returned his gaze up once more. He seemed to grow even paler, eyes fixed on the black bird as Jorah gripped his sword's pommel. Daenerys felt nervous as well, looking from the raven to the Warlock in confusion. She'd never seen him scared before.

He bowed to Daenerys. "It's been a true pleasure, Mother of Dragons," he said before walking away even faster than he'd come.

"Wait! Master Pree!" she said, but he was already out through the now closed gates, the slaves standing back with practiced precision once more as the two house guards replaced the bar.

She frowned, turning to look up. The bird was gone though, not a feather left in its passing.

"Have you ever seen him like that?" she asked Ser Jorah. Pyat Pree always walked with the stride of a man who knew everything about all there was to know, gazing down on you with black-pale eyes from his long, copper ringed neck. Always with an uncanny half-smile; never hurried, much less scared.

"Never," said Jorah, eyes narrowed. "Something must have happened in the Hall of a Thousand Thrones. You should retire for the evening and send someone to find Master Xaro, Kahleesi."

Daenerys nodded reluctantly, letting herself be carried by Jorah's arm as they turned for the stairs. She had a bad feeling about this. Has Xaro betrayed me? Were the Civic Guard even now coming to take her dragons? The Spicer's Guild had already made it clear that no price was considered too high for her children.

Spoiler: Music

"Wait! Kahleesi please!" said Master Faedyl, standing again from his seat at the front of the wagon, "Just one short show! It's all I ask!"

She'd all but forgotten about him, and she grimaced reluctantly as she stopped by the base of the staircase. "I'm sorry Maester Faedyl, I'll put in a good word with Master Xaro for you, I promise."

"Kahleesi I beg of you," said the man, his low valyrian growing strained, filled with drawn out 'e's and 'o's, "It will be better this way, for you and all of us!"

Daenerys frowned, Jorah's grip on her arm suddenly growing fierce. Master Faedyl blinked, thinning his lips before he thumped the wagon twice.

"Now!" shouted a voice in the common tongue as the sides of the tall wagon fell apart from top to bottom, revealing twin rows of kneeling crossbowmen as Ser Jorah spun in place and hugged her close.

He jolted, grunting in pain before taking off at a run up the stairs, carrying her along by the arm. "Run Kahleesi! Run!"

Searing hot adrenaline flooded her body, her breathing ragged as she ran up the stairs and almost tripped on her feet. Roars and screams rung out from below, and she gasped in shock when they reached the top of the balustrade and looked down at the patio.

Her fierce Aggo was on the ground choking on a bolt, and most of her Kahlassar had followed him down. Those who hadn't were being mobbed even now; dying with shrill screams as rugged-looking men jumped out of the wagon and slipped steel shortswords from every side. Another group took for the stairs, Xaro's slaves screaming in fright as the two house guards by the gate were shot at point-blank range by the two women still atop the wagon.

"Keep running Kahleesi!" roared Ser Jorah as he pulled her savagely, shouldering open the door to her room. He pushed her onwards as he turned to bar the door, and Daenerys took a corner and screamed as she found Jhogo by the wall, two bolts on his bloodied chest as four men in light leathers clustered around her dragons.

"Pocket! She's already here!" one shouted in the common tongue as he turned.

'Pocket' and another one rushed her almost at once, "Do'nt ya' move Targeryen!" he roared.

"Drogon! Dracarys!" she screamed. Her dragons let out short streams of fire, setting the two men closest to their cages ablaze, fire clawing up the fine Qartheen rugs. She stumbled back, her heart drowning her ears as the two men reached her with grime-covered hands, though one stuttered as he turned back in horror; his two companions burned even now, stumbling around the room and setting fire to the furniture as they collapsed.

"Get your hands off her!" roared Ser Jorah as he slammed his blade clean through the distracted man's chest, though Pocket took the opportunity to slip his shortsword through Jorah's armpit in turn. His valiant knight slammed a vambrace against the last assassin's face, sending him tumbling backwards as he held her close with the other hand.

They ran for the dragons as the assassin kept his distance, holding his nose in pain. Jorah gripped her arm painfully as his bloodied lips grew close. "Run," he whispered, "Take the dragons and keep running!" He took a second to cut the scaling rope attached to the end of an iron hook by the window, a sudden scream cut short by a muffled thump by the other side.

"You're coming with me!" she commanded, her voice shrilly as she opened the sizzling cages, her hands smoking as she bit her lips through the hideous pain.

Pocket was back, sidestepping left and right before lunging at Ser Jorah with a low guard. The knight barely managed to deflect the blow, striking his half-plate harmlessly. His own sword drew a long gash along Pocket's neck, almost decapitating him as blood bubbled like a fountain and the assassin gasped in surprise.

"Pocket!" roared one of the 'slave' girls by the other end of the corridor, her shortsword just as bloodied as the ones of her comrades as half a dozen more assassins reached the room from where she'd come.

Ser Jorah's hands trembled as he clutched her, squeezing her even tighter than the dragons now perched on her back and shoulders. "I love you Daenerys," he said, kissing her stunned lips. She tasted his blood before he pushed her onwards, turning to the rest of the assassins with a menacing growl as he took two steps forward. They recoiled on instinct, Ser Jorah swinging his blade from side to side as he roared again.

Three crossbow bolts jutted out of his back, a long trickle of blood even now smearing the floor, a trickle that ran from here to the doors and the patio.

Black smoke filled the room's ceiling, and she stumbled to the back door for the servant's corridor as her knight jumped at the assassins. Their blades slipped in and out of his flesh like stabbing water, and Jorah gasped in ragged breaths as he took another one down with him.

Daenerys ran down the servant's corridor, moaning with each breath as stunted tears leapt from her eyes. Her dragons hissed in near panic as they scuttled over her back and shoulders, pockmarking her skin with their claws as they turned and snarled at every shadow and she took turns blindly, reaching the last door as she broke into daylight.

There was a woman kneeling over a slave's body, jerking out her shortsword. The palace's stables surrounded her, hay stacked high for the many horses which would have to be tended to during one of Xaro's frequent banquets and feasts, his guests always bringing their finest steeds to the gatherings.

"There she is!" said the other assassin by the woman's side as he took out a dagger, and Daenerys screamed without air. Her dragons let out thin, concentrated torrents of flame which took them both in the chest, spraying fire on a wide cone in front of her.

She passed by their screaming forms, the hay erupting into flames which were soon reaching for the skies. She could scarcely see past the sobs now wracking her, but she somehow reached her silver horse, mounting it as it whinnied in fright.

"Go silver! Go!" she managed, galloping out of the burning stables and past the wide opened servant's gate, Xaro's house guards sprawled on the ground with crossbow bolts on their chests. The fires spread across the street as she galloped as fast as she could, her dragons clutched in the midst of frenzy as they screeched in her ear.

She screamed in heart clenching fear as the raven cawed right by her side, her dragons smearing the bakery by the side of the road in streams of fire, but the raven flew away unharmed. It circled above her as it cawed once more. "Dracarys!" she screamed each time it got too close, galloping down the streets amongst stunned slaves and panicked merchants, her dragon's streams of fire not enough to reach the circling vulture. They did set a trail of fire by her sides, silver's main growing singed as market stalls erupted into flames and the children there screamed in agony, crisped fruit sliding out of their tiny hands.

The raven followed her everywhere, cawing again and again, and she soon found out why. She took another blind turn as the tall plumes of smoke crept up from the city and into the sky, and she lowered her gaze to find a group of mounted Westerosi by the other end, a man taking aim with a crossbow as he shouted.

"Glyra! Orders?!"

"Kill her!" said the woman.

Daenerys gasped as the bolt took her in the shoulder, her dragons bellowing fire in fright as silver almost buckled her out of the saddle. One of the streams caught the raven, its death-caw sending shivers down her spine as it fell on the thatched roof of the house by her side, setting it afire as well.

Daenerys kept galloping, her mind a stream of incoherent images and sounds as the city bells tolled and the fires raged out of control. She galloped past the wide-open city gates as people ran from the budding inferno as fast as they could, gripped by panic and ice-cold fear.

Her shoulder burned, her ragged breaths keeping her conscious as silver galloped. Daenerys swayed atop the saddle as she blinked, the Red Wastes welcoming her back as she left Qarth behind.

No, not again, she thought, but she couldn't stop silver, she could barely hang on as it made for the red sands, the sky black with the smoke of burning Qarth.

-: PD :-

Last edited: Jul 19, 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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Aug 14, 2019

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Chapter 70: Secrets.

Spoiler: Music

Was one's character determined from birth? Or was it molded by life's smith; experience?

Joffrey spread his arms, leaning forward on the balcony; the orderly sound of Lannisport at work barely reached him this high up in the Rock. The morning sun had peeked out of the Golden Tooth some hours ago, and with it had risen the workers and merchants of the city, plying their trades out of short-legged cogs intent on the Reach or the Iron Islands, their square sails dotting the horizon at sea. Smaller boats, carrying fishermen and coral divers, zigzagged around the bigger ships like schools of shrimp avoiding the shadows of sharks; as intent on their work -their survival- as their bigger brethren. The city itself was a hive of activity, but of a different sort than the capital's. The streets were straighter than most, and the biggest intersections were regulated by the city watch, dictating flow.

He felt the smooth granite of Casterly Rock with one hand, sighing deeply. He was asking, at its core, the question which had hounded him his entire life. Maester Yondlin had proposed that human beings came like smooth blankets into the world, not a chink in their surface and ready to absorb whatever the world threw at it. Maester Donold had debated the point vigorously, asserting that people- great, small, king, peasant, came into this world with but one course dictated from the day they were born. The stories of their debates and antics kept doing the rounds around the Citadel even decades after they'd died, their adherents arguing with chains filled with copper and platinum.

Joffrey grabbed the letter on the small bench by his side, reading it again.

-We found her horse, dead, but something is clouding my sight further into the Red Wastes. I'll keep searching in the meanwhile, but the Raiders had to withdraw from the whole region lest the Pureborn realize it was us-

He let out a mighty sight, crumpling the letter again. Am I a hypocrite?

His entire life had been an experiment Maesters Yondlin and Donold could have only dreamt of; the basest scum in the world given over to life's smith to hammer and hammer till he broke or changed. And he had changed; he'd found a father, a crew, a brotherhood, a lover, and through them peered deep inside himself in search of the answer to that question. Is this all I am? Is there something more there? Can I change? Great mountains and deep seas whispered secrets, glimpses of the answer that consumed him beyond the Purple, beyond the Deep Ones, even beyond the Red Comet.

Who am I?

So short a question; so complicated an answer. Boy-King, Abomination, Stormking, Bloody Lion, Dawn Commander; labels through which the world had branded him. But within; passionate, vindictive, lover, petty, dreamer, spoiled, curious, dauntless. In the end he'd come down on Yondlin's side; how else could he? His life was the answer to that question, his struggle the essay on its validity.

And yet he'd sent assassins after a scared young girl, armed with three infant dragons and the lies of a never-world whispered by her dead brother. He could make hay about it; Glyra had had orders to capture if possible, both Daenerys and her dragons, if the opportunity showed itself. But at the end of the day her and Pocket's mission had been as clear as the sun now bathing Lannisport's thatched roofs, all angles and wooden windows boasting tasteful reliefs.

Her end as a threat, one way or the other.

I ordered her killed because of what she would do, he thought. And therein lied the matter, didn't it? What she would do, not what she might. Every single life he'd lived to see her designs, he'd been horrified. Death, ruin, and devastation seemed to follow Daenerys whenever she lived long enough. Madness, most of all, a crazed and overwhelmed would-be-queen hitting his homeland from the back, like a dagger slipping through an ailing watchman wracked with disease.

She cracked every time. Eventually, one way or the other, she cracked; three dragons her counselors. How could he look at his legions, at his knights, at his people and their children, how could he look at Myrcella in the eye and let that loose end fly with the wind? He opened the letter again.

-I'll find her eventually, even if I have to scour the Red Wastes with seagulls and ravens. Shadowed or not, her mobility died with that horse-

His lover was not a woman to take failure easily. He snorted, leaning back from the railing as a warm breeze buffeted the top of the world. Much like myself, I suppose. One would think they were two halves of a whole.

He wondered how it would've played out if the Purple had chosen Daenerys. Would he have woken up to daggers in the dark every life? The Hand's Tourney would have been the best time to do it; the city drunk and filled with coin, foreigners and peddlers from all over now packing the streets. A Sorrowful Men when making his way back to the Red Keep. It would have been easy.

Gods, how right she would have been. Every time Joffrey took power, his reign took Westeros into deeper and deeper circles of the Seven Hells. Each time he was not stopped, the people of King's Landing died; to famine, to war, to crossbow bolts fired from on high with a sick laugh.

The Sorrowful Men would have said sorry as they knifed him, but that Joffrey should've thanked them instead, praised them for a job well done. Daenerys would have been right to kill him, to never even give him a chance.

His fists curled, the weight of the plate nothing to him as he straightened.

He didn't regret his decision. Any accommodation Daenerys would have even considered at this juncture would have led to more death and destruction before the War for Dawn. His own lords would have lynched him if they'd ever heard of even half the potential solutions he'd been thinking of offering the exiled princess; his power base, his very legitimacy as a ruler, his authority, was anathema to the name Targeryen. His strongest supporters had killed and stolen land from her strongest supporters; to seek an accommodation with a dragon-armed Daenerys would have been tantamount to throwing the very power base he needed to do so at the wolves. Or at the girl's dragons, in this case.

He would have dedicated a life to it, if he'd been able. If he'd had time. That much he could say, as pathetic as it was. It would have almost generated more problems that it solved, but maybe, just maybe Daenerys could have been swayed to take Dragonstone and the Narrow Sea as his Lady Paramount. The Stormlands would have howled, Tywin would have probably rebelled. But with a few lives dedicated to it, perhaps him and Sansa could have pulled it through without so much bloodshed.

The Dragons though… they changed everything. A ticking clock that transferred authority from him to Daenerys every month they grew, an insidious whisper on the ears of the loyalist lords, a beacon of rebellion pervading from Dragonstone and flooding the Crownlands and beyond. Look at how they grow, they'd whisper. Look at the might building up in Dragonstone. Every day the whispers would have grown stronger, no matter what Daenerys would have done. Even if she'd been sane and devoid of all ambition, even if she'd had a silver tongue to try and convince the lords otherwise. The pressure would have been relentless, until someday, perhaps months before the Walkers marched on the Wall, those whispers would have boiled over. Perhaps I'll try my chance. Perhaps the Restoration will work. Perhaps I can take back everything they took from me…

Joffrey lit up a match; part of the first batch out of the manufactories at Riversteel. They were making their way all over Westeros right now, filling his coffers with gold and his alchemists with grateful tears. The long stick sputtered to life with an acrid smoke, a rebellious flame tilting to its left before calming down. He used it to light up the small censer by his side; a keepsake from the Yitish envoy now in King's Landing. The smoke brought memories of tents and laughing onesuns, pale sand crawling beneath them all, and he let himself adrift in the memories for a moment, the letter burning in his hand.

It was wishful thinking in the end. Danerys would have never agreed. Time favored the dragons and thus her; why risk living within a stone's skip from the Red Keep and its assassins when she could bide her time? Why settle for Dragonstone when the Usurper and his dogs took everything else from her.

No. Daenerys had signed her death warrant the day those dragons hatched. It was unfair. It made him a hypocrite. But this was no longer just about him. It was about his family. About a continent. About a race. About a light to keep. He could take no chances now, not when even the fate of sentience itself might depend on him getting it right this time.

The Deep Ones cannot see beyond my time, he remembered, shivering under the wind.

The censer died out as he gazed at Lannisport. His grandfather had built an organized, prosperous city, a pale mirror to the Lord of Casterly Rock. Did Tywin think often of the Reyne's and the Tarbeck's? He'd been sure of the answer before he spent two months living under his roof, but now he was not so sure. Did he wonder about Ellia and Rhaenys? About little Aegon smashed to pieces? Did he think about what could have gone differently? Did he muse about parallel worlds, where King Aerys built his canal through the neck and Tywin stood proudly by his side, his Hand during Summer and Winter?

Joffrey made his way down the granite corridors filled with statues made of gold, Ser Robar a broad-shouldered shadow garbed in silver. "No gaggle of boys to shepherd around, Robar?"

The Lord Commander of the Silver Knights rumbled something which might be relief, "They're waiting out by the inner courtyard." A beat. "Father bless…"

Joffrey chuckled as they walked down the lustrous red carpet, deeper into the soaring thumb of rock that had been the Casterly's pride before Lann fed the last of them to the trees. Some of those noble scions had a decade of age on him and Robar both, but the Lord Commander understood the true meaning his words all too well.

After Dragonstone.

Not all the gilded armor in the Westerlands could make Joffrey see that gaggle as anything more than boys stumbling in the dark for that ever elusive glory, unaware that the dark bit hard. Marbrands, Crakehalls, Braxs, minor Lannisters; he could have made a half cohort out of them all, if he'd felt particularly wasteful. They were his part of the bargain to keep, one of Tywin's conditions for the deal, and the Old Lion had made good use of it already. He'd used those honors as a heavy-handed carrot to clobber his banners and shore up his Paramountcy; effectively casting himself as the bearer and arbiter of the King's gifts, the door to King's Landing all Westerlanders had to pass through if they wanted their sons and daughters in the capital. Joffrey hadn't minded much; all those pages and knights and even handmaidens would be quite useful, though he suspected not even Tywin knew how hard he and Sansa were going to grind them. All the uselessness cast out; hardy officers and bureaucrats left in their wakes. Ladies of healing and organization. Bearers of a new culture, a new continent. His soldiers for the war.

He stifled a smirk, nodding at the servant moving like a ghost in the other direction. They always moved quetly inside Casterly Rock, even when Tywin was out hunting or being feasted by his vassals. They had worked the kinks out of the process by now, especially in Sansa's case. Her handmaidens had taken handmaidens themselves, and the networking web which his wife had built now dictated fashion out of the Dragonpit with aplomb. He'd seen its effects even here in Lannisport; from dresses to even common phrases.

He supposed Ser Robar would get the worse of it, as quite a few seemed promising candidates for the Silver. For now their gazes balanced between awe and envy every time they saw the a Silver Knight, belittling his sworn order behind closed doors in taverns and urban estates even as they whispered about the Battle in the Mist in awe. Ser Robar would have his work cut out for him, when they reached King's Landing.

Tywin's current study was flanked by twin golden statues, man and woman holding arms up in an arch, each encrusted with a different sort of precious stone at its crown; Joffrey found within it some twisted sense of irony he wasn't sure the Old Lion registered. Amusing, considering it was the primary reason why he'd come to the West in person.

Tywin stood up respectfully, bowing his head before taking his seat again. "I thought you'd leave this morning, Your Grace," he said as his eyes returned to quill in his hand and the parchment on the desk.

"I am," said Joffrey as he took off his light overcoat; it got rather chilly atop the Rock. He walked to the side of the room and looked at a painting depicting some old Lannister in a hunt, both of their silences now locked in all-out war. Even after two constant months of getting his hand metaphorically chopped, Tywin still insisted in playing this little game. He honestly thought the man incapable not to.

Joffrey was in a pensive mood, so he was happy to let his grandfather write his letter for as long as he wished to. Paintings of Lann the Clever –looking more like Tywin himself than a First Men warg clad in furs- dotted the room, accompanied by wider landscapes of the Westerlands depicting stolid forests and rolling hills that hid crooks and bogs. The people were missing.

Tywin cracked first. "I've arranged for an escort to the Golden Tooth, they'll be waiting at the courtyard."

Joffrey didn't draw his eyes away from the painting. He imagined where the village should be, right under the wing of the third hill and next to the fallen oak. "Thank you my lord, but they will not be needed," he said as he felt his eyes narrow. He didn't feel like playing this game today.

"The safety of the Crown is my first priority. I insist, Your Grace," he said as he flicked a glance at his letter, as if the matter was settled.

Joffrey could have turned it around into an insult of his own lands, implying Tywin thought the Westerlands unsafe. He could have changed the tone into a questioning of the Silver Knights' prowess and ability to keep the King safe; an affront. Another day, he might have very well said something along those lines; such tedious verbal maneuvering turned into a necessity if he wanted Tywin to actually absorb what he had to say. His grandfather always sought the upper hand in even the most innocuous of conversations, like the eponymous old lion straining to show he was still at the top. There was no changing his mind if one spoke from below; King or peasant, it mattered not.

Today though, he felt raw.

"And which Crown is that, Tywin? Mine, or the one you feel on your brow?"

He grew still, green eyes swiveling from the letter with a slow weight. "And what is that supposed to mean, Your Grace?"

Joffrey walked past the painting, taking a seat on Tywin's desk with care. His lips thinned, but he said nothing as Joffrey tilted his head lightly and stared through him. "I heard a rumor. That you were searching for a new husband for my mother."

"Where did you hear about this?"

"Is it true?" he asked as he met the steely-green in his eyes.

"There have been a few inquiries on whether-"

"A simple yes or no will suffice, Lord Tywin."

Tywin's head leaned back by a fraction, "Yes."

Squeezing every bit of usefulness from what he had. The worst part was Joffrey couldn't blame him for trying, even though there was a dark voice whispering for him to draw his arming sword wide. He dismissed it with the ease of long practice. "Why did you break the terms of our agreement?" he asked in a dangerously low voice.

A minute scowl ran through Tywin's lips before smoothing away to nothing. "I did no such thing, Your Grace. I would remind you that under the very terms of the deal Cersei will be a Lannister again, and as such under my full purview as head of- "

"You will remind me of nothing," he said as he leaned towards Tywin, "Because I remember the deal with crystal clarity. And we agreed no such thing would happen without my mother's consent." He could smell Tywin's breath, his nostrils flared as Joffrey tilted his head, "Now did she, or did she not give that consent?"

The Lord Paramount of the Westerlands hesitated for half a beat, his grip white on the quill, "Not as of this moment."

Joffrey leaned closer still, "And that moment will not come, unless it springs from her own free will, with no threat whether implied or direct in between. Do you understand, Lord Tywin?"

"I will not countenance-"

"A simple yes or no will suffice," he said, so close he could see the white in his eyes fill with tiny red veins, bit by bit. "Think carefully, Lord Tywin. A simple answer to a simple question." He lowered his voice, "Do not make it complicated."

"… Yes," he all but spat, glaring at him.

"Good," said Joffrey as he stood up. He picked up his overcoat, folding it around an arm. "You've won the game Tywin. Your house has inherited the Iron Throne and the Lannister name will live on in history as long as there are people in this continent."

He paused by the door. "You've already won, Grandfather. Bask in that achievement, revel in it. Do not hold on so tight so as to break what you spent your life chasing after." His eyes drifted down, to the quill snapped in half in Tywin's hand, the letter filled with fresh ink. "Goodbye, Grandfather."

He stood up stiffly, bowing halfway, "Goodbye, Your Grace."

-: PD :-

The journey down to mother's room was longer, or at least it felt that way to Joffrey. "Not this time, Robar," he said as the knight made to follow into the wing. His protests died when he saw his face.

Joffrey walked alone past marble statues and beautifully carved cabinets, hushed servants dispelled by his gaze. Cersei would live in luxury, surrounded by art and gold and keen handmaidens from the Westerlands. A bird in a golden cage, for the good of the realm.

"Ser Jaime," he said lowly.

His Father stood in attention, bowing his head as he kept watch by the last door, "Your Grace," he said, voice inscrutable. A golden knight to protect the golden cage, until the day one of them died. If Joffrey had his way, he'd never see King's Landing again.

"It's good you're outside the room," he said.

Ser Jaime frowned, but Joffrey shook his head as he pushed through, closing the door behind him. Mother was by the balcony; an eerie mirror of his own pose higher up in the Rock. She was gazing to the east instead of the city though, to the rolling hills of the Westerlands and the town houses that melted into grassland and animal pens before reaching a forest just within sight, devoured by the white horizon.

"I'm leaving today, Mother," he said, placing his hands behind his back.

She didn't answer, taking a sip from the goblet in her hand. She'd screamed at first, back in King's Landing. It had turned to bargaining in the Kingsroad, but by the Golden Tooth her cries and screams had turned to silence.

He sighed, tapping his thigh as a smile lived and died on his lips, an ugly smirk dominating it after a moment. "I still love you, did you know that?" He breathed shallowly, "I don't know how. After everything you've done…" He grunted, "Somehow, I still do." The Purple could go fuck itself, this was a mystery he would never understand.

She didn't deign to face him, taking another sip from her goblet as the wind caressed her hair. He'd played with it, when he'd been a boy afraid of the dark. It had calmed him. To Robert he might as well never have existed, but Cersei was his refuge during early childhood. His shelter. She'd held him when he'd lost his mind, centuries ago, his consciousness diminishing with each suicide as he lost the will to live. She'd been the only one to care enough to visit him, tending him in his bed in the Red Keep month after month, life after life as he lived and died in silent despair, too far gone to even move his own body.

That's how it was with her. Silence.

Joffrey breathed deeply, his chest made of molten lead as it swirled within. His hands curled into fists, the mail clinking. He realized he was shaking, something crawling out of his mouth and rattling his teeth.

"I know I'm Jaime's son."

She turned. The goblet hid her mouth, "Now where did you hear such slanderous-"

"Don't you start!" he shouted, pointing a finger at her. It shook visibly, the vambrace clinking against the mail. He took another big breath, lowering it as he stood ramrod straight. "Don't you start," he said, his voice leaner.

She turned white as summer snow, wine dripping down the half turned goblet.

"No more lies, Mother. Please. No more lies," he said, blinking repeatedly.

She held a hand against her mouth, looking at him as if he were a crazed cat, some maniac bellowing for truth in a world without any to give, and so now the silence returned; perhaps, without lies, she was unable to speak at all.

What am I even doing here?

He didn't know, but he spoke all the same. "Why?"

He held her eyes as if she were a charging knight, the words crawling out, "I want to know why."

She jutted out her chin, trying to hide the fear, the pride, the lust and the shock. She hesitated, wilting under his glare. Joffrey didn't know what he felt; anger, disappointment, despair, rage, love. Finally, she spoke.

"He completes me. I love him, Joffrey."

Joffrey shook his head, crushing his eyelids as tears streamed down. He opened them with massive force of will, his voice somehow even, "Goodbye, Mother."

He turned to the sight of an opened door, Jaime staring at him, jaw wide open. "Joffrey I-"

"Don't speak," he said.

"I need to-"

"Don't speak again," he said, his voice choked, "Or I'll kill you." He would. By the Purple and the Comet, he would kill him right now, right there where he stood.

Jaime Lannister did not speak, but his eyes sought to; fear and longing, pride and disappointment. Joffrey forced his own gaze away before he could keep reading him, walking through the door but keeping the distance as much as he possibly could.

At the far end of the wing he was reunited with the Lord Commander of the Silver Knights. "Let's go home, Robar," he told him.

-: PD :-

The journey back to capital was slower, running herd over almost half a thousand Westerlanders from every house under the sun. Much as Tywin looked down at the Lannisport Lannisters, the man knew how to bargain. Joffrey split from the column around Brindlewood, going into the nearby patch of woods alone.

The camp had been well guarded, though the Raiders numbered less than a score. The Hound smiled monstrously when he saw him; it meant he could finally stop stomping about in the woods looking over his fat charge; the end of this elaborate secret had come.

Said charge lied tied down and gagged, constantly watched by no less than four people at all times. Now though the heavy tent laid empty, only him and the Spider alone in the woods. There was a poem there somewhere.

Joffrey took off the gag carefully, standing back and sitting in front of Varys, though the man still lied tied to the tent's main post. "Come to do the deed then, Your Grace?" he said, working his jaw. "Would have preferred if you'd done that a year ago, the forest and its little critters never suited me."

Joffrey smiled grimly, "No doubt about that. Not your kind of little birds, are they?" He looked worse for wear, skinnier than Joffrey had ever seen him, his skin a far cry from the powdered, easterner sophistication of his days at court. Now it bore the marks of a hundred branches and a hundred trips around the woodlands of the Crownlands, a harsh toll even if he'd never been harmed by his captors directly. Too dangerous to let loose, too valuable to kill outright; the spider's conundrum had proved a tough one. Alas, all things came to an end, and he knew that just as surely as Joffrey did.

"Torture won't work. I feel I should tell you that."

"I know," said Joffrey, "No one is going to torture you."

He raised non-existent eyebrows at that, "I sense a half-truth somewhere in that statement, oh gracious King. Call it a master's intuition."

Joffrey's smile turned grimmer still. "I was hoping you'd humor me, before we got started."

The Spider nodded graciously.

"When did you learn about my mother's affair?"

"Days before she even married Robert," he said without missing a beat, "Their methods were even cruder back then, Ser Jaime still traipsing around awkwardly after the King on his many hunts and being the butt of the joke. It served to make them even bolder; small miracle that only my little bird saw them in, ah, action." The man had a mummer's flair, even now.

"And you kept it hidden."

"Some secrets age badly, like cider left on an opened barrel. This one though," he trailed off, a tiny smile playing off his lips. The Spider was dead, and they both knew it; he was relishing every moment. "This one aged like the finest Arbor Red, growing stronger with every bastard sired."

"Increasing in potency like the wildfire buried under the city," said Joffrey, "Twin explosions under your sleeves, one physical, the other political."

"Fascinating," said the Spider, "Is it still you inside that skull, Prince Joffrey? Or did the thing that take you leave naught but crumbs?" He turned pensive, "It really is hard to tell, one way or the other."

"It's still me, just an older one," said Joffrey as he leaned back on the small cushion. "I've lived this life a thousand times before, knew almost everything about you by this point."

If that statement shook him, he didn't show. "So I really didn't have a chance then. At least I made it further than poor Baelish. Where is he, by the way?"

Joffrey smiled despite himself. Even at the doors of death, the Spider trawled for information. Much like Tywin and his pride, sometimes it was hard to tell if the task formed the man, or the man sought the task.

"Currents must be dragging him around the arm of Dorne by now," Joffrey shrugged, "It's a problem all the schemer types have with me; they derive their power from manipulating information, but all their tricks only worked once. The next time I'd be prepared, and they never knew it."

Varys blinked, considering it as he swayed his head, "That's a terrifying notion. So I did win, once?"

Joffrey shook his head, "Afraid not. Your fake Aegon died like a welp every time."

The Spider seemed a statue then, closing his eyes quickly.

"What a mess he would have made on the throne," said Joffrey, "Your twin secrets might have helped him get a solid foothold, but in the end… well."

He sighed, looking up as he gave it a try anyway. "You won't like this, Varys. Please believe me when I tell you neither you nor I will take pleasure in it." It was worth a try, it really was. "Answer me this question and I'll slit your throat so quickly you'll barely feel it. It'll all ground to black and you'll be free. I'd know, I've seen it," he said with a sad smile.

The Spider opened his eyes defiantly, piercing Joffrey with a glare.

"How do you give actionable orders to Illyrio?"

"It's too late," said Varys, "It won't do you any good."

"No, we've been sending him the stand-by signal for months now. He thinks you're on the run."

He went paler still, the red scar by his cheek growing ugly.

Joffrey sighed. He stood up when fabric rustled behind him, and he felt himself lifted as he gazed at his wife. "Sansa," he whispered, hugging her tight as she did the same.

"Had to tidy things up in the Dragonpit first," she said, taking off her hood with one hand and revealing her braided red hair. "You okay?" she asked as she reared back and cupped his face.

"I'm fine. Some old memories got rattled back in Lannisport," he said, covering her hand with his own. "Is Daenerys-"

"Still no sign of her," she said, shaking her head. "I will find her-"

"Don't strain yourself," said Joffrey, tapping her heart, "Remember you've a life here too." He bet Sansa had been spending some all nigthers without him to stop her. "How much have you been sleeping?"

She demurred, but Joffrey held her gaze until she huffed and planted a kiss on his lips. That meant he'd won. Gods, it felt good to be back home.

He slipped a glance at the Spider, silently observing the proceedings. Well, near enough home as to make no difference.

"Are you sure?" he asked Sansa.

She nodded, biting her lip softly as she looked at Varys. So be it then.

"I'm sorry, for what it's worth," he told the former Spymaster.

"I won't talk."

Joffrey looked down, "You won't have to."

Sansa kneeled by the Spider's side, a thumb on his forehead. "Show me," she said.

Varys seemed surprised by the notion, frowning as he tilted his head and he took the longest breath of air Joffrey had ever seen. The terrified, gut-wrenching scream that followed would haunt his nightmares by the Red Wolf's side.

-: 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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Aug 18, 2019

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Chapter 71: Kingdoms.

"It feels like a dream, sometimes," said Aegon, shifting his weight on the railing as he looked at his best friend.

Duck snorted, still a bit green over the swaying waves. "I know what you mean," he said, still looking over the great fleet anchored next to the protective bulk of a deserted atoll. The moonless night left more things to the mind than the eyes, but Aegon could still see his fleet's many bow and stern lamps dotting his surroundings. They enveloped him protectively, the aptly named 'Golden Fleet' and its auxiliaries, carrying over ten thousand of the best soldiers Essos had ever known. All there for him, all there believing in an ancient lineage now whispered within taverns and keeps all around Westeros: Targeryen.

"We've come a long way, my friend," said Aegon, and that was an understatement. From boyish pupil to acclaimed King of the Seven Kingdoms, now at the head of a host fit to slip through Dorne and knife the Usurper's get now squatting in the capital. The journey had been long and arduous, the wait almost unbearable throughout the years. Biding their time, Haldon Halfmaester and Septa Lemore instructing him in the ways of kingship for hours on end. Aegon had chafed through the long afternoons under their power, but he'd grown to appreciate their lessons now. Before embarking at last to fulfill his calling, he'd felt like a boy still, swinging mock swords and dreaming of women. Now though, after the word had come through Illyrio and then Jon, he'd felt as if the pieces were falling into place.

Is it fate? Aegon wondered. His early life roving from city to city now seemed like just another necessary step to reach the right he'd been denied by rebel lords and red-handed knights. Now he knew the plight of the common man, he understood how those bereft of nobility toiled under the sun. 'A Champion of the Smallfolk' he'd heard Jon refer to him once, though not to his face; perhaps the most informed prince on such matters since Aegon the Fifth, a King for the common man now chafing under the usurpers running Westeros to the ground. He'd been schooled in history and languages since he'd been six, educated to rule over them with a firm but gentle hand, and now he could confidently say those experiences had built the man he was; inexperienced -without a question- but fit to rule with mercy and justice as he learnt from his mistakes. He felt a half smile on his lips, looking at the assembled fleet dotting the dark surroundings with their lamps.

It was not only him that believed in that vision.

Ten thousand professional armsmen, hundreds more in auxiliaries, elephants clad in golden armor. He still felt as if struck by a lightning bolt every time he saw them; huge and majestic beasts bred for war and now his to command. His to command. The thought still made him dizzy. More happenings had piled up, as if destiny were aligning the stars; News of dissent in Dorne and of deals to be struck, for vengeance and justice. And now a rendezvous within the next few days right here at this atoll with another mercenary company out of the Summer Islands, carrying men freshly bought for the cause to augment Black Balaq's archers. Even the skies knew; the brilliant blood-red comet now streaking over the moonless night foretold his victory, slashing above them all.

But most of all, he felt the weight of kingship on his belt, the legacy of his ancestors, his to carry and prove once more in the face of past treason and humiliation. Only fitting for a Restoration to be carried out under the crystal-glare of the sword of kings.

The half-smile turned into a full smirk as he turned to his oldest friend, his sworn knight now soon to be something more. "Kneel, Ser Rolly Duckfield," he said as he took the pommel of the sword by his belt.

Duck raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Are you sure about this? Connington won't like it."

"Jon's asleep right now," he blurted, growing a little red as that statement echoed around the anchored flagship. The boy had spoken first.

He shook his head, now the King, "It is my right to bestow, not his". Jon had cared for him for years beyond counting, saved his life many times even, but now the old man had to understand that Aegon was King, not him; how could a King take orders from one of his lords, even if he loved him like a father? It should make him happy, shouldn't it? Carrying him to the Iron Throne had been Jon's dream for more than a decade now.

His friend smiled, kneeling over the deck of the great galleon carrying hundreds of sleeping armsmen thirsty for glory. The flagship itself was the biggest of all twelve galleons; it was freakishly tall, carrying over a thousand people in its gargantuan hold; Volantis knew how to build big ships, and their price had been well worth it, or so he'd been given to understand.

The sailors of the night watch gave them ample space as Duck bowed his head. They felt something beyond them was happening.

"Ser Rolly Duckfield," said Aegon, unsheathing the blade of kings. It reflected the nearby lamplight, crystals of light playing off Duck's body, hands on his longsword. He understood now why lords and kings coveted valyrian steel, why they were willing to do anything to get their hands on one of these majestic blades. Each priceless in its own way, each a bestowal of power. Aegon put the blade on his friend's shoulder, and through it felt the authority of his forefathers, conquerors that had brought a whole continent to its knees under fire and blood. He named his friend and loyal knight Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, to stand by his side through victory and defeat till the day he died.

It felt right to wield such power, to elevate a man by his own authority, to turn him into something more at his command. Lord Commander Duckfield stood up a changed man, a smile on his lips, but Aegon frowned as he looked to the horizon, beyond the anchored lamps floating in the dark.

A hundred fireflies had burst to life. They covered the horizon in a line from left to right, countless dots of red and orange blinking through the moonless night and the Red Comet above. The mercenaries had arrived, and with them started the Targeryen Restoration.

The red dots leapt from the horizon as one, a flurry of orange traversing high and almost reaching the Comet itself, before descending unto the Golden Fleet like falling meteors. "Aegon watch out!" shouted Rolly as he smacked into him, one of the fiery projectiles heading for the flagship with a whistling shriek.

-: PD :-

Spoiler: Music

King Robert's Hammer rumbled through the waves with a constant growl, a juggernaut unperturbed by the lapping waves as mighty sprays of saltwater leapt high from its bow, twin fountains of foam cutting the sea in half. It sailed with wings of wood; four hundred oars rising and falling to the beat of its inner heart pulsing with flesh and sinew; a rhythm dictated by the thunderous drum-beat which now rattled teeth and drowned voice.

Between the misty saltwater spray leaping out of the ocean like a living wound lurked a stag rearing in fury; a gnarled, screeching beast rearing up at the night sky, it's thick antlers bisecting not only it's crown but it's body too; they descended from its head above the ship itself to down below the waves, a many jagged battering ram of bronze now tearing through the ocean.

King Joffrey of the House Baratheon breathed in that saltwater spray, his body limber, relaxed as the flow of the sea under his legs echoed within, a half-remembered lullaby of youth and the excitement of the unknown.

The necessary choices and the lesser evils, the agony of indecision and the screams of spiders tortured; they all melted away under that saltwater spray, his heart at a rhythm with the massive drums now thrumming through the deck, his face inching forward by the slightest margin, the weight of his antlers a mirror to the stag at his front. He stood as near the tip of the ship as could be, a hand on one of the forecastle's wooden crenellations as the Hammer smashed through another swell. The biggest war galley in Westeros was not a nimble lady, nor a piece of graceful art; it was a beast unleashed with no other purpose but war, no other use but death. It plowed through the waves with a hair-raising momentum that breathed to life within its titanic weight, growing stronger with each grunt of its rowers, its course clear and its purpose evident.

Behind him sailed the Royal Fleet of Westeros in a panoply of many-colored flags and soaring projectiles caught aflame, silver banners flying wide over their masts. Over sixty war galleys pierced the Pretender's Fleet like a knife in the dark, an arrow shaped formation of fire and leaping steel.

Chiefs and Centurions bellowed orders as sailors ran through the upper deck with scorpion bolts and heavy boulders, a contained chaos of organization flowing through Joffrey and away, an invisible tendril connecting him to his men and his fleet. Beyond the angst and the hesitation, beyond the self-doubt and the self-questioning, here and now Joffrey knew himself.

This was what he'd been made for; a channel, a conduit through which man became something beyond, pervasive and all-consuming. A behemoth to protect the light of thought or die trying. To win their future or die and leave a legacy so raw so as to mark the land itself like a Stygai of the West.

There was no gradual transition. King Robert's Hammer rumbled through the darkness in search of its prey, and then found itself surrounded on all sides by a fleet set afire, an anchored army awoken to a nightmare. Joffrey gazed right, to starboard as they passed within a spit's distance from an enormous Volantene galleon, flames encroaching from the score scorpion bolts covering its deck. A stone had ripped a hole right through the waterline, and the slowly tilting deck was filled with sailors staring at the war galley in paralyzed fear, holding on for dear life. Bleary eyed men ran out of hatches and gallery doors with hands upraised, squirming under the glare of the fires as captains shouted the alarm and the deck kept tilting towards the Hammer, bucket chains forming up as bows were handed out and sailors rushed up masts.

They fell like threshed wheat, a storm of broad-tipped arrows carpeting flesh and wood from point-blank range, screams and gurgles drowning the heart-pounding beat of the drums as buckets flew from limp hands and swords tumbled over the swaying deck.

Joffrey looked behind him, to the Hammer's lower deck now packed with archers as arrows with iron fillings were nocked and then set ablaze by running torch bearers, the Centurion bellowing again.

"By volleys! Draw!"

They did so, strained muscles growing taut as a hundred men drew in one breath, the Hammer tearing through foam like a crazed beast.

"Loose!"

The staccato of hits sang over the screams of the sailors as countless red streaks zipped through them like shrapnel. Armsmen of the Golden Company tumbled without direction, vomiting blood as flames lapped their clothes and sleeping tunics. Joffrey spotted a captain with golden bracelets screaming for bows, flaming arrows finding his silhouette as he gasped and fell overboard.

The Hammer rowed on, undeterred as it sought its quarry ever deeper within the Golden Fleet, flaming stones raining from above and lighting the sky red.

"Bronn," said Joffrey as he looked to his right, "Signal the wings; commence envelopment."

The sellsword's gaze seemed haunted under the flickering fires, but he nodded all the same before running down to the lower deck. "Light up the flares! Now!" he shouted.

Green stars began leaping from the back of the Hammer, flying up and to the sides before sputtering briefly, signaling the Second and Third Squadrons to close into a crescent formation, bottling the Golden Fleet against the atoll. There would be no escape.

Joffrey raised a far-eye, scanning the battlefield as stray arrows zipped far overhead. He smiled as he lowered it, turning back and gazing beyond the forecastle. "Captain!" he bellowed as he slashed a hand to the starboard bow, "Set course for that flagship!"

"Aye Your Grace!" shouted the Captain from the back of the ship, "Helmsman! Hard tiller starboard!"

The Helmsman repeated the orders as ten men shifted the enormous tiller, slamming into it as the Hammer tilted right. Arrows impacted the lower deck, wounding archers as Joffrey frowned, spotting a smaller galley making its way towards them from the left and throwing fitful volleys which killed the spotter by his side with a wet gurgle.

He strode to the back of the forecastle and gazed down to the long lower deck. "Catapults! Shift target to port galley!" he shouted.

"You heard His Grace! Load munitions!" said the Port artillery Chief. Men cranked winches and loaded oil soaked stones as the entire row of catapults on the Hammer's port side aimed for the galley, artillerymen squirming under the effort as they manhandled the platforms. The stones burst into flames as runners slammed torches into them, sailors flinging buckets of sand on the surroundings to fire proof the deck.

"Loose at will!" screamed the Port Artillery Chief, men striking down levers with one handed mallets made of reinforced wood. Far from the slow, ponderous might of the Dawn Trebuchets, the Hammer's catapults barked brutally and without forethought, slamming into their crossbars and unleashing their projectiles on almost flat trajectories. The hail of stones flew like unleashed hounds and tore through the light galley and its triangular sails, cutting screams short as sailors flew apart under the impact and masts collapsed under the pounding, oars swaying wild as fire spread through half rolled sails.

Ravens and seagulls cawed and called to the west, converging on the biggest galleon of them all, a scorpion filled flagship flying the command pennant of the Golden Company. There would be no failed Restoration. There would be no blood of his countrymen shed on Westerosi soil, not for petty ambition. There would be no bright eyed boy-king bloodying his homeland before the War for Dawn, only golden bracelets sinking to the bottom of the Narrow Sea.

This, at least, Joffrey could do with iron certainty.

The cranking of the crossbows from the Second Regiment followed the deeper winching of the bow-mounted scorpions, a sound deeply familiar to Joffrey as they loosed steel on the foundering ships around them, their faces hard and set like never before he'd seen them. He took a minute to examine the faces of his countrymen; Reachers and Crownlanders, Northmen and Riverlanders, Valemen and even a few Dornishmen. The Royal Fleet had recruited from every port in Westeros, augmented by officers fresh out of Guard Camps with a fervor that had honestly shocked even him. New Men, one of the Maesters running the printing presses out of the Dragonpit had called them. New Men. His soldiers for the Dawn.

The promise of the Festival seemed like decades ago, and it had spread like wildfire since then. Veterans talked about the Kingdom of Westeros deep in their cups, and Oldtown's elite dressed to the fashion of New Royale. Visions of something greater were spread even now by the Royal Trading Company as it plied every port and village in Westeros, leaving keepsakes and 'tavernprints' and most of all tales of something being born in the Crownlands, drawing in the hopeless and the curious from every nook and cranny of Westeros; taking those who'd lost hope and turning them into converts of a new empire in the making.

These men understand it the most, Joffrey thought, gazing at the synchronized, unflinching volleys and the alternating lines of crossbowmen on the forecastle around him, listening to the steady beat of the oarsmen throughout the lower decks. He'd spoken to his fleet, his army just before battle when the sun had been about to hide to the west, and been surprised. They'd already understood, beyond the reforms and the politics and the economics. They understood the essence, the spirit, they could feel it in their hearts between the silent weight of the Red Comet and the last cry of the Purple. They could intuit a transformation; the new Age.

They'd chafed, bellowed anger and rage; that a righteous boy-king of the past would seek to destroy that purpose, to subject them to the rules of old. The old order, the past, that had been the word which struck Joffrey the most. Targeryens; his Guard, his sailors, his people had said the name as if it were a curse. The old way. The old kingdom. The past. That's how he'd known.

New Men, they called themselves. A mantle bereft of blood, unlike the First or the Andals. Bereft of gender and lineage. Bereft of the physical. No, to be of the New Men was to be part of the transformation, to acknowledge the beginning of a new world and the end of the old. It was a mantle of knowledge, of purpose, of self-awareness. It was the Purple writ large.

A harrowing, crazed trumpeting drew him from his mind, an elephant squealing to the dark heavens as flaming projectiles crisscrossed the sky like a meteor shower. The great beast trundled amuck, smashing from side to side as the great cog which carried it swayed, crossing the Hammer's path before continuing to starboard. Men screamed as they jumped into the churning waters, flames consuming the back of the ship as the elephant trumpeted in agony, harsher than before, half-alight as its ropes strained and it smashed once more to the left. The entire ship groaned, capsizing in one ponderous instant as it aired the bottom of its hull to the night sky.

"It's happening again, tonight," said Ser Robar, a thick tower shield on his hands as he stood by Joffrey's right. "I can feel it."

Joffrey's smile turned grim as he saw the crazed, panicked sailors clambering atop the flipped hull in a frenzy of bubbles. The Hammer sailed past them with barely repressed grunts as rowers moved to the sound of the drums. "How does it feel from the other side?" he asked his knight.

Ser Robar sighed deeply, "Like speaking truth, Your Grace. Like guiding a starving man to the warm glow of a firepit."

"It feels like reaming that Aegon prick a new one," said the Hound as he reached his side, ever the practical sort. "Could have toned down on the fires though," he added as he shot a side glare at one of the burning galleons; war galleys moved between the shadows left by the sinking bonfires, silver lines painted on their hulls.

Joffrey raised an eyebrow, "Sorry about that, Sandor. No half measures though. Not this time."

"King's Landing will sing after this," said Robar, thoughtful.

"Victories are the dreams of empire. It'll be a catalyst," said Joffrey.

"You're closing something, here," said Robar, "What you started at the Festival."

"The end of the beginning," he said, eyes fixed on the flagship dead ahead, only now lifting anchors as the Hammer made for its exposed flank like a hound with a torn leash.

Joffrey took in a deep breath as arrows flew from the galleon, a scorpion bolt taking a crossbowman as arrows plinked against his full plate, silver cape fluttering under the western breeze.

"Ram her!" he roared.

"Oarmaster!" bellowed the Captain, "Set- ramming speed!"

The man-sized drum below Joffrey redoubled it's rhythm for a second, and then transformed itself into a new cadence, a gaiting tempo at a beat with the Song. The oarsmen bellowed in short gasps of strength and purpose every two seconds, four hundred oars slamming into the waves and churning whirlwinds of foam. King Robert's Hammer accelerated, boring down right for the middle of the huge, four-masted ship.

"Forward section! Suppress those missile troops!" Joffrey shouted, just as another bolt sent a sailor flying. It pinned him to the back of the forecastle with a breathless huff as Bronn reached the forecastle, and the sellsword winced as he took out his own bow. He helped the rest of the Guard and the scorpions sweep the attackers, the volleys growing disjointed. The percussive gasps of the oarsmen almost overtook the deep bass of the drums as the ship grew larger, the churning waters spraying saltwater as the great antlered ram made for the middle of the galleon and Sandor's face contorted under the light of the fires. "Brace! Brace you cocksuckers!"

Joffrey grabbed one of the back crenellations as the wall of wood grew impossibly tall in front of him, archers and sailors above screaming as they ran from the impact area and they struck. The impact was massive, throwing archers off their feet as Joffrey scowled under the furious shaking, the antlered stag tearing through the galleon like a dagger through the back. It tore open a massive wound on the flagship, but it didn't stop, couldn't stop yet as its massive momentum brought Joffrey further into the guts of his kill, into a dark cavern filled with startled screams. Rumbling wood and splintering planks made a choir unto themselves as the Hammer kept boring into the ship like a Sothori Fleshworm, tearing through decks and cabins without end.

It stopped with a final lurch as pale crewmen gazed from the upper decks, survivors of some incomprehensible earthquake as they blinked to the sight of an antlered stag shrieking still, the antlered king surveying the damage as he gazed below. The oarsmen chugged in the meanwhile, deep huffs resounding from the hold below, a beast pacified for the moment but ready snap at the merest sign.

Crossbows kept singing, Golden Company armsmen landing on the splintered forecastle with dull thumps, still in their sleeping rags. It was darker within the guts of the great galleon -almost a quarter of the Hammer now laid inside of it- but he could still see water flooding the lower decks, a dark formless thing of foam and flotsam eagerly worming into the ship. He scowled in pain as desperate sailors threw harpoons from the upper decks and one of them ricochet against his shoulder, Robar covering him with the tower shield then. Bronn got the man the following second, his arrow taking the sailor in the eye before he fell over one of the unloaded scorpions.

Joffrey nodded at him, then turned around to examine the damage to starboard as he crossed the forecastle and gazed down. Saltwater roared into the struck ship through there as well, a deep, harrowing sound flooding the lower decks as the Volantene galleon started to tilt towards them.

Good penetration, massive damage, Joffrey thought as an arrow thudded against Robar's shield, the screams of combat growing pervasive as some of the falling survivors kept a grip on their weapons. The Golden Star was floundering, a wounded armsman shrieking by his side before Sandor finished him with his blade.

"Again!" roared Joffrey.

The chugging beast roused itself, the waiting beat of the drums growing from standby to deep ums, calling reverse as the Captain bellowed instructions. Slowly at first, then faster as wood cracked and crenellations were torn apart, the ship retreated from the gaping wood and the tilting ship. The flaming sky of the moonless night beckoned them once more, war galleys circling the flagship as they intercepted would be rescuers, ramming and boarding as King Robert's Hammer grew still, like a bull lowering its horns.

The Golden Star tilted further to the side as water kept filling its lower decks, some of the armsmen from the company jumping overboard as other kept shooting from their bows, mercenary archers from the Summer Islands unleashing coordinated volleys which struck the men back by the tiller, but it was too late. "Ramming speed!" bellowed the Captain.

The beast huffed once more as four hundred oars moved as one and quadruple the men huffed in synchrony, adding their strength to the blow to come. The flagship kept tilting, dragged forward by unseen currents as another volley of Summer Islander arrows scythed through the sailors manning the tiller, white ebon arrows sprouting from their sides. The Hammer tilted to port, but it was too close for the flagship to avoid the blow.

The heavy war galley tore through the rear quarter of the Golden Star, sundering beautiful stained-glass panels and making them rain over the deck in a glinting hail, smashing apart dormitories fit for a King and cracking the keel in two; the stag tore off a distinct chunk of the ship's posterior, ripping a hole three times bigger on its stern. The Golden Star was dead on the water, already sinking as more galleys emerged from the darkness, the silver pennant flying high over their masts. This senseless stupidity crafted by Varys and Illyrio was over, Aegon's ambition a mere footnote in a Maester's book. Whatever survivors washed up on the nearby atoll would be easy pickings for the Guard, and the rest would dine with the fishes. It was over.

Joffrey breathed out. But this is not about Aegon, he thought, staring down at his right hand. It never had been. It's about sealing the circle. It's about birthing a tale. A vertex where it all comes together. An effigy which grounds the industry and the armies and the culture.

A focusing lens. A rallying point. An event. A legend.

'We will need authority and respect the likes of which Westeros has not seen in an Age.' Sansa had whispered the words as they burrowed under blankets in Jhala, winter chilling their little house by the beach. 'We must become living legends in the minds of our subjects, proportional in awe to the horror of the Long Night.' It had been sweet of her to put into words, and he'd reveled in that determination he so loved in his wife.

In truth she'd articulated a certainty Joffrey had long ascribed to. A flower he'd simply found one day in the landscape of his mind, already up and formed. He suspected the seed had been laid sometime around the Dawn Fort's last stand, when the might of the Cycle had crashed against the walls and he'd claimed the Armor of Dawn. He'd regretted the looks of awe in the eyes of his troops then, but now he would kindle it, fuel it, and ultimately use it as a tool to bind the Kingdom together. A mirror image of the Red Comet's glare. Hope to its despair.

And hadn't the Dawn Age boasted heroes of legend? Great leaders and warriors who'd grasped something beyond, who'd carried their people through glory and ruin? People who'd defined whole regions, whole peoples even as they had defined them in turn.

Why not the Age of Unity then?

"One Kingdom, Robar," said Joffrey. His knight's face lit up under the swirl of purple fractals now growing from Joffrey's hand, his face stern as granite as a glare of silvered gold lit up the night, an ugly smirk growing on Sandor's face as Bronn gripped the railing white.

-: PD :-

The flagship was burning.

The deck had tilted a third of the way already, but a determined core of armsmen had defied all wisdom even as the sailors took headfirst plunges into the cold sea, closing ranks around the way to the upper deck as they shook in unrestrained terror and flames lapped at their sides.

"Aegon!" shouted Joffrey, Brightroar tearing through a lightly armored armsman like water. Dead Summer Islander archers lay behind, and the half dozen armsmen retreated back in pale fear, Jon Connington at their head.

"What are you?" said Connington, face slack under the glare of the fires.

Stars roared the answer, leaping into the exiled lord like a catapult shot. The silver lion tore him apart savagely as Joffrey swung his blade from his back, cutting through armsmen like riding a war destrier. Some jumped into the waters in terror, and others fought with hysterical strength as Stars whirled around with brutal speed, claws flashing as Brightroar whistled through the air.

Poor fool, thought Joffrey, gazing at the mangled corpse of Aegon's Hand as Stars lifted his snout and sniffed, searching for their prey. He died thinking he fought for Rhaegar's son. Would the truth have been a kindness, or a cruelty?

Stars stalked between the flames with an easy gait as he thought about that, a predator on the prowl as the Golden Star sank by the stern, the tip of the ship rising above the fray. Joffrey squinted through the smoke, urging Stars into a dash as he ducked close to his body. They leapt out of the worst of the smoke and into the frontal upper deck with a mighty jump, Brightroar flashing by instinct and tearing the back off an armed sailor.

"Aegon!" he shouted, Stars echoing the cry with a thunderous roar as it's nails bit the deck and they slid to a halt. He was right ahead, squirming as far away from him as the ship would let him, gripping a piece of railing with one hand and Blackfyre the other.

"There you are!" said Joffrey, sliding out of Star's back and striding towards him. "Thought we'd settle the whole thing now and spare us the war, don't you agree?"

He was hyperventilating, squirming back against the wood as his eyes followed Brightroar's golden sheen. "Fuck off!" screamed a knight, jumping out from behind a stack of crates with a two hander. Joffrey ducked barely, and the sword clipped one of his antlers. He parried the follow up blow, frowning as he stepped back and help up Brightroar in a guard.

"And you are?"

"Ser Rolly Duckfield, of the Kingsguard," said the young knight, holding the two hander sideways. His face was occluded by a helmet, but the man seemed shaken, trembling. Despite the fear, despite the otherworldly, he'd remained by his liege's side.

"My respects, Ser Rolly Duckfield," said Joffrey as he inclined his head. The knight barely had time to step back before Stars slammed into him like the galley's battering ram. They flew halfway across the upper deck before Stars landed on top of him, slamming him against the planks with red claws.

Joffrey kept walking, and Aegon found something resembling a spine as he straightened, holding off Blackfyre like a talisman as the ship kept turning into a sloped hill. The fires illuminated a dozen galleys now, filled with silent archers as they circled around the ship like waiting sharks, their flags silver.

"Y-You have no right!" stuttered Aegon, swinging down his blade in a chop. Joffrey inched sideways, letting the blade fly by before ramming Brightroar through Aegon's chest.

He lifted the skewered would-be-king by Brightroar's pommel, the deck now almost vertical. "Neither do you, Blackfyre," he snarled in the boy's ear as he climbed the railing and stood over the prow of the ship. "The dead walk and you're in the way," he said before extracting the blade, Stars growling by his side as blood leapt from the boy's mouth.

The galleys circled the sinking ship, his soldiers staring up in awe as the fires reflected Brightroar's light and Aegon's corpse fell into the churning sea. Joffrey picked up Blackfyre, lifting it up high over the flames as the Targeryen sword of kings glinted in the night, black lines and jagged dragons crawling out of its pommel.

"One Kingdom!" he bellowed as he threw the blade into the sea, the Silver Lion roaring to the heavens, to the Comet high above as the sound thundered across the atoll. The subtle thrum of sinking Blackfyre echoed across the Song, and Joffrey smiled.

"One Kingdom!" roared the Westerosi.

-: PD :-

Spoiler: AN

Last edited: Aug 18, 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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Threadmarks Interlude: Maergery. New

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Oct 21, 2019

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Spoiler: AN

Interlude: Maergery.

Three years, thought Maergery. How much could a kingdom change in three years?

"Stay still," said her cousin, threading the last brooch at the back of her dress, "Almost done."

"Thank you, Elinor," said Margery, pondering that question. Almost three years with the power of a crown, a blip in the timescale of dynasties, and yet even living in the capital for that stretch of time had left her bewildered to the breadth of the change brewing within.

"Eyes on the present, granddaughter of mine," said Olenna, walking around her with an appraising look. "Leave the last clasp open," she ordered her cousin.

Elinor let loose a bit, the dress growing lax around her chest by the slightest margin.

"Better," said Olenna, crossing her arms. "Now go see if you can make that oaf of my son happy, and watch your step!"

She knew her grandmother enough to know she wasn't speaking about the long dress. "I will," she said, dipping her head with a knowing smile. Olenna nodded at that as well, the other message received. He'd trained her well, but not well enough Maergery could hide her exasperation from her keen eyes.

Meredyth Crane and her cousin Elinor would compose her retinue for the afternoon, and they assembled by her sides with smooth precision, well-dressed ladies in all the finery suited to the wealth and élan of the Reach. They walked through the Red Keep's interior, searching for their target with seemingly innocent questions. Sansa had hid their quarry well though, seeding rumors about the harbor, the Guard's training camps, even Riverrun; all false leads, she knew. The moment she'd lost sight of Tommen, she'd handed Sansa an enormous advantage.

Should've known that hunt was too good a bait, she mused. Not only the chance to go out hawking in what seemed like years, but to do it practically alone with Queen Sansa? A few hours alone with the busy Queen of the Seven Kingdoms had been too great an opportunity to let go. Alas, by the time they came back Tommen had 'disappeared'… mere days before her Father finally made up his mind about 'the lesser prize' and signaled the go ahead too. The fact that Sansa had not only baited her, but predicted Mace almost to the day as well had been tough to swallow.

Maergey sighed. The whole enterprise seemed futile; it was clear by now that the Crown would not let Tommen go ahead with a betrothal even if she somehow seduced the boy, a task which made Maergery feel ill the longer she pursued it… though she didn't know if it was because of the nature of the task or for the fact that she was failing miserably at it.

At least Father stopped with Joffrey. She shuddered. That had been a cringe worthy year, for all that Joffrey had withstood it in good grace. Sansa had not been quite as understanding… She scratched her arm, roughly where a suspiciously overeager hawk had dug its claws. I want her trainers…

Her and her handmaidens made it as far as the Outer Courtyard without any new information before Maergery stopped; it was time for a change of approach.

"I've an idea," she said as she saw a big group of Silver Knights practicing; they were mostly newer members, split into two's under the appraising eye of Ser Balon Swann. It was not the Master-At-Arms of the fearsome order that interested her though; it was rather the shortish, rotund form of their Chronicler, hunched over a couple of scrolls despite the clear daylight. "Spread out and search for rumors, he has to be in the city. We'll meet up by the gate in an hour." Her handmaidens nodded and departed with speedy grace.

She approached him alone, leaning on his outdoor desk with a negligent hand. "Good afternoon, Ser Samwell," she said.

A subtle red lit up his cheeks as he looked up at her and he cleared his throat, "Lady Maergery! What a surprise seeing- pleasant surprise that is. Seeing you here, I mean."

Cutely transparent, Maergery thought. She didn't suppress her genuine smile, letting it shine through as she blinked, which of course served to make Ser Samwell even more flustered. Truth and unfiltered emotion could be deadly weapons in the game, her grandmother had once told her.

"I was taking a stroll when I heard you all training. Is it alright if I watch?" Of course, for her grandmother more often than not that meant letting her disdain pour out unfiltered. Age will peel away the petals and leave only thorns, dear. She'd said it with that acceptant weariness that could only be glimpsed when they were alone, and it had been the first time Maergery had felt pity for her grandmother. It had not been a pleasant sensation.

"Y-yes, of course! Obviously," said Samwell, sitting up as he flicked the back of his quill towards the yard and the fighters making room for an unlikely duel. "You probably heard the so-called Darkstar boasting his lungs out," he said, a tolerant smirk on his lips.

So some of the Dornish houses are taking the bait, thought Maergery as she turned to the training yard. It was hard not to, she supposed, with all the exciting prospects the capital held for the young and not so young scions of Westeros willing to do as the Red Keep commanded. That's Ser Gerold Dayne, called the Darkstar, she thought, looking at the handsome youth with purple eyes and clean shaved face. Knight of High Hermitage, minor cadet branch of the Dayne's.

He'd just batted down another man about his age, a prospective squire now on the ground as the Darkstar shrugged. "That's all the vaunted Silver has? It seems the rumors ballooned on the hot air of the desert, Ser Balon," he said.

"Young Dorren also seeks the Silver," said Ser Balon, his eyebrows bent in a slightly disapproving frown, "You're both potential candidates, but only the King or the Lord Commander can invest the Silver."

Dayne sneered, "The King's in the Vale from what I've heard," he said, "And nobody knows where Ser Robar is. Why don't we settle it right now?"

"He does seem rather sure of himself," said Maergery.

Samwell snorted, "Most of them are. Before… well."

Before what? Sometimes the Silver Knights seemed to communicate beyond words.

He shook his head instead of finishing the thought. "We'll see if the King finds him suitable. It's not a light burden," he said, eyes lost for a moment before he looked up at her and blushed once more. He returned to his scribing post haste, dripping a bit of ink over the parchment as he cursed.

Maergery suppress a most un-lady like giggle, and leaned a bit on the desk, "You must have a lot of potential candidates nowadays. Tell me, is it true that Prince-?"

Ser Gerold was suddenly at her side, grabbing her hand delicately, "Why, I've seldom seen a flower as lovely as yourself, my lady," he said as he bowed and kissed her hand. Maergery demurred with thanks, retracting her hand and trying to find her footing again. She'd grown accustomed to appraising looks from an early age, learnt to use them to her benefit, but she didn't like the hungry glint in Ser Gerold's eyes.

Ser Samwell's eyes flicked up with uncanny swiftness. For a second the flustered scribe disappeared to reveal something else lurking below, then disappeared just as quickly as Maergery dipped her head at the compliment.

"Ser Balon is supervising, that leaves the other Silver Knight here," said Ser Gerold as he aimed a chin at Samwell , mirroring Maergery's pose but lending it weight, leaning on the desk and putting pressure on one of Samwell's books. "What say you, Gatecrasher?" he asked with a sardonic grin, "No doubt someone of your, stature"- he flicked a glance at the Chronicler's girth- "could carry out this vaunted test without a problem."

Samwell kept scribing, but the grip of his calloused hand on the quill grew terse. "Try your luck when the King returns," he said, voice strained.

Ser Gerold shrugged theatrically, "I think you've lost your way, my lady," he said as he grabbed her hand again, "Nothing here but boys swinging swords, I know of far more entertaining venues," he added with a smirk as he pulled her with practiced ease. Maergery smiled again as she snapped her hand discreetly away from his, but the denial did not stop the knight with the cruel smirk as he pivoted with the grace of a dancer, grabbing her other hand and laughing as if it'd been a joke. She was stunned speechless not only by the Darkstar's boldness but by the choreographed feel to it all, laughing over her polite dismissals and framing them as a girl's sly taunting. He made use of her silence swiftly, all but carrying her away from the table.

Her mind raced as she tried to come up with a way to let off the knight without insulting High Hermitage -or truth be told without drawing the slim dagger under her bodice- before the sound of torn parchment rang through the yard harsher than drawn steel. Maergery was struck to see Samwell's quill piercing the scroll he'd been so careful of before. "Fetch my warhammer," he told the squire who'd been thrashed by Ser Gerold, the flustered stutter gone. "Let's test you then, Darkstar. See if you can hold the pressure." From torn parchment to thrown gauntlet, Samwell's eyes had never left the other knight's.

-: PD :-

Maergery knew she was wasting her time by now; there were faster ways of finding her quarry right now, but she couldn't keep her eyes from the training yard as the prospective squires made space and two knights faced off. Ser Gerold had his longsword in an easy grip, a long smirk on his lips as paced languidly.

Ser Samwell had armored up; if he'd seemed wide before, now he was a great ball of steel, a slender two handed warhammer in his hands. The weapon seemed innocuously thin, with a single blunted spike and hammer on its head. The Chronicler of the Silver Knights seemed to be undergoing a transformation of sorts as he stomped into the training yard, eyes wavering between her and the Darkstar as something darker lurked within.

"Ready?" called Ser Balon, still unable to wipe the disapproving frown off his face. He'd conferred briefly with Ser Samwell, but to deny the bout would be a stain on both the Chronicler and their order, that much Maergery could infer. Men had their courtly intrigues as well, if often bloodier and more brutish.

The knights gave assent, and Ser Balon signaled the go-ahead.

"I've heard quite the tale about you," said Ser Gerold as he flicked his longsword with impressive flair, "Is it true that you crushed a man to so much pulp under that weight of yours?" He danced away from Samwell's swing, his sword probing left. "Of course the door must have helped, eh Gatecrasher?"

Samwell's strike was sluggish and halfhearted as he kept half an eye on her, straining to keep a dark thing buried somewhere deep, far away from prying eyes. The Darkstar's mocking was relentless, and he danced around Samwell like the Fool and his Pig which often entertained Highgarden's smallfolk after the autumn harvest. "Such prowess and skill, King Joffrey should disband his Guard in favor of three such as you. If he could fit them through the portcullis of course." His words extracted heftier scowls than the blows, and Samwell was soon red-faced and straining desperately against something, half his mind away from the fight as Ser Balon frowned and the Darkstar's dance turned faster, more dangerous, his strikes punishing. Maergery felt sick as one of Ser Gerold's blows left him limping, a crust of something vile in her throat. Samwell was doing this because of her, and all she could do was watch.

She winced as Samwell didn't parry in time and the longsword's impact rang across the courtyard like a bell. Her own wince must have rang louder, for Samwell turned in what he must have thought a discrete glance but to Maergery shone like a lighthouse, shame and frustration and restraint lining his gaze red. Their eyes locked, and her grip on the railing went white as she beheld the tempest within. He hated this; not only the Darkstar but the hammer itself. He hated it with his very soul, but he did it because he had to, every day. And this day, he'd done it for her.

It wouldn't have happened if the Darkstar had waited another second. If he'd been chivalrous, like in the books her handmaidens read to pass the afternoon. If he'd had but a shred of honor, if he'd waited until Samwell was facing him again.

The longsword's shadow interrupted their locked gaze, cutting across Samwell's face as the Darkstar prepared to swing from behind. Something broke loose inside Ser Samwell; it seized control in an instant, eyes widening as grey replaced red and his coiling body grew lax. Maergery couldn't help an indrawn squeak, a primal fear that wounded him harsher than any word or blow from the treacherous enemy at his back, though that too was subsumed in an instant.

Ser Samwell roared an unearthly scream as he spun and batted the sword aside like so much hay, charging the Darkstar like a bull. The surprised knight tried to pivot for another blow, but Samwell's hammer caught the blade and his shoulder clipped the Knight of High Hermitage, making him tumble. He recovered just in time to receive a flurry of strikes devoid of all grace, stabs and overarms mixed in a crazed tempo unlike any tourney she'd seen in Highgarden, a still accelerating thing that propelling Ser Samwell against his will.

She leaned forward on the railing as Ser Samwell pressured the Darkstar mercilessly, using his weight as a weapon. He smashed the Dornish against the railing next to her, their weapons locked for an instant as the Darkstar jabbed a fist on his face. Maergery was struck by the hysterical glint in Samwell's eyes, which twitched after the blow. His stare seemed to pierce Ser Gerold as his breath grew out of control and the cornered knight struck again with a strained shout.

The armored gauntlet might as well been rainwater. It only served to drench Samwell's soul further into the grip of the thing that held him. The Chronicler's great girth hid muscles underneath, and he lifted the Darkstar by the neck before he could strike a third time, tossing him to the ground with a mighty heave. The Knight of High Hermitage slammed against the dusty ground with an agonized grunt, and Ser Samwell was already atop him as he raised his hammer high.

"Samwell!" shouted Ser Balon.

He breathed without end, harsh huffs as he stared down at the Dornishman and he quivered for a second. She knew then with an absolute certainty that if the Darkstar twitched, Samwell would kill him. Her gasp at the realization managed to draw Samwell's gaze as Ser Balon's had not, and he tore his eyes away from her with great effort, chased by shame. He looked at Ser Balon for a moment before returning to the fallen knight.

"When the King returns," said the Chronicler, reluctantly lowering the warhammer.

-: PD :-

The Darkstar made a swift retreat after that, not saying a word as he collected his belongings and left the keep at a fast gallop. Maergery suspected he wouldn't be seen again, King or no King. The squires had murmured approvingly, whispering about the 'Gatecrasher' as one of them removed Samwell's armor. Ser Gerold had used it as an insult, but those boys whispered it in awe.

Samwell rested on a stool, wiping the sweat with a towel as he still kept a grip on the warhammer. He avoided her gaze as she approached. "My lady, I hope I- I'm sorry you- found this spectacle-" He grew redder still as his tongue tied itself.

Maergery couldn't find the words to soothe him, and her own shock at that fact made it worse. The pale fright had left his eyes almost completely, replaced by a timid side-look as she clasped her hands in front of him with a polite multipurpose smile. How to reconcile the painfully shy bookworm and the charging bull with haunted eyes?

Samwell filled the silence. "I'm- I'm sorry-"

"About what?" she said. It came out accusatory, and she winced.

"A-About scaring you."

"But you didn't," she blurted, and it was the worse lie she'd told in years.

He wanted to believe her, and deflated when he couldn't. His polite nod as he stood up stung Maergery more than she'd expected, and frustration welled within her belly. Everything was coming out wrong today. Damn the 'Darkstar'. Damn Sansa and her games. Damn Father and his ambition.

Her Grandmother would verbally skin her if she saw her right now. "Oh… That's… good," he said, tilting his head as if considering it, "I- I should get back to the Chronicle."

She didn't want to let him, the contrasts were too sharp. Too intriguing. Eyes on the prize, she remembered. She'd come here for other matters. She cleansed her head of both weariness and stupidity, becoming a lady in service of House Tyrell once more. "Do you think there'll be others like Ser Gerold in the coming weeks?"

"Possibly," he said with all the grace of a man jumping for a lifeline, voice rapidly gaining speed. "It's intriguing really. The order's prestige has been spreading through rumors, basically. Most of them carried by grain traders and the odd lord visiting the city. Archmaester Jelem compared it to the early renown of the Ninepenny Kings when-" He cut himself off, growing even redder under the afternoon sun. "Well you wouldn't mind that."

I wouldn't?

She supposed it wasn't expected of her, "Still, there must be a lot of important personages getting rejected," she said. The Game suddenly felt stale on her tongue.

He filled the silence quickly, "Oh, yes. Lord Brace- no, Prince Tommen was the highest of those I think. The boy was not hopeless, far from it, but the King gave the word."

"It must have hurt him a lot, to be sidelined by his brother thus." Her voice sounded monotonous to her ears.

"He was." Samwell gave an oddly deep sigh, "He moped quite a bit. Hopefully he's had a fun time with the printers so far. It would be better for him."

The Silver Keep.

"Of course," she muttered, almost squirming at Samwell's painful naiveness. Her handmaidens had been trawling for the Prince's whereabouts for days now without avail, and he had handed it so freely. Now she really had no excuse to remain here.

"Thank you, Sam," she said after a bit of small talk that tasted like ash, "I'll leave you to your Chronicle then."

Something in her words made Samwell blush like never before, but he managed a nod. Tongue-tied by a maiden when minutes before you almost killed a man. She couldn't make heads or tails of Ser Samwell Tarly.

There was a strange resistance within her as her handmaidens called for the horses, but she had to get on with the task and her duty to House Tyrell. They could not afford to be shut out of the dynastic alliance that bound more than half of Westeros by blood.

Maergery and her handmaidens made for Rhaenys' Hill in search of their quarry, to the dynastic symbol that had been erected out of the ruins of the old. She was halfway there when she realized why Sam had blushed.

"Maergery?" said Meredyth from her own horse.

"I'm fine," she said, her cheeks tingling.

-: PD :-

Spoiler: AN

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

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Threadmarks Chapter 72: A Matter of Incentives. New

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-: PD :-

Chapter 72: A Matter of Incentives.

The pale Braavosi nodded at her point with a polite smile. He was wearing an elegantly trimmed purple coat held to his chest by twin clasps of lapis lazuli, the gems deepening his sapphire gaze as he lifted his head with that relaxed almost-indolence that so irked the Pentoshi. "Then we are in agreement, Your Grace."

Sansa nodded with that very same indulgence, their walk through the Silver Keep's walls taking them around the restored basilica of the former Dragonpit. The plaza by the main entrance was now filled with queuing smallfolk waiting for their turn, withstanding the sun's glare with the ease of long practice and the ambivalently helpful winds of autumn. They went in groups to speak under the stalls manned by Guard officers and guild foremen, quills scribbling down names and former occupations. The Silver Keep was more than the former Dragonpit; it was a network of buildings connected by second-story hallways and open aired parks, crowning Rhaeny's Hill in constant activity. It was always hiring.

Master Dyonnis cleared his throat, "As to the other matter, I'm afraid the Bank must decline. To allow foreign ships into the Purple Harbor would be a dark mark on the Sealord's record."

Sansa gave him a noncommittal smile as her thoughts raced. The third loan in as many years had been a great coup for Westeros, but for every lowered interest rate Envoy Dyonnis had ruthlessly extracted a concession.

Though always with a pleasant smile, Sansa thought. Like a Master Braavo at the height of his skill, every parry was aggressively placed, serving to deepen momentum and multiply opportunities. It was funny her people so often disdained commerce, for it shared a lot with the frenzied betting that followed tourneys like fleas off a dog's back. The only thing that changed was the stakes; the merest stumble could mean hundreds of thousands of golden dragons.

One more concession… should she press for it? A quay in the Purple Harbor for the Royal Trading Company would not only revolutionize their access to the invaluable Braavosi market itself, but also open all sorts of doors throughout their sphere of influence. Pentos, Lorath, Ibben, Morosh… The legitimacy alone would see them hauling more cargo than they had ships for.

Sansa guided their leisurely walk towards the Hall itself, the basilica looming large as Guardsmen from the Third Regiment made space for her. They'd been filling the plaza quite steadily throughout the past few hours, drifting in from all around the city as their leave came to an end, most of them still searching for their kit stowed in the secondary buildings now haunted by the shrieks of vengeful quartermasters. "My Queen," said one of them as they held the great oaken doors open and they entered what most everyone referred to as the Silver Hall.

She filled the silence with small talk as they repositioned for the next blow and they walked through the physical symbol of Westeros' new age, Dyonnis' gaze missing nothing. The unstructured watercolors on canvass of Together looked as majestic as always, all the souls of her people represented in the steely poise of that disparate group of individuals; maidens, soldiers, farmers, craftsmen and more all with their backs to the viewer, gazing at the dawn sun that barely peeked over the gently rolling hills of some nameless valley that couldn't be called anything but Westeros.

"Do you like the changes?" she asked the Envoy.

"I never saw the old dragonpit, so I cannot say," said Dyonnis, face up as he examined the round, massive inner hall, "Though I must admit there's something familiar to it all."

Grainy itchiness ran through her veins, scarred reflexes anxious and confused. She sighed a second later, hiding it with a smile as she forced herself to relax. Dyonnis should've felt proud if he'd known, though she doubted getting compared to an Assahi Blood Matriarch would've felt like a compliment to the man. No matter the means, he'd draw gold from the tiniest wound just as swiftly as Calinnia would drain a blood harem slave dry.

"I would find it strange if you wouldn't," she said after a moment, examining the upper reaches of the Hall. The light bathed down from the stained glass windows, depicting various scenes from laboring farmers to massed knights, ladies of the court playing a panoply of instruments. Half Great Sept, half forum, the Silver Hall was filled with prayer of a different sort, one now acutely familiar to Sansa; the buzz of people busy with purpose.

"Ahh." Dyonnis smiled as he realized, "We'd been wondering where all those architects had gone."

"There's much in vision we share with the Secret City," said Sansa, her eyes trailing the geometrical columns in the daeryan pattern that cluttered much of Braavos. "And much more yet to come if fate allows it." She'd never really cared for the style, but it did temper rather splendidly the more colorful traditions of the South. They went well together.

Dyonnis gave her a deeper nod. I'll have to decide soon, now or never.

Scribes and runners crossed the hall constantly, servicing the great bureaucracy that kept expanding day and night. They strolled past a group of village aeldermen leaning forward on their seats, skepticism long giving way to fascination as the man in front demonstrated the seed drill to yet another crowd. The manufactories still couldn't satisfy the monstrous demand that had sprung up for the simple devices, though Joffrey had insisted the Crown kept paying for both the lodgings and the round-trip of any village leader interested enough in learning the 'New Ways' of the capital. Yet another snowball turning into an avalanche as the treasury thinned and productivity soared.

Yes, she decided as she sent a surreptitious look at the Envoy. He regarded her coolly, hand on the plain iron ring that crowned his index finger with more power than that of many petty kings'. We can't stop. The only way is forward, she thought. Have to be both forceful and delicate with this. The loans already struck would keep the Crown afloat for at least another year, but they'd need free access to the Shivering Sea markets to climb back from the red once production met demand within central Westeros. The continent was huge and filled with both the population and the resources to become an economic juggernaut even if the rest of the world were to disappear; a chilling possibility their advisors had unwittingly used as a rhetorical flourish... The Maesters of the Yellow Gold had practically formed a small council under Tyrion's lead, and her good-uncle's ways had been soon to percolate down the ranks.

The only way is forward. Uttered by the members of the 'Golden Council' (as Joffrey had taken to calling it, much to Tyrion's glee) the words took an edge of desperate religious pleading. Westeros needed that access.

She led Dyonnis through the northern forum, the better to hammer him with the imported Volantene balustrade as they climbed the stairs. Let him simmer on that, she thought as the man raked his eyes along every step, sniffing in veiled disdain that was for Sansa's benefit only. A simple reply to a simple message: go to the competition if you want, we are Braavos.

Ineffective, but worth it, she thought, smothering a chuckle with the ease of long practice. Braavosi had lugubrious disdain down to an art form.

Resources Westeros had to spare. The problem was how to tap into those resources that lay beyond the regional ports and the conveniently navigable tributaries of the Trident. While Sansa had been chipping away at the legal and political obstacles for quite a while now, the simple truth was that three years in power was still far too little time for the needed infrastructure to sprung up. Road networks and expanded canals were slow moving projects, even with Joffrey throwing Guard manpower at them as fast as he could train it. No, it would be a few years yet before they could tap into the full potential of their Kingdom.

Until that day, they'd need foreign markets or risk choking their rapidly expanding industry.

"While such access to the Braavosi sphere brings risks, there's also opportunities to be exploited," she said.

Dyonnis arched an eyebrow, the Braavo uncommitted to the next bout.

"The entrance of another major player into the northern markets would expand prospective supply considerably," she said wistfully, "Perhaps even save the Sealord a headache or two."

His eyes narrowed and then swiftly returned to pleasant interest; she'd drawn blood. "If only. For every one struck down two more take its place. A usual state of affairs." Dyonnis was surprised, the parry sloppy as they left the stairs behind and leaned on an indoor balcony.

When the parry is weak, batter it down, her husband had whispered once; perhaps not too far away from Envoy Dyonnis' own house in the Secret City.

"Quite," she said, "Though in this case the relief would be well merited. Monopolies are such tedious affairs, don't you think? Weighting down the cogs of commerce and, well, who knows." She shrugged, "Perhaps even giving ideas to those involved."

She could see Dyonnis restructuring his mental model of her in real time, blue eyes stilled as the negligent grip on his iron ring turned white. She felt flattered, this was only the second time he'd done so in three years.

"Ideas that run oh so very against the Braavosi grain," she said as she twisted the blade without mercy; a professional like Dyonnis would understand. "We Westerosi have always known that too much coin can give man a… propensity for ideas considered beyond their station." She set off down the stairs by the other end of the indoor balcony, letting Dyonnis chew on that as his serenely-forced walking speed couldn't quite reach her side, leaving him half a step behind.

And why not? Who is to say the great wealth even now flowing into Marelos Hartios' coffers would not further appetite his renowned greed? Dominance of a single trade route could be enough to make a man a merchant prince; what then did half a dozen of them tied together in a single Sea make? A Merchant King, perhaps. What's the price of a coup in the Secret City? Sansa reckoned that was a question which both the Sealord and the Iron Bank didn't want answered. Dyonnis stiffened as she voiced those deepest of fears at the heart of every Braavosi; that the slanders of their enemies were to be proven correct, all the freedom and all the civility but a veil for naked ambition no better than that of their Valyrian rivals.

"The situation surrounding Master Marelos' northern acquisitions is being taken care of, I assure you," he said, voice clipped.

"I'm sure it is," she agreed easily, lingering by the Forum located within the eastern wing of the Silver Keep; a slightly lowered space with the form of a rectangle, and with plenty of steps for passerby's to sit. The endless torrent of acolytes who'd followed their Maesters from the Citadel had taken to using the Forum as a verbal sparring ground of sorts, which often made for free entertainment for the occasional visitor with a mind enough to follow. No matter the disagreement though they always ganged up on the poor apprentices from the Alchemist's Guild… those brave enough to show at least. Spectators agreed such verbal abuse should constitute murder.

She followed the debate with half an ear; something about different models of crop yields. Fortunately, the Maester with the Yellow Gold chain watching discreetly from behind one of the daeryan pillars seemed wise enough to copy when the discussion entered the realms of abstract mathematics. She smiled or shook her head at the appropriate times, one of the acolytes throwing his hands up and stomping off to 'further consult Maester Haedyn's work'. The Forum grew unfortunately silent, acolytes and apprentices giving her discreet looks. Those who had been waiting for their chance to debate stayed seated.

Sansa sighed. It felt alien, growing estranged from smallfolk and noble alike as their 'legend' grew. Putting her in a pedestal. Joffrey had it even worse, especially after the Sinking of the Sword and the awed rumors it had unleashed, but then again he'd lived through something similar several times before. She moved on, hesitant murmurs trickling back to life behind her. The sheer weight behind their preparations were throwing shade; worried whispers and wild rumors that spread like weeds. The mighty fist of the Royal Guard. The water-wheels and smokestacks of industry spreading through the Trident like brushfire. City shipyards laying down new keels as fast as the old ones left the harbor. Granaries filled to the brim even as extensions were built with royal coin.

The Kingdom was evidently preparing itself for the greatest war waged in living memory… but what enemy could be so terrible?

The silence within their own conversation grew strained until Envoy Dyonnis cleared his throat. "There have been some unfortunate complications, that I will not deny," he said, "We would be interested in hearing your thoughts regarding it."

Sansa didn't miss the 'We'. Negotiations were now open.

"I am not well versed in matters of coin," she lied with a twitch of her nose, so blatantly that Dyonnis couldn't help but give up a most un-Braavosi snort. "But to my understating a monopoly is based on the stranglehold of the goods provided. Which in Master Marelos' case means the resources of the Shivering Sea."

"That is so," said Dyonnis, fidgeting absentmindedly with his clasp of lapis lazuli.

"What then if access to the bounty of both the North and the Far North were to be barred to his captains? All the shoreline of this continent from the Haunted Forest to White Harbor blocked to his enterprises."

Dyonnis' hand stilled on his clasp, gripping it tight, "Such an act of blatant favoritism would be unthinkable," he said.

"Unthinkable for the authorities of the Secret City, mayhaps," she said. "However, such an act would hardly be out of character for us barbaroi, would it not?"

Dyonnis blinked, eyes glazed over as he ran through the implications. "You have the means?"

"Envoy Dyonnis," she said as she turned to him fully, tilting her head away even as she leaned closer, "My husband commands one of the largest fleets in the Narrow Sea while the people of this continent chant his name in the streets. My Father rules the North entire, and the Manderly's of White Harbor are his loyal vassals. As for the Far North, the army you saw outside has been wanting to stretch their legs for quite a while now." She took a deep breath as her eyes found his, "But most of all, I am Queen. If we decree the wealth of the North closed to the likes of Marelos, it will be so."

Envoy Dyonnis searched for the truth in her gaze. "I dare say the Iron Bank was unprepared for the next generation of nobility in the Sunset Lands." He gave her an eerie smile, "Let's talk details then, Queen Sansa."

The details proved lengthy indeed, and by the time she came out of the basilica the Third Regiment of the Royal Guard had already assembled on the plaza, formed up in blocks of shimmering steel under the late afternoon sun. Maergery regaled her with a flustered smile as she joined her along the steps, as if that had been her intent all along. "Prince Tommen was never here, was he?"

Sansa hid a snort, though not the mirth. "He's in the Vale with Joffrey right now," she said, and unlikely to return soon too. Setting the Vale in order was a chore compared to the many pressing tasks requiring their attention, but ensuring that corner of Westeros toed the line come the War for Dawn would save a lot of headaches for all involved.

"I see," said Maergery, her lips twitching into a ghost of a smile.

You really do. Sansa shouldn't have been surprised, Maergery knew futility when she saw it. We'll see if the message gets to Mace. She'd been of one mind with Joffrey on this; Maergery was not going to sink Tyrell thorns into the Heir Apparent. That meant, of course, giving the Tyrells another bone as both a consolation prize and a way into the dynastic alliance formed by most of Westeros at this juncture.

Which ties this neatly together, she thought. She regarded the assembled Guardsmen with their banners and hornblowers, halberds and drums. The crossbowmen carried wide tower shields on their backs, a tool they'd probably make plenty of use of in the months to come, though probably not against the enemy they were expecting.

"Proceed, Legate," she told Olyvar. He looked menacing in his full plate, though he'd long ago left his halberd for a Legate's sword. He gave her a quick nod and turned to address those assembled. It was uncanny how close they mimicked Joffrey's demeanor.

"Third Regiment," he said, and thousands of men straightened further still, a rumble of steel resounding within the low walls. "A wildling host numbering in the tens of thousands marches on the Wall, threatening to put our land to the torch!" He took a deep breath as he his gaze swept the ranks, his stride measured as he walked between his command staff standing on one side and the soldiers on the other; drums, flags, and officer's swords arrayed against the long necks of service halberds and the menacing covered wagons of the Strike Cohort. "Guardsmen of Westeros! What will we bring them!?"

"Blood and Mud!" they roared. They were almost the greenest of regiments, surpassed only by the still-training recruits of the Fourth, but what they lacked in experience they made up in enthusiasm; they'd joined after the by-now mythical victories of the Battle in the Mist and the Sinking of the Sword, their veteran trainers feeding them eagerly with tales and fervor. They were anxious to join such exalted legacy, to win a cognomen of their own even if their King would probably sit this one out.

They'll have to make due with just me, Sansa thought, and despite her best efforts a whimsical smile shone through her lips. She wondered how would the wildlings react to an offer of parley from the Queen of the Kneelers herself, of the line of the old Magnars of Winter? The Guardsmen turned about promptly as they followed the instructions of the centurions and the Cohorts started marching out. Sansa would join them the next evening, when they rendezvoused with the First and Second Regiments out past Brindlewood. Over thirty thousand professional soldiers would march north.

"Say, Maergery," she said with the air of a sudden idea, "Would you mind accompanying me for some of the trip North? We'd have all the time in the world to talk."

Maergery's smile was equal parts irritated and admiring. After all, to have the ear of the Queen for a month uninterrupted was a golden opportunity to push for the interests of her house. Sansa could see the calculation behind those wide brown eyes of her, trying to find the trap. If she'd found it, she'd considered it well worth the gain. "I'd be pleased to, Your Grace," she said with a small curtsy, their eyes meeting for a moment.

-: PD :-

She stayed up till late that night, searching for Daenerys through the Second Sight. It was an old habit she had trouble letting go, the vast expanse of the Red Wastes now familiar to her eyes. The trail had gone cold months after the assassination attempt, when she'd found Viserion's cream-colored carcass rotting under the shade of a nameless ruin. Still she searched for her, trying to get some sense of finality from it all. She felt she owed that to Daenerys, to witness the exiled Princess' own body dead in the sands and truly see what they'd ordered done. Not an apology… but perhaps an acknowledgment of sorts.

A knock on the cellar's door startled her, and she let the visions dissipate before calling out.

"Grandmaester Pycelle for you, Your Grace," said Ser Barristan as he peeked in.

At this hour? The Grandmaester had been steadily sidelined from power by the various Maester Committees the Crown had established during the past few years, and his influence had correspondingly waned even amongst those of his order. Pycelle hadn't been happy about that, to say the least, and Tyrion's quips about the matter hadn't helped either. "Let him in," she said.

The Grandmaester massaged his hands as he shuffled into the room, nodding at Ser Barristan before closing the door. The frail act did not fool Sansa in the slightest, but she was surprised by the smell of fear wafting from him.

"Queen Sansa," he said, nodding deeply as he hid his shaking hands within the folds of his robe, eyes feverishly darting around the room.

"Grandmaester. A strange hour for a visit," she said, leaning back on her chair as Lady perked up by her side, sniffing the air. She could smell the trace of Spicemilk in the Grandmaester's fingers… had Pycelle been scraping the bottom of his stash? His addiction to the potent stimulant was a double edged sword, and quick to betrayal when consumption was cut.

"It is indeed, hm, Your Grace," he said, thick drops of sweat lining his crown, "I'm afraid this is a most urgent m-matter."

Her skin tingled, Lady's fur standing on edge as she realized Pycelle was undergoing withdrawal. His chain was being pulled. "Your hidden master has cut off your supply," she said, her smile relaxed as she stilled within and the shadows around the room leaned towards her. His Citadel patrons –whoever they were- were forcing him to do this. "This must be urgent, then," she said as Lady rose to her full, terrifying height.

Two masters, Joffrey had told her, one hiding under the shadow of the other. And she was certain it wasn't Tywin's orders Pycelle was following right now.

Pycelle turned even paler, blinking in shock, "You knew? How"- he shook his head -"No, no matter." He took a deep breath, regret creeping up his voice, "I didn't want to. I really didn't- ah!" He held his temple with a trembling hand, "He wants to meet! He wants to meet you, Your Grace," he said as he tried to avoid Lady's gaze.

Meet? "If he wants to talk with me, he is more than welcome to do so," she said carefully, trying to pinpoint the wrongness creeping into the room.

Pycelle stuttered into silence as Lady growled and the shadows flickered. Sansa reared back in shock, the chair tumbling behind her as Pycelle clutched his head in pain. His moan was long and low, but when he straightened his eyes were as white as milk. "Well met, Queen Sansa," he said in an even tone, the shaking all but gone.

Sansa's question died in her throat, her mind open to the Second Sight as she saw beyond the Grandmaester. A mask and rod and ring, their pale surface reflecting Sansa's own face back at her with a burnished glint as a candle shined bright. They were made of Valyrian steel.

"Archmaester Marwyn," she said, "I should've known."

Pycelle bowed in admiration. "Your shadow trails long indeed. We've much to discuss, Your Grace," he said with a smile that was all yellowed teeth.

-: 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 Interlude: Mance. New

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Interlude: Mance.

"I don't like this, Mance," said Harma the Dogshead. The leader of his vanguard looked at him, and Mance regarded her with an air of cool nonchalance.

"I don't like it either, but you saw that army with your own eyes. That is not a battle we can win. At least not well enough to survive the true war."

"Already weak at the knees, Harma?" said the Lord of Bones, who sat by his other side.

She leaned on the table, scoffing at him, "How well do you think that rattleshirt of yours will handle a steel halberd? Or a crossbow bolt for that matter?"

"We've got the numbers," he said. The bone armor that gave him his name crackled as he leaned forward and smiled, "Let the kneelers try and fight without their leaders. See how fast they kneel to us."

"Enough," said Mance, his voice clear within the confines of the tent. Both of them simmered down, though they didn't even deign to look at him. The Free Folk loved their pride like a treasured steel axe; it was the last thing they'd ever part with.

Styr, Magnar of the Thenn, roused himself from the bear pelt we wore like a second skin, bronze scale armor glinting softly by the early morning's light piercing the tent. "Let's hear what they have to say," he said, cunning eyes missing nothing.

The last member of their council chose that moment flick the tent flap. "Big plume of snow from the south. They're coming," said Tormund Giantsbane as he walked around the empty seats towards their side of the table. "Getting out the finery, eh Mance?" he said as he knocked on the wooden table.

"And what would you know of finery, Thunderfist?" said Mance.

His laughter was fit to shake a mountain, and he sat with aplomb by Harma's side. "Fair enough, but she won't be impressed. I reckon she shits around better than this," he said, tugging one of the elk hides on the ground.

Mance grunted a smile at that, though his belly felt rotten. They'd set out for this parley on neutral ground, Mance's own guards few in number as a show of trust. A handful of Free Folk were also inside the tent, standing behind his own council; confidants or lieutenants of what the southrons would've called his vassals, though the term would've meant little to all but the Thenns. Bronze armored captains, scar-covered hunt leaders, and village matriarchs half blind from age but filled with wisdom. Mance was not unaware of the ways of the South, and knew how to project a strong front of his own. He didn't doubt the southron contingent would be just as numerous, though probably a lot more polished.

Tis' a sad day when all the Free Folk have left is mummery, he thought as he gazed back at them, putting up grim faces and stern postures. To voice that aloud would've seen the tent descend into fratricide in an instant, though all knew this for truth.

He let out silent huff, steam drifting up through the hole at the top of the tent and joining the rest of the sharp morning breeze. He was about to gamble absolutely everything on this, and not exactly by choice. The sight of over thirty thousand armored pikes on the Wall had been enough to send a fifth of his host scrambling back north, and only unleashing the Thenns on the most hysterical offenders had prevented his host from evaporating like so much piss on the snow. Now Magnar Styr had almost as much of a say as all the others sitting on this table combined, excluding Mance himself. For now.

All he had truly left were these negotiations, trying to seem stronger than what he was.

I've dealt with worse hands. The thought had turned distressingly familiar since he'd amassed a host of Free Folk unseen in living memory, but he feared his luck was finally at its end.

And now comes the royal party, he thought as he heard a commotion outside. The rumors he'd gathered during his brief visit to Winterfell had been contradictory. If this southron queen were an overconfident brat -fit to give them lenient terms despite her incredibly strong position- such leadership would see them all dead come the true war. On the other hand, the kind of Queen they'd need to win said war would likely see the Free Folk so diminished and humiliated at this parley that a battle would turn inevitable and they would all be dead come next light. All without the Others lifting an arm.

In a word, Mance and his people were fucked either way. The rest was a matter of degrees.

The guards outside the tent erupted in murmurs, soon giving way to shouts of surprise as a long powerful howl overpowered the wind. A surprise attack? He'd deterred his own but never even thought the southrons would do the opposite, such was their advantage. Mance flinched as if struck by an arrow, something large churning against snow as a low running growl reverberated against his chest.

"Mance?" said Tormund, standing up as those inside the tent grew restless.

The tent flap flew open and a direwolf the size of a horse trotted over the elk hide, leaving muddy paw prints all over it before coming to a stop in front of the table. Mance was not the only one standing up, though his hand did not fly to his pommel as most others' did. "Stay your hand, Giantsbane!" he shouted, mind racing as he beheld the frightful beast with sharp looking fur. It has to be warged, there's no other way.

Tormund held back his long axe by a hair, growling back at the beast in its own tongue as Harma hefted her spear and the rest readied for battle. Amber eyes stared back unimpressed, bits of frost and dew clinging to its rich fur; an ethereal mantle that worked to give the direwolf a fierce but regal presence. Mance realized there was someone riding astride it.

"Hail, Free Folk," said the woman in chainmail and snowfox furs. A crown of sapphires mirrored her gaze, though they lacked the grey edge that hugged the inside of her eyes like a gathering storm. "What news from the marching dead?" she asked as the storm focused on Mance, voice ringing within the tent.

Mance's silver tongue did fly then, the King stunned as bard's instincts thrummed. "They move like mist down the Haunted Forest; scouts and raiders clearing a path for the might gathering up further north." Mance licked his lips, a drily surreal tang to them. This was not the way this was supposed to go. "The dead prepare for war."

The rider took a deep breath, furs and mail expanding lightly before she dipped her head at him, "Then I, Sansa Baratheon nee Stark, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and heiress of the Magnars of Winter, call upon the ancient pacts witnessed before Stone and Tree."

Magnar Styr whispered in the Old Tongue, hands shaking for the first time since Mance knew him. Could this be a trap? Why? For what? She knows, he realized. She knows.

"We've a war to win and your force is on the wrong side of the Wall, King Mance." She gave him a wolfish smile as knights armored in silver and maidens wrapped in furs entered the tent and clustered around her, lords of the North and senior members of the Night's Watch taking their respective seats at the table. Already gazes were locked, centuries of bad blood itching for a fight as an old man festooned with chains whispered up at the Leader of the South.

Queen Sansa Baratheon nee Stark seemed confident as she dismounted, her direwolf sitting back on its haunches as she passed a hand under its jaw, the dew sticking to her fingers. "I think it's high time we rectified that."

"I think so as well, Queen Sansa," said Mance, taking his own seat with all the apparent confidence of the Fat King at his feast.

And thus, the parley began.

-: 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 Interlude: Lancel. New

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Interlude: Lancel.

"You really think it might have been a Stannis sympathizer?" asked Lancel.

Lev shrugged, old eyes trawling the collapsed tunnel before centering back on the Legate. "Dis' were good ones'," he said, thumping one of the collapsed pillars that peeked out of the rubble with a gnarled hand. "Good logs, solid. One? Maybe'. Three?" He shook his head.

Lancel kneeled, grasping a glittering piece of obsidian with a gauntleted hand. It seemed to drink in the light of the torches, a piece of blackness in his hand. "Stannis wasn't well loved in Dragonstone," he said.

Lev seemed to shrug, though it was difficult to tell due to the stoop in the old man's shoulders. "Some love' him. Few, true." His eyes swept up, and he stretched a hand over a horizontal oak beam, "Wouldn't take many too many to 'llapse one of these." He gave it a good thunk, and Lancel winced as dust drifted down.

"If you say so," he said, blinking the dust away.

"Couple men with sa-us," said Lev, "Leave it shy a breath from breaking, 'thun run."

Lancel stood up, his Guardsmen escort giving the other miners a suspicious look. It was kind of comical, seeing them strain their necks within the confines of the tunnel.

"We'll have to suspend operations for the day. Maybe tomorrow too," said Lancel as they walked back. It was a crying shame; the next cog should reach Dragonstone tonight. "Centurion Karvert will interview your men before we open up this shaft again."

"Inter-whu, my Lord?" said Lev.

"Interrogate," said Centurion Karvert, crossing his barrel-shaped arms as the tunnel turned slimmer still, "And it's 'Legate' or 'Ser'."

"Ah," said Lev, "Don't touch the hands thun'. Man needs hands to 'pick."

"No one's getting tortured," said Lancel, huffing as the ascent took a toll on his knees, "I'd say it's fifty-fifty whether these idiots even made it out the tunnel before it collapsed." He almost tripped over a slanted, timbered step, but managed to recover with a groan and the steady hands of the centurion. "Assuming it wasn't an accident anyway." He'd been neglecting field duties here in Dragonstone, and it showed by the speed of his breath.

Damn my cousin and his plans. Olyvar and the others must be battling the wildling host right now… and Joffrey had dumped him on Dragonstone to oversee 'war-critical supply efforts'. Lancel didn't care how allergic the White Walkers were to dragonglass, but this was a job for a Tribune. And if it had to be a Legate, why not Renfred? Lancel knew the Legate from Duskendale would have loved overseeing this pack of miners and petty ship-captains, pouring over ledgers and optimizing supply chains. At least Jon's stuck in the south too. Training the Fourth Regiment from what he'd heard; the thought of him sharing his misery made Lancel smile. Perhaps they could both sneak back to King's Landing for a day or two, have a good time in Chataya's. He snorted. That will be the day.

The end of the tunnel loomed ahead, clear skies now hid by a grey sheen. His nose prickled. "Is that smoke?"

"I think it is, Ser," said Karvert. They shared a look, then quickened up the pace, mail clinking against half plate as their eyes narrowed and the sun beckoned them forth. If someone burnt the timbers by the entrance, they could trap them all underground in one fell swoop. But they'd have to get past the soldiers there, thought Lancel, running faster as the half-dozen Guardsmen with him picked up the pace as well, the miners not far behind as the tunnel shook lightly. It was the second time it did so.

They emerged into a fiery inferno, a stuttering scream cut short by the roar of a collapsing barracks. Mining Camp Four had been set ablaze in one fell swoop, fire leaping sideways from a streak of carbonized rock that started right in the middle of the camp and ate house and tent, ending as abruptly as it had begun.

"Seven Above," whispered Lancel, eyes drifting past the carbonized corpses of the Guardsmen by the entrance. Has the Dragonmont erupted? Lev began hollering for a 'wucket' chain as Lancel sprinted past the scattered, dead-eyed survivors of this hellish wasteland. He reached the edge of the retaining wall, and gazed down from the slopes of the volcano.

A dragon was flying low over the docks; a jade-green arrowhead setting a trail of destruction as it raked claws through the harbor. One of the cogs from the Royal Trading Company was trying to get away, but its sails had already caught aflame. It blazed right in the middle of the bay as the dragon swept away, the fires creeping into town as bells tolled.

"You!" said Lancel as he grabbed one of the shaking Guardsmen, eyes wide as the cries of the burning town reached him. Can't be the Keep's rookery; obvious target. Think! "Run to- run to the western lookout point and send a raven for the capital! Tell them we're under attack by a dragon and that Dragonstone burns! Go!"

The man gave a shaky nod before taking off, and Lancel cursed as he saw the green dragon take another pass at the town, right through the middle of a crowded plaza. This is slaughter, he thought, indiscriminate slaughter. Smoke was billowing out past the curve of the Dragonmont, to his east. He'd bet a hundred silver stags that Dragonstone Keep was burning once again.

"Watch out!" shouted Karvert, the Centurion plowing into him a second before a great dark thing raked the side of the still smoldering wooden barracks next to them. Its claws tore a huge chunk of it, scattering a rain of rubble before landing in the middle of the camp. A second dragon; a great black beast bigger than a small galley, a mess of spikes and scales and screeching hate. Lancel and the Guardsmen took cover behind the hot rubble from the barracks, the wind carrying smoke and the scent of burnt men up the slope.

The miners screamed, running like headless chickens down the road to town as the ethereal figure atop the black dragon gazed in their direction. One of the Guardsmen almost ran too, but Lancel slammed him down by the shoulder, "HOLD! Hold damn you!" he roared in the man's face, sweat lining his sides. They stayed in place, Joffrey's drills for Receive Artillery the only thing keeping them glued to the ground.

The green dragon swept from the skies, strafing the running miners with dragonfire, turning every last man into a living torch before they made it a hundred paces down the slope.

"If you run you're dead men," said Karvert, his voice like steel. "They're not taking prisoners."

Bless you, centurion, thought Lancel. The half-dozen Guardsmen shared grim looks as Lancel peaked over the rubble; he saw Old Lev slinking back into the mineshaft like an eel, and Lancel swallowed a bout of hysterical laughter at the sight of the old willow contorting down the hole. His lips ran thin as he gazed at the long-haired girl mounted atop the black dragon. She seemed to hold herself up with a sort of regal demeanor despite wearing half-torn rags, a wraith in the flesh.

The black beast pivoted in their direction, ponderous stomps shaking the earth itself as the green one landed behind them with a harsh impact. Half its bulk leered over the retaining wall, its line of attack clear of obstacles.

Dead, thought Lancel, blinking a hundred times in a single second, straining backwards and covering his face for what felt like infinity before he realized he was not on fire, the green devil content to hiss at them with foul breath that stank of rotten pig. "I know you're there. There's no use hiding," came the melodic voice from the other side of the rubble, a calm warning as serene as a herald proclaiming the next guest in the list to the feast.

Lancel shared a look with Karvert, his heart out of control as one of the Guardsmen peed himself under the green dragon's sharp gaze.

"We'll have one chance, ser," said the Centurion, voice thick through smoke and fear for all that he strained to hide it.

A ridiculously small chance, thought Lancel.

"One chance's all the Crown demands of us," he said, the words coming out of his mouth in a single breath. It sounded like something Joffrey would have said, and he felt oddly pleased with himself.

"Right you are, ser," said Karvert, looking at the other Guardsmen. "It's do or die now, boys. Don't drop your manhoods yet."

"We're with you, ser," squeaked one of the Guardsmen, crushing rubble with his hands.

"Well Guardsmen," said Lancel, coughing so his voice steadied, "You know our words." His small retinue looked terrified out of their minds, but he held each gaze with his own, steadying them with a half-smile, "Keep breathing. Wait for the signal," he said.

The green dragon snapped its maw two times in quick succession. "We're coming out!" Lancel hollered.

They walked over and then down mound of rubble, slowly making towards the black dragon with upraised hands. They hadn't carried halberds down the shaft, but he had his sword, and the Guardsmen still had handaxes on their belts… for all the good they'd do.

They must have been ten paces away before the black dragon hissed in warning and they jerked to a halt, the silver-haired girl appraising them with violet eyes. "You're a brave one," she said, her voice hollow, "What's your name?"

Lancel's guts clenched. There was no use lying, his golden hair made it futile. "Lancel Lannister," he quivered, but his voice grew stronger with each word, "Legate of the First Regiment, Royal Guard of Westeros-" he took another breath, the words tumbling out -"On the service of His Grace King Joffrey of the House Baratheon, Silver Lion, Commander of the Royal Guard, and rightful ruler of Westeros Undivided." He shouted the last, pride and fear and adrenaline flooding his being.

"I see," she said, her voice laced with the same hollow sadness as before, not a flicker of anger or fury marring her delicate features. Her dead eyes drifted down Lancel's body, "You reminded me of someone. A knight every bit as brave." Her smile was brittle, trying to reach her hollow eyes for half a breath before it gave up. Lancel felt pierced by that grey stare.

I'm going to die.

The certainty of the thought surprised him, even as its content did not. He breathed out harshly, marveled at the crystal-like clarity of its constitution. The last time he'd heard the Song like that, the skies had turned red.

She looked at them for a long moment, blinking slowly as the smile was swept away with the smoke and the screams of people burning alive beyond the slope, the gentle autumn breeze their emissary.

"We won't kneel," he said.

"It wouldn't have mattered," she whispered as her eyes drooped and came closed.

"I see." Lancel smiled, looking at the scorched ground for a moment. In an instant he was charging, arming sword in his hand, "How does the Guard die?!" he roared.

They would have bellowed the answer even if it hadn't been hammered every morning during training. They carried it like a banner, screamed it in abject terror and reckless pride both, hefted it with swords and handaxes in a mad dash aimed at the murderess mounted atop a monster. Companionship did strange things to a man.

"STANDING!" roared the Royal Guard of Westeros, as if a little forest of stakes awaited them on the other side just past the dragon, red ribbons tied to their ends. They almost reached the black beast before it opened its cavernous maw, a hurricane of fire enveloping them like a storm, an endless tide of searing red.

-: 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 73: Prelude. New

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Chapter 73: Prelude.

The wind picked up something fierce, a hefty billowing of cloaks and coats despite the clear skies. The man with the Grandmaster's chain shuffled to a stop between the river bed and the line of silent sentinel pines marking the edge of the Haunted Forest, milky eyes turning towards her.

Sansa stopped by his side and flicked her gaze down to the snow, smelling of something old and not quite gone before the man wearing Pycell's skin kneeled and splayed his arms wide. A ragged breath later the wind was picking up again, and Sansa fastened a bit of errant red hair back behind her hood as Lady sniffed the ground delicately; an incongruous sight for a dire wolf that now towered over most ponies.

"Here," said Pycelle as he gazed up at her, still kneeling on the snow, not a trace of a shiver in his form. Sansa could feel it too, the Song warbled by the tiniest margin, a pinched scream within an orchestra of presence.

"Here!" she shouted, waving her wrist in a circle. The group of men trailing behind her spread out in a burst of motion, a racket of axes and shovels and clinking chainmail; Guardsmen from north and south digging out snow and hard earth with picks and shovels. Sansa and Pycelle walked the invisible line, a centurion with a ribbon tied spear following behind. They stood by the side of the incipient dig site, dead blue skies threatened by white clouds along the northern horizon. "Here," said Sansa.

The centurion's gaze rested on her a second beyond what was necessary, and then he rammed the spear butt first into the snow. "Start digging! Wheelbarrows at the front!"

"Another mammoth?" she asked Pycelle as the centurion trundled away, Lady laying down daintily on the snow.

Pycelle stood eerily still, milky white eyes half lidded. "Perhaps."

Sansa examined the bend in the river. It seemed like a good location for something; Joffrey would've called it good clean lines of approach, a defensible position. Sansa thought it made for a rather beautiful clearing; the snow crusted treetops were a fitting contrast to the half frozen eddies of the river lazily making their way south. It didn't feel like a mammoth.

"I'm thinking burial mound," she said. A solemn place for final rest. Perhaps her ancestors of ages past had thought it would help? Restless sights worked restless wills.

"If you say so, Your Grace. Your gaze's much more focused than mine." Possessed Pycelle's distracted flattery felt more genuine than even the most colorful of platitudes ever uttered by the real deal's, a fact that said a lot about both the old Grandmaester and the secretive Archmaester pulling his strings. Now literally as well as figuratively. The wind and the huff and puff of working men lent a private air to their little slope by the trees near the dig site; the vast expanses Beyond-the-Wall gave off a claustrophobic weight entirely suited to secrets uttered before a storm.

"Tell me, Marwyn," she said, "Did this counter-conspiracy of yours ever take direct action?"

Pycelle's milky gaze fell on her, "You ask if we ever murdered on behalf of magic?"

"Your words."

"Not since the Rebellion."

Such interesting contrasts. Earnest directness and oblique references. Archmaester Marwyn made for a professionally delicious enigma. "Who were the targets?"

"The conspiracy itself, of course," Marwyn said with a feline grin thoroughly at odds with Pycelle's face. "They'd grown careless. By the time of Robert's Rebellion magic was thought to have been slayed so thoroughly that any greater effort would've been considered a waste. Petty conjurers and fire-eaters would be allowed in the Citadels shining new world, if only grudgingly." Marwyn's eyes flicked to the grey horizon, its blanket presence covering the northern skies like a solid ceiling now growing closer. "Would an ant sooner stop an avalanche."

"They scaled down?"

Marwyn nodded, "A handful of Maesters and the odd Archmaester to 'keep the watch' so to speak. A far cry from the coin and influence that poisoned the Targaryen dragons over decades."

Must have made them an easy target.

The thought of the ever-helpful Maesters serving a hidden purpose beyond their oaths of non-intervention would've scared half the nobility in Westeros to death. Sansa found it hard to be surprised. She'd seen people sacrifice much more than the perpetual weight of a chain and come through with their ambition unscarred. Or stoked, even.

Sansa pursed her lips, "Did they have a hand in The Dance of Dragons?"

"Not exactly," said Marwyn, "You could say the Dance was what formed the conspiracy." He chuckled with dry heaves, "Magic had been frowned upon here in the Citadel since Aegon crossed the sea, but it was the Dance that provided both the impetus and the opportunity for grumblings to turn into whispers."

"And council to deceit," she said.

"And remedies to poison, wise Queen."

Sansa remembered the destruction unleashed by Daenerys' dragons in King's Landing across two different lives; hundreds of thousands burnt to a crisp in a matter of hours as the skies turned black with the ashes of the dead. Though her dreams were far less troubled than Joffrey's, sometimes she still awoke with the scent of the dying city clogging her nostrils.

A war waged on dragoback, she thought, countless towns and farmsteads laid to waste as Targeryen pretenders fight for the throne. She'd ordered Daenerys' assassination for far less, it would've been the height of hypocrisy to condemn the Maesters for reaching the same conclusions about magic itself. "I can't fault their motives, though their conclusions leave a lot to be desired."

Pycelle's smile turned mirthless as he returned to his patch of snow, brushing hands over it like caressing a dead lover. "Correlation does not equal causation. The most elementary of errors, mercilessly beaten out of overeager novices since the days of our founding." He shrugged, "Citadel politics tends to dull even the most gifted of minds, flipping sound principles upside down and turning the most inane ramblings into words of wisdom."

He has the heart of a teacher, Sansa realized. Beneath all the layers of intrigue and paranoia that had seen his faction survive and it's polar opposite die, Archmaester Marwyn spoke with the conviction of a man with a burning truth to share. Joff will take to the man instantly. "Is that why you secluded yourself in your studies?"

He didn't say a word at that, returning eyes to the approaching clouds.

Sansa let the silence lie, surveying the men's progress. A hefty mound of snow and dirt had sprung from the perimeter of stakes, the ground yielding beneath the furious pace of the dig crew. Mostly guardsmen with their ever-handy 'guardrakes' Joffrey considered the best invention since lemon pie, though she could spot the odd wildling here and there working for coin. Half of them were probably taking Mance's too, by the way they tracked her every move.

"They weren't the first ones to think magic sprung from dragons," she said after a moment. Nor the last. Pyat Pree and the House of the Undying were but another link in that endless chain that whispered hope to the hearts of the mighty. What was left of them at least.

"Most of the conspiracy disbanded after Summerhall destroyed what eggs the Targeryen had left, their mission accomplished but for a few to stomp the embers out," said Marwyn.

"But not yours." That was clear enough, judging by the manpower Marwyn had brought with him.

He brushed a speck of snow caught by Pycelle's beard, watching it fly away under the strong winds. "But not mine."

"How did you manage it?"

Pycelle craned his neck up as he closed his eyes, "By being more paranoid than them, a luxury our smaller numbers afforded us. It also helped that we felt no need to strike against the conspiracy's actions. Though we knew not about the true source of magic, we knew enough to tell the dragons were merely vessels of it, not creators."

"Steadily depleting vessels at that," said Sansa. Makes sense for the faction with the actual maegi. According to Marwyn, precious few Maesters with Valyrian steel links had joined the anti-magic conspiracy, and the rest of them had been considered too crazy or inoffensive to bother with, especially in the higher levels where all the Archmaesters of Magic seemed to do was stare dejectedly at unlit glass candles. It appeared that Archmaester Marwyn was but the latest in a long line of fatally underestimated wielders of the Valyrian rod and mask. It had the makings of a good lie, she thought; a bumbling and inoffensive front that would've played all too well against the conspiracy's preconceptions about magic.

"What did your faction do then?"

"Preserve knowledge," he said, smiling again, "And wait for the time to strike."

Sansa grunted. One strike Marwyn had already hinted at; the one on the conspiracy's last members during the waning days of Robert's Rebellion. The Targeryen's grasp on the throne broken, the Pyromancers discredited and their leadership decimated… the anti-magic conspiracy must have been sitting back enjoying the spectacle, their guard at an all-time low and perfect for a well-executed strike from a foe they knew not, a blow strong enough to purge them root and stem. The other strike never happened, but Sansa suspected what it could've been. It would've been trivially easy for Marwyn to warg into Pycelle as he was doing now and poison the entire royal household, if her or Joffrey or Tommen or whoever was wielding the crown proved herself anathema to magic. It explained the odd subject matters Pycelle had been ordered to spy on by his master during the years.

Pure unbridled surprise was a rare emotion nowadays, and Sansa allowed herself to bask in its presence one more time. She wondered how the Archmaester's efforts fare across her lives…

Whatever balance Marwyn and his followers added to the forces of the living, it had been too little or too subtle to catch her or Joffrey's eye. It certainly would've made sense for them to operate discretely under rulers who still distrusted or dismissed magic; that meant all of them, with the possible exception of a Stannis who still trusted in Melissandre of Asshai and her shadow magic.

Luckily for Marwyn, the Queen of Westeros had been all too eager to welcome them into the fold; being a sorceress herself, she dared say her views on magic were enlightened enough. To their vague warnings of waxing magic and shadows Beyond-the-Wall, Sansa had responded with the truths of the Red Comet and the Cycle, her honesty and vast knowledge of the threat to come earning her the trust of Marwyn's little faction. There were not many of them; Valyrian-link wearing maesters who'd headed little shadow cabals parallel to the rest of the Citadel's structure, no more than a score or two. Most were guiding their own dig crews right now, working their way from the Wall northwards and greatly accelerating progress on this part of the grand plan.

"We found one!" called out a soldier.

"One here! Rotten structures too!"

"Three! Man-like!" called another one.

"A burrow," said Marwyn, dipping his head at her.

"Mammoths sleep more easily than men," she said.

"Burning pit here!" shouted the centurion in charge of the dig detail, "Pile 'em up! You know the drill people!"

Logging teams were already lighting up the pits as more and more corpses were excavated, their remains tossed to the fires as the ancient burial mound was torn open with no respect for the dead. None would be shown in turn, when the dead march on the Wall in due time. The fires reflected orange on the snow, silhouettes warbled by the flickering whims of the bonfires. The work was methodical but tinged by haste, an unnamable dread spurring the working shadows like a slave-master. In the south these very men would've grumbled and expected explanations behind the seemingly useless task, but out here there was not a single outburst, not a single look evaluating the chances the Queen had gone mad. They could all feel it, an amorphous doom hanging like a sword from a frayed string, vital preparations of a kind with those in the south, Seven Kingdoms morphing into One to receive something men knew not. Something ill-fitting. Something dark and terrible that smelled foul in the wind.

Sansa narrowed her eyes, looking north as Lady sniffed at the sky. The clouds looked heavier. Ill. She scratched her elegantly trimmed fur as they tried to name their unease.

Lady whined, and Sansa redoubled the petting. "I know, Lady. I know," she said, biting her lower lip. Those storms of ice and snow were becoming more and more frequent as the weeks passed by, and proving remarkably resistant to the Second Sight. Sansa didn't know if they were a work of the enemy or some sort of atmospheric phenomena unleashed by the approach of the Red Comet, but there was something about this one that set her teeth on edge.

The men were almost ready when Lyra's horse came into view. There had never been a strict hierarchy amongst the tightest core of her handmaidens, but here Beyond-the-Wall some unspoken consent had formed around the Mormont girl and the fearsome bear etched over her chestplate.

"What news, Lyra?" she said.

She gave Pycelle-Marwyn a dubious frown, then flicked a hand south. "Mance's at camp waiting for you. Seems like another row with the Night's Watch."

Sansa sighed. "Sir Brienne," she called out to her escort of the day, watching from a respectful distance away. "Bring us the horses would you? We're needed back at camp."

She gave her the salute of the Silver Knights before trotting away for the horses, past the line of guardsmen drinking the river's cold water in tiny sips lest they freeze their own throats solid. Crystalized snowberries still clung to stubborn thistles, beady red leaves half-shy and gazing sunwards. Was the Comet close now? It hanged above her mind like a Yi-Tish lantern, some days faraway like autumn breeze; others close to her cheek like a searing sun.

It felt restless today, it's gaze like heatstroke at noon.

Brienne returned with four horses and Sir Hendry Bracken in tow. "Nothing around the perimeter, Your Grace," said the short and stout knight. "Not even a half-starved fox."

"They're smarter than we two-legs, good sir," said Sansa, mounting up.

"More clouds rushing in from the north-east," said Sir Brienne, her horse turning in two little circles before she shushed it a well-placed hand. "Looks like a storm."

"Get everyone back to camp," said Sansa, "And let's see what the Free Folk have to say."

The five of them rode south, following the river. They were a few hour's ride away from the Wall and yet still it loomed large over the horizon like a long drawn curtain. If anything was capable of stopping the grey clouds consuming the northern skies, the Wall looked like it.

"Do the storms call out in fair Tarth as well?"

"Your Grace?" said Brienne, their horses chucking away snow with mighty plows as they followed the serpent-like tracks south.

"Do they howl like they do here?" said Sansa.

Brienne leaned back on her horse, silver cape fluttering under another breeze. "Sometimes, Your Grace."

Sansa guided her horse around a bigger mound, dead leaves trapped by the building snow before they could fly away. "Do they sound violent to you?" she said.

Brienne opened her mouth as if to answer immediately, but the gently falling snow fogged her breath. "No," she said after a while. "They were –are- big and mighty things. But…"

"Not like this?" said Pycelle, his voice rasping like sandpaper.

Brienne shook her head, looking back over her shoulder and the oppressively grey ceiling.

"Stop spooking the earnest silvers," said Lyra, jutting her chin at Sansa. "Me, Sansa dearest? I'm all too happy for a runny blizzard to cozy a fire against." She winked at the Queen, "And many a warm brave guardsman to keep us shy maidens safe."

Sir Hendry cracked up, against his will by the looks of it. "Lyra!" said Sansa, hiding a chuckle with a sleeve as Sir Brienne turned the color of baked tomatoes. Even Pycelle-Marwyn had a lopsided grin that was too long.

"The North loosens up my tongue," she said, "What's a poor bear do with so much snow?"

"Shush you," said Sansa, "You're supposed to be used to all this."

Lyra rolled her eyes, hips swaying restlessly as her horse plowed through another snowbank. "Not this," she said, "No one's comfortable in this but those tame wildlings of yours."

Marwyn spoke up with uncharacteristic force, "You're certainly doing better than some other, frailer flowers, my lady of Mormont."

Lyra just shook her head, ignoring the possessed Grandmaester with a grimace.

Smoke rose past the next bend as they cleared a line of struggling birches, the scent of men and sweat barely clinging past the chill. They had made good time to the camp, nestled within another river bend and surrounded by trenches and palisades. A considerable fraction of the Third Regiment had made a home out of the clearing, using the stout trunks of the Haunted Forrest to apply everything they'd finished learning almost six months ago. Pit traps and communication trenches lined the approach before turning into log parapets and crossbow nests, red-faced scouts standing up and saluting in haste.

Guards called out from watchtowers and gates swung open as they rode past the palisade and into the encampment, ordered rows of tents and pavilions channeling their horses to the center as men moved about with purpose.

I hope I don't have a rebellion in my hands, Sansa thought. It had become an alarmingly common train of thought these past few weeks.

-: PD :-

The southron flower was good at what she did, he wouldn't deny it. Mance had been wined, dined, treated, and even confided upon all in little less than two hours. While outside in the snow her petals shriveled and died, inside a tent with a hearty fire going Lady Maergery of House Tyrell seemed in her element, never a need untended or a secret kept. All in the service of her liege, no doubt, a fact that didn't keep Mance from enjoying her company or her generously tight bodice. Good courtiers swindled you without you noticing it; great ones did it and made you thank them for the privilege.

Still, all pleasantries must come to an end, and he found himself having weathered the experience with his secrets relatively unscathed as the Lady Maergery opened the tent flap and announced Queen Sansa. Thenn princesses had been surprisingly adept at what the south called 'the game', and he had not been without practice in that front.

"Mance. A pleasure, as always," said the Queen.

"As to me, Your Grace," said Mance, bowing respectfully. Here, hidden beyond the eyes of most, they sat like old allies around a small round table as Maergery served them cups of Tyroshi pear brandy, the better to ward off the cold.

"What's this I hear about a hanging?" asked the Queen.

"Some idiotic row over one of Moletown's wenches," said Mance, not bothering to hide a sigh. Some things never changed. "Free Folk were killed. One of Harma's."

"I'm guessing this gets better," said Sansa, taking a sip from her silver goblet.

"The brother from the 'Watch that did the deed. Two of Harma's folk cut his throat before the Old Bear could intervene. Now Mormont wants to hang them both, says he'll have a mutiny otherwise." He didn't have to elaborate further.

"And you have to stop him else the Free Folk will revolt just as quick," said Sansa. They shared a long suffered look.

"Your presence would be appreciated back at the Wall," said Mance, tipping his goblet, "And your judgment."

Sansa nodded wearily before they set out to hammer a compromise, Maergery listening attentively like a pupil at the side of her teacher. It wouldn't be the first time the Queen's attention was diverted back to the simmering tensions around the Wall. The deal they'd brokered out mere months ago still had the Northern Lords on the edge of rebellion, despite the many, many concessions the Crown had given them in exchange for settling the Free Folk. Negotiations had been fierce, cut-throat to the point even the Lord of Bones had been impressed. The Free Folk had been spread out between homesteads around the Neck, the Gift, and the western shores of the North in clumps too small to threaten the region's integrity in the long term, but even that had left the 'kneelers' on the edge of rebellion.

Even months after the fact and showered with coin and influence by the Crown, pacifying the lords had turned into a full-time job for the Hand, and Mance's own end of the deal had scarcely fared better. Unfortunately for the Queen, sending in the Giantsbane to bust skulls until the dissenters agreed would not have works so well on her people.

At least me and mine are up front about their grousing, thought Mance. Most of the time.

"Lord Karstark still giving you trouble?" the Queen asked him. My Queen now. Best get used to it.

"Not much by now. He's thick as thieves with Roose Bolton nowadays, and sometimes almost as quiet."

Sansa frowned, "Something will have to be done."

Mance shivered. Something indeed.

They kept up the discussion, though it looked like both of Harma's boys would spend the rest of the year sweeping snow out of the Wall's battlements. He wasn't sure he'd prefer that outcome compared to a hanging, at least the latter didn't have a chance of freezing your cock off. Mance shrugged, at least it'll settle Harma's chieftains. The Old Bear wouldn't complain much either, it was free labor for some of the most dangerous work up there.

He took the opportunity to examine his nominal Queen once more, careful blue eyes edged by grey, snowfox pelt hugged close to the neck as a direwolf howled outside. She was a skilled negotiator, equally at home with bluntness or coyness. But then again, Mance was no mewling babe either. More unnerving by far was the way she'd taken to threat of Walkers in the Night. Mance had expected many things out of his warnings to the South; shock, derision, fear. But an army already fortifying the Wall? Never.

Her tame flower drunk it all in as they negotiated, mind whirling behind those lively green eyes as she poured in the brandy without prompting. There was a play of the Magnar Queen's making there, though the same could be said of almost everything around her. Bet she's trying to foist her on Robb Stark's bed, thought Mance. The young heir of the North had been seated right beside the southern flower, back during the feast in Castle Black. His knowledge of the deeper south was rusty with age, but Lady Maergery's House must be rich indeed going by the sight of her dress.

Sansa stopped speaking all of a sudden, something catching in her throat. She craned her head to the side, hands gripping the table white.

"My Queen?" said Maergery.

A direwolf howled outside, a long deeply held thrum which rattled Mance's chest like a war drum. Sansa's eyes snapped to the entrance as the warged Maester burst in, his breath freezing.

"I know," she said before he could speak up, standing up and almost running out the tent. Mance was already on his feet, following her outside against a hellish wind buffeting the small fort from the north. The cold wind skimmed over the camp, a jagged many-fingered hand stabbing past skin and bone. It felt familiar.

The three of them and her two Silver escorts followed her through clusters of camp-followers and off-duty guardsmen, her steps faltering sometimes only to pick up again, zeroing in on some unknowable thing as the direwolf howled again, this time closer.

"Your Grace?" said one of the sentries around the big pit. It sloped down for several steps before revealing a half-buried mammoth surrounded by a dig crew hard at work, picks and shovels marking a steady rythm. Off-duty soldiers jeered at the workers as they passed the time on the timbered railing surrounding the pit, while another group sat with a bunch of Free Folk under a half-tent with a lit brazier, some sort of dice game by the looks of the table. They better not cheat and force me to come back again. He'd grown to like the presence of the Wall on his back again, especially during times like this.

The Queen seemed as if in a trance, staring at the mammoth with eyes disbelieving. Lady was down there, growling at the frozen bones.

"What's going on?" said Mance, a dread certainty clutching him harder than the grip on his sword. He'd lived through this wind before. Still dreamt about it, gripped in nightmares no Free Folk ever laughed at no matter how shrill the screams in the night.

"It's too soon," she said, faint shivers running up and down her back. "Too soon," she whispered.

The warged Maester seemed caught in the grips of ecstasy, milky eyes wide as he gazed up at the storm clouds running over the horizon like a charging Shadowcat. They were closer now. "I never thought… I… Such power…" His eyes drifted downwards as if coming down from scented herbs, down to the form of the half-buried Mammoth. It was stirring.

Sansa shoved the staring guardsman aside, sliding down the muddy slope as the dig crew turned to look at her. One of them stumbled back, muttering in confusion as the bag of bones they'd been digging up shook. Mance looked on, paralyzed as the bones crackled and snapped into movement, whispers turning into shouts as the thing called out; a wheezing trumpeting erupted from deep within the shuffling corpse.

"It's alive!" screamed one of the guardsmen as the thing slowly tore its legs out of mud and snow, a lumbering giant amongst men rising from the pit with tusks that gleamed under dead skies.

"No," said Sansa, a hand under its jaw. Something rippled over the surface of the awakening bones, something heavy that bored a pit in Mance's stomach. It was gone just as quick, the mammoth crumbling like a sack of spilled radishes.

The silence around the pit was deafening, rushing blood hammering Mance's ears. He realized he'd taken his sword out.

"Sansa?!" called out the legate now by Mance's side, gazing down the pit.

"Olyvar," said the Queen, "It's them."

Color drained from the legate's iron face, voice tight as he grabbed the guardsman by his side, "Man the walls and bar the gate."

"Sir?!" said the soldier.

"Now!" roared Olyvar, raising his voice as he gazed all around him, "Sound the bells! To arms Third Regiment!"

The silence's death was sudden. Like a coiled spring the guardsmen erupted into frenzy all around Mance, hollering for bolts and halberds as shallow bells began ringing like mad. Legate Olyvar was giving orders as fast as he could give them, sending runners and tribunes running in all directions. "Where?" he asked Sansa as she climbed the pit.

"North-east," she said, turning to face the dig crews, "Hack it apart! Leave no bone whole!" They didn't need to be told twice after what they'd seen, tearing the corpse apart under a rain of blows.

"They used the storm for cover," mused the maester, "They grasp tactics."

"And ambushes," said Mance. The Free Folk knew that much. "If it's really them they'll try to swarm us quickly and be gone with the corpses by nightfall."

"Sansa," said Olyvar, "The Great Council is still a year away at least. The men don't know-"

"We'll have to make due." She seemed thoughtful for a moment, "It can't be a whole army or we would've seen them sooner. By scout or Second Sight," she said as she gazed at the maester.

"A raiding party?" asked Olyvar, but he shook his head as soon as he'd spoken. "More than that, but less than an army," said Olyvar.

"Strike force," said Mance. He didn't like the smell of this.

Sansa frowned. She placed a hand on his pauldron, "You've trained them well, Olyvar. Trained them for the true war. Go hold the walls and show the men what it'll take to win the war to come."

He took a deep breath, putting a hand over hers, "Thank you." In a moment the boy was gone again, replaced by the legate. "I'll see to the defense."

"What could they possibly want from us? A few dug up barrows shouldn't merit this kind of retaliation," said Mance. Not even evacuating the Frostfangs had mustered this kind of response, he thought as he gazed at the approaching snowstorm covering the forest.

"I think they have something very much in mind," said the warged-man, milky eyes fixing on Sansa, "What's the single most dangerous threat to their plans for the south?"

Sansa looked troubled, "They shouldn't be exercising this kind of initiative. Not so soon." She cursed as they walked amongst the scrambling men, "Maergery, send a raven to Castle Black. Tell them we're under attack and to send what riders they can."

The southern flower looked pale, blinking against the freezing dew stuck on her eyelashes, "Under attack from what?"

"Walkers," said Mance. Quick thinking on the Queen's part; if their enemy proved too numerous then the only relief that would get here in time were the Lord Hand's cavalry still stationed around Castle Black or patrolling the Gift. But the Hand's in the Dreadfort right now, he thought a moment later. Who would rally the lords now?

Maergery shivered, looking at him in disbelief. She made a sharp contrast to the silver knights who'd arrived just now armed and armored for battle; they greeted his statement not with surprise but with stoic nods. Interesting…

"I'll explain later," said the Queen, "For now do as I've said."

She curtsied quickly before running for the fort's rookery, and almost crashed against a messenger running the opposite way. "My Queen!" he shouted, breathing raggedly, "News from King's Landing!"

"Now of all times," she said, grabbing both small scrolls and opening the first one. "This one's late. The autumn storms must have slowed the raven…" she trailed off as she read the missive, "She can't… I would've seen…" shock gave way to dismay as she held one hand tight to her mouth. "Lancel… that mad bitch!" She tore the second one open, eyes frenzied as she read it once, twice, and then three times.

Mance shivered at the thought of what could shake the Queen when the dead could not, the characteristic twang of loosed bolts coming from the pallisade. "My Queen?" said Sir Brienne, grasping her arm lightly, "Are you alright?"

Sansa crumpled the letter in her hand, a hysterical chuckle bubbling up from her throat before dying just as swiftly. Perhaps for the first time since he'd met her, Mance saw horror in his Queen's eyes. "Gods damn you Joff…" she whispered as the shredded missive blew away with the wind, "Of course it had to be fucking Harrenhal."

-: 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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Chapter 74: Trial.

Spoiler: Music

The line tensed, something desperate shaking it in circles before it snapped entirely, the rest of the fishing rod whipping up straight again with a thwack. Joffrey changed the wooden reel, the procedure reminding him of Jhala's sandy beaches . The Trident kept up its constant murmur as he worked, its muddy banks alive with the chirping of beady-eyed beetles and pot-bellied frogs lazing about under the morning sun's kiss.

The marching boots behind him did their best to mar the peace and quiet though, keeping up their constant shuffle as he sat down on a bed of straw. That lockstep waddle hadn't stopped for the last half-hour.

"Uncle, won't you sit?" said Joffrey.

"Yes. Yes! Why shouldn't I sit?!" Tyrion said it as if it were the best idea in the world, one that had just occurred to him, "Perhaps you could teach me, oh Fisher King. I'd make a good piece of bait at least!"

Joffrey smiled, but the chuckle didn't rise up. "I'd like to, one of these days," he said, checking the other fishing rod by a nest of stones, its string lax as the currents swayed it lightly. No catch there.

Joffrey settled back on the straw, staring at the bubbling currents close to the banks. They turned swifter closer to the center of the river, though you wouldn't tell by the looks of it. Though on the surface the Trident seemed placid enough, down below its currents were of such strength they could carry a drowning man as far as the God's Eye without a gulp of fresh air. "We've done what we could. What else is to worry about?" he said as he leaned back, using a mossy rock as a back rest. Stray clouds bathed in the light of dawn as they sailed their way east; a red day.

"One of the transcendent wisdoms of rebirth, I suppose?"

Joffrey snorted, "I guess you could say that."

Tyrion huffed as he finally sat by his side, hands tapping his thighs. "I need another drink," he said as he eyed his empty wineskin mournfully, "Might as well sit down, Sandor. And share while you're at it."

Sandor sat by Joffrey's other side, mail and plate clinking as he struggled to find a comfortable position at the tip of a mean-looking rock. At Tyrion's meaningful glare he threw him his wineskin like a leather ball.

Tyrion grunted under the impact, a muffled "Thank you," coming from his direction before he gulped down half the thing in one fell swoop. Joffrey snatched it away before he could finish the job.

"Uncle, be responsible would you?"

"Responsible?!" He spluttered specks of wine all over Joffrey, "That's a bit rich, don't you think? Richer than my lord father's privy I say."

Joffrey frowned, looked at the wineskin. He shrugged before taking a big gulp himself, hoping it would quell the steadily widening pit at the base of his stomach. Truth was, Joffrey wished he were as calm as his uncle thought him to be.

They passed the while circling the wine, the fishing rods silent but for the river's gentle murmur. Joffrey took a deep breath, tracing the eddies carrying wide leafs both red and green. Like ships they sailed with the currents, circling and tumbling into temporary squadrons, great fleets of nature sailing for the Narrow Sea at the far end of their journey. The gnarled oaks that lined the Trident waved their branches at the sky, spilling more passengers unto the river as they trembled under a sneaking wind that sneaked past the senses. It was hard to notice it at first, but once you put your finger on it that constant breeze turned impossible to ignore, a niggling reminder caressing the skin. Autumn's Kiss, the smallfolk of the Riverlands called it.

"It means something to you," said Tyrion, staring at the leaves as if trying to work out a puzzle. He tapped the muddy banks idly, "This place."

Sandor grunted agreement.

"What makes you say that?"

"We stopped here on the way back south. One of the few days you didn't lead the Guard on training." He shrugged, "You stared at it the whole day instead. Lancel…" he trailed off, "He joked it was your seventh squad."

Lancel. The name was like a cold dagger slipping unseen. Only a couple of seconds did one notice the wound.

Joffrey picked at his hands, cleaning bits of dirt from his fingers, "I suppose it does."

The silence turned from companionable to expectant. On a normal day they might have glimpsed fishermen plying their trade, or ferrymen punting their way south with barges filled with grain. Alas news had spread far and wide, of the challenge given and the challenge accepted. Far from clustering near the site to decide the future of Westeros, the smallfolk had fled instead. Riverlanders had developed a nose for avoiding trouble; it would've been hard not to, with your land put to the torch in one war or the other for the past three millennia.

Tyrion broke first. "What great insights has it bestowed upon you then, nephew? What blessed wisdom can you share with us mortals?" he said with the beginnings of a smirk. His nonchalance lay betrayed by the way he stared at the swirling waters, the faint tremor of his legs. "These are blessed waters, right?" he turned to Sandor, "The God's Eye is pretty blessed, or so I'm told."

"It'd be blessed if we were downriver from there," said the Hound, sniffing loudly. "Not that you'd tell," he said before turning to Joffrey. "Spill it."

Joffrey sighed. It was hard to express, like painting a canvass with only water. Strange that something so trivial compared to the Long Night and the Purple seemed a hundred times harder to put into words. "This place. It's a lodestone. A fixture," he said, frowning at the currents.

The shrick of whetstone against steel drew Joffrey left. "I'm not following," said Sandor, eyes on his blade as he sharpened it again.

"Nymeria bit my arm here," he said, grasping a bit of mud, "During my very first life. I'd taken to pummeling some butcher's boy and Arya's direwolf jumped in to defend them. Mycah, I think he was called."

Tyrion's brow shot up, "You don't remember the name of Ibb's greatest trade-monger but you remember the name of some butcher's kid you once took a stick at?"

"It was a blade," he said before shaking his head, "And that's not the point." The river kept apace, the multitude of fish ignoring his fishing rods with frustrating consistency. Joke was on them though, most would be caught by the nets near Riversteel. "Sansa almost drowned here once, did I tell you that?"

Sandor scoffed, "Past these shallows? What'd she do? Dunk herself in?"

Joffrey smiled, "She kind of did." He breathed with the old memories, the sun's kiss and the Trident's freezing grasp that pulled him down no matter how hard he dragged Sansa towards the banks. How could he feel nostalgic about times filled with angst and uncertainty, the time of a boy struggling to accept the task ahead of him.

"So, the river's dangerous. Suppose's some wisdom in that," said Tyrion, tilting his head from side to side, "Very old wisdom. Practically nothing new."

Joffrey chuckled, the brooding weight somehow lighter for a moment, "We planned here, later on. Hatched the seeds of a hundred plans. Kissed a lot too, and hid in the brambles when Arya came snooping." One of the fishing rods tensed again, but was gone before Joffrey even moved, "Here, I think, was the place where I felt I could break away from the curse."

"The Purple?" said the Hound.

"No. Myself." He patted the mud, uncaring of the soil on his shins, "It was here where the Starks peeked at my true self for the first time… The first truly hideous nightmares caught steam around here as well, fear of wolves, of the north, death, of never ending pain." He huffed; those fears seemed so distant now that the fate of the Seven Kingdoms balanced on a string. A string which would be cut today, one way or the another. "Later on I spent afternoons talking about mountains with you Uncle, or training with Sandor," he said as he smiled at the Hound. The echo of what might be called an answering smirk lay on his face, and the sight brought joy like few things had in Joffrey's many lives. "Every time I changed, this place remained the same. A mirage with a thousand memories. A crossroads. Some temporal resting place on the never-ending road to change, to being."

Joffrey stretched forward and washed his hands in the waters, "A thousand Aryas playing around with that butcher's boy. All asking me the same question."

Sandor looked thoughtful, his burnt face lopsided. "'Who are you?'" he said at the same time as Joffrey. The Hound's eyes lay half lidded, his words slow to come. "I've never lived more than this life," he said, though at Joffrey's pout he relented, "And remembered any of it at least. But for me it was always that fucking brazier."

They stayed quiet, Sandor's mouth twitching as if wrestling with itself, "Everyday that damned brazier. The servants never lit it again, must have pitied me or some shite." He spat the words slowly, "Gregor never minded the cold, but looking back I'd rather they'd lit it every night."

"Better to face the real deal than shadows out of nightmares," said Tyrion. He closed his eyes, hand over his forehead as he breathed slowly. "I wish Uncle Gerion were here."

"You'll see him again," said Joffrey, the wind picking up as the oaks spilled their bounty in a whirlwind of red and yellow.

"Maybe," he said, dawn's early light now covering the river in full, the leaves reflecting back its gaze.

Jon emerged from the path behind them, his horse's hooves squelching against the mud. Joffrey turned to look at him and found his legate's gaze somber. "She'll be here soon," he said, "A semaphore station on Crackclaw Point spotted her flying north-west."

"It's time then," he said as he stood up, dusting away the bits of mud clinging to the comfortable riding leathers, the fishing rods forgotten. They managed to get on the horses and unto the Kingsroad before Tyrion couldn't hold it together any longer.

"Nephew, must you do this?"

Joffrey smiled grimly at him, the leaves riding with them as they cantered down the Kingsroad. "We've had this argument a thousand times."

"Madness," said his uncle, "Complete and utter madness. Just to be clear, you are with me on this one, right Clegane?"

Sandor grunted affirmatively.

"Thought so. And you Jon?"

A rare snarl escaped the legate's icy façade. "That crazy bitch killed Lancel. I say we open up with the stagrams as soon as she lands," he said before shrugging, "If she lands."

"She'll land," said Joffrey, "I'm not sure how far gone she's this time, but Daenerys always had a thing for symbolisms. A face-off against the Usurper's Spawn right in the middle of Harren's Folly?" He grunted with mirth he did not feel, "It must be tickling her Targeryen sensibilities silly." He aimed a chin at Tyrion, "Come on uncle, think about this rationally."

Tyrion looked at him mulishly. He'd repeated that request a hundred times both in the Small Council Chambers and in the occasional tavern; by now it set his uncle talking almost automatically. "I suppose it's also tempting from a practical point of view," he said grudgingly, the road following the river. "Why spend months burning keeps and villages when you can get the throne quickly instead." He raised his hands quickly as if defending himself, "Still a terrible, terrible idea."

"So the birds keep telling me," Joffrey said, keeping an eye to the finches flying overhead from branch to branch. He could tell when Sansa got his letter by the way a dozen woodpeckers had taken to battering his skull in the middle of the night. Joffrey smiled despite himself. The rebuke had been clear as day, but he wasn't backing away from this. It was a decent plan with a real chance of success. Definitely not his craziest one.

He frowned as he remembered the frenzied charge out of the Dawn Fort. That had been much more riskier than this. Hadn't it? Carcosa as well… He still wasn't sure that module had been worth the sacrifice, though he guessed he'd find out the answer to that soon enough.

They rode past another bend in the river, a clearing in the copse of strong-stemmed oaks revealing the ailing silhouette of Harrenhal. Scarred by dragonfire once already, its great towers seemed to lean precariously despite their great weight, hemmed in place by imposing black walls which were in turn dotted by tinier towers. The morning sun cast it's façade in orange, a ill-suited color to the soot-black castle, biggest of the Riverlands' Great Keeps.

"So, she'll land," said Jon, the God's Eye growing bigger as they approached both lake and keep from the north. The wind rippled it's surface, weirwood leaves circling in whirlwinds of red and confusing the leaping trout to no end. "Why aren't we flooding the courtyard with fire again?"

"It would break parley," said Joffrey.

"Parley?" Sandor's snort was monstrous. "Who the hells cares about parley?"

A subtle thrumming was itching its way up and down Joffrey as they rode for the gate, a sea of pins pressing against his gut and radiating outwards. Joffrey took a deep breath, swallowing the sticky sensation, "I want to speak to her first. There's a chance we could put those dragons to use against the Walkers this time." Joffrey kept going before the collective wave of scoffs could unseat him from his horse, "I know, I know. More importantly, there's factors at play we don't understand yet. For one, how the hells did she escape Sansa's sight? I don't fancy a surprise mid-duel."

"The world's pretty huge," Tyrion said as if explaining it to a child, "Dothraki hordes numbering in the thousands have pulled similar feats, why not two dragons flying high enough to be confused for birds?"

"Maybe," said Joffrey, weighting distance and rumor, all the various factors at work except for that which had tripped him so many times. "She survived within the Red Wastes somehow, and without Sansa's knowledge." And you didn't see how hard she searched, how intense her scrutiny. Her many portals had glittered like kaleidoscopes, so many different vistas cycling so fast, so many places watched for at once. Besides, hadn't Sansa told him there was something clouding her sight within the Red Wastes themselves? "There must be someone else in play. Or something."

Some of the Yellow Emperor's workings reportedly had the surviving members of the House of the Undying wincing in dread, but none of those had touched the Red Wastes, at least as far as Sansa knew. The Undying themselves were a non-factor after the Great Fire, and Asshai was keeping its eyes well to the north. But then who?

Could they have gotten to her? The dread in Joffrey's stomach grew. Could she have listened for the silence and not the song?

He shook his head clear, trying to dispel the growing anxiety. Never before had he feared death as much as when they rode past the looming gates of Harrenhal, it's portcullis a serrated maw with little longships for teeth. At least back in Carcosa, when impatience overrode good sense, he'd been with his wife. How would she fare if he were to fall here?

He imagined that war as he nodded at the few guardsmen in plain sight, the cave-like gatehouse stretching on and on and on until they were back under the sun again, Harren's ruined courtyard bigger than a small town by the other side. One dragon Sansa could manage, assuming she got as close as possible without getting burnt to ash. Two dragons at the same time… maybe. Joffrey shook his head. Even then, without himself the weapon that was the Purple would be impossible to activate.

Moonlight neighed as they cleared a few scattered supply wagons from the Guard, all empty. Joffrey had to keep a tight grip on the reigns, to keep the canter stately instead of panicked else this whole endeavor might collapse as everyone broke and ran. Keep it steady, he thought, searching for the elusive peace he'd brushed near the Trident in what already felt like hours ago. Instead he kept seeing Sansa's burnt body, the Red Keep drowning in the dead before she set it on fire. She'd keep the Kingdoms together, he thought. That she would. His fierce and brave Sansa, drawing out the Long Night and reaping a bloody toll on the Walkers; she'd be a legend as bright as the Night Lion and the Maiden-made-of-Light… if anyone were left to remember. A deep sigh escaped him, Moonlight trying to speed up again as he reigned the horse back.

It would never amount to more than a doomed rearguard action, for without both parts of the Purple and its Connector, the power at the source of the Red Comet could not be contested.

"Madness," Tyrion said again, eyeing the many pieces of rubble strewn about the courtyard, some of them bigger than a carriage. The Guard siegemen had done just as he'd commanded, collapsing one of Harrenhall's five great towers unto the courtyard itself and spewing its stony guts everywhere. The enormous stone bricks made for broken terrain; perfect for covering a fast-moving attacker against a bigger opponent.

"I've done it before," Joffrey said as they cleared the stables and the deserted smithy, riding for the cluster of nobles waiting expectantly near the middle of the grand courtyard. He forced himself to breathe regularly, at a rhythm with the waves of the Sunset Sea so far beyond, moving like titan dunes made of water and seaweed.

"What, in Valyria?" Tyrion scoffed, "Because that worked out so well."

"The Red Keep too," he said, voice quieter.

"Indeed, and you got mauled so badly you would've bled to death if Viserion hadn't roasted your guts for you."

Joffrey grimaced, "It wasn't so bad."

"Those were your words," said Sandor.

"Look," he said as he reigned in his horse. They stopped around him, their faces tight and grave. Sandor hadn't lifted a hand from his pommel since they'd left the river bank, eyes fixed on him at all times. Jon was trying so hard to copy Ned's icy façade Joffrey feared his face would crack in half, his legion plate quivering in fear or anger or both. The most gut wrenching was Tyrion's; lips tight but eyes watery. Joffrey had never before seen him like this, one swift breeze away from shattering like glass. His uncle looked like on the edge of tears.

The sight was like a punch in the gut, bittersweet so sharp it left him blinking as fast as he could. They cared about him. Him. Not the King. Not the Crown. Joffrey. Just Joffrey. Let Westeros burn as they hoped for a lucky arrow; anything but seeing their friend burnt alive before their very eyes. So long had Joffrey chased that sight, that dream, to look at his friends and see love reflected back never again to be undone. To know that death or glory, during his final life Joffrey Baratheon was not alone.

They won't forget me this time, he realized. Were he to die today or next year or in a hundred more, they would not forget him.

He cleared his throat, the pinpricks subsiding as he smiled at them. "Thank you."

He didn't know what they saw in his eyes, but it seemed to deflate them altogether, grim smiles and shaken heads aplenty. Sandor spoke up first. "Fine. But don't prance around; you go in for the kill and you do it fast." The burnt half of his face shifted, "And mind your footwork," he added lowly.

Joffrey cleared his throat. "I will."

Jon slammed a gauntlet on Joffrey's shoulder, the big silver 'IV' on his tabard shining under the sun now peaking over Harrenhall's jagged crenellations. His friend had grown broad-shouldered over the past few years, the Guard molding him as he did it. "He's right, don't piss around. The real war is still ahead of us." He took a deep breath, teeth gritted tight, "Blood and Mud, Joff. Show her the meaning of those words."

"I will," he said as he held him.

"Just give the signal and we'll all show her," Jon said. His legate rode away, barking orders at the two guardsmen by one of the many smaller, nameless towers which dotted the walls. He dismounted and disappeared through it soon afterwards, the guardsmen following close behind. Just imagining the chaos and the casualties made Joffrey ill, but such was the calculus of war. If he had to sacrifice a thousand men to bring down even a single dragon, then it would still be an immeasurably good trade. I just hope I don't have to.

"Don't you dare leave your 'duty' on us," said Tyrion, eyes red though not a single tear tracked down his cheek, "Or I swear I'll find some way into that Purple of yours and swing right around to smack you in the head."

"I don't doubt it, uncle," said Joffrey, voice growing ragged.

There was nothing left to be said, and so they rode down the huge courtyard, deserted but for the few soldiers on the walls and the cluster of witnesses by the shade of a half-tent. "My Lords. My Ladies," he said as he dismounted, the vast array of noble blood bowing or curtsying. First he greeted Lady Sheylla Whent, who'd put the castle at his disposal for surprisingly few bribes. 'This cursed land took everything from me,' she'd said. 'Just give me a keep by the sea and it's all yours.' A refreshingly direct take, one Joffrey had every intention to fulfill… though that rested on his survival today.

He sighed again, feeling cold despite the sun and the running breeze. Edmure Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident was next, visibly anxious and wanting to be anywhere but here. Most Riverlander nobility shared the sentiment, including not quite a few former Targeryen loyalists who'd made themselves surprisingly useful today, the better to give legitimacy to the proceedings. Lord Darry was the coldest of the bunch, though he kept his hopes well hidden under a veil of courtesy.

"Quite strange to see the fate of a kingdom decided by a duel, Your Grace," said Edmure, fidgeting with his scabbard. Vance's and Piper's kept their council a little less circumspect, muttering between themselves until they gazed up in alarm, the shadow a passing cloud's and not a dragon's. Joffrey didn't blame Edmure or his own Riverlander loyalists; of all the rebel lords Hoster Tully had been the most egregious in his treason, raising his banners against Aerys not out of honor or betrayal but two marriages to other Lords Paramounts. A reconquest could only fare poorly for the Tully's and their allies.

"Better than seeing Riverrun end like Dragonstone, my lord," said Joffrey.

Quite a few Valelords had ridden with him on the way back from the Vale, intent on not missing a potentially cataclysmic shift in Westerosi politics. Crownlanders too, as well as the odd fidgeting Stormlander. Most attempts at conversation were stilted enough, the wind muting them most often than not. What use was to scheme when the very crown of the Seven Kingdoms could change heads this day? They weren't any happier with the arrangement than Joffrey was, but they freely admitted it was better than seeing how many Dragonstones Daenerys could pull off before a ballista took her down.

Slowly at first, Joffrey found himself drifting, their words indistinct as he listened for the Song. He kneeled on the compacted earth, lordly eyes burning on his back as he settled his breathing to an even rhythm, Lancel's face coming and going through his mind's eyes as he grasped dirt tight. Did he suffer overmuch? Was he caught in the fire that engulfed Dragonstone town or did the dragons handle him personally?

Breathe. The wind shivered, bringing autumn leaves that skittered against skin and leather. How soon till that turned to snow? Horses whined by the stables, sensing something of the gathering anxiety, the sun's glare torn by the many shaped shadows of Harren's Folly. The bubbling inside his belly solidified into a dead weight that was familiar indeed, duty and purpose coalesced, fear and fury mingling unsure. I can do it, he thought, the stilted conversations around him dying out completely as the wind blew again. He was unsure how much of a grip she had on the dragons, how cautious or reckless they'd be, but he was sure he could kill it. He'd grown surprisingly adept at slaying all manner of life during his long journey, and half-grown dragons would not stop him. Not now.

His breaths turned deeper still, bits of steam drifting away as he settled into a half-lotus position, the Song whispering with every speck of sunlight, every blink and sigh. Even were she to break parley at her own defeat, Jon and his boys could handle the remaining dragon before it could wreck too terrible a toll, of that Joffrey was sure. They wouldn't break, his legions of Blood and Mud, not now when clouds gathered north and even common laborers could feel the tiniest smidgen of the Song on a quiet sundown by the docks.

He would not fail here; he could not afford to. Not if he wanted mankind to survive the Long Night.

"There they are," whispered Tyrion, dread and awe mingling in his voice. A deep roar scoured the plains, rebounding within Harrenhal's great walls. Daenerys had arrived.

Spoiler: Music

The Song scuttled into foreboding, beat unsteady, breath held back as Joffrey did likewise. Not frenzied but expectant; a fulcrum approached. He knew then Daenerys would not attack immediately, eyes opening to twin figures circling the skies, their menacing circuits descending with each lap. "Steady," said the Hound, quieting the nobles like a century of guardsmen, "Steady now," he said again, probably biting off more than one expletive at the end.

The thought brought a smile to his face, a sight that seemed to calm them further as he stood up and the dragons soared over Harrenhal's walls. A black-spiked dragon the size of a small house landed about fifteen paces away, big plumes of dust ratcheting up its sides as its tail swung back and forth. He heard a choked scream, the nobles startling back.

"Stand firm, Lords of the Seven Kingdoms!" said Joffrey, not moving an inch as he stared Drogon in the eye. The dragon reared back, wary, neither cowed nor defiant as it waited for its mistress' command. Rhaegal didn't land, it's green-and-bronze wingspan keeping to the skies as it circled Harrenhal in a sort of over watch. Coincidence, or tactical acumen on Daenerys' part?

The Scourge of Dragonstone was like a wraith in the flesh, pale and haggard and sporting a number of scars. She held her back straight with an easy sway, empty eyes traversing the gathering nobles until they settled on Joffrey's. Like a porcelain doll come to life, her lax features sharpened, Drogon's hair-raising growl making a few of the witnesses stumble back.

I created this, Joffrey thought, matching her gaze and surprised not to find a trace of the usual screeching madness. Instead it was the opposite, a heavy blanket that had wrapped Daenerys so tight she'd suffocated without realizing it.

"I received your letter," she said with a voice devoid of emotion.

Joffrey eyed the empty battlements by the walls surrounding the grand courtyard. One signal and all hell would break loose, but doing so would leave the troops exposed to Rhaegal's fiery retaliation. He couldn't afford a change of plans yet.

I started this, I can end it, he thought, an itch between his shoulderblades crawling up and down. "I'm glad you came," he said, "The Seven Kingdoms need not suffer again for the feud between our Houses."

She nodded at that, "A trial by combat would certainly speed up what needs to be done," she said, gaze wandering north, "We've but little time before it turns Cold. So Cold."

"The rumors are true," whispered Lord Royce, "She's as mad as her father."

"Quiet!" said Sandor.

Joffrey tilted his head, the weight behind the word unmistakable. "The cold?" he said, mouth heavy, "You speak of the White Walkers?"

She nodded again, ignoring the rest of the nobles like reeds in the wind, "Cold beyond words. Their eyes made of red light." She said it almost pityingly, Drogon restless under her frail weight.

It was as if a bucket of ice cold water had been dumped on Joffrey's head. "You know of the war to come?" he said, taking a step forward, "You knew of Night's return and…" he trailed off, frowning in confusion as plots of dragons and alliances tangled in his head, "You burn the living under dragonfire. You bring war to the whole realm." Joffrey couldn't understand, if somehow Daenerys knew, then why the hells was she doing this? Better to join the fight and save what she wanted to conquer, or hells at least wait until the end and stab the victor in the back! Was it all a negotiation tactic? "Why?" he said.

"Because it is the only way," she said as the itch spread to Joffrey's spine, his gaze drifting to her right where the Song twisted in little knots. "We can't win, you must realize that," she said kindly, as if explaining it to a frightened child, "We can only safeguard our souls, our bodies under the breath of life."

"The breath of life?" muttered Joffrey, a sinking feeling in his gut.

"The breath that wards the cold and runs to ash. The breath that purifies. The breath that saves." She said it with the conviction of a zealot, the lone truth in a universe filled with lies.

Tyrion got it first. "Fire," he whispered.

A snarl escaping Sandor as he took his sword halfway out of its scabbard. Drogon roared in turn, Joffrey holding up a palm in the air.

"Hold!" he said, still staring at Daenerys. She hadn't moved an inch, petrified eyelashes blinking slowly at him. What the hells happened in the Red Wastes? There was a piece he was still missing, understanding at the tip of his fingers for all that the gulf seemed enormous. And what the hells is that to her side? Nothing was there under the sun's gaze, but the Song of Existence did not lie, its parting beats disheveled and unsettled around it. "Fire," he said before somebody could lose his nerve, mind racing through her tilted speech and her dead demeanor. He'd come here expecting curses or screams before battle in earnest, not this. "You mean what you did to Dragonstone?"

"Only by fire's cleansing light will we deny them full victory," she said approvingly, "When I win this trial I will see that the Crown does what it must; every sept a pyre of salvation, every city cleansed by dragonflame. Not even charred bones will remain for Them to wear."

"Seven above…" said Lord Darry, the whispers among the witnesses running rampant and even Sandor's blandishments incapable of stopping them.

"What happened to you?" whispered Joffrey.

Anger did not mar her features, only dead stillness, "Your poisoned bolts killed me," she said, "And then I saw their crystal face with red eyes like singing void." Here she turned somber still, an eerie echo of a pout on her lips, like a fish dying slowly, "But she brought me back. She whispered prophecy in my ear, pleading of Ice and Fire before she gave up life of her own." A grim smile, "You see her too."

By now the presence was impossible to ignore, and Joffrey fixed his eyes on the twisting melody as he took a deep breath and grounded himself in the Song that was. He would not be deceived. He'd seen the skein of reality under the Purple Pillars, he would see. "Maegi," Joffrey realized, the currents of the Song briefly turning visible as he unwound the knot, a specter of a screaming woman, half masked and half burned. Blades were drawn by the Valelords, the septon he'd brought to officiate the trial spouting off exorcisms with a shrilly voice as the air beside Daenerys shimmered like a dust storm in the Beyond.

"My faithful Quaithe," Daenerys said as she looked at the waning shadow, rage and pity mingling in her face, "Always with her vague warnings… but there were no more riddles after Qarth. She hid my body, breathed life into it again. Told me I was destined to save everyone." A maniacal glint lit Daenerys' eyes for the first time even as her face turned doll-like again, like a candle sputtering against the wind. The shadow by her side was like a mirage, a masked woman half torn into nothingness screaming only silence, a specter like the Ghost of High Hearth or an imprint like Stygai-in-the-Shadow or perhaps just an echo in time like a groove in the Song; Joffrey could not tell. "She gave me everything," said Daenerys, "Life for life, truth for secret."

"There is another way," Joffrey heard himself say, ice clutching his throat, "Forget the omens and the prophecies. Forget their silenced terror. We can beat them; with fire and steel, dragonglass and dragonfire. We can build something better than a funeral pyre to receive them with!" Joffrey took another step forward, hands into fists, "Daenerys listen to me. I've seen their crystal gaze as well. Their silent presence which drowns and chokes. They can be killed!"

She shook her head like a terrier with a rat, the shade thrashing in agony as well and disappearing like so much wind. "I saw them!" screamed Daenerys, "We need to burn! We need to burn before they take us! Burn them all! Burn them all!"

Joffrey startled back at the sudden shift, Drogon wheezing in pain as Daenerys convulsed atop it. He could feel Jon nearby, seconds away from starting a battle as the lords raised their voices in alarm. Rhaegal's still flying at high altitude; one enfilade fire-run will set off the walls like a tinderbox. Before he could either call on Jon to hold, or charge into Drogon's teeth himself, Daenerys stilled herself. In a second she was just like she'd arrived, dead faced and straight backed, staring at them without emotion.

Could he have done different? Enlisted her aid somehow without sparking rebellion or madness? The question that had haunted his mind this past life seemed possessed with a life of its own right now.

Should I've killed her personally? Burned her body just to be sure? He banished the thoughts as he barked back to the witnesses; lord and knights, ladies and retainers on the edge of scattering to the four winds and doubtlessly setting Drogon's instincts afire. The septon was on his knees, bubbling a whispered prayer, Lady Whent sheet-white with fear. "Hold still damn you!" he said, "We're under parley here!" He turned to the Scourge of Dragonstone, "Are we not, Princess Daenerys?"

She gave him a deep nod, "I hereby accept your offer to resolve our conflicting claims," she said like a lady holding court, "Trial by combat, for the right of the Iron Throne."

Joffrey nodded decisively, the time of doubts well and truly over. Those that wished to live through the horrors to come needed Daenerys dead. "I will fight for myself, no champion shall represent me." He gazed back at his lords; perhaps one of them would have offered to fight for the prospective Queen, but after what they'd seen of her just now… "I spoke with the witnesses gathered here before you arrived. Should any knight or lord wish to fight for you I will swear on my honor not to retaliate unjustly on either kith or kin…"

Joffrey trailed off as Daenerys shook her head like a crazed hound again, not making a single sound before settling her dead gaze back on Joffrey, "You slew all who would fight for me. I will represent myself." Drogon roared the challenge, leaving no doubt as to what Daenerys considered 'herself'. Not that Joffrey had expected otherwise.

"What?! Against a dragon!?" shouted Lord Langward, knights and lords speaking over themselves. The outrage was palpable, even if it was tinged by a sort of hysterical fear that was just now dawning on most nobles present. What if Aegon the First had been mad as a cow? What if King Aerys had had dragons at his beck and call?

"Drogon is as much a part of me as I am of him," said Daenerys, eyes still on Joffrey's, "Take the offer or leave it, spawn of the Usurper. I do not mind the alternative."

"I see," said Joffrey, a sneer fresh on his lips. He could imagine that alternative all too well; King's Landing and most great keeps had enough artillery to hold back a non-suicidal Daenerys, his contingencies had seen to that, but the rural smallfolk that made up the brunt of Westeros' population would burn. How many towns and harvest fields could she burn before Sansa made her way south or a lucky bolt caught Drogon in the eye?

"Very well then," he said. Beyond mad hopes and idle dreams, this was what he'd planned on facing since he'd sent her the offer, shortly after news of Dragonstone reached him. He would not fail. I can't. "Let Septon Kyle bless the Trial under the sight of gods and men, and then we can begin."

"Your Grace!" said Edmure, "You can't be serious about this- this travesty!"

"I am," he said as he turned to the Lord Paramount, the Blackfish holding an iron firm hand on his shoulder but not uttering a word; by the glaze in his eyes it was clear he thought the same as his nephew, just doing a better job of keeping it in. And likely planning on dragging him away at the first sign of dragonfire. Joffrey was honestly surprised by the mad bravery within the young Lord Paramount's eyes. Other witnesses were doing their best in trying to scuttle away, inching from the shade of the half-tent in the direction of the stables, a better showing than those still frozen in shock or dismay. To his credit, the other de-facto Lord Paramount present was not one of them. Lord Yohn Royce was still as a statue, only his hand flexing mechanically over the pommel of his sword as his eyes swept the deserted battlements and his lips uttered silently, likely counting how many men could the King have stashed in the towers. He'd made the right choice naming him Warden of the East.

"End the parley and let us withdraw, Your Grace!" said Edmure, "Let the mad bitch come to our walls, we'll take them down with arrows and ballistae!"

"I rather fancy my chances here, my lord," Joffrey said, keeping an eye on Daenerys as Drogon roared again, the sound rebounding within the grand courtyard. Edmure stared at him as if he'd gone as mad as Daenerys.

"Better than a man alone against that!" he said, voice quivering in the end.

Joffrey smiled grimly at them, "Best witness from atop the walls. For your own sakes." Most of them scattered at that, to the walls and some to the stables, Tyrion listlessly dragged away by Sandor as Lord Royce called for the Vale knights to follow him. Were those longbow strings that hung on their belts? Good man.

Septon Kyle raised his voice, calling out for the Father's judgment stern and strong as the half-tent was left empty, the Song at a beat with his intonations.

Spoiler: Music

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry I had to do it," said Joffrey.

"Mother kind and loving, give us your mercy and compassion…"

She tilted her head, "That's not exactly an apology."

"It had to be done. Else you would've turned Westeros into ashes right before it needed its strength the most." He hesitated for a moment, "I saw it."

She blinked, a bitter smile upon her lips, "That doesn't seem to have worked out for you."

Joffrey sneered, flexing his sword hand slowly as his heartbeat took off. For all that he'd hated the red and its lust for blood, throughout his lives he'd come to know it as intimately as the Purple. He called to it, the unstoppable fury and the joy of killing both shackled to greater purpose. "Tell me, how did Legate Lancel Lannister die?"

The septon droned on, more pleading than entreating, "Warrior brave and strong, lend us courage in our time of woes…"

"He charged Drogon before being burned to ashes."

Joffrey nodded deeply, his breathing at ease, "They won't have his body then."

She held his gaze, and for a rare moment they shared understanding. The Septon's voice trailed off as Joffrey exhaled again, the patterns of the Purple like etchings on his mind. "Good luck, Your Grace," the septon whispered before scattering as well, but Joffrey was already deep within the Purple, a waking meditation as the Song thrummed like a chorus of a thousand people, the courtyard a Great Sept harnessing the voices of all who could listen.

He eyed his hands as he let the Purple flow according to the patterns he'd found in Carcosa, one of the lost modules sundered from his self before humanity had crawled over the surface of this world. It had showed how to harness the essence of the Purple outside of the vessel, outside of the soul. 'Of course the first thing you thought of was armor.' He smiled as he could almost hear his wife's voice, gauntlets made of fractals forming over his hands, lines of Purple twisting over themselves without end until they were no longer a mirage but a real physical thing that covered his hand like a scaled glove. He didn't stop there.

He wove the Purple following the rhythm of the Song, bringing into existence that which was within. Gauntlets turned to vambraces made of sharp angles, vambraces to pauldrons crisscrossed with copperish green as he breathed again. The heart-thumping thrum of the Purple reverberated over his chest, an ominous drone that formed a chestplate made of the void between the stars, a hole in reality through which stars could be glimpsed in the distance. Blues and reds and sharp yellows the color of dawn, tiny specks of other worlds that seemed to lend scale to the black void, giving it the weight of truth that whispered in the mind; this is existence, this is our cosmos. This is what I fight for, thought Joffrey.

The weight of the thought accelerated the spread of the armor, solidifying the not-quite-metal over his body. A helmet vaguely shaped like a snarling lion covered his head, its sharp teeth guarding his face, sharp antlers made of dark light adorning its top. Greaves with knee guards etched in the likeness of the Dawn Fort screamed to life, their tears of flame lined with Purple as they spilled over his shins into plates of solid darkness, black boots of void-metal woven by fractals. Joffrey hadn't controlled the exact shape of it as he released the energies of his soul; it'd seemed to have taken a will of its own, a suit of armor made out of a thousand different lives, a hundred different battles where he'd spilled blood and tears trying to protect. Trying to find his way. He was Joffrey.

He came out of the trance like waking up from a dream, Brightroar piercing the ground as he slowly squeezed the hilt in his hands. He hefted the shimmering sword of Valyrian steel in his hands, a roar not of Drogon's making echoing within Harrenhal's walls. Stars' breath thrummed over Joffrey's shoulder as he turned and grasped rune-shaped fur, mounting atop his old companion, his reflection through the Purple. Scarred and sporting claws speckled with blood, the silver lion stood undaunted as he faced Drogon's massive bulk, black against silver.

Daenerys lay transfixed by the sight, "That is… that is not-"

"Stars is as much a part of me as I am of him," he said, the weight of his armor deceptive, light as a feather's for all it's dense-looking angles, "After this is done I will summon a Great Council. All the lords and all the smallfolk of the land will know of the threat to come. We will resist. We will fight to the last man woman and child."

"No," said Daenerys, the whisper like agony. After all she'd been through, hope corroded her worse than any poison, unleashed choking despair that widened her eyes in horror. "NO!" she screamed, "DRACARYS!"

Stars erupted into movement with a great loping gait, a powerful all-bodied burst of speed whose shadow burned under a torrent of hell-fire as Joffrey ducked close and they dashed sideways. The pressure behind Drogon's fire-breath felt muffled under his helmet, a hissing scream that seared rocks and turned the tent to ash in seconds. They dashed atop one of the fallen stone bricks nearer Drogon as that torrent chased them, Stars yowling like a shadowcat as he leapt at the black dragon with outstretched claws. Joffrey felt his stomach drop over the long leap even as they crossed the distance in the blink of an eye. He swung down with brutal force, Brightroar screaming through the air as he tried to cut Daenerys is half and he slashed something solid, blood flying up.

Claws bit into Drogon's flank like chisels on a mountain, arresting their fall into a bloody slide down the dragon's other side before they smacked into the ground and rolled like a single boulder. Joffrey shook his head as Stars regained his footing, Brightroar dripping blood. He cursed when he saw Daenerys unharmed, a long gash torn on Drogon's flesh behind her. She didn't say a word as her dragon charged them like a black wall, roaring in pained frenzy.

"Come on Stars!" he shouted, the silver lion sprinting between fallen bricks and dug trenches. They made use of Drogon's blind spots, avoiding its searing fire as they run and leapt between obstacles, maximizing time under cover and only closing in for a strike. Twice Drogon paid the price, his flanks bloody as they struck like raptors screeching out of the jungle, but the black-scaled monster was unafraid of using its great bulk to its advantage. Joffrey ducked low as a wing almost knocked him out from his mount, the air behind the blow buffeting him hard. Brightroar tore a bloody gash in retaliation as he rammed the sword upwards, tearing a jagged hole in Drogon's wing, but he realized the distraction far too late. Drogon's tail slammed into his chest of glinting stars, sending him tumbling away like a stray catapult shot. He'd underestimated her.

The world spun without end as Harrenhal's jagged silhouette melded with the sky, black and blue and black and blue like maidens painting in the Silver Keep before his back exploded in pain and it all grounded to a halt. He took short rasping breaths as he tried to stand up, using the stone brick he'd crashed against for support as he tried to blink everything back into focus again. Worse than Tyrion's Westerland Blend, he thought, searching for Brightroar like a drunk in the dark as he realized he wasn't a mess of fractured bones. Even after all his lives, the Purple's power still surprised him. What other modules could I've found. Works so mighty yet still not enough to stop the Cold Night. He managed to blink the world into focus again, the sheen of pain abating to reveal a smudge of leaping black.

He skipped away with a breathless scream, the earth making him lose his feet again as it bounced under Drogon's massive impact right next to him. He manifested Brightroar before the beast could turn, the purple-golden fractals still crisscrossing into being when he rammed them into the dragon's flank right under the wing-joint.

Drogon's pained roar deafened him, but he could still hear Daenerys screaming her lungs out as she thrashed over the beast. Between his sword's pommel and Drogon's spikes he managed to climb the beast's side even as it coiled back its sinuous neck, blood-red flames trickling from its maw. It opened to reveal an inferno which clipped Joffrey's legs, spinning him upwards and almost making him fall down the other side, everything below his waist painfully hot.

End it. End it quickly, he thought in a frenzy. He stumbled upright atop Drogon, Daenerys scuttling back from him and almost reaching the dragon's head, dead eyes appraising him. He shouted a war cry as he tried to reach her, coming out gurgled as he struggled to navigate the sea of shifting black scales. He was surprised by the coppery scent at the back if his mouth. Not invulnerable then. He licked his lips, tasting twin rivulets of blood crawling from the corners of his mouth. Pity, that would've been useful.

"Fly Drogon!" screamed Daenerys "Sōvēs! Sōvēs!" The beast took one massive jump, then another as it stretched its wings in midair and its tail threw Stars away with a clean blow.

"No," grunted Joffrey, Brightroar tasting Drogon's spine as he brought it down in a two handed stab. The dragon screeched as it flew across Harren's Courtyard, its neck twisting like a broken hose and spilling fire in circles. Joffrey deepened the wound, kneeling as he shoved it down to the hilt, Drogon's call turning rasp like tearing leather.

Joffrey lost his grip as they crashed into the base of one of Harrenhal's four great towers, crouching into a water-dancing roll as he reached the ground with a muffled omph. He had to take out Drogon first so the men inside had a fighting chance against Rhaegal, but he had to do it quick before they tore up the whole keep. Drogon had to die now.

He completed a second roll just in time to avoid one of Drogon's paws, Brightroar singing through the air as he tore off two of its claws with a roared battlecry, blood and crushed stone blinding him as it rained down like dew all around him, a shadow rearing out the corner of his eye. Drogon struck out like a coiled whip, serrated maw shutting around his waist like a steel clamp before he could do more than swipe his face. Teeth screeched over Purple plate, a horrific whine of bone against soul that wormed its way into Joffrey's skull, a nail-biting resonance that grew and grew as the dragon reared back and he felt himself rise up. Joffrey couldn't move, he could hardly breathe under the massive pressure trying to crack him apart, hands closing on air as he screamed. Drogon held him aloft like some sort of trophy, the strength of its jaw unstoppable as multiple sharp cracks thrumming within his soul and daggers pierced his chest.

"Caw!"

"No!" screamed Daenerys.

The pressure petered off, eyes groggy as he looked around him. Drogon was still holding him up in the air like a cat with a prized bird, its legs dead and only its torn wings supporting the dragon's weight. Its eyes were fixed on something up in the tower, the same thing that had Daenerys locked in a rictus of dread and fear.

The raven perched atop the tower shivered, settling its plumage back in order. "Caw!"

"Stop!" screamed Daenerys, covering her head with both arms as she rocked back, "Raven! Raven!"

Joffrey grabbed one of Drogon's spikes just above the eye, spitting a long glob of blood from on high. "Thank you, dear," he whispered before ramming Brightroar through Drogon's eye socket as far as it could go.

The enormous black dragon startled under the blow, swaying dizzily as smoke came out its throat reeking of flesh and sulfur. It collapsed sideways, its jaw slack as Joffrey slipped with a hefty spat of blood and saliva.

He lay there on the ground, staring up at the Widow's Tower and its melted stone façade, base half-crumbled under Drogon's fearsome impact. To stand up now seemed a task more colossal than the war itself, an impossible feat of legend fit for Bran the Builder or Hugor Seven-Hills. Come on. He thought he could hear a whisper, "Come on, Joff."

Joffrey turned, putting a knee under him. He blinked slowly as he gazed at the small holes through his chestplate made of soulstuff, distant stars mixed with his own blood. He couldn't die. Not now. He found his feet, somehow standing straight as he saw Daenerys. She was still atop Drogon's back, listless as she gazed at its pierced head. She was in pain, blinking desperately as if trying to cry though no tear fell down her bruised cheeks.

She lifted her eyes as he limped towards her, dragging Brightroar behind him. She smiled as she tilted her head, relief buffeting her face.

"Don't," whispered the twisted knot in the Song, Quaithe's frail form almost nothing as it hugged Daenerys from behind.

"Yes," whispered the mad princess, raising her arms wide as Rhaegal finally left it's over watch atop the sky, landing behind her like a falling star with a maw filled with fire. Joffrey jumped forward as he heard the distant shouts of tribunes and centurions, covering himself completely behind Drogon's body before-

"DRACARYS!" Daenerys roared as if in the midst of religious ecstasy, her arms held up as Rhaegal unleashed a pressurized firestorm whose hiss left Joffrey deaf. Her silhouette burst into flames like tinder, the sky replaced with a fiery ceiling as her charred husk slammed against the tower now under the thrumming pressure of Rhaegal's breath. Joffrey tried to find cover from that world of searing flames, scurrying under Drogon's carcass as far as he could, eyeing the base of the tower behind him in dread.

Centuries of neglect and the fury of the last of the Targeryen's finished what Aegon had started, the tower melting slowly into its base before tilting over Joffrey. It toppled like a sand castle, bricks and support beams coming apart under the tower's own weight, the rain of debris blotting the sun. He heard Sansa scream before Harren's Folly came crashing down upon him.

-: PD :-

Last edited: Feb 7, 2020

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

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Threadmarks Interlude: Jon. New

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-: PD :-

Interlude: Jon.

The sight froze Jon in place atop one of the southern towers. A freezing curdling of his throat, something indescribably heavy choking the life out of him. The Tower of Ghosts' fall was stately, a crumbling rod of black slashing down on his King. His friend. It smashed into Drogon's body as it spilled its guts over the courtyard, great plumes of dust and smoke skyrocketing up its sides. Rhaegal revealed itself mostly unharmed, a sinuous bronze-green serpent screeching skywards, slit eyes leering between the smoke.

Raw shock finished its journey, settling into Jon's belly like a lead weight. "The King!" someone screamed. "Treachery!" the cry rang across the courtyard.

Spoiler: Music

His friend had just won the greatest trial by combat in westerosi history, and he'd been repaid with treachery most foul, a thousand tons of rubble his prize. By the will of the last of the Targeryens the monster below had just murdered his friend. It was that thought that brought him out of the shock, the weight turned to fire, black fury crisscrossing his spine as he raised his hand up as if possessed by a specter, his call resounding within Harren's Folly; "FOURTH REGIMENT!"

A wordless roar answered him back, banners snapping into the wind as poles were raised high, red 'IV's and King's Fists, a rippling wave of black and silver bursting out of towers and parapets, trapdoors slamming aside to reveal men riding a sea of screaming half-plate armor. Harrenhal heaved like a boiling anthill, bricks and windows detonating from the inside as the remaining great towers were pocked by gaping holes now filled by ballistas and siege stagrams brought forth by heaving men. Centurions hollered instructions as the walls were lined by crossbows and fire-spears, a bristling row of steel and plate and humanity surrounding the monster in the midst of the courtyard.

It reared in surprise, maw opening to reveal a fearsome array of bloody teeth, its screech filled with hate and loss and rage. It rebounded against the walls, a full-powered challenge delivered by lungs made for fire-breathing, a hair-raising screech Jon understood all too well. It too felt the loss if its liege. It too wanted bloody revenge.

Jon could bloody well give it revenge. He slashed his hand down with a brutal heave. "FIRE!"

Stagrams ignited with fizzling screams, stubby-looking warheads tearing out of their carriages like devils on the loose. They exploded around Rhaegal's position in great plumes of fire and dirt, the beast moving across the courtyard in great leaps as it tried to get airborne. Ballista bolts rained from the smaller towers, steel reaping bloody gnashed down its flank even as most bounced against impossibly strong scales. Rhaegal was stunned by the explosions, its course frantic and unsteady as it absorbed the concentrated pummeling of the Royal Guard of Westeros avenging their liege.

"Send what's left of the Fourth Cohort to dig up the King!" Jon said before he slid down the wooden ladder, reaching the wall and sprinting between the line of shooting crossbowmen. He looked for Rhaegal between the blurred crenellations, mirroring his direction as he tapped shoulders and shouted as loud as he could. "Shoot the wings! Crossbows! Shoot the wings!" he said, eyes watering under the acrid smoke of leaping fire-spears.

Crossbow bolts and serrated spears peppered Rhaegal's wings as it made its way through the courtyard, each hit tearing a tiny hole on its wings as Jon's men shot the dragon down with relentless precision, a synchronized cadence of steel and fire. Its flapping turned desperate, its leap for the sky reaching; almost halfway up from the height of the walls a stagram hit it squarely in the back, Jon shading his eyes from the bright explosion. It went down in a tumble of flesh and smoke and leaping dirt, a revolving mess of limbs and wing that settled to a stop not far from Jon's position.

"Harpoons!" he roared, "Harpoons to the fore!"

The towers nearer the dragon opened to reveal centuries of men sprinting as fast as they could, carrying 'firepoons' and trailing long lines of rope. They reached the dragon from both sides, three men teams pulling levers and igniting the charges at the back end of their devices, streaking lines of steel emerging from their tubes and piercing the dragon's wings.

"Now!" bellowed the siegemaster by the tower next to him. Great counterweights of tied brick and rubble descended from the top of the tower, slammed to a halt as the lines grew taut and Rhaegal was smacked sideways before it could regain its bearing. The opposite tower by the north did likewise, ropes in that direction snapping straight and leaving Rhaegal splayed like the flayed man of House Bolton. It's harrowing screech made the men around Jon cover their ears, eyes wild under the relentless pressure.

Jon assessed the damage, unaffected by the screech as he noted the caved flesh on its back. Ballistas marginally effective, siege stagrams can do it but it'll take too long. The damned things were too imprecise; he couldn't rely on another hit before the beast tore free and scuttled over the wall. They had to swarm it before it broke loose. This is going to turn bloody. Jon turned to the hornbearer next to the centurion behind him, "Pike teams, go!" he said.

"Pike teams go, aye sir!" said the wide-eyed man, trumpeting the order as the centurion next to him kept directing his section of crossbowmen. They were still shooting with desperate haste and achieving little more than enraging it further and tearing up more of its wings.

Jon grit his teeth as he leaned on the jagged remains of a crenellation, surveying the squads of pikemen making their way to the dragon from all sides. "For the King!" bellowed the leading centurions, "Westeros!" roared the standard bearers, silver lions and king's fists and bloody 'IV's snapping in the wind before Rhaegal hissed fiery defiance. Scores of guardsmen turned to sprinting torches in the span of seconds, their screams mingling with the battlecries and tearing at Jon's chest. Men blew back under Rhaegal's pressurized fire-breath, banners burning to a crisp and pikes blowing apart, but for every man that fell another one took its place, fluttering silver lion's peaking over the smoke before revealing a line of charging steel. "Westeros!" they roared before slamming into Rhaegal from all sides, pikes tearing up bloody holes on its sides and its neck, those that could aiming for its head. The last of the living dragons soon resembled nothing more than an enraged pincushion, three men teams slamming pikes against it like battering rams.

"They're not doing enough damage," whispered Jon, ice clutching his throat as Rhaegal tossed and turned, its snapping maw an unpredictable death sentence as it coiled about using its long reach to pluck the men who least expected it. It snapped chests in half like a seamstress cutting a new dress, steel plate doing nothing to stop the bloody carnage as soldiers sought to pin it down with all-bodied heaves. They were reaping a bloodier toll than the ballistae, but not fast enough.

Someone made way between him and the guardsman holding the Fourth Regiment's battlebanner by his side, grabbing him by the shoulder. "Jon!" yelled Edmure, clutching a bastard sword and looking ill, "Where's the King?"

"Under that tower!" he said, "Tribune Delyn's men are trying to dig him up." He only hoped he was still alive under all that rubble… him and half the Fourth Cohort.

"What can we do to help?!"

Jon blinked at the young Lord Paramount, a gaggle of Riverlander knights at his back. What the hells? "How many men?!" he said, crossbows ringing in his ears.

"Two score. The rest left." His smile was broken, "The antlered lion I'm not."

Jon nodded. Edmure Tully's brief paramountcy over the Riverlands had reaped a bounty of malicious whispers and half-followed orders, only his late father's most loyal bannermen following his lead. It will have to do, "Get down and grab pikes, you're in the next wave!"

He turned paler still, but nodded all the same. The rattling counterweights were growing strained, smacking to and fro as ropes sizzled under the friction and Jon turned towards Rhaegal. The dragon burned another century of guardsmen, fire cooking off more of the ropes by the far side. They won't hold, he realized in dread certainty. "Harpoons!" he said, lifting his arms to the tower by the other side of the courtyard, "Harpoons! Second wave now!"

Rhaegal sprayed fire upon them before the men were halfway there, guardsmen blowing apart as their firepoon's exploded in their hands. The rest of the ropes by the far side were shred to bits, and Jon heard the counterweights by his side reel without end. Gods, he thought as Rhaegal was pulled by the wing, right towards them as it skidded over the ground like a dragged toy. The dragon grew and grew before the ropes turned lax and the counterweights slammed against the ground by the other side, but the sheer momentum behind Rhaegal carried it the rest of the way. It slammed the wall right between his position and the tower, the impact tossing men off their feet and down the walls.

Jon managed to stand up to the sight of a dragon half-splayed against the wall, using its broken wings to scuttle the rest of the way up. They couldn't let it escape and wreak havoc upon the countryside. Not after today. Not after Joffrey. "Halberds!" he screamed, storming around for anyone who could stand. "Guardsmen! Grab what weapons you can!"

Edmure eyed the dragon as it laboriously made the rest of the way up the wall, almost reaching the crenellations, his sword held up. "Riverlanders! To me! To me!"

Jon grabbed the hornbearer by the cuff of his neck, "Sound Charge! Do it now!"

"Charge, a-aye Legate," said the guardsman, breathing in as much air as he could as Jon's frenzied search for a polearm left him with the First Cohort's battlebanner; a long poleaxe with the Regimental banner at the end. Rhaegal had reached the top of the wall.

The call cut through the warbled sounds of battle, a high-pitched beat that rang with the Song, guardsmen and Riverlanders with swords and axes transfixed by the sound. "Fourth Regiment!" roared Jon, blood-red 'IV' flapping from the end of his poleaxe. "For Westeros!"

"Westeros!" said Edmure, right by his side as they charged the dragon atop the wide walls of Harrenhal. It turned its head groggily, blood pouring out its mouth before it opened to reveal fire. The blast of searing heat washed above them, lesser in strength but still blasting men out of the wall and tearing ranks of charging soldiers into screaming blazes, but then they were upon him and the hour of steel dawned.

It was like fighting a bronze mountain, no, a volcano that shifted and stomped, fire and claws tearing men apart as they climbed atop it however they could, halberds and axes flashing under the high-risen sun. Any semblance of tactics faded under that heat-stroked haze, a primal battle of man against beast, a tribe against a monster. Edmure rammed his sword straight into Rhaegar's opened gob, blood fountaining over him before its jaw snapped shut and he stumbled back looking at his stump in confusion. The beast collapsed sideways, a tide of humanity half-swarming it under a rain of sweat and steel.

Jon stood atop that fallen mountain, over its head with the battlebanner held high. Slit yellow eyes looked up at him, and he felt something call deep within him; a keening bond that sung in his veins, a plea and a bargain that smelled of blood, smoke, and fire.

This one was for Lancel.

"Blood and Mud!" he roared as he nailed back end of the battlebanner right through its eye, a choking screech tearing its way out of Rhaegal's spasm-ridden body. Its rattle was short lived, muscles uncoiling as its head collapsed atop a crenellation, the banner of the Fourth Regiment flying wide from the pole stuck to its skull; a torn and singed 'IV' held aloft by Autumn's Kiss.